The Red Blazer Girls by D. Michael Beil

Author:D. Michael Beil [Beil, D. Michael]
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-89157-1
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2009-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Sadly, the answer to my question is a resounding yes. It's not like junior high kids in New York have these amazing social lives (at least, not the people I know), but come on, we are sitting in front of a whiteboard in Margaret's apartment learning new math concepts. On a Saturday night.

I call an official time-out from the Xs and Ys because I need to hear about Rebecca's afternoon in Chelsea with Ms. Harriman. (I am also dying to hear Leigh Ann's version of events from the dance, but I don't want to be the one to ask.)

“What was she wearing? Another cowgirl wedding dress?” Leigh Ann asks.

“She went with more of a Goth look this time. It was a long, lacy black dress with a spider web in the back. I almost didn't recognize her because she had her hair all pulled up under a hat. And she had black gloves on—up to her elbows!”

“How about the shoes?”

“Black Chuck Taylors. I kid you not.”

“All right! Chucks rule.” I just happen to be wearing a red pair.

“So I show up at this gallery, and there's like a million people because it's the opening of a show for some artist whose paintings I don't get at all, and I swear Elizabeth knows everybody. The mayor's there, and some rapper I've never heard of, and a couple of the Yankees. And she's introducing me to everybody like I'm her long-lost daughter, and I feel like a total schlub with my stupid sketchbook that I am just praying she doesn't ask me to show to these people.”

“Did she?” I ask, cringing.

“No, thank God. After about an hour, the place empties out—like that—and we go into her friend Alessandra's office. She owns the gallery and is like the total opposite of Ms. Harriman. She's wearing this chic little black dress, perfectly normal. So, Ms. Harriman tells her about meeting all of us, and how impressed she is with my drawings, blah, blah, blah, and this lady—Alessandra—takes a look at them, and, and … she likes them, too! She wants me to come there for this special program for supposedly gifted young artists—for free!”

“Oh my gosh. That is great, Becca,” says Margaret. “When do you start?”

“In a couple of weeks. She showed me the studio upstairs. It's amazing. Every year, she finds about ten kids and brings in friends of hers who are artists to do the teaching. I saw some of the things they're working on, and wow! I can't wait.”

“What did your mom say?” I ask.

“I haven't told her yet.” Suddenly the excitement drains out of her face and she falls backward onto the bed. “Oh, man. My mom's job. I'm not gonna be able to do it.”

“What!” cries Leigh Ann.

“What about your mom's job? Did she change shifts?” Margaret asks, very concerned.

“It's not just that, she's—” I blurt out before remembering my promise not to tell.

“She's what?” Margaret has me by the arm.

“Sorry, but I'm telling them, Becca.”

So I spill. Even the part about her possibly leaving St.

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