10th Grade, High School

Age: 14-15

September 2007

…

Madame Pavlova is going to kill her.

An agreement had been reached when the varsity soccer coach had begged and pleaded with the ballet instructor to budge a little on her start times for Spinelli's ballet rehearsals. Three times a week she was expected to be at the ballet studio and, while it wasn't a horrendous bike ride, the time between the end of her practices and the start of her rehearsals wasn't quite long enough. The JV coach didn't mind her running off a little early, but now that she's on varsity, it has become an ongoing debate between the coach, the ballet instructor, and even her parents. An ongoing debate that Spinelli herself didn't have much of a say in.

Not that she would have known what to do if she had been forced to choose. She likes soccer. She's good at soccer. The girls on her team are girls she would consider her friends. But she loves ballet and regards Madame Pavlova with respect, even if she can't stand the other girls in her class. She likes them both for extraordinarily different reasons.

Madame Pavlova took an extended vacation over the summer, returning to her native Russia in order to get married in her hometown. When she came back, she was insistent on being called Madame instead of Mademoiselle, and she also came back twice as strict as before. Needless to say, Madame Pavlova and Coach Ramsey butted heads on what was more important – the ending ten-to-fifteen minutes of a soccer practice or the beginning ten-to-fifteen minutes of a ballet rehearsal.

The agreement that the three parties – Madame Pavlova, Coach Ramsey, and her parents – came to was that Spinelli would stay for the entirety of the soccer practice, bike across town, and stay extra with Madame Pavlova, working to one side of the room while the instructor began her next session. Usually, that worked.

Today, practice ran long due to their team's embarrassing showing in their last game of September, essentially sending them into the second half of the season as a ragtag group of laughing stocks. Coach had not been pleased and Spinelli hadn't dared to even ask about leaving, not wanting to get on the wrong side of his anger. But, now she'll have to deal with Madame for her excessive tardiness instead.

She doesn't even bother locking her bike to the rack out front of the studio, just dropping it haphazardly in front of the steps as she sprints up them two at a time. The front door slams open with a bang, throwing off the formation of some of the girls doing their routine as they turn with curiosity. Spinelli glances up at the wall clock and winces.

Ten or fifteen minutes and Madame Pavlova lets it slide as part of the agreement. She has never been more than an hour late before.

"Do you even own a watch?"

The voice from the barre is high-pitched and exasperated. The four Megans, apparently not involved in this particular routine, turn to her in perfect unison. Megan King rolls her eyes and continues.

"It's bal-let, not bal-late."

Spinelli shakes her head and ignores them as the other three cackle softly. She pushes by them toward the changing area and quickly changes into her leotard. She debates her tights for a split second, eyeing her knees and the turf burn she earned trying to prove her worth at soccer. Without bandages for the nasty red burns on her right knee and top of her left shin, she's afraid the tights will stick to the open skin. Instead, she throws on a black skirt she has in her bag for some semblance of modesty and rushes out to join the rest.

When she emerges, the rest of the girls are having a water break. From across the room, she meets the eye of Madame Pavlova, who beckons her forward with a one finger extending and retracting while the rest of her hand stays clenched.

She starts groveling before she stops walking.

"Madame, I am so sorry I'm late. Coach was on a warpath."

She winces, the grueling practice still vivid in her mind. The coach's anger had been warranted. It was an embarrassing loss, handed to them by a team they should have handily beat, on their home field no less. The newspaper this morning blamed her, as a sophomore goalie on a varsity team. The sports writer for the Grand Street Gazette called Coach Ramsey naïve to put the responsibility of the crucial position on someone so inexperienced and had even delivered a low blow about her height. But, the game hadn't been blown just by her and Coach had made that particularly known at practice, calling out every single mistake and each girl who committed it. The offense couldn't score. The defense had too many penalties. They paid for it with two hours of running drills before an extra hour of actual soccer.

Madame Pavlova holds up her hand to stop the groveling.

"I wish this was like the old country, where I could pluck you right off the soccer field and keep you here twenty-four seven," she says, her accent thick. "But, I cannot. So, I'll make you a deal – you stay and help me teach the little girls and we call it even."

