SmartGirl Internette presents...

Avoiding the unoccupied cast members who are milling around waiting for Mr. Koi to get here, I sit down on the stage next to Lauren. While she reads her part, I get to thinking. There is obviously never going to be peace between us, so why try? Nikki obviously doesn’t want me back, so why should I? Nikki is dead to me. I want to be discovered. This is my big break, and she can’t ruin it for me. I slam my fist on the stage floor.

“I am keeping this part!” I screech. Everyone in the room looks at me like I just swallowed Lauren whole.

“I’m…glad,” Lauren says, “Seeing as the play is next Monday.” I grin sheepishly.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I have like, anti-cold feet or something.” Lauren raises her left eyebrow, then rolls her eyes and begins reading her part again.

Three days and four rehearsals later, I am given the biggest mountain of homework I have ever seen. I have to complete four dozen math problems, read and summarize two chapters of Of Mice and Men, and write a paper about the United Nations. And: it is all due tomorrow morning.

“Oh no,” I groan, collapsing at the kitchen table. “Is there a tutor in the house?”

“You’ve got me,” says Lauren, sitting across from me.

“You’re not the one in honors English,” I say, heaving my binder onto the table.

“I guess that’s true, but we are in the same Current Events class. You do have a computer, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“We can probably find some of these answers on the internet. Ever been to everymathanswer.org?”

“Is that legal?” I ask. Lauren flashes a mischievous crooked grin.

We spend the next two hours in front of the computer doing homework and eating cheesy popcorn.

“I am done, finally!” I say, pulling a cookie from the jar and chomping down.

“Want to make some grilled cheese?” Lauren asks, leaning into the open refrigerator. Her caramel colored hair forms a curtain in front of her face. “I see seven different cheeses in here.”

“Sure,” I say. “I haven’t had that in a long time. It’s usually frozen Stouffer’s ‘round my place. Thanks for inviting me over, by the way.”

“My pleasure. Want to feed my turtle?”

We feed Antonio and gorge ourselves on grilled cheese sandwiches and hot fudge sundaes.

I have dinner at a different friend’s house each night of the next week and feed Opal and Cupcake when I get home. Then, eventually, it is the night of the dress rehearsal for The Music Man, starring yours truly. The night whizzes by in a flurry of dancing, cues, and itchy costumes, but all is well.

The next day, I waltz through the final mini-practice, not bothering to notice that I have my bonnet on backwards.

On the night of the play, I rush through my homework sloppily, thinking; I’ll have time to do it again later. I then bike over to the school’s parking lot which is already crammed with SUVs. I enter through the back door to find several of my fellow actors waiting in the drama room.

“Hi,” I greet them. “Does anyone else feel like throwing up?” They smile but I can sense the nervousness in their body language. The makeup artist beckons to me immediately. I frown and sit down in front of the artist.

“What’s up?” One of the actresses steps forward, fear etched in every crease of her face. She looks around nervously, and then turns to me again.

“Didn’t you hear? Missy Day LaVonne is out there!” My jaw hits the floor.

“Missy LaVonne? The talent scout and co-director of Pride and Pickle Juice?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re on in five!” calls Mr. Koi, who is not paying any attention to us, eyes fixed on the stage hands.

I gulp and prepare myself for the big moment as the makeup artist dabs foundation on my face.

Five minutes later, I am onstage singing along with the other townspeople in River City. I recite my first lines carefully and scan the seats. No sign of Nikki. However, in the first row is a woman with waist-length chocolate-brown hair that shimmered in the dim light. Her mauve suit (suede, by the looks of it) went down to her knees, exposing very skinny legs. Definitely Missy LaVonne. I gulp and keep talking. I’ll worry about her later.

The next morning, I wake for the first time in weeks to the smell of eggs and French toast. I bolt up, realizing that, for once, one of my parents is home in the morning. That is, of course, before I remember that it’s Sunday, and I have to go to church. Bleah. I run downstairs to the source of the smell and sit at the table. I eat my scrambled eggs slowly, savoring every bite. I am surprised again when I hear Mom say, “Alex, your father and I are going to a conference in Montana, so you will be home by yourself for a few weeks.”

