Not a Unicorn Read online

  “I’ve got to go,” I say. “Talk to you later, Noah.”

  “Yeah, talk to you later, Jewel.”

  By PE my head feels better, and even though my life is going absolutely bonkers haywire, I feel good about my unexpected progress with Noah. Mystic and I are walking around the track, staying in an outer lane to avoid the runners.

  “Can I tell you something?” I ask her.

  “Yeah, of course,” she says.

  “It’s just . . .” I stop, not knowing how to put it into words.

  “Is this about a boy?” Mystic asks hopefully.

  I shake my head. “Not about a boy.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s weird.”

  Mystic laughs. “Oh, no, it’s weird. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

  I grab her arm. “No, I mean it.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Go for it. The weirder the better.”

  I take a breath and say, “There’s this thing that happened to me and I can’t explain it.” Then I just rip the Band-Aid. “I’m seeing things in my head like they’re real.”

  “Like what things?”

  I chuckle because I know how ridiculous this is going to sound. “Highwaymen things.”

  “Highwaymen things?” she says slowly, like I’m a child.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly back.

  “You mean like that comic book you and Nick like?” Her brow furrows. “What does that even mean, ‘seeing Highwaymen things’?”

  “It happened yesterday, and it might have happened before, in the hospital, where I kind of blacked out—”

  “Whoa,” she says, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, but . . . I was there, Mystic. In the graphic novel—I mean, the comic book. In the Old West. With Esmeralda and Beaumont.”

  “Esmeralda and Beaumont?”

  “The people from Highwaymen! The characters were people who were real. Really real, and Old West-y.”

  “Like a movie?”

  “No! Like this! I was there, in Hot Springs, talking to them just like I’m talking to you.”

  “Oh.” Mystic bites the edge of her thumbnail, thinking.

  “You think I’m weird,” I finally say.

  She turns to me. “I know you’re weird. But that’s separate from this. When did it happen yesterday?”

  “After school.” I omit the part about being with Emma because Mystic wouldn’t like that.

  “Should you maybe see a doctor?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, getting quiet inside. Because I don’t know. Like, should I call Dr. Stein and tell him I met my heroes in their make-believe town and I’m afraid my unicorn’s in danger? Uh-huh, sure.

  “Who else knows?” she asks.

  “Only you.”

  Mystic smiles. I can tell that makes her feel special. “Have you ever thought this might happen to everybody who gets their unicorn horn taken off?”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  That’s when I see Emma and Brooklyn walking the wrong way on the track, coming toward us. As they get closer, I see that Emma is looking at me. They stop in front of us.

  “Can you do a walk-and-talk?” she says, ignoring Mystic altogether. “We have dance deets to work out.”

  Mystic looks at me, so confused.

  “I’m on the dance committee,” I tell her quickly, then to Emma: “Um . . . sure. Is that okay, Myst?”

  “Is that okay?” Mystic says, her feelings clearly hurt. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “See you at lunch,” I tell her because I don’t know what else to say. And then I start walking with Emma and Brooklyn in the opposite direction.

  “So uncool,” Nicholas says at lunch, after Mystic tells him what I did.

  “I know. I know.” I look at Mystic pleadingly. “I was going to tell you. It’s just that it all happened so fast, and I thought it might be fun.”

  “Fun to not tell me you’re hanging out with Emma again?” Mystic asks.

  “No, not that! Fun to be on the dance committee.”

  “Which Emma asked you to join?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Mystic shakes her head. “Emma is bad news.”

  “Okay, fine. If you want the truth, that’s what I thought you’d say. It’s kind of why I didn’t tell you.” I pause and add, “Remember, you didn’t tell me everything lately either,” referring to the Brooklyn essay situation.

  “Which I apologized for like a million times!” Mystic says and looks over at the popular table. “So, just to recap—Emma dumped you, and Brooklyn stole your spot in the French competition. Now you want to be BFFs with them? You sure you don’t want to rethink this?”

