Secret Keeper Girl Fiction Series

by Dannah K. Gresh

  I followed him to Language Arts. Hopefully this was the last switch.

  “So, how long did you live in Nigeria?” Principal Butter asked.

  “Well, actually,” I explained, “I’ve never lived in Nigeria, but my parents are Nigerian. I was born in Texas, then we moved around a lot. But before we moved here, we lived in London, England.”

  “Very interesting … well, I’m sure you’re going to really enjoy your new LA teacher. Her name’s Mrs. Chickory,” he said.

  Mrs. Chickory is tall, but with really small feet. Her head is small, but she has the hugest black eyes with dark, bushy eyebrows and a super-weird, almost beaklike nose. She reminds me … of something …

  Oh, yeah! The ostriches I was counting last night, I thought as she walked toward me. I could picture her strutting around in my ostrich-counting mind. She put one feathery wing, er, arm around my shoulders.

  “Welcome to our class,” Mrs. Chickory said loudly. She smelled a little like cream of broccoli soup. I could imagine her bending down to slurp it, ignoring the spoon.

  “Class, this is Yuzi,” she said as if she had rescued me from some other LA class.

  I heard the whole class repeat my name in giggly whispers. How embarrassing.

  “She is new to our school and is all the way from Nigeria,” she said. “Please make her feel welcome.”

  Great. Whenever I’m introduced that way, people think I flew in from Nigeria just this morning and can’t speak a word of English.

  Mrs. Chickory pointed the way to my desk. “Larissa, Yuzi is going to sit next to you so you can help her out. Okay?”

  Larissa smiled at me, and I was relieved to finally sit down. I was pulling a notebook out of my bag when Larissa leaned over to me. She has big brown eyes and she opened them even wider as she said, “Will you be my African friend? I’ve never had an African friend before.”

  What am I? Some sort of a collectible doll? I pictured myself packaged in a box for sale in the Barbie aisle.

  Before I had a chance to respond, Mrs. Chickory’s sharp voice said, “Yuzi, although you’re new here, I want you to know that the one thing I do not tolerate in class is talking without permission.”

  “I wasn’t,” I said in a totally defensive voice. I felt hot all over.

  “I also expect my students to apologize when they’ve made a mistake, not deny it,” Mrs. Chickory continued.

  “But I wasn’t talking!” It came out louder than I meant it to, but I couldn’t help it. I was being accused of something I didn’t do! “All I did was sit down and start getting my stuff out. Larissa asked me a quick question and I hadn’t even answered her yet.”

  “Young lady,” Mrs. Chickory interrupted me. She pressed her lips into a straight line, which made her look like an angry ostrich.

  “I don’t know what they do in Nigeria, but here in America we respect our authorities! I’m going to ask you to step out into the hall for a few minutes and calm yourself. Wait out there until I say you can join the class again,” she said, obviously really mad.

  I stood up slowly. My heart was pounding and my throat was tight. All the students were looking at me as I made my way to the door.

  I was only in the class for like five minutes. I didn’t do anything wrong! If all these terrible things keep happening to me, no one’s ever going to know the real me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, holding back tears. With my back against a locker in the empty hall, I slowly slid to the floor, pulled my knees up to my chest, and wrapped my arms around them. As I dropped my head down, the shrill, brain-jangling sound of the fire alarm ripped through the silence. I jumped up, eyes wide, and slammed my hands over my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone round the corner out of the hallway.

  The horrible alarm continued as Mrs. Chickory dashed into the hall. She looked at me, then at the pulled fire alarm on the wall only a few lockers away. Her eyes returned to me and narrowed into slits. Then it hit me. She thought I pulled the alarm!

  Students were flooding into the halls on their way to the exits. As Mrs. Chickory’s class passed by, she frowned hard at me and said tightly, “You’re coming with me.”

  She started to strut down the hall, assuming I would follow her.

  I’m gonna hate this school.

  CHAPTER 3

  Chickory, Buttery, Flop

  “You need to understand me. Please! I didn’t pull that alarm!” I said for the hundredth time. I was flipping out.

  “We understand what you’re saying, Yuzi, but you were the only one in the hallway,” Principal Butter said.

  I was sitting on the edge of a chair across from his desk. It felt really hot in there, but I was shivering. My mouth was so dry that I could hardly swallow. Mom was sitting next to me, hands together against her lips. Mrs. Chickory towered behind us, balanced on her tiny ostrich feet.

  Principal Butter grabbed a bunch of tissues and wiped the sweat from his shiny head. Tiny shreds of tissue clung to his scalp. Through tear-blurred eyes, he looked like he had dots of toothpaste all over his head. For one weird moment, I felt a giggle coming up in my throat. If I weren’t in the middle of the worst situation of my life, I might have busted up laughing. But I was in the principal’s office. And this was no laughing matter.

