girl stuff.

by Lisi Harrison

  “This was supposed to be about teamwork, not winning!” Tomoyo said.

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t!” Conrad told Rhea.

  “I see your point, but—”

  “I learn by doing, not obeying,” Alberta said. “And they were—”

  “That’s enough,” Rhea said. “Now, everyone in the van. Silently, please.”

  Ruthie could feel the heat from their resentful glares as they boarded. She could hear their judgy whispers while they claimed their seats. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone’s feelings, and she felt bad that she had. But they performed under pressure and worked as a team. They won! Wasn’t that the point?

  “It appears as though we have a TM on our hands,” Rhea said into the intercom as they pulled out of the parking lot.

  “A what?” Ruthie whispered to Sage.

  “Teachable moment,” Sage whispered back.

  “I made this about teamwork, yes,” she continued, “but every team needs a leader in order to achieve their goals. And what was your goal?”

  No one spoke.

  “What. Was. Your. Goal?”

  “To escape as fast as we could,” Sage offered.

  “And did you accomplish that?”

  “Yes,” Sage answered.

  “And did Ruthie’s instincts and experience contribute to that?”

  “Big-time,” Sage said.

  Ruthie wanted to hug her new friend but sat on her hands instead.

  “Then why isn’t everyone thanking her for leading you to victory?” Rhea asked. “Your egos are getting the best of you, that’s why.” She paused to let them take this in. “You were right, this exercise was about teamwork, and yet, most of you were out for individual glory. Each of you wanted to be the hero, but no one gets to be a hero by wanting it. You get to be a hero by transcending your ego and doing what needs to be done, whether anyone notices or not. Think about it . . .”

  Ruthie wanted to spring to her feet and applaud her teacher’s evolved approach. But she thought it best to stay seated on her hands and stare out the window amidst the suffocating silence like everyone else.

  After they dropped her off, Ruthie ran up the steps to Fonda’s house and triple rang the bell.

  Amelia answered the door wearing a yellow bikini top and jeans. “She’s at Drew’s.”

  Ruthie bolted over to the Hardens’ and triple rang again. Then she knocked an R in Morse code for some added oomph.

  Drew’s brother opened the door and just kind of looked at her. “Why aren’t you at the movies with Drew and Fonda?”

  “So, they left?”

  He took a bite of an energy bar. “Yeah. Like twenty minutes ago.”

  All that work, all that drama, and her friends were already gone.

  “Sorry, dude,” Doug said, chewing as he shut the door.

  Ruthie glanced down at her new Zojirushi and began to cry. She didn’t even like rice.

  chapter nine.

  DREW DIPPED A piece of popcorn in the nacho cheese and tossed it in her mouth. Hot processed goo with a hint of jalapeño, followed by a satisfying crunch. It was a five-star taste sensation that dropped to a four because Ruthie wasn’t there holding the plastic container, which had always been her thing.

  Fonda unwrapped a pink Starburst. “We hung out more when she was at Forest Day.”

  “Yeah, I think Poplar Middle School is cursed,” Drew said. Then she laughed a little. “Get it? PMS is cursed.”

  “No.”

  Drew felt a wash of disappointment. Fonda always got her jokes. Maybe Ruthie was right. That straight hair was making her more serious.

  “You told me Winfrey calls her period ‘the curse,’ and the school’s initials are PMS, so . . .”

  “Oh, yeah.” Fonda smiled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  The bigger question should have been How had she thought of it? Will had taken up so much space in her brain lately, it was a miracle she still had room for random musings. “I think he has prosopagnosia.”

  Fonda grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Who?”

  “Will.”

  “What is prosop—” Fonda said.

  “Face blindness. It’s a neurological disorder where the sufferer has a hard time recognizing people. The camp nurse told me about it,” Drew said with a dip of her popcorn. “Do you think Will has it and she was trying to warn me without actually warning me?”

  “Maybe. Or what if . . .” Fonda paused. “Forget it.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me!”

  Fonda put the bucket of popcorn on the empty seat beside her. “Maybe he doesn’t have propaganda.”

