The Humiliations of Pipi McGee

by Beth Vrabel

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by Beth Vrabel

  Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Billy Yong

  Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Running Press Kids

  Hachette Book Group

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  www.runningpress.com/rpkids

  @RP_Kids

  First Edition: September 2019

  Published by Running Press Kids, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Running Press Kids name and logo is a trademark of the Hachette Book Group.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018945859

  ISBNs: 978-0-7624-9339-5 (hardcover), 978-0-7624-9340-1 (ebook)

  E3-20190807-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Beth Vrabel

  Praise for Beth Vrabel and The Humiliations of Pipi McGee

  To Collinsville Spoken Word, and to Emma, a poet it nourished.

  Chapter One

  This year would be different.

  I was sure of it.

  “Welcome, students!” Principal Hendricks raised her arms in a cheer from her spot on the auditorium stage. Her red power suit gleamed in the spotlight. “We’re so excited to have you back at Northbrook Middle School!”

  Next to me, my best friend Tasha pretended to puke into her backpack.

  “Stop it.” I elbowed her. “This year is going to be different.”

  Tasha raised her eyebrow. She had the best you’re-unbelievable look aside from my mom, whose facial expressions were expert level.

  “I mean it, Tasha.” I folded my hands on my lap and pasted a smile on my face, despite feeling Tasha’s stare burn into me.

  “You curled your hair, didn’t you?” Tasha asked.

  My shoulder-length brownish-blond hair was naturally wavy, but only parts of it. Most of it was stick straight. So, picture chunks of straight hair with random curlicues. Normally, I deal with it, shoving it back into a ponytail and moving on with my life. But this year was going to be different. This year, I’d do what Mom was always yakking about—Take time with your appearance, Pipi. Make an effort. I’d wake up fifteen minutes early every day and curl my hair so it’d all be bouncy and exciting, like my brand-new, different self.

  Now both of Tasha’s eyebrows were peaked. She pulled on one of my curls and then watched it bounce back. “Every year, you start off like an innocent little lamb thinking this time, everything’s going to be so new and grand. Every year, I’ve got to come pry you out of the bathroom stall you’re crying in by the end of September.”

  “That’s not fair.” I crossed my arms. “You know perfectly well that everything that has happened to me was not my fault.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Tasha!”

  “Pipi!”

  I glanced around, holding up my hands. “That’s one of the things that’s going to be different this year. I’m not going by Pipi anymore. I’m Penelope.”

  Tasha closed her eyes and shook her head. This time, I guess facial features weren’t enough to convey her thoughts. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “I’ve been Pipi McGee for four years—”

  “Yep, ever since you—”

  “Don’t say it!” I put my hand over Tasha’s mouth and she batted my arm away. Tasha crossed her own arms and stared at me. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “But just, please. Don’t say it. I mean it, this year’s going to be different.”

  “Whatever.” Tasha shifted in her seat and slipped earbuds into her ears. She thumbed at her audiobook app.

  “That again?” I pointed to the picture of the book cover on the app. “Haven’t you got the whole thing memorized?”

  “’Course, I do.” Tasha grinned. “But the final installment—Crow Reaper: Reaping Death—releases next week. Just enough time to listen to the first book.”

  I sighed.

  Tasha shook her head, her long braids rustling against each other. “Uh-uh. No judgment, Pi—Penelope. You might be changing. I’m staying the same.”

  I glanced at Tasha, who closed her eyes as she listened, and I knew that wasn’t exactly true. While each year I somehow managed to stay right where I was on the social hierarchy of Northbrook Middle School (the bottom rung)—always due to some unfortunate event that was never my fault—Tasha bumped up a few pegs.

  That wasn’t even true, really. She built her own ladder. Her ridiculously overachieving brain and athleticism put her in a league of coolness totally of her own, despite being totally obsessed—to the point of dress up—with a book series about a demon-hunting boy whose brother turned into a crow. And then there was the fact that she was gorgeous, tall and athletic with dark brown skin and eyes.

  Principal Hendricks’s smile seemed to stretch the auditorium. “As you know, this is my first year as principal of Northbrook Middle. As such, we’re going to kick off things a little differently.”

  “Told you.” I nudged Tasha, who just shook her head and bumped up the volume on her phone. My nose tickled, so I sat on my hands, keeping my smile firmly in place. I never touch my nose if I can help it. It’s my least favorite feature. Plus, the whole first-grade thing…

  My smile was smacked straight off my face when Frau Jacobs, the seventh-grade Intro to Languages teacher, shuffled forward and whispered in Principal Hendricks’s ear.

  Remember that part in Harry Potter where the old lady was actually a snake? Like the giant snake was just living inside the old lady’s skin? I’m pretty sure J. K. Rowling must’ve met Frau Jacobs when she thought about that snake lady.

