Chapter Text
“Stephanie Menzell?” Dean Bessie Budinski asked, quite theatrically, although she was looking straight at Stephanie, and already knew it was her due to the proximity of her politically prominent uncle.
Before Stephanie could answer, her uncle was standing, chest puffed with pride. The buttons of his dress shirt struggled to keep from flying off. His entire outfit protested against his broadened posture, accustomed as it was to his sitting and slouching.
“Right here,” He beamed, extending both his hands for his signature double-handed shake.
“Mayor Menzell,” Budinski cooed, sliding her puffy hand between his and forgetting Stephanie entirely. “So wonderful to have you! And your niece as well.” Budinski considered the child again, who had been smiling vacantly ever since she walked in. Budinski’s upturned nose crinkled in distaste, which she disguised as a welcoming smile.
“Oh, I absolutely adore your sense of style. Let me guess,” She began, feigning thoughtfulness. “Your favorite color is -- hmmletmethinkforamoment -- Pink!” She finished with a triumphant flourish of her hands.
Budinski was referring to the ostentatious amount of pink that Stephanie had chosen to adorn herself in that day -- and, Budinski correctly guessed, every other day of her life since she was eight years old.
She wore a vertically striped Pepto Bismol pink dress, pink Converse sneakers, a dozen pink bracelets of various shades and styles, and a hot pink wig that looked like it came from Party City.
Wait until she hears about the dress code, Budinski thought to herself, Not to mention the school colors (they were green and white, which Budinski herself was wearing quite a lot of) .
She planned to bring it up around the last quarter of the interview, by which point she would have successfully convinced the mayor that Lake Town Academy was the perfect place for young Stephanie to finish up her 7th year of education, enough so that whatever manner of protest Stephanie had in store -- and Budinski was certain she had something in store -- would not cloud his (historically questionable) judgement.
Not that Mayor Menzell needed much convincing. Lake Town Academy was the only private school in Lake Town. The only other school was Lake Town Middle, which, despite Menzell being a very vocal champion of the public school system as written in his campaign, was just “not the place” for a mayor’s niece to receive a proper education. And most citizens of Lake Town would agree -- certainly those whose children attended Lake Town Academy.
All Stephanie needed to do was show up for the interview, and let her uncle’s mayorship, though it would ( regrettably) have to sit in the waiting room, do the talking. She expected to only answer questions as a formality, only when she entered the dean’s office, and only about her extracurriculars and her academic pursuits.
So, she was caught off guard.
“My favorite color?” She looked down at her outfit. Obviously, she liked pink. Rather, she had always worn pink, and was not accustomed to sporting any of the other, lesser shades. What could Budinski possibly have meant by that? Was it a criticism, as most questions posed by adults often were? Stephanie blushed on purpose, wearing her innocence as armor.
Budinski would later joke with her colleagues that the pink in her cheeks was the finishing touch on her “little strawberry getup.”
“Well, I guess so!" Stephanie answered.
She gave a winning smile, of the shy variety, the kind she usually saved for the judges at her figure skating competitions. She wore a different smile for the horseback riding judges, who were less easily persuaded than the figure skating ones, and who favored poise over charm. She reserved yet another for the street-jazz dance judges, who were much easier to win over than the horseback riding judges, but still considerably less than the figure skating ones. For them it was more of a sassy half-smile. Her favorites, the aerobic gymnastics judges received only subtle smirks, with very tight lips, as they did not care much for smiles, grins, or any such threatening displays of the teeth.
Around the second quarter of the interview -- Budinski did love to organize her meetings into quarters -- the eager dean decided to quiz Stephanie about her various passions, latching on to the topic of street-jazz dance. She intended to bring up the variety of dance classes offered at the academy, as well as the cheerleading team: The Lake Town Tortoises. They were sometimes inspired to recruit especially talented middle schoolers (as they tend to be much lighter than high schoolers, and therefore much easier to lift and throw), and Budinski felt this was a very pertinent detail.
“I’m retired, actually,” Stephanie replied, curtly (with a smile).
“Oh,” Budinski said. “Retired --”
“From dance. From, like, everything physical, actually.”
“Oh. Was there an injury or --”
“No.”
There was a long somewhat tense silence, as Budinski waited for Stephanie to elaborate, and Stephanie waited for a different question.
She folded her little pink hands on the forest green desk, so that she wouldn’t be seen fidgeting.
Budinski realized she would have to move on.
“OK. And how do you feel about the Academy’s strict dress code?”
“Well I --” Stephanie stumbled. “I didn’t know there was one.”
