ALSO BY LISI HARRISON
The Clique series
Alphas series
FOR OLDER READERS
Monster High series
Pretenders series
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Copyright © 2021 by Alloy Entertainment LLC and Lisi Harrison
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harrison, Lisi, author.
Title: Girl stuff / Lisi Harrison.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2021] | Summary: Seventh graders Fonda, Drew, and Ruthie develop a friendship strong enough to tackle whatever middle school—and puberty—throws at them next.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020040059 | ISBN 9781984814982 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984814975 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H2527 Gi 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040059
Ebook ISBN 9781984814975
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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This novel is for you, dear reader, because girl stuff is hard. Be kind to each other and find the funny in everything.
* * *
♥
This is also for Luke and Jesse Harrison even though they will probably never read it. (Don’t get me started on boy stuff.)
contents
Cover
Also by Lisi Harrison
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty–one
Chapter Twenty–two
Chapter Twenty–three
Chapter Twenty–four
Chapter Twenty–five
Chapter Twenty–six
Chapter Twenty–seven
Chapter Twenty–eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
chapter one.
FONDA MILLER GLUED a picture to her vision board and smiled a little. It was a half-staff smile that, if texted, would require two emojis since it felt happy and sad at the same time.
In the picture, she and her best friends, Drew Harden and Ruthie Goldman, were lying in a heap on Fonda’s front lawn laughing themselves breathless. It had been taken two months earlier, back in June, moments before five heartless parents ripped them apart.
They had been so upset about saying goodbye for the summer that they tied their ankles together in protest. While they were tying, Fonda’s mother, Joan, had tried to convince them the eight weeks would fly by. Then Drew’s dad chimed in from the driveway next door.
“The separation will be healthy. Especially since you’ll be going to the same school when you get back.”
“He’s right,” said Mrs. Harden. “Nesties need breaks every now and then.”
Drew rolled her hazel eyes. Probably because she couldn’t stand when her mother combined words. “Why can’t she say neighbors and besties like a normal person?” Drew snorted, which made Ruthie and Fonda laugh harder.
And Ruthie’s parents, well, they were at work wrapping things up before their family road trip to Washington, DC. But if the Goldmans had been there, they would have said something like Poplar Creek is beautiful, but there’s no culture here and even less diversity. It’s important to leave our sunny Southern California bubble and explore the outside world. That was the kind of thing they always said. Learning was their cardio.
The parents were only trying to help. But their words couldn’t fill the pit of loneliness inside Fonda’s stomach. They couldn’t make long summer days fly by. And they couldn’t bike to town for frozen yogurt. They were nothing more than verbal Band-Aids, well-intended distractions that never fully stuck.
So, with their ankles bound together by a worn skipping rope, Fonda, Drew, and Ruthie took big stubborn strides toward the top of their cul-de-sac. Goodbye, Poplar Creek, and hello, someplace where grown-ups let “nesties” spend summers together. Someplace with free fro-yo and unlimited toppings!
Then . . . Thunk.
Within seconds, they fell out of step with one another and timbered onto Fonda’s front lawn, and they were separated the next day.
Now, two months later, Fonda couldn’t wait to see them again, and she doubly couldn’t wait for them to see her new, ultrasophisticated flat-ironed hair. Only three more sleeps . . .
“Joan, can we stop this now?” asked Winfrey, Fonda’s older sister, who had recently started addressing their mother by her first name. The sixteen-year-old was standing over the kitchen table, scissors dangling from her fingers like an old handbag. “I’m getting vision bored.”
She had gotten her driver’s license earlier that day (third time’s a charm!) and thought she was all that. But when a girl has cactus-green eyes, butterscotch-colored highlights, and three number one surf trophies, she kind of is.
“More like vision blurred,” Amelia said, rubbing her baby blues for effect. At fourteen and a half, she had her own, equally intimidating brand of cool. Tall and lithe, she was a fierce beach volleyball player who managed to pass swimsuits off as clothing, though it was her fiery auburn waves and statement sunglasses that made her a fan favorite.
Then there was Fonda. Petite, flat-chested, and secretly loving the whole back-to-school vision board thing. The paper scraps, Chinese takeout boxes, and glue smells made her insides tingle with delight. Or maybe Fonda was tingling because for the first time all summer, she wasn’t feeling her friends’ absences the way one feels the hollow churn of stomach upset. She wasn’t angling to be included in her sisters’ plans or scrolling through Insta, hearting everyone else’s #goodtimes while she watched, and rewatched, Netflix original movies. Tonight, the Miller girls were hanging out together. Tonight, Winfrey and Amelia were not calling Fonda a tagalong. Tonight, she was a be-long, just like them.
