I feel just the tiniest bit of a smile coming on before I run for the door.
“It’s Meena with an early lead!” Dad yells from behind. I hear the door smack shut and feel a cold breeze slap my face. I shoot down our driveway and veer onto the sidewalk. Dad is close. The edge of his shadow falls over me, and I pump my arms and legs harder.
“Dad is bringing up the rear,” he calls, “but he’s still the odds-on favorite in this race. Wait! Don’t look now! He’s coming alive!”
He pulls up next to me. I hear my backpack thumping on his shoulder and his shoes clomping down the sidewalk. For half a block, he takes the lead. I pound my feet harder, propelling my body forward, the cold air stinging inside my chest, until I edge past him again.
My hair is flying behind me. My cheeks are getting numb. When we round the last corner to school, my side starts to hurt. I can’t get enough air. I start to fall back, and Dad grazes my shoulder as he passes me.
“They’re at the top of the stretch now, folks,” he says. “It looks like Meena is done for. Dad has this win in the bag!”
I am not finished yet! My side feels like it’s splitting in half, but I bite down on my lip, take a big breath, and push myself even harder.
“What’s this? Meena isn’t out of it! She’s coming from behind!”
I see the swing set in the distance. Dad heads for the pavement, but I take a chance and cut through the soccer field. The ground isn’t mucky today. It’s cold, and I stumble over the frozen ridges of mud. If I can just stay on my feet, I’ll win this thing!
I’m almost to the swings now. My heart is pounding. My chest is burning. But I can do this. I know I can! I sprint as hard as I can past the monkey bars, kicking up wood chips behind me.
“Meena is pulling ahead!” Dad shouts. He’s right behind me! “She’s going all out for the finish!”
I lunge for the swing set and slap it with a ping.
“It’s Meena for the win!” Dad is yelling. He cups his hands over his mouth and makes crowd noises. “This is a total upset! An amazing result!”
I’m bent over, holding my side, panting and wincing and grinning all at once.
“Meena!” Dad holds out his fist like a microphone. “You were finished. You were done for! But somehow you beat out all the front-runners. How did you do it?” He holds his fist in front of my face.
For a few seconds I can’t catch my breath. When I finally stand up straight, I still hear the imaginary crowd cheering. “I just kept running,” I say into the mic. “No matter how hard it got, I just kept running as fast as I could.”
14
I’m happy and worn out when Dad goes to pick up Rosie and go home. My whole body relaxes as I walk down the empty hall to class. I feel like a wrung-out washcloth. I give my head a shake and can still smell the fresh air in my hair.
Nobody except Mrs. D is in the third-grade room when I get there. “Hey, Meena,” she says, looking up from her computer. “How’d it go today?”
“Fine. Is it lunchtime?”
“Yep. You can head on over.”
Yes! I missed the whole morning—even handwriting! I pump my fist in the air.
“Come on back during recess,” Mrs. D says. “You can start on your makeup work.”
I groan and let my hand drop. “Can’t we just call it good for today?”
She smirks at me. “It won’t take you long. But tell you what. You can work on your valentine box instead if you want.”
I snort. As if I’d let anyone see my box before it was ready.
I grab my lunch bag and head to the cafeteria. I wonder if Dad packed something fun, like those little pizzas you put together yourself, or if it’s some kind of food you eat in an orderly fashion, like the cereal that looks like bales of hay. I just hope all the food groups are represented: red, orange, yellow, green, and bluish-purple. Mom says I have to get my colors from fruits and vegetables, but bluish-purple is hard to come by this time of year, because if I think they’re paying five dollars for a pint of blueberries that have to get shipped all the way from South America, then I must be out of my mind. I’ve tried to get Mom to buy grape taffy instead, or that blueberry yogurt that comes in a tube, but sometimes there’s no reasoning with her. If you ask me, this whole thing would be easier if she just let me bring jelly beans. They can even be in the same container. It’s not like I have a thing about foods touching one another.