It isn't a question, but Spinelli nods anyway.

"Okay. You stretch and be ready in five," she says. Then she turns and claps her hands to the group. "Five more minutes, ladies."

Spinelli doesn't get much actual practice in. They are currently beginning their rehearsals for the winter recital, still months away, and the majority of her parts aren't being practiced today – or were already practiced earlier, she wouldn't know. When the rehearsal ends, the rest of the girls go to their bags while Spinelli starts moving toward Madame Pavlova to talk about the next session and what the younger girls' lesson will be.

The Megans block her way.

"Get out of the way, Powderpuffs," she grunts, but she sees the glint in their eyes and knows they've been planning something.

"No tights today, Spinelli?" Megan Cavanaugh asks.

"Yeah, I have turf burn. What's it to you?"

Megan Prince smirks. "Oh, is that what they're calling it now?"

The other three cackle into their hands and Spinelli stares confused, not sure what they're finding so funny. She goes to push by them again, but they form a blockade.

"I always wondered how Miss Holier Than Thou would be the first in our grade to get a boyfriend," Megan King says, her dimples making her look sweeter than her words. "Now I know what Detweiler sees in you."

Megan Cavanaugh nudges Megan Prince. "I mean, it had to be something right? It's not like she has any shape."

Megan Prince nudges her right back. "I thought he seemed a little more relaxed lately. She finally stopped cockblocking him."

Spinelli feels her face flush, now understanding the implication of their tease. She and TJ haven't done that yet, not that it's any of their business, but she still finds herself spluttering out a few incoherent sentences. When she can't get anything important across, the Megans shriek with delight.

"Look how tongue tied she is!"

"And look how red her face is!"

A malicious smirk slowly fills Megan King's face and she shakes her head, crossing her arms and standing tall.

"See, girls. I told you. That tough girl rep is nothing but a big pile of garbage," she says, taking a slight step forward to pat Spinelli's cheek. Spinelli jerks out of reach as the girl continues. "She's just a little goodie-goodie deep down. The perfect docile companion to Detweiler and his brigade of do-gooders."

Spinelli glares at her and Megan King keeps her gaze.

"I don't know why Madame puts up with you," she sneers before turning to her three friends. "Let's go, girls."

The four turn around and head for the door, continuing to talk about Spinelli as they walk away. Spinelli crosses her arms and walks toward Madame Pavlova.

When the little girls' session gets out, Spinelli races outside. It's Friday night and there's a home football game. TJ, Vince, and Gus will already be there, but she had been planning on walking over with Gretchen and Mikey. Now, she'll have barely enough time to make it home, grab a granola bar, and race to the corner to meet Gretchen before they have to leave to meet Mikey at Third Street.

And, of course, the Megans words are ringing in her head. She knows it doesn't mean anything – if she could deal with the Ashleys all her life, she can deal with them. But the words hit her differently today. Maybe because they brought TJ into it. She hates the insinuation that TJ is only dating her to have sex with her. That there's no reason for TJ to find her attractive or to like her for anything else.

She walks out the door and sees her bike still there, laying against the steps despite it not being locked up. However, the back tire is obviously flat.

Of course.

She grinds her teeth together and lets out a breath of frustration as she kneels down to inspect it. The tire isn't just flat. There is a giant gash in the rubber, a big gaping slash running about three inches along the grooves that hadn't been there when she left it. She looks around, half expecting the Megans to pop out and scream "Ludicrous!" but they don't. It's just her and her bike.

She reaches for her phone and texts Gretchen, telling her she'll meet them at the game, and then picks up her bike to walk it to Kelso's.

Because it's so close to game time, Kelso's store is nearly empty when she walks in – just the owner and Randall, who appears to be doing his homework at the counter. She holds back a groan. She hasn't seen much of Randall since Third Street, but any time she runs into him around the neighborhood she usually turns around or ignores him. It'll be hard to do with how empty it is tonight.

Mr. Kelso looks up from what he's doing at the counter and smiles at her.

"Well, hello there, Spinelli," the old man says. "Surprised you didn't come in with Gretchen and Mikey. They were here just a bit ago."

"I had late practice today, so guess I have to go on my own for once."

