Odelia shrugs one shoulder and the rod that’s holding up her back bends a bit. She dabs a teary eye with a tissue she’s fished out from her sleeve.
This poor girl is desperate to be my friend. I’ve decided not to ask if she was the one who showed up at Mr. and Mrs. Martin’s house pretending to be a salesgirl for Princess Spa. It doesn’t matter. I can let that go.
When I don’t say anything, Odelia continues, a little perkier than before. “I told Serena I wanted to show you some of what I know about the social graces, and she was delighted. She told me, ‘Odelia, you’ve embarked on a responsible, altruistic endeavor befitting a queen.’”
When Odelia imitates Serena, she’s actually funny. I raise an eyebrow. “Let me get a dictionary because I can’t understand what you’re saying. I mean, what Serena is saying.”
“Serena is happy I’m doing something for you,” Odelia says. “And that we’re doing something together. Can we try another lesson?”
“Do we have to?” I whine. “I was heading for the park.”
“The hours are ticking by. Every hour you waste sends you further from your goal.”
“Impressing Wyatt?”
“Yes. And you’re on your way. You smell much better! Like cherry blossoms.”
“It’s scented body lotion. I smell like fruit salad.”
“I’m pleased that you put lesson one into action. That lesson on cleanliness went rather smoothly.”
“Rah-ther,” I say, copying her.
“Only mocking birds mock. Be nice, Bernice.” Odelia turns and takes stock of what’s in my room. “Where might I find a . . ?” She doesn’t finish the question, but asks a different one. “Who are these messy girls in this painting?”
“You mean on the poster? It’s a band. They’re called No Boys Allowed. They play locally. They’re my favorite band, but they aren’t famous yet.”
“Why are they banging on metal objects?”
“It’s a percussion band. They use trashcan lids, buckets, brooms, and other junk to make music.”
“They look like they are trash. If I meet them, I’ll be sure and share a few tips. Ah, that leads me to today’s lesson.” Odelia opens her notebook, and reads:
“ODELIA’S GUIDE TO THE SOCIAL GRACES
LESSON 2: POSITIVELY POISED
OBJECTIVE: Bernice will learn to be presentable and proud. Like an artist with a rough canvas, I’ll create a masterpiece. (Note to self: Bernice has the poise of a tipped cow.)”
“Tipped cow! Really? You be nice, Odelia.” I couldn’t resist.
She giggles, and I do, too. It’s nice to see that she can lighten up.
“No one talks about poise these days,” I say. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Poise is elegance. It’s a manner of presenting yourself neatly, with confidence.”
I fall back on my bed and look up at the ceiling. “Whatever.”
Odelia checks her appearance in my mirror, then looks at me. “We need to work on getting rid of your disheveled look.”
“I told you, I showered.” I get up and hold my armpit to Odelia’s nose so she can get a whiff.
Odelia yanks my arm down and pulls me toward my dresser mirror. “Your hair is a bee’s nest,” she says. “It’s time to get the bees out of the hive.”
Odelia finds my hairbrush and starts attacking the knots in my tight, frizzy curls.
“OW!” I scream. “Is this necessary? If you keep this up, I’ll be bald! Crrr—”
Odelia gently places the brush bristles over my mouth.
“Fiddlesticks!” I spit out. “This is a waste of precious skating time!” I grab the brush and throw it on the bed. “I’m outta here! I don’t need this. I may not ever be impressive. I may not ever fit in at Porchtown Middle. But I’ll just have to deal with it. I’m fine.”
I start for the door, but Odelia beats me to it. She’s a skinny wimp, yet somehow this skinny wimp has succeeded in blocking the door handle. She may be an inch taller than me, but I can take her if I try.
“Yes, Bernice, you are fine. And I was fine, too. That is, until I moved here from Europe. I wish I was back in my old home, in my old country. I’d be strolling through a grassy maze on my estate instead of here in this stupid place, fighting with you.”
“Whoa! Where did that come from?”
Odelia rushes away from me. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was mean. I’ve been in a foul mood. Please forgive me.” Odelia holds her face in her hands and sobs like a lost toddler.
“It’s okay,” I say, handing her a tissue. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. Everybody suffers from a brain fart now and then.”
“Brain fart?” Odelia asks, sniffling.
I explain brain farts, and suddenly, Odelia bursts out laughing.
When I think about it, a brain fart is an immature idea, and I laugh, too. I’ll be in middle school in a month and a half, so I better stop sounding like I stepped off the elementary school playground. I pick up my brush, and hand it to Odelia. “My hair could be neater, I guess.”
Odelia attacks my hair again, but her touch is a little softer. “Think of me as a gardener who will remove knotty weeds and leave a better you.”
Like that will ever happen.
Odelia brushes my hair for half an hour. It’s shinier than it’s ever been, and she’s swept my bangs to the side. It’s very seventh grade. She gives me a manicure and a pedicure and although uncomfortable in more ways than I can mention, the result is . . . well, interesting. I got her to substitute midnight blue polish for the disgusting coral pink she picked out, and for the first time in my life, every nail is identical in size, shape, and color. Very cool! I slouch in front of the mirror, arms across my chest, and strike a pose like the rappers do at the end of a song.