I’m very reasonable that way.
The noise from the lunchroom gets louder when I push through the door. Most of my class is crowded around a couple of tables. Eli sees me coming and scootches closer to Pedro to make room for me. His whole lunch tray is yellow: macaroni, corn, applesauce, and vanilla pudding. Lucky Dad packed for me! “Where were you?” Eli asks.
“At the hospital,” I say, opening my bag. It turns out that talking about the MRI doesn’t seem all that scary here. And anyway, nobody needs to know why I had one.
“Again? What for?”
“I had to go in this machine that takes pictures of your insides.”
“You mean an X-ray?” Pedro asks.
“Kind of. But way bigger. And look.” I push up the sleeve of my hoodie and hold out my arm so they can see the cotton ball Band-Aided to me.
Pedro’s eyebrows shoot up. Next to him Lin stops and stares in the middle of trading her cookies for Maddy’s chips.
“Whoa,” Eli says, “you got a shot?”
“Uh-huh.”
I hear the plunk of someone pulling the tab off a can and look down the table just in time to see the dark flicker of Sofía’s lashes as she sets down her tiny can of apple juice. Was she looking at us?
She must have done Lunch Patrol without me again. My stomach tightens. I wonder what she does with her can tabs now that she doesn’t save them for me.
“Why’d you need a shot?” Eli asks.
I take a Thermos out of my lunch bag. At the next table a second grader knocks over his milk. “I don’t know,” I say. “It makes your insides light up or something. Hey, Pedro, can I have that?”
He’s twisting off the plastic wing-top thingy from his orange drink. I shoot Sofía a look when he hands it to me and stick it in my pocket. I don’t need her stupid can tabs. I bet there’s something cool I can do with this.
I open my Thermos. Spaghetti and meatballs! Dad sent baby carrots and green pepper slices and pineapple, too. I’ve almost got all the colors already, and then bam! I find a grape sucker at the bottom of my bag. I grab my plastic fork and dig in. The spaghetti flops all over. A few times I even drop it down the front of my shirt, but the sauce blends into the tie-dye, so I don’t care.
I manage to get a little of every color by the time the bell rings, so I pack everything up and head out to play kickball with Eli and Pedro. No way am I missing recess to do my homework. But just as I’m pushing through the playground doors, I look back and see Sofía turn toward the classroom.
Of course she’ll be there.
Then I wonder, what if she’s not doing schoolwork at all? What if Sofía’s using the extra time to work on her valentine box? If I can sneak a peek at it, I’ll know exactly what I’m up against, and I can be absolutely certain mine turns out better than hers.
This is my chance to spy on her for a change!
I take my hands off the door and follow her down the hall.
“Valentine box or makeup work?” Mrs. D asks when I slip into my desk.
I glance at Sofía. She’s getting out her markers, but I can’t tell yet what she’s working on. “I’ll do my box at home,” I say.
“Okay. Why don’t you take out your language arts journal? This morning I asked everyone to write about something that made them smile today. You can work on that.”
“Can I draw a picture with it?” I ask.
“Essay first.”
“Can I use paint?” I ask.
She presses her lips together. “Let’s see how far you get with your writing.”
I guess
she’s not over the Green Splatter Incident yet.
She starts to walk away. “Mrs. D?” I call after her.
“It isn’t a contest,” she says over her shoulder, “and you don’t get anything if yours is the best.”
Darn it.
I sigh and take out my journal. I twirl my pencil around inside my little hand sharpener, watching the wood shavings spiral out. It’s weird sitting in such an empty room—nothing but Sofía taking out some papers and Mrs. D leafing through worksheets. I bounce my knees under the desk and stare at the page, waiting for Inspiration.
But this isn’t like blank paper. All those lines make me feel cramped and crowded. It’s like they’re just sitting there yelling Do your work! instead of Make something beautiful!
And Sofía isn’t even working on her box as far as I can tell. All she’s doing is drawing a boring rectangle. I watch her color it red. I should be out playing kickball.