  “Prosopagnosia.”

  “Whatever. That’s not my point.”

  “Then what?” Drew asked, eager for Fonda’s response. She always gave great advice and might have had an explanation for Will’s sudden change of heart—something Drew hadn’t already considered.

  “My point is,” Fonda said with an exhausted sigh, “maybe you’re too good for him.”

  “I’m too good, so he doesn’t like me? How does that make sense? Wouldn’t me being good make him like me even more?”

  Fonda placed a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Will isn’t the one saying you’re too good. I am.”

  “Ugh!” Drew knocked her head against the back of her seat. “I don’t get any of this!”

  “It’s not enough for a guy to be nice to you one day, then all ignore-y the next. He needs to be nice every day. And if he’s not, and you’re not doing anything about it, I have to protect you.” Fonda reached for a handful of popcorn, tilted back her head, and released it into her mouth. “Basically”—she chewed—“if we’re going to honor our fifth-grade pact and only crush on boys who get three thumbs up—one from each of us—Will has got to go.”

  Fonda’s words hurt like a dozen arrows to the heart. Was Fonda making her choose? “I know he was acting weird, but there’s a reason for it. I just have to figure it out.”

  “No, what you need to figure out is why you’re letting a boy treat my best friend like a Christmas stocking.”

  “Huh?”

  “A once-a-year hang.”

  Drew, too stubborn to laugh, pressed her lips together.

  “I just don’t get it,” Fonda said, her eyes fixed on the movie screen, an ad for job opportunities at Regal Cinemas.

  “Get what?”

  “You deserve a Hemsworth brother. And you’re settling for someone who isn’t even nice,” Fonda said, her light brown eyes wide with sincerity. “Why Will? Why do you like him so much?”

  Drew reached for the end of her ponytail and twirled. She had several reasons, actually:

  They had a five-star infirmary chat.

  They both skated and played Zombie.

  They loved to make fun of The Skateboard Kid.

  Will’s eyes were the same color blue as Drew’s dress-up jeans.

  They were the exact same height.

  But Drew already told Fonda that, so all she said was “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “For one thing,” Fonda said, “do you really want to crush on a guy who can’t remember your face?”

  “There are hacks,” Drew said, thinking of Grandma Mae.

  When she got dementia, Grandpa Lou left sticky-note reminders all over the house. Keep screen door closed so Tabasco doesn’t get out. Tabasco is our dog. The password on your phone is 7131. The mailman’s name is Roland. He is kind. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t impossible either.

  “All I’m saying is, never let a guy be responsible for your happiness.”

  “I’m not,” Drew said. “He’s responsible for my unhappiness.”

  Fonda turned back to the screen. “Bottom line? Find a crush who’s
worthy of you. Move on.”

  Drew bristled. Move on? She wasn’t a lamp. She couldn’t turn all that electricity off with the flick of a switch. And for some reason, Fonda didn’t get that. She didn’t get her. She used to, but she didn’t anymore. If only Ruthie had been there. Maybe she would have understood that when Drew’s heart and brain disagreed, her heart always won. Even when it didn’t have proof or evidence or facts to back it up, whether it was right or not, it didn’t matter. Hearts weren’t smart, but they screamed louder than logic. And Drew’s screaming heart could shatter glass.

  With that, she turned to Fonda, ready to explain all this to her, when at the exact same time, Fonda said, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be harsh. I just want you to be happy, and this whole Will thing is making you seriously un. Maybe you need a distraction.”

  Just then, two boys settled into the seats behind them.

  “Well, hello, distractions,” Fonda muttered.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Delete Will from your crush cart and add—” She hitched her thumb in their general direction.

  There she was, being treated like a lamp again. Or a computer: enter a new name and replace all.

  “I don’t even know who they are.”

  “Yes, you do,” Fonda whispered. She leaned forward toward the fallen Starburst wrappers and signaled for Drew to do the same. Then, “They go to Poplar. Jasper is in our English class, and I have PE with Frankie.” Fonda raised her eyebrows. “Will you at least try?”

  “Stop saying his name,” Drew told her.