  “It’s just for the dance. They think I’m good at drawing. I like doing the posters.”

  Mystic’s eyes shift to the walls in the cafeteria. “Did you do these?”

  “Some of them.”

  Nicholas looks up. “Which ones?” he asks in a way that makes me not want to answer. “Come on! The giant clams or the hilarious mermaids?”

  “The hilarious mermaids.”

  He grins.

  “Shut up, Nicholas,” I say. “They’re supposed to be like that.”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  Mystic eyes go wide. “Do you have a date to the dance?”

  “No! Of course not. I’m on refreshment duty,” I say, then brighten. “Why don’t you guys come?”

  “To the dance?” Nicholas asks dubiously.

  “Yes, to the dance. Why can’t we do stuff like dances? Dances are fun.”

  “How would you know?” Mystic asks.

  “I’m guessing?” I say hopefully.

  “I’m out,” says Nicholas.

  I turn to Mystic. “What about you?”

  She looks at the nerd table. “I feel sorry for him,” Mystic says.

  “You mean Ethan?” I look at the nerd table, too, where Ethan is sitting next to Noah.

  “You think he’s going anyway?”

  “Oh, not this again,” says Nicholas.

  Mystic doesn’t even argue back. She’s still looking, moon-eyed, at Ethan.

  “Come to the dance,” I ask her again.

  “Maybe,” she says, and looks back at me. “Just . . . don’t lie to me anymore, okay?”

  I’m about to say that I didn’t lie to her because technically, I didn’t, but instead I just say, “Okay. I won’t.”

  Mermaids and Mermen

  My breath comes out in clouds of fog as I wait for the bus. It’s unusually cold, yet my freezing hand is wrapped around my phone, even though there’s not much to look at because of my messed-up app situation.

  I think about texting Nicholas, but for some reason, I open my photos instead and see the picture that Mystic took of me after she cut my bangs. I look so happy and normal. I flip back through other photos: a view of the sky outside the plane window on the way home, outside the Garbo with George after he gave me the Dodgers cap, on Hollywood Boulevard with Grandma standing over Barbara Stanwyck’s star. Then . . .

  Oh, wow. I’d almost forgotten about that. The selfie I took the night before the surgery in the hospital. There’s me, my horn still on my head, wearing Mystic’s Eiffel Tower hornlet. I stare at that Jewel with the horn.

  There’s a poke in the middle of my back, and I turn to see Emma. “Morning,” she says, smiling at me.

  “Hey,” I say, surprised to see her. Emma’s mom usually drives her to school.

  “It’s freezing out here.” Emma shivers, folding her arms across her chest. Now that we’re actually hanging out again, it’s so clear how different we are. She’s wearing cool furry boots and a puffy coat I haven’t seen before, and I’m still jamming myself into my navy blue jacket we bought at the beginning of middle school.

  “Guess what I got last night?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “My dress for the dance!” she says excitedly. “I thought I’d never find it, but Mom took me to look one las
t time, and omigod, J, it’s gorgeous.”

  “Oh . . . that’s great,” I say, but I feel like a cold bucket of water just got dumped on my head.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “I don’t have a dress. I didn’t even think about it until now. Do you really think I need one if I’m just at the refreshment stand?” As I say this, I kick myself for being stupid. Did I think I’d wear jeans and a T-shirt to a dance? Even the refreshment girl is supposed to be dressed up. Even I know that.

  Emma frowns. “The dance is like three days away. And I thought I was cutting it close . . .”

  “We definitely can’t afford a brand-new dress right now,” I say, starting to panic. “Or even something from Tina’s Treasures. What am I going to do, Em?”

  Her face lightens. “Don’t worry. Come over after school. You can wear something of mine.”

  “Really,” I say, filling with relief.

  “Course,” Emma says, and smiles. “I got you, J. We’ll do dance committee, then you’ll come over. You can stay for dinner, too.”

  “Sounds great,” I say. Because it does. It sounds terrific.