“Ah,” Budinski nodded. Then, she shook her head slowly from side to side, as if deeply regretting what she had to say next.
“There is.” She nodded again.
When it came time for the mayor to step into Bessie Budinski’s office, and for Stephanie to wait outside on the green and white swirly couch, Budinski tried to be as inoffensive as possible as she urged him to weigh his options.
“Of course, you and Stephanie will receive a letter in the mail within the next week or so, and nothing is final until we review her test scores and have a board meeting to discuss. But, at the moment I am a bit… trepidatious. Stephanie comes across as, well, for lack of a better term… unmotivated. And you have to understand Milford - Mr. Mayor - that’s not me saying that, because you know I think she’s such a lovely girl. Cute as a button really. But you know, people talk. Her record at her old school was… Good. Average. But those extracurriculars were what really made her sparkle -- to the board of admissions of course. To hear that she’s no longer interested in pursuing her old passions, well, they might wonder what she is passionate about. Because right now, going off her interview -- oh and her admissions essay --”
Budinski crinkled her nose for the second time, recalling Stephanie’s essay, a dissertation on proper hula-hooping technique, which she found unique but altogether irrelevant.
“It was unique,” she began, “If a bit…trivial. Going off that, I really have no idea what they might make of her. Which means they may come to the conclusion, completely on their own, that, if Stephanie were to attend, she might not have any motivation to… to succeed at Lake Town Academy. Academically or otherwise.”
Budinski added the last part for good measure, with the sort of thoughtful pause that politicians practice to make their statements seem more profound. She hoped it would appeal to his mayoral senses, and soothe him with its familiarity.
If Stephanie had heard all this, she may have thought to mention her goal of becoming a children’s book illustrator, and her newfound passion for the arts. But as it was, the door was closed, the dean’s office was soundproof, and she herself was busy scrolling through Instagram.
“I just wouldn’t want people saying that she only got in for being the Mayor’s girl. It wouldn’t reflect well on either of us. And… I care so much about protecting your reputation, Mister Mayor.”
So did he. Rolling his shoulders back subtly, he asked, “Well, Bessie. Is it not good for my reputation to have my niece attend a prestigious school?”
“I understand entirely. It’s very good. Very good indeed. But, to have a niece who fails to prosper? I’m not so sure. Which is why I urge you to consider: It’s the middle of the school year.”
The mayor considered this briefly, coming to no conclusions but nodding as if he had.
Budinski nodded back. “Would it be so unbecoming to let Stephanie finish eighth grade at the public school, Lake Town Middle? Gain some perspective, work hard amongst the children of the common folk, and prove she has what it takes, just like any normal child. Then, reapply here for ninth. A lot of applicants come in from that school, but we don’t accept just any of them,” by which Dean Budinski meant, Stephanie Menzel is not just anyone. And coming from a school filled with Just Anyones, an application from the Mayor’s daughter would be sure to stand out from the crowd.
“ Who knows,” she added with a provocative smile, “Maybe Lake Town Middle will finally get more funding from the state, and Stephanie will get the sort of education that suits her.”
On the ride home, which did not yet really feel like home, Stephanie reflected on Dean Budinski’s sausage fingers. She had squeezed several rings onto them, and they seemed, upon reflection, to be permanently stuck there. More than once during the interview, Budinski would touch one of the rings, rubbing it back and forth between her index finger and her thumb, as if meaning to rotate it idly, as one does when lost in thought.
But the rings did not rotate, due to all the puffiness. So Budinski just rubbed them.
It seemed that all the adults in Lake Town were puffy, Stephanie mused, certainly all the adults she had met since moving there. Even the ones who could be considered lean in comparison to the rest themselves possessed a certain swollenness. It made sense, she thought, since there was never anyone jogging in the street, and everyone who walked walked at a snail’s pace. The boy who delivered the newspaper used a hoverboard, not a bike, and the playground was deserted on most days. Any activity which could be considered physical was a rare sight.
Stephanie wondered if that would happen to her if she continued to live in Lake Town for many more years. If her fingers would turn into big puffy sausages, and her cheeks into fluffy biscuits. Then, she wondered if that would be so bad. She didn’t mind if anybody else looked that way, so why would she mind it on herself? She was retired after all, and wasn’t that what people did when they retired? Swelled up and watched TV? Maybe, after many years of relentless competition, Stephanie Menzell had earned a little rest. Maybe, she had a right to be puffy.
She put her hand on the dashboard (The Mayor let her sit in the front seat) and examined it closely. Long, thin fingers, same as they were when she left home, no sign of unusual fattening. Pale pink nail polish, chipped around the edges.