"Well, that's the benefit of having such a great group of friends – you're never alone," he says kindly. Then his eyes catch on her bike beside her and he raises an eyebrow. "I see you brought your bike."

She gives him what she hopes is her sweetest smile. "I was hoping I could get a quick patch before you close for the game?"

Mr. Kelso jumps into action, walking around the counter to examine the tire. "You really did a number on this," he mutters.

She shrugs and keeps her eyes focused on her feet. "Yeah, my ballet studio isn't exactly the nicest area in town."

It isn't really a lie.

The way Mr. Kelso interprets it is far from the truth though. He shakes his head.

"I have the right mind to call the police department with all the broken bottles I see lying around, even in front of my own store." He motions for her to give him the bike. "Give her here. I'll patch it right up so we can get you to the game."

"Thanks, Mr. Kelso."

As she hands off the bike, the store owner turns to the third person in the room. "Randall, you need anything else before I head to the back?"

The curly-haired boy looks up from his notebook and shakes his head. "No, sir. Thank you though."

Mr. Kelso nods. "Alright then. Either of you need anything, give me a holler." Then he takes the bike to the back of the store, leaving Spinelli and Randall alone.

She rolls her eyes and pulls up a stool as far away from the former school snitch as she can. She puts her head in her hands and starts to trace some of the depressions in the wood when she feels his eyes on her. She looks up and glares at him.

"What are you looking at?"

"Bold. Lying to Mr. Kelso," Randall says, shrugging and turning back to his notes.

She has to admit, he has a point. Mr. Kelso is like a mix between a lie detector and Mr. Rogers. She still remembers the time Gus got conned by Mundy and his crew into stealing a whole display of Beanie McChimp gum. Gus felt awful for years, still does to some extent, and she knows it's because Mr. Kelso knew the whole time what was going on and he let Gus come to his own conclusions about the morality behind it and still forgave him. The man is too wholesome. Even as he gets older, he still makes it a point to remember everyone's names for crying out loud. A jack-of-all-trades and the neighborhood's grandpa – that's Mr. Kelso.

"I'm not lying," she insists.

Randall looks up and shakes his head. "Oh, come on, Spinelli. You know you can't fool me."

She sits up straighter and crosses her arms. "And why is that?"

"I may not be much of a snitch anymore, but I still know everything. It's part of being a snitch," he explains with a smirk. Then he gives her a pointed look. "Besides, your dance studio is in one of the nicest parts of town and your dad works for the police department. If there were broken beer bottles all over the place, that would get cleaned up before Madame Pavlova could snap her fingers."

She turns away and huffs.

"You don't know anything," she says. "You're just trying to lure me into saying something you can use against me. I know your tricks, Randall. They didn't work at Third Street and they won't work now."

He sighs and turns back to his papers. "Okay, Spinelli. You caught me."

The way he says it has a twinge of condescension to it that she doesn't like. She cranes her head, trying to see into the back. Mr. Kelso has to be almost done.

"Maybe you really did bike over glass," Randall says. She turns back toward him to see him shrug. "Hanging around with Mundy and his loser friends now, are we?"

She rolls her eyes but doesn't respond. If Randall wants to believe she is spending her free time hanging around with Mundy's crowd, painting abandoned buildings with graffiti and getting in trouble, so be it. Randall is nothing but a former tattler, unlikeable in every aspect of his being, and she shouldn't even bother to give him the time of day.

Randall shakes his head. "Of course not. Ashley Spinelli would never."

She glares at his use of her full name. "And why not?"

"I mean, Saint TJ would be right on it if you were going down a wayward path of teenage rebellion," he tells her, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He waves his hand in her direction. "All six of you are like the freaking morality police, running this place like it's Pleasantville or something."

She rolls her eyes, but her mind keys in on what he said. Morality police. Megan King had called them a brigade of do-gooders. Is that how people view them? Like TJ is the moral compass and the rest of them are just sidekicks? It can't be true. No one likes a goodie-two-shoes and TJ is one of the most popular kids in their grade. Everyone loves TJ and has since Third Street.

She narrows her eyes. "Why are you always ragging on TJ?"