  When we get on the bus, I text Grandma so she’ll know what I’m doing. I don’t want to worry her again.

  We ride to school together, and a satisfied smile blooms on my face. For the moment all my other cares fade away. My mind-bending trip to Hot Springs, my worry about Carmen, my disappointment about the French competition . . . in this instant, they all somehow pale against Emma being my friend again.

  That afternoon at dance committee, I start working on the life-size cutouts of a mermaid and a merman. They have holes where the faces should be so it can be our photo booth. I’m painting the mermaid’s tail when I spot Brooklyn striding quickly into the gym.

  “Where have you been? You’re, like, really late,” I overhear Emma saying.

  “I had to go by French,” Brooklyn says, dropping her backpack on the bleachers by the Swimming with the Fishes display.

  Of course she did. She’s prepping with Monsieur Oliver for the competition. It’s okay, I tell myself, unable to ignore the sharp dart of envy that just exploded in my chest.

  I try to concentrate on my mermaid. I take my time, meticulously dabbing yellow highlights along the blue and green scales.

  “Need some help?”

  I turn and see Brooklyn standing over me. “Uh . . . sure . . . I guess.”

  Brooklyn plops down beside me. “Man, you make the coolest mermaids.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m just doing the painting. Courtney made the cutouts.”

  Brooklyn looks over at Courtney, who’s putting the finishing touches on the Under the Sea mural. “She’s such a talent, gosh.” She picks up a paintbrush. “How can I help?”

  “Um . . .” Brooklyn is the last person I want to be doing this with, but there’s a lot to be done. “Can you use that blue on the merman’s scales?”

  “Sure.” She dips her brush in the aqua-colored paint. We work silently for a minute until she stops and looks at me. “Hey listen. I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling suspicious as I keep painting.

  “I just talked to Monsieur Oliver.”

  Rub it in, why don’t you.

  “And . . . we want you to do it.”

  Huh? I turn to her. “Do what?”

  “The essay competition. I asked him if it would be okay. It’s just, your essay was so good, and your French is so much better than mine. And let’s face it. You were his first choice.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, confused.

  “I know I should have said something sooner. I mean, I should have. But I really wanted to go. I guess I was trying to tell myself you didn’t want to do it. But I saw how you looked when you found out it was me. You want it, right?”

  I nod slowly, stunned. Speechless.

  “I get selfish about things sometimes,” Brooklyn continues. “My dad calls it my fatal flaw. But Jewel, you’re like, really good at French. I mean, we all know that you’re in a totally different league than the rest of us. You deserve to be there more than me. So what do you say?”

  “Really?” The emotion of it all seeps into my pores.

  Brooklyn smiles. “Really.”

  “Are you sure?” I actually start laughing, it’s all so unexpected. Maybe I misjudged Brooklyn. “I’ve been so jealous,” I say, surprisingly uncensored.

  “Of me?” Brooklyn says, like that’s unbelievable.

  “Yeah,” I nod, relieved, flushed.

  “I had to face facts. Monsieur Oliver actually helped me face them, if truth be told. He thinks you’re awesome.”

  Monsieur Oliver thinks I’m awesome? “But wait!” I suddenly blurt out. “My essay is about having a horn. I don’t have a horn anymore.”

  “Well . . . you could rewrite it about what it’s like to be a girl without a horn.”

  That’s what Monsieur Oliver told me. I guess he’s rubbing off on her. And then it hits me. “The competition’s Saturday!”

  “I know! But I can help you get ready. Monsieur Oliver said we can get together during lunch for the next couple of days.” I must still look stunned because she adds, “It’ll be okay. You’ve got this. And everybody is going. We’ll all cheer you on.”

  I feel overwhelmed and excited at the same time.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” she says. “Pas de problème.”

  “Right,” I say, cracking a grin. Not a problem at all.

  Emma’s closet has more clothes than they should be able to afford. When I ask about it, she tells me that her dad sends her “outfit” money. Outfit money? Geez! Where’s my long-lost dad with my outfit money?