But hang on. What if that’s one of her valentines? I never even thought about making the best valentines in the class. How am I ever going to have time for that when I haven’t even finished my box? And before I can do anything else, I have to get this dumb journal entry over with.
I pick up my pencil and tap it against my desk. Let’s see. Something that made me smile today. Not the MRI, that’s for sure, and definitely not the shot. Luckily for me, there was something.
You’ll never guess what I did during school today. I didn’t sit in class and practice handwriting like everybody else, that’s for sure. I ran a race with my dad, and I totally won!
“Make sure you’re using your best writing,” Mrs. D says from her desk.
I look down at the page again. My writing never looks neat and curvy like it’s supposed to. The letters are supposed to flow together, Mrs. D says. But mine always look like they’re bumping into each other.
Stupid cursive. I don’t get why the b looks like an l and why the n looks like an m—or how you’re even supposed to tell the difference between the g and q.
Sofía peeks at a textbook on her desk and then starts drawing another rectangle—a pink one this time. Now I see. She’s making a bar graph. I roll my eyes. What a waste of color. She clicks the lid back on the pink and snaps the marker into the tray. She likes to keep them nestled in their original package and take them out one at a time. Sofía looks at the book, reaches for her purple marker, and draws another rectangle next to the others. She clicks the lid back on.
Mrs. D stands up from her desk. “I need to go make a few photocopies,” she says. “Are you two okay on your own?”
Sofía and I glance at each other, then look away. After Mrs. D leaves the room, we sit there. I keep thumping my pencil on my notebook: Tap-tap, tap-tap. Sofía keeps opening and closing different colored markers: Click-snap, click-snap.
I can’t think of anything else to write in my journal. And I don’t want to use pencil. Sofía’s paper is getting more colorful by the second, even though she’s just doing math. The rectangles on her bar graph look like colorful skyscrapers.
I can’t stand it anymore.
I take out my markers. I’ll make my picture first. That will give me an Inspiration. And maybe when Mrs. D sees it, she won’t make me write out what it was like to run this morning, because she’ll just be able to tell. Maybe my picture will be so beautiful that she’ll even clip me up for a change!
I dump all my markers out on my desk. I want them where I can see them, and where they can see me. I can’t use all of them at once, but I want them to know I’ll get around to all of them eventually.
I turn the page of my journal and get started. I draw my dad running across the playground. I’m just barely in front of him, reaching for the swings, my hair flying behind me in rainbow streaks. Even though it was cloudy out, I make the sky bright blue with the sun shining above us. I breathe in the smell of the markers and listen to the click of the caps. The more clicks I make, the more colorful my picture gets.
I’m so busy drawing that I don’t know how long Sofía has been watching me when I catch her. “What?” I say.
She looks down.
I straighten up. “Did Mrs. D tell you to spy on me?”
Her eyes flick back up. “No!” She bends over her desk again. “It’s nothing.”
“Then why were you staring?”
She takes the lid off her blue marker and hunches over even further. “I was just making sure you’re still there,” she says in a small voice.
I roll my eyes. “I’m sitting right in front of you.”
“Yeah, but . . .” She looks at me with a crinkle in her forehead. “Sometimes you space out.”
“So? Everybody does that.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not the same. It’s like you’re not even there. Sometimes you make this weird hissing noise, too. Or you drool a little.”
I feel my face getting hot. “You’re making that up,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It happened with your President Portrait.”
“What did?”
“You went . . . blank inside. Your hands got twitchy, and your eyes blinked a lot. And when Mrs. D asked for your paper, you just kept scribbling.”
I glare at her. First she abandons me, and now she makes up lies? She’s just being mean for no reason! If any of that were true, I’d remember it. Or someone would have told me, right?
But I don’t remember riding to the hospital in an ambulance. And Eli said I ignored Mrs. D when she asked for my portrait. Why didn’t I hear her? Why did I scribble purple all over my picture? And why did I get clipped down for not following directions?