  Frau Jacobs was about five feet, two inches tall, all sweet smiles and curly brown hair. She smelled like freshly baked cookies and clasped her hands together in delight while verbally carving your soul into confetti. Even though she was probably the same age as my dad, she looked like grandma material. Which, strictly sp
eaking, also includes my dad.

  Principal Hendricks’s red lipsticked smile wavered a little at whatever Frau Jacobs whispered in her ear. Slowly, Frau Jacobs backed away and sat down, a satisfied little smile on her face.

  “Yes, well, before I begin with what we’re doing differently this year,” (I didn’t even bother to elbow Tasha this time) “the other teachers and I would like to remind you all about the dress code.” A low rumbly groan rippled over the auditorium. Principal Hendricks held up her hand. I swallowed down the sour taste that flooded my mouth whenever I saw Frau Jacobs.

  “Okay, girls. No exposed shoulders. No low-cut blouses. No tank tops. No leggings without a top that goes to mid-thigh. No shorts that are higher than finger length when your arms are by your side.” Principal Hendricks rattled off the dress code like a grocery list. Behind her, Frau Jacobs cleared her throat. Principal Hendricks turned halfway toward her, listening to whatever she muttered, then turned back with a tight smile. “Frau Jacobs would like to add a few words.”

  My breath seeped out, and I fought the urge to cover my ears.

  “Yes, ladies. As the famous soprano Frau Greta Mila von Nickel was fond of saying… well, I can’t actually repeat it because even in German, an insult is an insult. But it comes down to this, ladies: each of us has an inner swine-dog that we must vanquish.”

  Principal Hendricks cleared her throat. Frau sighed and continued, “None of you are, of course, swine-dogs. It’s an imperfect translation. In any case, remember you are here to learn. Not to be caught unawares at the distraction you are causing among others. I will dress-code you. I do expect you to be ready to learn at all times while you’re here in this building, prepared and ready without excuse.” I pulled up my knees and burrowed my head into them. Tasha, earbuds removed, stirred a little closer to me and hissed something under her breath about Frau shutting her pie hole.

  Frau Jacobs smiled at all of us. “And, gentlemen, be clean and neat.” She looked over the audience full of students, as though expecting applause.

  Principal Hendricks stood back in front of the microphone as Frau Jacobs returned to her seat. “You likely don’t remember that, at the beginning of kindergarten, you drew portraits of what you hoped your future selves would be, what you would look like at the end of middle school. Today, we’re going to reveal those wonderful portraits and see how far you’ve come in seizing your dreams!”

  Something cold crackled through my chest. My fingers stretched out and squeezed Tasha’s knee.

  She pulled out an earbud again. “What?”

  “Bad,” I muttered.

  “How bad?” Tasha bit her lip. “Like, fourth-grade bad?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Tasha’s eyes turned to marbles. She looked toward Frau Jacobs, then back at me. “Pipi—is this seventh-grade bad?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I didn’t talk about seventh grade.

  Ever.

  My eyes darted around the room. No way could they show everyone’s kindergarten portrait. There were, like, two hundred kids in my class. The lights dimmed and a screen lit up.

  “No, no, no, no, no.”

  Tasha looked at the screen, her mouth stretching into a relieved smile. “Come on, Pipi. It can’t be that bad. All of the drawings are goofy.” Flashing across the screen were scribbly sketches of big bobblehead humanoids next to the artist’s seventh-grade school picture. A few people laughed at Robert Andrew’s portrait—a giant head with arms and legs stretching out of it.

  Now, maybe most people don’t remember their kindergarten self-portraits. Not me. How could I forget my first humiliation? Miss Simpson had held up my drawing in front of everyone, her face screwed up and red from holding in her laughter, as she told us to remember “sometimes the best thing to do when we make mistakes is to use an eraser or start over. Don’t just keep going.”

  I bit my lip to keep from screaming. My eyes scoured the crowded auditorium. Maybe no one would be paying attention. No such luck. Everyone stared up at the screen with little grins. Each time a new portrait appeared, a little cooing sound would bubble up from spots in the crowd and everyone around that person would ooh and aah.

  This was a disaster!

  Three rows ahead of me, Ricky Salindo half twisted in his seat. When his eyes locked with mine, he quickly looked away. He remembered my kindergarten portrait, too.

  I whimpered. Tasha elbowed me.

  When I could be sure I could speak without screeching, I said, “There are two hundred kids in our grade. They won’t get to everyone, right?”

  Tasha shrugged. “Two hundred and nineteen kids. Pictures are up for about three seconds, so it’d take six hundred fifty-seven seconds to get through everyone, or roughly ten minutes. And probably ten percent of the student body moved here after kindergarten.” My best friend has one of those super quick, bizarrely accurate math brains. I do not. “Oh!” she squealed. “It’s me!”