  I try a white minidress and stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror on her door.

  “I don’t think that’s quite right,” Emma says, and goes back to her closet. Carefully, I take off the dress and lay it on her bed.

  “How about this one?” She pulls out a light blue one. It’s beautiful and goes all the way to the floor.

  “Isn’t that too fancy?”

  “For the eighth-grade dance?”

  “No, for me.”

  “Go on. Try it on,” she says, handing it to me. “I have a feeling about it.”

  I pull the dress over my head and let it slip over my body. As I smooth out the front and straighten the shoulders, Emma’s face lights up. “Oooh. Look at you!”

  “Is it good?” I ask, hopeful and doubtful at the same time.

  “See for yourself,” she says, and points to the mirror.

  I look at my reflection and think, Oh.

  It fits.

  It really fits.

  I look so grown up.

  I look so—

  “Perfect!” Emma cries, breaking out into a little dance.

  I turn around, gazing at myself from all angles. “Are you sure I can borrow it?”

  “Of course!”

  I brush my bangs over my forehead. If you didn’t know me before, you’d have no idea I’d had a horn there.

  Emma sits on the bed and her expression changes. “What were you and Brooklyn talking about at dance committee?”

  “Oh, didn’t she tell you?” I say happily. “She wants me to do the French competition in her place!”

  “She does?” Emma says. This is clearly news to her.

  “It was really nice of her. I’ve been thinking maybe I got the wrong impression of Brooklyn.” I stop myself before I say too much. I don’t want Emma to pass along anything mean.

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I think so. I mean, I was Monsieur Oliver’s first pick. But when I left . . . anyway, Brooklyn is being cool,” I say. “The only thing is that it’s Saturday.”

  “The day after the dance!” Emma shrieks. “You sure you’ll be ready?”

  “I have no idea how I can be ready.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure you can do it all,” she says, and I gaze
into the mirror and feel like maybe I can do it all. “’Cause things are changing for you, J.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uh . . . you’re going to the dance. You’re doing the essay competition. You don’t have a horn.” She meets my gaze, and there’s a pause in the air before she says, “So what’s the deal with you and Mystic, anyway? And that guy you hang out with?

  “Nicholas?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “What do you mean, what’s the deal? They’re my friends.”

  Emma crosses her arms. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but they’re not really . . . you know . . . I mean, look at you. You don’t belong at the freak table anymore.”

  My eyes catch my reflection again. She’s right. I don’t look like a freak anymore. I, Jewel Conrad, the queen of the freaks, am now—

  “A popular girl,” Emma says, almost proudly. “That’s what you look like now.”

  “I was just thinking I looked normal.”

  “J. You’re way past normal. Haven’t you noticed people looking at you?”

  “Sure, but that’s because, you know, I got my horn taken off.”

  “At first. But now they’re looking at you because you’re hot.”

  “Hot?” My eyes dart back to the mirror. Okay, maybe I look good in the dress, but hot? Is she kidding?

  “I knew it right away. As soon as you got back from LA. Everybody is going to know it when they see you at the dance, though,” she says. “Nobody could see the real you with your horn, but now . . .”

  That’s what Mrs. Whatley said on my first day back. That now she could see the real me. I look at my reflection and wonder, Is this what the real me looks like? I can’t tell anymore.

  Back at home, I stay up late rewriting my French essay. Something still isn’t right about it, and I can’t figure out what. I stare out my window, trying to find the right words, and catch myself searching for Carmen. Where is she? The ache in my heart for her that was once only a pinprick has morphed into the size of baseball, and it won’t go away. It’s funny that I’ve never felt this about my dad. But my dad never watched out for me, or did any of those things that a parent is supposed to do. Carmen did that.

  Closing the blinds, I clutch my chest and tell myself I can’t think about her right now. I’ve got my dress for the dance. Mom’s taking off work for the French competition. And somehow I’ll figure out my essay. Aching heart or not, the next two days are mine.