How soon should she ask The Mayor for a manicure, she wondered, to best space out her requests? Most recently, she asked for a new pair of (pink) shoes, and he delivered quite promptly. She was pretty sure that was three days ago. So I better wait at least three more days, She decided. To be polite.
The Mayor wondered mainly about dinner, as he pulled into the driveway of his big bright yellow house. He was not used to cooking meals for children. He was not used to cooking meals at all. He preferred ordering take-out to toiling over a hot stove most nights. But, he thought, there are things that are required for the proper upbringing of a child, and a proper nutrition is one of them.
*
“Mmm. Mystery meat,” Trixie sighed sarcastically, as she watched Ziggy scarf down his lunch. “Seriously, how can you eat this stuff? You don’t even know what it is.”
“Why do I need to know? Can’t I just eat?”
“Is it even good? Or are those twinkies hiding the taste?”
“Just because you’re a vegan Trixie --”
“Yellow number five, Ziggy. They use it to make pavement--”
“-- Does that mean you have to spoil it for everybody else?”
“I’m just saying, that Superman didn’t get super from eating crap,” Trixie sniped, narrowing her eyes at the big, faded “S” stretched out across Ziggy’s stomach.
He tugged his flannel over his t-shirt defensively.
“Superman didn’t get super from eating anything, actually,” Pixel interjected, playing on his laptop and ignoring his lunch tray. “He was super on the basis of his alien genetics. He could eat whatever he wanted and still be super.”
“That’s true!” Ziggy shouted. “VERY TRUE.”
“So if Ziggy were actually an alien from the planet Krypton, it wouldn’t matter --”
“Shhhhh!” Trixie hissed, pointing across the lunchroom. “Who’s that pink girl over there?”
Trixie was pointing at Stephanie, who was sitting at a table by herself, unzipping a hot pink lunch box The Mayor had packed for her.
Ziggy spun around in an animated fashion, and gasped when he caught sight of her.
“She looks just like a fairy!” he shouted.
“You probably shouldn’t point, Trixie” Pixel said.
Just then, a boy in a yellow sweater vest teetered over to their table. He’d been surveying the cafeteria all period, collecting debts from every student who owed him lunch money, and stealing lunches from every student who couldn’t pay. Not in a menacing bully way, but more in a sneaky, weasel-y way.
“Who here owes me money,” he declared, rather than asked, looking straight at Ziggy as he said it.
“Knock it off, Stingy,” Trixie said.
“Yeah, knock it off. We’re staring at the new girl,” Ziggy said.
“Oh. That little pink one? Who’s she?”
“She’s Mayor Menzel’s niece,” Pixel answered.
“How’d you figure that out, Pixel, did you hack the vice principal’s emails?” Trixie asked.
“No. I met her this morning in homeroom.”
“Hmm. You think all her stuff is pink?” Stingy wondered aloud, a mischievous glint in his brown dress shoes. “Mayor’s daughter probably has lots of cool pink stuff.”
“He said niece,” Trixie tried to remind him, but he was already tottling over.
No stopping Stingy now, she thought, especially not when cool stuff is involved.
“Well what’s she doing here of all places?” Ziggy asked.
“She was rejected from the Academy,” Pixel answered.
“And she just told you that?” Trixie asked incredulously.
“No. I hacked the vice principal’s emails.”
Trixie rolled her eyes. “Well, let’s go find out what she has.”
Stephanie was about to bite into a cheeseburger (grilled by The Mayor, with love), when she noticed Stingy hovering over her, and three other kids awkwardly shuffling behind him.
“Hi,” Stingy said, finally. “Do you… owe me money?”
“Um. I don’t know you, so probably not,” she answered, lowering her burger.
“Oh. Poor Pinky, nobody told her about the lunch time tax,” Stingy frowned. “You see, my parents donate a lot of money to this school, money that should be going to me. All I ask for in return is a mere 50 cent compensation from every student grades 6 to 8.”
“Hm. That sounds like a lot of money. In the end, I mean,” Stephanie answered, entertained by the pointlessness of the conversation.
“Yes,” Stingy nodded happily. “It is.”
Trixie took that moment to step in. “What Stingy means to say is: Hi. We noticed you were eating by yourself,” she said.
Stephanie waited for her to say more. She was expecting something ending in an invitation to sit at their table, which she would have reluctantly accepted had they asked. But Trixie didn’t seem to have anything else to say, so they just stared at each other. Silently. Stephanie decided that she didn’t really like much about Trixie, except for the way she wore her hair, which she liked a whole lot. She planned to tell her one day, if they ever accidentally became friends.