  Fonda rolled her eyes.

  “Fine.” Drew grinned. It was easier than arguing.

  Fonda made the introductions just as Jasper was taking a bite of his hot dog.

  “Hey.” He chewed, oblivious to the smear of ketchup on his thumb.

  “Hey,” Frankie echoed as he rested his feet a little too close to Fonda’s face. His hair looked like ramen noodles before the water was added.

  “You play water polo, right?” Drew asked, feeling surprisingly bold. It was easy to be confident when she didn’t care.

  “Yeah,” he said suspiciously. “How’d you know?”

  “Yeah,” Fonda asked. “How did you know?”

  “My brother, Doug, used to play. His hair went all haywire too. It’s the chlorine.”

  “Are you calling my hair haywire?”

  “So, Jasper,” Fonda said, taking over, “have you started reading The Outsiders yet?”

  “Nah. I’ll watch the movie instead,” he said, wiping his ketchupy thumb on his surf trunks.

  “Same,” said Frankie.

  “Big mistake,” Drew said. “The movie is a snoozer compared to the book.”

  “Oh yeah?” Jasper leaned forward. “Maybe you can read it to me sometime.”

  Frankie laughed. Drew did not. What if Jasper had a low Lexile score and needed help reading? That wasn’t funny; it was sad.

  The theater lights dimmed, and the girls turned to face the screen.

  “See?” Fonda said. “It helps talking to other boys, right?”

  Drew wanted to say that it didn’t help at all. That all roads, both imaginary and real, led to Will. But Fonda looked so pleased with herself for solving Drew’s problem, she didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so all she said was “Yep. I’m totally over him.”

  “How over?”

  “Soooo over,” Drew managed.

  Fonda rolled her wrist, wanting more.

  “Like if Will was lying on the side of the road with a bunch of broken bones, I’d make like a chicken and cross. I’m done with that doozer.”

  “Dude loser?” Fonda guessed.

  “Yep.” Drew nodded. “Done.”

  “Really?” Fonda beamed, clearly proud.

  “Really.”

  But while Drew’s imaginary self was crossing the road, her real self was crossing her fingers.

  chapter ten.

  THE CALIFORNIA SUN was searing Fonda’s scalp. Her banging heart was begging for mercy. But ever since she gave Ava R. that period purse, PE, and all the misery that went with it, may as well have stood for Popularity Express, because now she was searing and huffing alongside the Avas, which lessened the trauma considerably.

  “Let’s talk party list,” said Ava G. in that girly, high-pitched voice of hers. “I want everyone’s top ten.”

  They were trudging up the first of three painfully steep trails on what Coach Pierce referred to as a “Superhike.” Everyone else called it a “Superhurl” because someone always lost their lunch by the end.

  Typically, Fonda dreaded the monthly outing. All those sweaty kids in matching maroon uniforms, panting and pushing to the front as if “speedy hill walker” was a fast-track to Harvard. At least her legs had grown an inch since last year, but she still had to walk double time to keep up.

  “No fair,” panted Ava H. as she gathered her long brown curls and tossed them over her shoulder. “You always. Do. This.”

  “Do. What?”

  “Ask us questions. Right as we start. Going up. The hill.”

  “You’re right.” Ava R. laughed. “She does. Do. That. It’s so. Unfair.”

  “Why. Un. Fair?” Fonda panted, daring to insert herself in the conversation.

  “That. Way. We do. All. The. Talking when we’re going. Uphill. And she gets to breathe. And. Listen.”

  “Un. Fair?” Ava G. said. “Or brilliant?”

  They only half laughed, due to their limited oxygen. But Fonda didn’t hold back. The joy she got from mattering to the Avas was all the oxygen she needed. Not that she wanted to join their group. She wanted her own group, one where members had different names and unique hairstyles. But Ruthie was busy with the Titans, and Drew, who claimed to be over Will, was still watching him, all moony, every chance she got.