“Honestly, Joan,” Winfrey said, biting into a dumpling. “Why do we have to do this?”
“Vision boards help us identify our go
als,” Joan said with the patience of someone who hadn’t already explained it. Twice.
“And why do we need to do that?”
“If you can’t visualize them, you can’t manifest them.”
Amelia began tapping the screen of her phone. “There’s gotta be an app for this.”
“For what?”
“Manifesting goals.”
Joan swiped the phone from Amelia and stuffed it in the pocket of her overalls. “No screens. Manifest with your hands. It’s more rewarding.”
“Hey, Amelia, why don’t you put a picture of a vision board app on your vision board?” Fonda joked. “That way you’ll get one.”
No one laughed. Instead, Winfrey gripped her belly and groaned, “Rumble in the jungle. Can I be excused?”
“Same,” Amelia said, with a teeny smirk. “I think the moo shu chicken was bad.”
They hurried off giggling, leaving behind two anemic vision boards, one with a crooked photo of a tropical beach and the other of surfers hanging out around a bonfire.
Most moms would insist they come back to the table, but Joan, a feminist studies professor at UC Irvine, encouraged freedom of expression, even when the expression didn’t deserve to be freed.
“Did you eat bad chicken too?” Joan asked Fonda, offering her an out if she wanted one.
Fonda shook her head. Because, really? What else was she going to do on a Tuesday night? The odd jobs that kept her busy all summer had ended. Which was fine. There were only so many babies to sit, dogs to walk, and hours a girl could spend working at the community pool snack shack before she lost her marbles. But Drew and Ruthie wouldn’t be back until Friday, and school didn’t start until the following week. So, yeah, Fonda was on board (pun intended).
Besides, her sisters weren’t exactly begging Fonda to fake food poisoning with them. As always, they were probably planning to sneak off to a secluded beach or some cute boy’s house. And as always, that plan did not include her.
It wasn’t that they didn’t like her. It was that they didn’t have much need for her. In their eyes, Fonda was still a baby. It didn’t matter that she had just turned thirteen and was less than two years younger than Amelia. Until Fonda’s body made a woman out of her, her sisters would keep saying things like Um, a little privacy, please, or This conversation is rated MA for Mature Audiences only. They’d speak in whispers and lead their friends into rooms with doors that slammed shut. They’d beg Fonda to do their chores when they had their periods and forget to thank her. Their lack of regard hurt like a thousand ear-piercing guns to the heart. When Drew and Ruthie were around, it hurt a lot less, but even then, Fonda couldn’t shake the desire to get her sisters’ approval.
Luckily, Amelia was starting high school and Fonda would finally be the only Miller at Poplar Middle. Boys wouldn’t ask her which beach her sisters would be at over the weekend, and girls wouldn’t ask where they shopped. All questions directed at Fonda would be about Fonda. There would not be an older, cooler version of herself roaming the halls. For once, Fonda would be the Miller who mattered. Maybe she’d finally even earn the attention of the Avas, the only girls at Poplar Middle that Amelia had ever talked to. Fonda couldn’t help but wonder what made three girls with identical names and personalities so special. They never once even glanced at Fonda, they were so busy laughing and tossing their effortless waves.
By nine thirty that night, everything Fonda wanted in seventh grade had been pasted into place. Yes, her feet ached and her paper cuts stung, but if manifesting goals really worked, Fonda would be so busy dominating she’d forget about her sisters forgetting about her.
For starters, she’d finally belong to a friend group. Her friend group. No more drifting from one squad to another or scrambling for a seat at lunch like she had to in sixth, after Maddie and Kaia, her closest elementary friends, transferred to private. From now on, Fonda’s seat would be saved, and if she didn’t show up, two people would notice. The Avas would no longer seem to have it all, because Fonda, Drew, and Ruthie would actually have it all. For the first time ever, they were going to the same school, and they’d show the Avas what true friendship looked like. So long, backstabbing, social climbing, and snobby side-eye glances. The nesties were going to set trends, spread joy, and support each other like underwire bras.
Fonda stepped back from the kitchen table to admire the fashion magazine clippings on her board. Goal number two was to become the leading voice in seventh-grade style. Yes, she’d have to do it wearing her sister’s hand-me-downs, but she would be fearless about it. Mixing patterns with reckless abandon would be her thing. Take that, Winfrey’s crop tops and Amelia’s statement sunglasses. There’s gonna be a new influencer in town!
“What does this symbolize?” Joan asked, pointing to the red circle in the top right corner.
“My body goals,” Fonda said, her face turning the color of that circle.
“What body goals? Your body is perfect the way it is.”
Fonda rolled her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you’re my mom.”
“No,” Joan said, “I’m saying it because it’s true. You should be thanking your body every day for—”
“For what, being lazy?”