“But Mom,” I protest, “When will you leave, and when are you coming back?” I cross my fingers under the table and wish with all my brain power. Please not that day. Please not that day. Mom leans over to the calendar, running a perfectly manicured nail down the row of dates.

“Well, Alex, let’s see… we’re leaving at 10:00 this morning and we’re coming back on Thursday the 24th.”

I gasp. “But mom, you can’t do that. Thursday is the opening night for the play! Plus, you’re leaving me alone for like three weeks!”

“Well, you can always stay with Nikki. I’m sure Mrs. Martinez wouldn’t--“

“No!” I screech. “I mean,” I say, blushing, “I-I’ll be fine, Mom.” She rolls her eyes.

“Alright then.” Mom tosses a key ring at me. I catch it before it drops. “I copied the house and mailbox keys for you. The blue ones are the house keys.” They leave half an hour later. I never get around to talking to Nikki

The next week is the same routine. Mom insists on me calling her every day when I come home from rehearsal. So far, I have not texted nor emailed anyone. It is pretty miserable.

On the Wednesday of the second week, I am at rehearsal when I notice someone familiar standing in the balcony. Nikki. When she sees me looking at her, she looks at her shirt and brushes away an invisible piece of lint. I sigh.

“Alex! Come on!” I look up hopefully to the balcony, but Nikki is already gone.

“Alex! Hurry up! I need help with this part!” Oh. It’s just Lauren. Lauren Tanolli stands at stage right, script in hand.

“Coming,” I call. I sigh again, wanting to just stand there forever, but head over to Lauren anyway. I would kill to get inside Nikki’s head for five minutes, I think. Maybe that would give me some answers, because Nikki sure isn’t.

Standing there outside apartment 5D, I come up with an idea. To lure Nikki out of her apartment, I have to get away from it. I pound on the door once more, to no response. I groan loudly to make sure she can hear and stomp away, muttering incoherently. I rush down the hall to the ice machine to hide.

Ten minutes later, Nikki’s blonde head pokes out. Nikki starts walking toward the elevator across from the ice machine. Panicking, I scoot farther behind the machine. I hold my breath, not daring to make a move in case she sees me. Nikki reaches the elevator doors and pushes the down button with her thumb. I wait impatiently as the ascending numbers light up in order. 1, 2, 3, 4…Ding!

Finally, the elevator doors whoosh open and several people get out, one lugging several bags of groceries. Nikki gets on. As the doors slide shut again, I sigh with relief. I realize that while she’s gone, I can find out why she is still so angry. Obviously, she isn’t buying my story. Sprinting down the hall, I stop at 5D again and try the screen door. It opens. Mouth agape at my stupidity, I sneak inside.

Greeting Artemis the hamster, I open the second door on the left into Nikki’s room. I grin at the purple fuzzy wallpaper and head for the computer. Fortunately, Nikki was already logged in, so I was free to check her IM account. Over the past week, she had IM’d with girls on the volleyball team but not with me. I had expected this. Maybe she uses the IMs like a diary, I think, and tells whoever she is IMing…everything. This makes no sense to me, but there is a chance, so I sit down in the neon beanbag chair and get ready for some answers.

Glancing down her history, something else catches my eye. This past Tuesday, she “conversed” with Chad Paisley of the debate club. This surprises me because she has been expressing interest in Bobby Andrews of the football team. Right at that moment, I hear the screen door slam and Nikki yakking to Artemis. Oh crud.

Thinking quickly, I zoom toward the closet but decide against it. Against my survival instincts, I go through the door and into the living room. After all, I think, I did come here to see her, so I might as well talk to her. That’s when I notice that Nikki is not alone. Chad is by her side. Rather annoyed by this, I duck behind the sofa. There is no way I’m talking to her if Chad’s here. I hope they don’t start… I shudder and hear the springs creak as they sit down.

“First word,” Nikki says, “Replete.” I hear pages flipping and the tapping of Nikki’s foot as she waits for Chad to answer.

“Umm…full.”

“Awesome! Now me.”

“This is a harder one. Systematic.”

I groan silently. Boring. So this was why they were IMing: they were setting up an SAT study session. I squirm back to the door and open it a second time, wincing at the sound of squeaky hinges.