It was inspiring really, the eccentricity of it. Three pigtails (two in the front, one in the back ), tied up with bright yellow scrunchies, sticking up in every direction like pom-poms. Her outfit was another beast entirely. A mishmash of colors which offended Stephanie’s monochromatic sensibilities. Trixie dressed like she didn’t care about anything except wearing as many layers as she possibly could.
Must get hot, Stephanie thought.
“Are you really the mayor’s daughter?” Ziggy asked.
“And more importantly,” Stingy interjected. “If you can’t pay the tax, I’ll accept your icecream sandwich as collateral.”
“My icecream sandwich?” Stephanie asked, more offended than she meant to show. She’d never had an icecream sandwich before (her various coaches didn’t allow it), and had been very excited to try it. After ten years of her life wasted on a restricted diet, with no room for sweets of any kind, that icecream sandwich in her lunchbox had filled her with a rebellious sort of glee - and a gnawing guilt, which seemed to tear at the fabric of her soul (yes, it was that dramatic). She wasn’t sure whether or not she would ever actually eat the thing, but she couldn’t just throw away her chance.
“I can give you half,” she decided.
“Stingy’s not entitled to any of your icecream sandwich,” Trixie cut in. “Just ignore him when he tries to take your stuff. We all do.”
“What kind of name is Stingy?” Stephanie asked.
“He’s Nenni, but we all call him Stingy ‘cuz he’s stingy. My name’s Trixie, and that’s just my name.” She swung her arm dramatically at Ziggy. “The kid with the Superman obsession is Ziggy, short for Sigmund. And the one with all the tech is Pixel, real name…”
She looked at Pixel, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. His bright orange hair and big eyes gave him an almost cartoonish appearance. He dressed like a caricature of a tech mogul trying to advertise his own products - decked out in Airpods and an Apple Watch, with a utility belt around his waist which overflowed with gadgets and game consoles -- many of which were unrecognizable, even to Stephanie’s trained eye.
“Pixel,” he declared, extending his hand. Stephanie shook it without hesitation.
These would be her new friends, she supposed, observing the children before her. They were an eyesore. Everything about them disagreed with everything else about them, and they all disagreed with each other. Nevermind the rest of the lunchroom. Whatever it was they were dressed for, this middle school cafeteria could not possibly be it.
She thought of The Academy, where she couldn’t even have pink hair, and wondered what it would say to kids like them. What it would do to kids like them. Colorful kids. Individuals. The Academy’s purpose was to create future deans and mayors. They looked like future circus acts, in a good way.
This made them all alright in Stephanies book, because she was born in a circus. She had been known as Stephanie: The Itsy Bitsy Acrobat, until about the age of 6.
“And you are Pinky,” Trixie said matter-of-factly, pulling Stephanie’s attention away from her former glory and back to the cafeteria. Trixie sat down across from her, and the rest of the kids followed suit. Boldly, she swiped the icecream sandwich from Stephanie’s lunchbox and tore off half for herself, squishing it carelessly, so that the icecream dripped all over her hand and down her arm. She licked it up.
“HEY!” Stingy squealed. “THAT WAS FOR MEEEEE!”
Stephanie allowed herself a laugh and somehow ignored Trixie’s rudeness. She was so hungry now, she grabbed the other half and shoved it in her mouth.
“O by Gob!” she shouted with her mouth full. “Ids zo gold!”
*
“Gym right after lunch doesn’t seem very healthy,” Stephanie complained, picking at the loose threads of her brand new gym uniform. It was blue and white and already full of holes.
“Stop worrying, Pinky” Trixie smirked. “It’s not healthy at all.”
Stephanie wondered how Trixie could tell that she was worrying, and made a mental note to work on her happy face.
“I’m not worried.”
“Good. Enjoy it.”
The gym teacher was a lanky man with a protruding chin and unnaturally dark hair, shiny with product. He was probably somewhere around 40, and walked with a fluidity in his step. A kind of freedom of movement that reminded Stephanie of her days in theater camp.
“Alright girls. Yoga for 15 minutes,” he breathed, bored.
He crossed his arms and looked around. None of the children seemed to hear. They all were much too busy, playing hand-games like their palms were burning, or dealing candy and stickers near the door where no one could see, loitering by the boys’ side of the gym, or threatening to slap someone. In the corner, some girls had organized a mock American Idol. A tall girl with broad shoulders was singing the Glee version of Don’t Stop Believing , but the gym was already so noisy that she wasn’t disturbing anyone.
The American Idol girls were his favorites in the group. He went over, and told the singing girl to “ please, get everybody’s attention.”
