Wendelin Van Draanen - Flipped

“Scrubbing floors?” my dad said. “It’s Sunday, Trina. Why were you scrubbing floors?”

“Nervous energy.” She looked at me. “How’d it go?”

“Okay. I’m glad I went.”

She glanced at my dad and then at me. “Well, good,” she sighed, then said, “I also felt like scrubbing because I got a call from Patsy.”

“Loski?” my dad asked. “Is something wrong?”

My mother pushed a few wisps of hair back and said, “No…. She called to invite us over for dinner on Friday.”

We blinked at her a moment; then I asked, “All of us?”

“Yes.”

I could see what my dad was thinking: Why? All these years of living across the street, and we’d never been invited over. Why now?

My mom could see it, too. She sighed and said, “Robert, I don’t exactly know why, but she was insistent. She was practically in tears, saying how sorry she was that she’d never invited us before and how she’d really like to get to know us better.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I couldn’t very well say no. She was being so nice, and Chet has really done a lot….” She shrugged and said, “I said we’d go. It’s set for six o’clock Friday night.”

“Really?” I asked.

She shrugged again. “I think it might be nice. A little strange, but nice.”

“Well, okay then,” my dad said. “I won’t schedule any overtime for Friday. What about the boys?”

“There’s no gig on the calendar, and they’re not scheduled to work, but I haven’t talked to them about it yet.”

“Are you sure they want us all over there?” my dad asked.

My mom nodded. “She insists.”

I could tell the whole idea of dinner at the Loskis’ was making my dad pretty uncomfortable, but we could both see that something about this invitation meant a lot to my mother. “All right then,” he said, and got to work slicing cheese and onions.

For the rest of the afternoon, I sort of lazed around, reading and daydreaming. And at school the next day, I couldn’t seem to concentrate. My thoughts kept turning back to David. I wondered what my grandparents had been like, and what they’d gone through, having a son like him.

I daydreamed a lot about the sycamore tree, too, which at first I thought was because I was feeling melancholy. But then I remembered how my mother had called the sycamore a testimony to endurance. It had survived being damaged as a sapling. It had grown. Other people thought it was ugly, but I never had.

Maybe it was all how you looked at it. Maybe there were things I saw as ugly that other people thought were beautiful.

Like Shelly Stalls. A perfect example! To me there was absolutely nothing to recommend her, but the rest of the world seemed to think she was the cat’s meow.

Me-ow.

Anyway, I sort of drifted through the week like that. Until Thursday. Thursday our social studies class went to the library to do research for our famous historical figure report. I’d chosen Susan B. Anthony and her fight for the right to vote, and I was in the middle of tracking down some books when Darla Tressler flagged me from the end of a stack.

Darla was in a few of my classes, but we weren’t really friends, so I looked behind me to see who else she might be flagging.

“Come here!” she mouthed, frantically waving me over.

So I hurried over. She pointed through the column of books and whispered, “Listen!”

It was Garrett’s voice. And then Bryce’s. And they were talking about… me. About my chickens. And salmonella poisoning. And how Bryce had been throwing away my eggs. And about me fixing up our yard.

Bryce was sounding like he felt really bad, but then suddenly my blood ran cold. He was talking about David!

And then Garrett laughed and said, “A retard? Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it? You know… about Juli?”

For a second, there was silence. And at that moment I was sure they must be able to hear my heart pounding in my chest, but then Bryce laughed and said, “Oh, right.”

I positively crumbled onto the floor. And in a flash the voices were gone. Darla checked around the corner, then sat beside me, saying, “Oh, Jules, I’m so, so sorry. I thought he was about to confess that he’s been crushing on you.”

“What? Darla, Bryce does not have a crush on me.”

“Where have you been? Haven’t you noticed the way he’s been looking at you? That boy is lost in Loveland.”

“Oh, obviously! You just heard him, Darla!”

“Yeah, but yesterday, yesterday I caught him staring at you and he said there was a bee in your hair. A bee, girl. Is that the lamest cover-up you’ve ever heard or what?”

“Darla, the way things have been going, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bee in my hair.”

“Oh, you think you’re that sweet, huh? Just attract bees like honey? Well, honey, the only bee you’re attracting around here is B-r-y-c-e. Cute, yeah. But after what I just heard, I’d stomp and grind, girl. Stomp and grind.” She got up to go but turned and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t jabber.”

I just shook my head and forgot about Darla. How wrong could a person be.

It was what Bryce and Garrett had said that I couldn’t forget. How could they be so cruel? And so stupid? Is this what my father had gone through growing up?

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. What right did Bryce have to make fun of my uncle? How dare he!

I felt fire burn in my cheeks and a cold, hard knot tighten in my heart. And in a flash I knew—I was through with Bryce Loski. He could keep his brilliant blue eyes. He could keep his two-faced smile and… and my kiss. That’s right! He could keep that, too. I was never, ever going to talk to him again!

I stormed back to the section of books on Susan B. Anthony, found two that would work, and then went back to my table. But as I was collecting my things to check out of the library, I remembered. The next day we were going to the Loskis’ house for dinner.

I zipped up my backpack and threw it on my shoulder. Surely after what had happened, I had the right to vote against going!

Didn’t I?

Realizing that my father had the same sense of humor as Garrett gave me the serious willies. I had the hardest time just looking at my dad, let alone speaking to him. But at about five o’clock Friday afternoon I agreed with him about one thing — we should’ve barbecued. A barbecue is more, you know, low-key. Instead, my mom was flying around the kitchen, slicing and dicing and barking orders at Dad and me like the president was coming to dinner.

We swept the floor, put an extra leaf in the table, brought in five more chairs, and set the table. We set it all wrong, of course, but all my mother had to do was shuffle things around to make it right. It looked the same to me, but what do I know?

She put out candlesticks and said, “Rick, can you load the dishes and run them? I’d like a chance to get cleaned up. After that you can change. And Bryce? What are you wearing?”

“Mom, it’s the Bakers . Are you trying to make them feel totally worthless?”

“Trina and I agreed on a dress-up, so—”

“But why?”

My dad put a hand on my shoulder and said, “So we can all feel equally uncomfortable, son.”

Women. I looked at her and said, “Does that mean I have to wear a tie ?”

“No, but some sort of button-down instead of a T-shirt would be nice.”

I went down to my room and ripped through my closet looking for something with buttons. There were lots of buttons, all right. Lots of geeky buttons. I thought about boycotting my mother’s dress-code requirements, but instead I started putting on shirts.