“No, for keeping you healthy.”
“This isn’t about health, Mom.”
“Said no one sick, ever.” Joan twisted her wild crimson curls into a bun and fastened them with a clean chopstick.
Fonda’s flat chest tightened. Her mother was right, and she resented her for it. Or maybe she resented herself for being so shallow. But how was she supposed to be thankful for something that made her feel less important than her sisters? She never went mother-daughter bra shopping. She never got acne facials from that German woman named Katrine. And she certainly never got to eat snickerdoodles for dinner when she had period cramps.
“It’s just that I’m thirteen, and I haven’t—” Fonda lifted her gaze to the ceiling fan and blinked back her tears. Kids cried, not teens.
Joan bit down on her lip, fighting the urge to smile. “Honey, most kids your age are insecure and will try to make you feel as terrible as they do. Don’t fall for it. Love yourself no matter what anyone says, and your body will develop when it’s ready. In the meantime, appreciate who you are today because ‘today’ will never come back again.”
“Wow,” Fonda muttered. “That is seriously depressing.”
With a warm grin, Joan cracked open a fortune cookie and handed Fonda the paper inside. It read Your golden opportunity is coming shortly.
Fonda took it from her mother and read it again. Then one more time.
If this fortune meant what she wanted it to mean, what she needed it to mean, Fonda was going to start a popular friend group with Drew and Ruthie, set the seventh-grade style trends, grow, blossom, and be treated like an equal by her sisters. If the fortune was right, this was going to be the best year of Fonda’s life.
And if it was wrong?
Well, that simply wasn’t an option.
chapter two.
DREW HARDEN’S FAVORITE place at Battleflag Family Camp was the infirmary. Specifically, during the hour that followed breakfast, and for reasons she preferred to keep to herself. But when someone asked why, which someone often did, she’d say, “The infirmary is the only cabin with a fan.” And that shut them up pretty fast.
With another season coming to an end, Drew was there helping Nurse Cate pack up. Not so much for the reason she preferred to keep to herself but because Cate had been Drew’s mentor over the summer. More “cool babysitter” than “medical professional,” she taught Drew how to treat abrasions, sunburns, and bee stings so that she could follow her dream of becoming a nurse one day too.
Last semester, on Dream Job Day at St. Catherine’s, the private girls’ school Drew no longer had to attend, her leadership teacher expressed concern over Drew’s “lack
of ambition.” Nurse? Why not aim for doctor or surgeon? she scribbled under the B-minus grade on Drew’s essay. To which Drew thought, Clearly this woman has never been to an emergency room.
As a ride-or-die skateboarder, Drew had had her share of injuries, and the ER nurses always made her feel better. They also got to clean the blood and guts before the doctors arrived, and Drew was fascinated by blood and guts. Not in a serial-killer sort of way. Hers was more of a healthy curiosity, the kind parents encourage. What does all that stuff in my body look like? Feel like? And how did twenty-five feet of intestines fit in there? Sure, there were countless books and videos available to answer these questions, but nothing could replace a real-life glimpse at the goods. Like poorly wrapped birthday presents, wounds were opportunities to peek inside.
Had Drew been able to participate in the camp’s activities, the infirmary might have been less appealing, but her parents owned Battleflag, which meant she and her older brother, Doug, weren’t there to play; they were there to work. They got paid, so it wasn’t like they were indentured servants or anything, but they couldn’t exactly skate all day either. Drew got one day off a week to swim in the lake, ride the half-pipe, swing on the ropes course, and make friendship bracelets for Fonda and Ruthie, who she missed even more than fro-yo. But socializing with campers was off-limits.
“The guests are here to bond with their families, not ours,” her parents often reminded her. But they didn’t say anything about staying away from the infirmary after breakfast. So there she was, unplugging wires, packing up tongue depressors, and stealing glimpses of the microwave clock. Again, she had her reasons.
“Here he comes,” Cate announced, with a singsongy lilt.
Drew flushed with heat. “Here who comes?” she asked, knowing exactly who.
“Will Wilder. He shows up every morning after breakfast to take his allergy medicine, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Haven’t noticed.”
Drew checked herself in the window’s reflection. Her blond ponytail was high and tight, her forehead was zit-free, and her peach tank made her tan skin look even tanner. And if Will had an issue with cutoff shorts and checkered Vans, well, Will would have to get over it. Because after six years of wearing kilts and blazers to private school, Drew was going public. She was finally allowed to choose her outfits, and she was choosing comfortable. So if Will preferred fancy eek-a-mouse types who wore miniskirts and sandals, Will was out of luck. Not that he’d have any way of knowing that, since they had never actually talked.
girl stuff. Page 1