Doing justice to my ‘athletic’ sneakers, I run back down the hall and jam my thumb on the down arrow. Waiting impatiently for the second time, I bounce on the balls of my feet until my gleaming lifeline doors slide open and I hurry into the elevator.

Alone in the elevator, I lean back against the railing and ponder what just happened. So, I come up here to see Nikki, hide, snoop around her IMs, hide again behind her sofa, then sneak out. Very productive visit, if I do say so myself.

Cracking a smile, I head back out into the lobby towards the parking lot and my bike.

Safely back home, I refill Opal and Cupcake’s water bottles and start on my homework.

Two hours, half a dozen geometry problems, and a three-page current world events paper later, I settle down to watch some American Idol. David Archuleta inspires in me a surge of confidence. Sitting at my laptop, I open Word and pledge, in print, all caps, 72 size font, “I WILL TALK TO HER TOMORROW!” I know mom and dad will be out all night, so I heat up some lasagna. After I scarf it down, I collapse on my bed, asleep before my head hits the pillow.

Now to tend to the other problem. I run to the kitchen and find a small flame in the bottom of the frying pan. I reach for an oven mitt and jam it on my hand. Then I turn the main burner to OFF, fill a jug with water, pour it on the pan, and watch as the flame boils down to nothing. There is still the smoke to deal with, though. I dampen a dishtowel and wave it around the kitchen, blowing all the smoke through the open screen door. Then I pull the pan off the stove and plunk it in the sink, drowning it in lukewarm water.

The excitement finally over, I grab two baby carrots from the fridge and trot to my room to find two guinea pigs huddled together in the corner of their cage. I pull them from the cage and set them on the floor. My charges sat on the purple rug for a moment, then began to squeal, chasing each other around on the floor. I also put four paper towel tubes down, and Opal and Cupcake begin to run through the tubes and gnaw them. I grin again, making my auburn hair swoop over my face. I blow it out of my way. I then toss the baby carrots on the floor, and Cupcake and Opal race for them. I jump out of their way.

For such stout little things, I think, they sure are fast. Suddenly, Opal and Cupcake collide.They both make sounds that seem like crying. I pick up Cupcake, then Opal, and put them back in their cage as I race to get some apple. When I get back, Cupcake and Opal are quiet. They are both nestled in the hay in the bottom of the cage, asleep. I roll my eyes and quietly set the apple slices in each of their bowls. Guinea pigs are weird. I then go to the garage and hop on my bike. I am headed for 14142 Mango Grove Road, the Martinez’ apartment building.

As I turn onto 7th Avenue, I spot another biker. I swerve to the left to avoid him. My fellow was swathed in--well, in stripes. Striped pants, striped shirt, striped…belt. I shudder and speed ahead.

The doorman recognizes me and lets me in. I must burn rubber from my shoes on the way to the elevator. I can immediately recognize Nikki’s apartment by the wooden bluebird on top of the door. I sniff, but smile as I remember second grade, when we made it. I pull myself together and walk up to the screen door, squinting in the bright sunlight from the window. Wow, I think. For this part of Washington, it sure is bright. I knock on the screen door to no response. Knock. Silence. Knock. Silence. It goes on like this for at least ten minutes before I peer though the screen and see the wave of blond hair behind the sofa.

Of course she would ignore me.

I wake up covered in sweat. I look around. Oh yeah. I’m at home. I forgot. The clock says 10:00. As in A.M. Oh. My. God. I roll out of bed to find another note from Mom on my purple reading lamp. It reads:

I slouch in my desk chair and yawn. Would it kill Mom to wake me up once in a while? I need some human conversation. Opal squeaks. “Sorry, guys,” I say, pulling out the guinea pig pellets. I fill their dishes and then head to the kitchen for my breakfast.

I grab the big frying pan and put it on the stove, turning on the burner. Pulling out the new carton of eggs, I yawn again. I need to really wake up, I think. I put the eggs on the counter and head for the bathroom. When I get there, I turn on the faucet and splash my face with cold water. Whoa. I quickly snap up, now fully awake. As long as I’m in the bathroom, I think, I might as well finish getting ready.

Half an hour later, I am showered, dried, lip glossed, and ready. Suddenly, I hear the smoke detector. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. Oh, no. The burner. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I scold myself. Next time, stay in the kitchen when you make French toast!