  Now, as Fonda trudged up the hill, she couldn’t help wondering if Drew and Ruthie were moving on without her. Because it certainly felt that way. On top of everything else, neither one of them wished her a happy half birthday that morning, which was weird, because they always celebrated halves. Did they not remember? Or worse, did they remember and not even care? Maybe Drew was upset that Fonda gave it to her straight at the movies, but Will was acting like a doozer. And weren’t friends supposed to tell each other the truth? They always had before.

  “Back to. The list,” Ava G. said, fanning her glistening forehead. “Who do you want to invite? My parents said I can have. Thirty people. So, we each. Get. Ten.”

  “My list is gonna be post office,” said Ava H.

  “Huh?”

  “All male!”

  Fonda laughed with the rest of them, like she could totally relate. But on the inside, she was spiraling. It wasn’t like Fonda was anti-guy or anything. She’d had a few mild crushes and certainly noticed if a boy looked handsome. But she couldn’t name three she wanted to have at a party, let alone ten. Was something majorly wrong with her?

  The girls began reciting their lists, and Fonda did her best to listen. But their legs were long, and hers were only medium. Matching their pace was becoming difficult, and she was lagging behind. All she heard was:

  “I can’t stand ____ smell of Axe ____ spray.”

  And “I’m not going to ____ anyone with chapped lips. I might as well _____ with a nail file.”

  And “Can we _____ back to the list?”

  “Fine. I want Jess, Jack P. ___ ack H. Ja ___ C. _____ Reef, Lu _____, Dutch ____ Gr____ . . .”

  It was like being on a phone call with bad reception. Words, sounds, and sometimes complete sentences dropped off. But one thing was clear: Fonda hadn’t heard her name on any of their lists. Not even Ava R.’s. The bathroom talk, the period purse . . . it was all for nothing. No matter what Fonda did, it was never enough. And now, because of her, Drew and
Ruthie wouldn’t be enough either. They’d always be seen as the girls who didn’t make the cut. Sure, they could still start a friend group, but no one would join. And when no one wanted in, you were out.

  “Tighten your abs, and let’s pick up the pace!” called Coach Pierce as they began climbing the third and final hill.

  Fonda did no such thing.

  Why scramble to keep up when the Avas proved that keeping up was impossible? Giving up was Fonda’s speed now.

  As she shuffled along the dusty trail, kicking up dirt and resentments, Fonda was overcome by dizziness. Green cactuses, dry brown brush, buzzing bees, heavy breathing, and occasional whiffs of body odor swirled into a stew of sensory overload and churned something deep inside her stomach.

  Saliva rushed her mouth.

  Her body burped without permission.

  Then up came her chicken taquitos.

  “Superhurl!” shouted Frankie, the boy with ramen noodle hair.

  And just like that, Fonda Miller was no longer invisible. The image of her wiping spittle from her mouth would be etched in the brains of twenty-three kids for all eternity.

  chapter eleven.

  IT WAS THURSDAY night, but the pit of loneliness in Ruthie’s stomach was Sunday strong. She was starting to dread school, resent it even, because school had turned her into a social refugee, leaving her to wander with no place to call home.

  Yes, Ruthie had the Titans, and double yes, she was learning oodles of fun facts from Rhea. For example: the word algebra comes from the ancient Arabic word al-jabr, which means the “reunion of broken parts.” As in “Ruthie, Drew, and Fonda need an al-jabr.” But all this learning through lunch, delicious as it was, meant Drew and Fonda were making memories without her. And Ruthie couldn’t possibly find joy in perfect test scores when she was falling behind with her friends.

  Now, as she completed chapter three of her creative writing assignment, her insides swirled with a restless sort of discontent. Her story, “Foxie the Werefox,” was about a seventh-grade girl who transitioned into a fox during the full moon, and like the tights that shredded when she shape-shifted, Foxie was torn. Being forced to hunt squirrels and survive in the wild was exhilarating, but doing it alone was isolating. In this chapter, she discovered an elixir that had the power to turn her back into a regular girl. If she drank it, Foxie would never feel that exhilaration again. If she didn’t, she’d have nothing in common with her friends, and they’d move on without her. By the end of the chapter, Foxie found herself in a lose-lose situation and decided to sleep on it.