"I'm not falling for your tricks either," he says, nodding to her clenching fist. "I can say anything I want about TJ, point out how he's always getting away with stuff, getting accolades he doesn't deserve, or how he went from the chubby dork to the guy girls swoon over like it was nothing. It doesn't matter if what I say is true or not. You will defend him to the end because that's what you do. It's what you've done since kindergarten. So, no, I'm not asking to get beat up. I get beat up enough as it is, thank you very much."

She unclenches her fist. "You're just jealous of him."

He scoffs. "Of TJ? Yeah, sure, some aspects of his life I'm jealous of, but I don't want to be him. That's for sure."

"You're lying," she says, her voice uppity with the knowledge that she has Randall backed into a corner. She knows Randall used to be jealous of TJ back in elementary school. He even conned TJ into letting him join their group once because of it.

"Spinelli, when you're a snitch, all you've got is your honesty. You think I've given up friends and everything else that makes high school so great to half-ass what I do best?" he asks. He shakes his head. "Just because you think TJ is God's gift to the world doesn't mean I do."

He hops off his stool and jams his notebook into his backpack.

"Good luck with the bike," he grumbles. Then he gives her a small smirk. "Hope you don't run over any more glass."

She doesn't like the way he says it. His tone sounds similar to earlier – condescending, like he knows something he isn't saying. She watches him as he leaves, walking out of Kelso's store without a second glance in her direction.

She waits alone in the quiet store for Mr. Kelso to finish fixing her tire and glances down at her phone to check the time. She will never make the beginning of the game now. Although, that might be a good thing. It'll be easier to sneak into the section where TJ and the rest of the JV football players are standing when everyone is focused on the field. Meghan will have already gone down to find Vance, so she'll have to make the journey herself, or she can always just sit with Gretchen and Mikey. Although, after her day today, she might not be able to control her frustrations every time Mikey covers his eyes and Gretchen makes a comment about concussion rates in football players.

Mr. Kelso comes out with her bike, both wheels fully inflated, and hands it off to her.

"That should be good for a bit, but I'd get a new wheel sooner rather than later," he warns. "I'd hate to see you stranded somewhere."

"Thanks, Mr. Kelso. Will do," she says.

"Better head over, don't want to miss too much of the game."

She is sure he's rushing her out because he also doesn't want to miss too much of the game, but she doesn't have to be told twice. She jumps on her bike as soon as it hits the sidewalk outside of the store and flies as fast as she can through the neighborhood. It's completely dead, with all the kids in town at the high school no doubt. She passes a few older couples talking evening walks, sees a few TVs turned to the local channel playing the game, and a few dogs getting a walk in. As she turns onto her street, she sees her father and Scruffy standing at the end of the Wilsons' driveway, probably getting his ear talked off by their older neighbor.

She is already late. She might as well save him.

She pulls up slowly and stops, leaning against her handlebars to pat Scruffy, who has gone crazy at the sight of her.

"Ashley, my dear," Mrs. Wilson says. "I was just telling your dad about how watching TJ mow our lawn reminds me of when Joey used to do it. Time really flies, doesn't it?"

She shakes her head. When she was little, her brother was never around on the weekends. He was always trying to earn money with his lawn mowing business. All that she cared about was that she had full access to the television for Saturday morning cartoons. She knew TJ had taken over with the Wilsons when Joey moved out a few years ago. TJ had been thrilled at the time – at twelve, he'd spend the small amount the Wilsons paid him on comic books or candy at Kelso's. Now, he usually saves it to put toward movie tickets or fun dates.

"Absolutely," her father says. Then he gestures to her. "Ready to go?"

She nods and they both say goodbye to Mrs. Wilson. She hops off her bike, walking it alongside her father and Scruffy.

"I thought you were long gone, Princess," her father says.

She shakes her head and shrugs. "Practice just ran long today."

Her father looks at his watch. "You're already late. Let me give you a ride."

Finally something is going right in her life for the day. She smiles and thanks him as they turn into their driveway. Scruffy, who heard the word ride, immediately runs to the car, stopping beside the passenger's side door and wagging his tail. He barks once, almost as if to say hurry up, and both Spinellis laugh at the dog's antics.