Two doors down, I hear a scared sound coming from Opal and Cupcake that I had only heard once before.

Guinea pigs hate loud, high noises. Thinking fast, I run down the hall to the main smoke detector. BEEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. Then I pull off the cover and hit the off switch. BEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEP. Come on, come on! Against all odds, I grab the main cords and pull with all my might. The beeping stops abruptly.

When we get to the auditorium, Nikki goes up to the director and gets in line while I sit in the very back. Nikki is auditioning for the part of Marian the Librarian, which, if I were auditioning, I also would have tried out for. No awkwardness there. My best friend was to be the fifth person to read lines and sing ‘If you don’t mind my saying so’ with Mrs. Arkwaa, our resident guidance counselor playing the part of Marian’s mother (for now).

I groan quietly. Nikki has never auditioned in front of a crowd this size before. She was going to embarrass herself in front of practically the whole drama club!

I can do nothing but watch. This is going to be a disaster. Oh, no; it's Nikki’s turn. I close my eyes and brace for impact. As she reads the lines, she blushes and starts to giggle. Oh Nikki, why even try? Then she starts to sing off key: As long as the Madison public library was entrusted to meeeeeeee…

I cover my ears and at the same time notice that the director do, too. This is not going well. I start to sing to myself: for improving river city’s cultural level, I can’t help my concern that the ladies of River City keep ignoring all my council and advice! However, I should have noticed the boy behind me with a tape recorder catching every note.

When Nikki is finished with her ear torture, he runs down to the stage, tape recorder in hand. “Mr. Koi? We have another candidate for the part.” The unnamed stalker gestures towards me, and I scowl at him. Now Nikki will hate me if she hears that tape. I have never told her how good people think I am.
 
"Sure," says the director, shrugging. "Always open for another audition." Then Mr. Koi gestures to one of the teachers onstage, who hurries the next auditionee back behind the curtains.

The boy presses play on the offending recorder. Everyone in the entire auditorium can hear me! Mr. Koi looks amazed. Inside my head, the angel and devil squabble fiercely. Of course, I would be ecstatic if I got the part, but what about Nikki? I groan again silently as the song finishes. "Amazing!" exclaims Mr. Koi. The boy leads Mr. Koi up to my row. "Well, who do we have here?"

I put on a fake smile and introduce myself shakily. "I-I'm Alex C-Cabella, sir."

“Well, Alex C-Cabella,” grins Mr. Koi, "Get ready to sing, because you are Marian the Librarian." Oh no. "I expect to see you here at 4:00 sharp tomorrow, my dear," he continues. "Everyone is counting on you to be Marian. I wasn't even able to cast an understudy for Marian yet. No one is just right so far, and I'm not sure if anyone will be."

He then sprints back to the stage. As I watch the last of the auditions, guilt wells up in my chest. Nikki is staring at me from the wings through the entire thing. She then mouths at me: I hate you! and turns away. It's official. She hates me.

The next day, a list of all the cast and crew is plastered in the same spot as the 'Musical Auditions Today' sign. Of course, across from 'Marian' is 'Alex Cabell'. Crud. I can only imagine what Nikki, standing next to me, is thinking. It hurts to think about it. What a jerk. I hate her. Who does she think she is? I shake my head hard to clear it like it is just an Etch-A-Sketch. Yeah, right. It is definitely not that easy.

I glance at Nikki. She is scowling. I can kind of see why. Not only did she not get the role of Marian, but she wasn’t cast in the play at all. It kind of makes sense. 50 people auditioned, and there are 32 main parts and 12 minor parts. When Nikki saw me looking at her, she sped to the corner with other Marian rejects, all looking glum. I sigh. How am I ever going to explain to her that I wasn’t trying for the part, it just happened? Nothing will ever be the same with us.

At the first rehearsal a few days later, I whip across the floor when I dance and speed through my songs and lines like I am the newest chipmunk alongside Alvin. I want to get through rehearsals as fast as possible so I can try and to talk to Nikki.

No such luck. I try calling her, texting her, emailing her, even faxing her my apology, but she doesn't reply to any of them. Instead, I get a fax back from the same address.