He led the kids in a series of only the most easy yoga poses (Happy Baby, Child’s Pose, Mountain), and threw in a few that weren’t yoga poses at all. During the Aardvark, Stephanie turned to Trixie and whispered.
“What’s this teacher’s name again?”
“Idk, Pinky. He’s just a sub. Why?”
“I wanted to ask him why the boys and girls have been separated.”
“You mean you don’t know? Boys can’t focus on exercising with girls around. Or else their hormones go crazy and their balls shoot up into their brains. It’s basic biology, but you haven’t had that class yet today, so you get a pass for not knowing.”
Stephanie couldn’t help but laugh. “He’s a sub? It seems like he’s been here a while.”
“He has. Only subs teach gym. This guy is also the school drama teacher. I don’t like that class, so I don’t go. Therefore, I don’t know his real name. But everybody calls him Robbie Rotten, on account of his rotten attitude.”
“So is that guy a sub too?” Stephanie nodded over at the strict-looking teacher on the other side of the gym, who was making the boys do high knees and screaming in their faces. He and the girls’ teacher didn’t seem to talk much. They kept a respectful distance, although sometimes Stephanie caught one of them sneering at the other from his side of the gym, silently critiquing.
“Oh that’s Mr. S. He’s a ‘real’ gym teacher. I guess that’s why they have him on the boys’ side. His super manly man exercise methods would pulverize our girly bones! We’d be nothing but dust when he’s done with us! MR. S, THE BOOONE SHREDDERR!”
Mr. S turned his head at the sound of his name. Stephanie turned pinker in the face. A smatter of kids were now looking at them, and definitely talking about them. Trixie snickered.
“No talking,” the bored sub pleaded. “Reach for your toes.”
“Sorry,” Stephanie squeaked, and folded over to reach her toes. She was grateful for an excuse to hide her face.
“Whoa Pinky! How are you so flexible? I can barely touch my toes.” Trixie stretched, wiggling her fingers in demonstration. She just sort of grazed the top of her shoe.
Stephanie shrugged. She forgot that most people her age had not been forced into an active lifestyle from birth. But it surprised her, seeing just how incapable the girls around her were of reaching their own feet. Some of them could do it, but just as many could not. She was about to ask Trixie why, but she froze when she heard another girl shout from somewhere far away: “How is she doing that?!”
More and more girls raised their voices, appraising Stephanie’s overly impressive toe touching. Before she knew it, most of the gym had turned to watch her. She saw this, and buried her face in her knee, eliciting more excitement from her onlookers. They’d never seen someone so flexible.
*
“So you had to like jump and flip around on a stage?” Trixie asked.
Stephanie nodded. They were seated near the wall, directly across from the boys’ side. They could see the entire gym from there, but no one could see them past the sea of faces which passed them by.
“And that’s called aerobic gymnastics? And you used to be an aerobic gymnast.”
“Yes. And a horseback rider, and a dancer… and a figure skater, and an acrobat in the circus. All competitive all the time. Except the circus part.”
Trixie raised an eyebrow.
“Family tradition,” Stephanie offered.
This opening up, meeting new people thing was harder than she realized. She never made friends when she was training or competing. There wasn’t enough time. The people she talked to the most were her coaches, and she loved talking to her coaches, about anything and everything from technical perfection to baking.
“Most recently I was in a Pop Star camp in France. Training to, well -- it’s in the name. In France.”
“Wow,” Trixie sighed. “So you’re like a multitalented superhero.”
“I mean it’s not about talent. Just practice. Hours and hours of practice. Day and night.”
“Yuck. Don’t make it sound like school.”
Stephanie shook her head. “It’s not like school at all. School is like, the least work I’ve ever done. I can’t believe this -- ” she gestured at the chaos around them “-- is physical education. This is the least physical activity I’ve done in my entire life, and I was a competitive statue!”
She was right. The Lake Town student body was, simply put, languid. The gym was warm -- the perfect temperature for napping. A few kids were fully sleeping on their bookbags. Especially on the boys’ side. It seemed Mr. S had exhausted them so much, all they could do now was sleep.
“So why are you here? This place is so lame. You should be like, being famous somewhere.”
“Well I’m retired.”
“Oh.” Trixie was never the most perceptive kid, an issue which would prove to land her in trouble many times in her life. She just was not known to drop a subject when things got touchy.
Miraculously, she knew now. Stephanie wanted to move on.
“Well, how’s this for a retirement home?” she asked. “Boring enough for ya?”
Stephanie thought to herself, then nodded. “Yeah. A little bit.”