  Tasha’s kindergarten portrait flashed on the screen. She had a red triangle dress, with brown arms and legs peeking out from the sides. Her hair was a lighter brown puff around her head. In careful writing, she had written her name, Tasha Martins, under her picture. She looked adorable and somehow exactly as I remembered her from when we first met, thanks to standing in alphabetical order in line for bathroom breaks. She had drawn herself holding a stack of books.

  So cute. Alphabetical order. That meant I’d be—

  It was worse than I remembered.

  Let me set the scene, heading back in time eight years to tiny, poor Kindergarten Penelope dooming her future self.

  Five-year-old Penelope sat at her table with colored pencils and crayons in a Tupperware container in front of her. She thought about her future self, what the Penelope of Eighth Grade would be like. She drew a pink face and yellow hair. And then Miss Simpson said, “Now, class, think about what you really, really love in life. And then think about all the choices you’ll get to make when you’re a big thirteen- or fourteen-year-old middle schooler!”

  What do I really love in life? Kindergarten Penelope really loved bacon.

  Sweet, innocent Penelope was so proud of her drawing. Then Miss Simpson made her trying-not-to-laugh face. And she held up the drawing and everyone in the classroom laughed. Kara Samson said something about Penelope being a sillyhead.

  Penelope stood up and screamed that she was not a sillyhead, and someday she would be bacon, and then Kara would be sorry.

  Miss Simpson talked then about fantasy versus reality and that no one could grow up to be bacon. But she was wrong, Kindergarten Penelope vowed, and wrote in careful letters: Penelope WILL be bacon. And then Penelope screamed that she would be drippy and delicious one day, and kicked Miss Simpson’s shin.

  I remembered everyone’s faces, all twisty and eyes squinty, their hands covering their mouths as they whispered and laughed. My own face had flushed so red I could see it flaming.

  It looked like… well, it looked exactly like what was happening right now, this very second. Because it was happening all over again.

  “No!” Tasha gasped as the portrait took shape on the screen. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Pipi. Pipi, why did you put boobs on the bacon?”

  “Because it’s older me,” I whimpered and looked down at my still mostly flat chest.

  I was too numb to react. Just stared at the screen, both reliving my first humiliation and then experiencing it fresh all over again.

  Know how long it takes for the entire eighth grade to turn on a kid?

  Three seconds.

  First it was a buzz. Then a guffaw. Next laughter.

  “It’s Pipi McGee!” someone a few rows behind me called out.

  “Sizzling hot!” shouted someone else.

  Tasha jumped to her feet. “Shut it! Leave her alone!” Tasha pointed to Wade Michaels, a meathead jock who was laughing loudest. “Your drawing had ears bigger than your head, Meatlobe.” Wade covered his ears with his hands a
nd closed his mouth. Tasha jabbed a finger in nasty-laughing Patricia Reynolds’s direction. “And, you! You didn’t even draw a body, Patricia. You were just a blob girl. A blob girl.” Patricia rolled her eyes but stopped laughing.

  Still standing, Tasha turned to me as the people around us finally quieted. “Don’t listen to them, Pipi,” she said. “Everyone loves bacon!”

  “Especially booby bacon,” Wade called in a wheezy laugh. And the auditorium erupted again.

  “It’s fine,” Tasha whispered as she sat back down. “I’m sure everyone will forget soon.”

  “Booby bacon! Booby bacon! Booby bacon!” the class chanted.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered back. I grabbed my backpack and pulled it up my arm. “It’s me. I’m a walking embarrassment.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s like Kara Samson said last year. I’m a virus.” I wiped at the pathetic wetness on my cheeks. “I’ll be in my office. The third stall.”

  “Oh, Pipi,” Tasha said. “It’s not even September.”

  I shimmied past her, my head ducked low.

  “Now, now,” Principal Hendricks said from the front of the room as I exited, interrupting the slideshow. “Isn’t it wonderful to see how far we’ve all come?”

  “Booby bacon! Booby bacon! Booby bacon!” chanted the crowd, led once again by Kara Samson.

  So much for this year being different.

  Just like every other year, eighth grade was going to be an education in public humiliation.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.” Mom sat across from me at the kitchen island.

  When I didn’t answer, without looking she grabbed a brownie from the tray between us and shoved it into her mouth. Mom, a fitness instructor, almost never ate sugar. She only wore leggings that molded to her toned legs and tank tops that showed off the way her lean arms rippled with muscles. Her constant ready-to-go-for-a-run attire was in contrast to the way her dark brown hair with blond highlights was always styled perfectly and her makeup was always perfectly done.

  Since opening her gym downtown, Mom said she had to protect her “brand” and “look the part.” But every now and then she’d bake treats for special occasions—such as the first day of school—that weren’t made from black beans and agave nectar. She always tried not to sample them and was usually pretty successful.