Spinelli pets his head as she walks by to drop her bike by the garage. "In a minute, Scruff. I gotta change."

Her father opens the car door and Scruffy hops in, sitting upright in the front passenger's seat. She chuckles as she walks into the house, intent on getting in and getting out as quickly as she can. When she walks in, her mother is already out of the kitchen, everything put away from dinner, and is sitting in the living room on the couch watching a show. She looks up and surprise fills her features.

"Pookie, I thought you were at the game."

"I'm going now," she says, not stopping as she heads to the stairs. "Practice ran long."

Her mother gets up off the couch and follows behind her.

"You've been at practice this whole time?" she asks. "You have to eat before you go. I'll make you a plate."

Spinelli reaches the first step to the upstairs and shakes her head. "Thanks but no thanks. I'm late enough as it is and Scruffy's already in the car with Dad waiting to give me a ride."

Her mother crosses her arms, ready to argue with her, and Spinelli knows she'll never get out of here if she doesn't cut in.

"I'll get something there, I promise," she says.

Her mother considers it. "Not just nachos. Something with a little substance please. You've been on your feet all afternoon."

"Promise."

She spins on the step and quickly runs upstairs to change out of her leotard. She throws on a pair of jeans with her typical black boots and a school t-shirt, grabbing TJ's sweatshirt from the end of her bed. Before she puts it on, she glances into the mirror.

She hates that the Megans' words are still ringing through her head, but whichever one of them commented on her body shape has a point. Her mother had told her that she would probably get the Funicello curves when she reached puberty, but her first period has come and gone and the 'magical transformation' she had been dreading ended up a flop. She looks much more Spinelli than Funicello – she has her father's coloring and his short stature, but the genetic lottery also handed her his straight shape as well.

Her mother and aunts are all tall with hourglass shapes. She's the only granddaughter on the Funicello side of the family so she didn't have any girl cousins to see what to expect as she grew, so for most of middle school she feared puberty, terrified that she'd suddenly look completely different and people would make fun of her for it. Turns out she didn't need to worry so much – she looks almost the same as she did in elementary school, just a little older and the slightest bit taller.

TJ doesn't seem to mind. She knows he finds her attractive. Sometimes her height can be the butt of some jokes, but otherwise none of her friends have ever commented on her body either. The Megans' taunts are nothing but words, aimed completely at getting in her head. She hates that it worked.

She throws on TJ's baseball sweatshirt, her favorite of the one's she's stolen. It's thick and warm, with Detweiler and the number 3 embroidered on the sleeve. She swims in it, the bottom elastic edging reaching her mid-thigh. But when she looks at herself in the mirror, she can hear Megan King's uppity voice in her head, pointing out her chicken legs, and she takes the sweatshirt off. She walks to her closet and grabs her leather jacket. She hasn't worn it in a while, favoring TJ's lighter sweatshirts in the summer heat, and she slips into it, zipping it up rather than letting it hang loose around her waist.

She presses her hands under her ribcage, trying to create the illusion of her mother's waist on herself, but as soon as she moves her hand, she morphs right back to her normal self. She shakes her head at herself, frustrated that she is even giving the Megans space in her head. She looks fine. This is exactly what she wanted when she was younger. She feared looking like her mother, so she shouldn't be so fixated on what those four nitwits have to say.

Her eyes glance to the clock on her nightstand and she swears under her breath. She runs to her desk, grabbing her phone and money and stuffing it into the pocket of her jacket before racing down the stairs. Maybe if she's lucky, she'll make it there before the end of the first quarter.

…

Notes

Gus steals from Mr. Kelso in the Season 4 episode Gus and Misdemeanors.

Randall mentions Pleasantville, which is a 1998 movie where the main characters get transported to the setting of a TV sitcom – the town of Pleasantville, which is seemingly perfect.

Spinelli's middle name is Funicello in the series (Season 4: More Like Gretchen). I'm making the assumption that it was her mother's maiden name.

Next chapter will be homecoming, told mostly by Vince and TJ. I'm trying to get it finished and posted by October 13th since it takes place on October 13, 2007. I thought that would be a fun coincidence.

Thanks for reading!