What’s the matter with me?
I think of the white smudge on the X-ray skull. I try to push the image away and concentrate on my work again, but all of a sudden the space between my journal and my body seems to stretch out, like a tunnel that’s closing in. My legs are jumpy and want to run away, but I’m stuck here, at this desk, just like I was stuck in the cramped tube of the MRI machine. But this time the banging and the whirring are in my head, and it doesn’t matter who else is in the room, because this is only happening to me.
I’m starting to gasp for air. I put my hands over my face and press hard, forcing myself to take a deep breath, then another. When my heart stops feeling like it will pound right out of my chest, I open my eyes again.
I look down at my picture: me running across the playground with Dad.
Then I take out my purple crayon and start rubbing it over the entire page.
Stupid spot in my head. Stupid something that ruins everything.
I grit my teeth and rub purple over the blades of grass and my perfect shade of sky. I rub it over my rainbow hair until the colors are all drowning in purple.
That’s when I hear Sofía whisper, “Is that why you were gone this morning? Because you space out sometimes?”
My stomach starts to bubble. “None of your business.”
She clicks the lid on her red marker and just holds it, looking at me. “Is that why they took pictures of your insides?”
“It’s not because of that.” I snap the words out, because I am not going to cry. “It’s because I had a seizure. I had to ride in an ambulance, and I woke up in the hospital, and now everybody watches me all the time in case there are fireworks in my brain!”
“Meena.”
I look up. Mrs. D is standing next to me, holding a stack of papers. She squats down beside my desk and puts a hand on my arm. “What are you supposed to be doing?” she asks, her voice so soft I can barely hear her.
I feel the corners of my mouth pulling down. “My journal,” I mutter.
“And how’s it coming so far?”
I take a quick peek over at the clip chart. I’m at Ready for Anything now, but Go to the Principal is just waiting for me at the bottom. I didn’t write my essay. And I ruined my picture. Again. On purpose this time. I close my notebook before Mrs. D can see it.
She nods and stands up. “I think maybe you
two should head outside for the last few minutes of recess,” Mrs. D says. “Go get some fresh air.”
I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I jump up from my desk and head into the hall.
“Just stay together until you’re outside,” Mrs. D calls after me.
I am not waiting for Sofía. I grab my jacket from my cubby and keep walking.
“Is that why you need help with the lunch count?” Sofía asks from behind me. Like she cares.
“I don’t need help,” I tell her over my shoulder. I fast-walk down the hall so I won’t say the rest of my thoughts out loud.
Especially from you.
15
The rest of my day has way more Downs than Ups.
We don’t get to do relay races in gym because we have to watch a dumb video on nutrition. Mrs. D makes me take my language arts journal home to finish it. And to top it off, when Mom and Rosie meet me at the front doors after school, Rosie shrieks and runs to Sofía! Like she’s her sister instead of mine!
Sofía makes an oof sound when Rosie slams into her. “Hey, Rosie Posey,” she says.
“Where have you been?” demands Rosie. She jumps up and down. “Are you coming over?”
Sofía shoots me a worried look.
She shouldn’t worry. I’m not inviting her. I cross my arms, feeling the hot lava start to bubble in my stomach again.
She shakes her head at Rosie. “Not today.”
“Aw,” Rosie groans. Then she lifts up her arms to Sofía and starts to dance around. “Twirl me!” she says.
Sofía grins and takes her by the hands. She starts whirling Rosie around like she used to, faster and faster until they’re twirling so hard that Rosie’s feet lift off the ground. She squeals. Sofía swings her around a few more times until Rosie’s feet start to scrape against the sidewalk, and she stumbles and lands on her bottom, laughing.
“You okay, squirt?” Sofía says, offering her a hand.
Hey, that’s my nickname for her! I step in between them. “You don’t get to call her that,” I say. I pull Rosie up and start dragging her away.
Meena Meets Her Match Page 8