I scan it the fax hopefully, but all it is is a thank-you note from my Aunt Rachel to my mom for a box of stationary. What person faxes thank-you notes? Oh right, my Aunt Rachel. I roll my eyes and look at the bottom of the fax. There is a scrawled note written in pencil.

Meet me by the oak tree, it reads, and bring your original apology. There is only one person I know who dots her i’s with peace signs. Of course. Nikki and Aunt Rachel live in the same building. Nikki can easily have written that on if Aunt Rachel left after starting to fax it.

I grin, remembering Nikki’s signature writing.

Then my smile fades as quickly as it had come. I briefly contemplate Nikki’s feelings, then my own. Obviously, Nikki doesn't realize that I was just singing to myself and some creep caught every word. It wasn’t my fault! She’ll just have to realize that, I think to myself and hop on my bike. I am still conflicted. Every time I see Nikki in school, the angel and devil appear again. I don't know what to do. I want the part, but…I don’t know. I sniffle, still confused in every inch of my brain. I am headed to the only place Nikki could be talking about: Old Oak, in Monument Park.

When I get to Monument Park, it is dead silent. There is no one there but me. Weird. Monument Park is usually packed with people. There is probably some church thing today, I think, and ignore the silence.

Instead of Nikki, there is a small pink envelope at the base of the tree. In tiny, swirly writing on the front is Alex Cabella: This is for you.

I am a little freaked out by that, but recognize the handwriting as Nikki’s left-handed script. I pick up the envelope and slit it open with one finger. Inside is a piece of pink stationary that matches the color of the envelope. I wince, realizing that these are both from the custom stationary set I had given her for her last birthday.

It is covered in multicolored butterflies, and at the bottom is written: “Alex and Nikki: Best Friends Forever”. That part had been scratched out. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back and read the letter. It reads:

Dear Jerk, due to your past actions, however voluntary or involuntary, I hereby constitute a friendship divorce of one Alex Cabella and one Nikki Martinez. This divorce effective immediately. Do not try and contact me. I’m sorry. Signed, Nikki Martinez.

This time, the tears come and stay. I knew Nikki would be mad, but THIS? I can do nothing but collapse on the wet dirt and sob.

When I finally look up, the sun is halfway down. I gasp and look at my Baby G-Shock watch.

It is 4:53. Not bothering to wipe away my tears, I hop on my bike and speed toward my house. I turn onto 3rd street and speed forward on the empty drive, gears turning in my brain. Not to my surprise, when I pull into the driveway, there is no one there, either. I go inside to my room, pull one of my guinea pigs, Cupcake, out of her cage, and go to the kitchen, my squirrelly piggy in both hands . On the fridge is a note from my mom:
 

Hey Alex, I’m going to a conference, and Dad is running errands. We’ll see you at about 8:00.

Mom

I roll my eyes. Same old, same old.

I put the plug in the sink drain, and then I put a towel in the sink and place Cupcake on top. I start to chop up some peppers and carrots for Cupcake and some apple for Opal, my other guinea pig. As I close the refrigerator door with my foot, Cupcake begins to squeak loudly. I hear the same sound coming from my bedroom and crack a smile. I head to my room with Cupcake, put her back in the cage, and go grab the food (plus some Ritz Bitz for me).

After putting the veggies and fruit in the guinea pigs’ bowls, I crash on my bed and to munch on a Ritz. As I lean back on my pillow, I hear a loud CRUNCH! Picking up my pillow, I discover a crumpled photo. I pick it up and sniff. It is me and Nikki at the 3rd grade Valentines’ Day party. That was the first day we had worn matching outfits.

I begin to cry, hating myself. I shouldn’t be all teary about this. It’s just Nikki. If she is the one who doesn't want to be friends anymore, then fine. Have it your way, I think.

But I keep crying. I can’t help it. “What am I saying?” I sob. “This is Nikki we are talking about! She is my best friend and always will be!” I sit up and pledge, with two tricolor guinea pigs as my witnesses, “I’ll talk to her tomorrow morning!” Then I yawn, roll back on my pillow, and fall asleep, snoring slightly.

I am in homeroom, listening to Mrs. Ebbs drone about new lunch choices. Yawn. Suddenly, Mrs. Ebbs turns into Nikki, with red, beady eyes, sharp claws and a too-happy, almost creepy grin. “Hello, Alex, friend,” Nikki-demon says, then lunges.

The sign on the front of my English class door speaks my three least favorite words. No, not “Extra essay tonight”, but “Musical Auditions Today”. Ugh. With both volleyball and book club to worry about, The Music Man can wait.

I’m Alex Cabella, a Quileute sophomore at Lady Bird Johnson Senior High, about five miles from La Push Beach. The Quileutes are a Native American tribe in Washington State. My family lives on the Quileute reservation, again a couple miles from La Push.

I love to sing, but I really don’t want anyone to know. I don’t like all the attention. Being a famous author: well, that would be different.

However, my best friend Nikki was probably the first one on the sign-up list. She loves singing and acting, but she isn’t very good at it. Of course, I’ve never told her this. You’ve got to give her credit, though; she is really a very good artist. Much better than me.

On this particular day, I have to sit through volume measurements in chemistry class, letter writing in English, sour, week-old fish sticks in the cafeteria (complete with food fight), and the end-of-semester math test before (after spending a few minutes in the bathroom picking tater tot pieces out of my hair) I am free to run to the only drinking fountain in the east wing.

Naturally, since the east wing houses the gym, there is a mile-long line at the fountain. I groan. Six hours in ninety-degree weather makes me a little irritable. After 15 minutes, there is only one person in front of me, so I lean over and whisper in her ear, “One, two, and three, save some for me!” She looks a little annoyed when she leaves, but hey, so am I!

I lean down and start taking big gulps of what seems like the freshest, coolest, sweetest liquid on Earth. Hey…

I am under a turquoise waterfall with sweet, fresh, cool water pouring out of the top. I start gulping it down. Aaah…. Birds sing, dolphins and manatees swim around me, and it seems like the forces of nature are all working together just for me. “Alex!” Since when do all the forces of nature sound like Nikki? “Alex!!” Oh, crud.

And there I amhead in the water fountain, good old H20 dripping down the front of my shirt. Great. There is no way I can show up for volleyball looking like this. Nikki shakes her head and sighs. “Come with me, Al,” she demands. She then grabs my shoulder and drags me off in the direction of her locker, which I like to refer to as Bloomingdales Jr. I’m not kidding. Nikki has practically her whole closet in her locker. I’m not complaining, of course. Nikki Elizabeth Grace Martinez has gotten me out of fashion predicaments on more than one occasion.

When we get to her locker, me dragging behind, Nikki pulls a purple sequined tank top from the depths of Locker 174 and hands it to me. Inside the locker are only clothes as far as I can see. And, of course, her books stuffed in the corner.

“Go change,” the fashion savior groans at me, pointing towards the bathroom.

I trot to the nearest empty stall, which is thankfully the only stall with a hanger. Unfortunately, this good thing also comes with the fact that it is the ‘baby changing’ stall. I pull off my Green Day concert tee and slip on the tank top and get to thinking. Where would I be if I hadn’t met Nikki in kindergarten? We actually met when she asked for half of my peanut butter and M ‘n’ M sandwich, saying it was her favorite. It was also mine, and, being kindergarteners, we hit it off immediately. If we hadn’t, I thought to myself, I would be the laughingstock of the entire school on several occasions. Thank goodness for PB and M ‘n’ M. I grin, and then pull open the door.

Nikki is checking her mascara in the bathroom mirror. I roll my eyes. Nikki, ever fashion-conscious, tends to check her make-up at every possible second. I don’t even wear makeup!

I pull her away from the mirror. “Come on, Nikki.” I tease, dragging her out the door by one arm, sodden shirt in my other hand. “It’s time for you to get that part.” Inside my tee, I have my fingers crossed.

As Nikki and I stroll down the hall, a voice crackles over the PA system. It is Mrs. Bongo, the vice principal. “Mrs. Aston, the volleyball coach, debate team leader, and book club director, has a sprained ankle. Hereby, volleyball practice, debate team, and 10th grade book club are cancelled until further notice.” Nikki lights up like a light bulb at a National Energy Society meeting (no, I’m not entirely sure if there is one. But you never know!).

“Great!” she cries. “Now you can come with me to the Music Man auditions!” Before I can protest, Nikki the impatient grabs my shoulder for the second time that day and drags me away.