  “I wasn’t the only one in the hallway!” I said. “There was someone else.”

  “Who? Would you be able to identify them?” Principal Butter asked.

  “I didn’t get a good look,” I said.

  “Boy or girl?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I saw they were wearing jeans, and I think it looked like a boy’s shoe,” I said, knowing it sounded dumb because it seems like practically the entire school is in jeans. “And there was a whitish mark on the bottom of one shoe,” I added.

  Mrs. Chickory made a funny snorting sound behind me. I looked back. Her chin was tipped up a little, and one raised eyebrow seemed to say, “I told you so” to the principal.

  “When I stepped out into the hallway, Principal Butter, there was no one there except Yuzi,” said Mrs. Chickory impatiently. “And as I’ve already told you, she was sporting quite an attitude when she left the classroom.”

  “But you didn’t actually see her pull the alarm,” said Principal Butter.

  “Well, no. But she was standing right there!” Mrs. Chickory kind of sounded like Ike when he’s whining for more dessert.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Chickory. I apologize for keeping you so long. You can return to your class,” Principal Butter said.

  I could feel Mrs. Chickory staring at the back of my head, like sunlight through a magnifying glass. I could almost hear the sizzling sound. Then she left the office.

  Principal Butter breathed in deeply. “This is most unfortunate, Mrs. Ukachi,” he said to my mom. “Pulling a fire alarm is an extremely disruptive and expensive prank.”

  “I don’t believe that my daughter would do such a thing. It’s just not like her,” Mom said. “She’s also not prone to lying. If she says there was someone else in that hallway, I believe there was.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Ukachi, but no one else saw this supposed ‘other person.’” Principal Butter made quote signs in the air with his fingers, then took another deep breath. “This is what I’ll do. I’m sure this move has been difficult enough as it is, so, because Yuzi is so new here, I won’t suspend her.” He laced his fingers together and looked at me. “But it does look as if she pulled that alarm. And unless this other person confesses, or Yuzi can identify him or her, I’m afraid I have no choice but to put her in after-school detention for three days beginning this Wednesday.”

  The office was completely silent, except for the scratch of a pen scribbling and then a little sliding sound as Principal Butter pushed the pink slip across his desk toward me.

  I picked it up by the tippiest tip of a corner, like someone had used it to blow their nose.

  Once I was in the hall alone with Mom, I let out all the things that were yellin
g inside my head.

  “Detention for three days?” I said. “I’m getting detention for something I didn’t do! This is so unfair! Mom, I hate this town. I hate this school. I hate my life! I can never forgive you for moving me here!”

  Mom just listened and rubbed my back.

  “This is not going to help my ‘new girl’ problem one tiny bit. I had no friends to begin with, and now my reputation is crumbling like a sad sandcastle!” I paused. “Oh, that’s right!” I said. “I don’t even have a reputation yet. Unless you can count ‘spandex-corncob-wearing-fire-alarm-psycho-freak!’”

  My mom looked at me softly. “I know it’s not right, but sometimes we have to endure things that aren’t fair. And even though it hurts, it can make us stronger.”

  So I’ll be lonely, but at least I’ll be strong?

  Oh, yay.

  After dinner, Dad said he and Mom wanted to talk to me.

  “So,” Dad began. He and Mom and I were in their room with the door closed. In my house a closed door equals serious conversation.

  Dad was sitting on the edge of the bed, resting against the headboard. He looked at me and continued, “So, I hear you’re spending some time in detention for something you didn’t do and it’s your mom’s and my fault for moving you to this horrible place.”

  When he put it that way, I sounded pretty terrible. He took the wind right out of my angry sails.

  I shrugged. “It’s so unfair,” I mumbled softly. Then louder, “I can’t believe I’m going to be punished for something I didn’t do! Can’t you think of some brilliant plan to get me out of this, Dad? You’re a super-brainy geophysicist!”

  Dad just smiled and shook his head.

  I continued, “Ever since we moved to Marion, my life’s been like some kind of whirling merry-go-round of craziness! Somebody needs to stop the ride or I’m gonna puke!”

  “Uzoma, wodata obi u ala, ” Mom said gently. She says that whenever I start freaking out over something. It means “settle your heart down,” which really means that I need to get a grip. She’d been pretty patient with my angry accusations. Now, I could feel her reeling me in.

  “Seriously, Mom! Things just keep getting worse and worse! Some psycho kid at that crazy school pulled that fire alarm and knows that I got in trouble for it and doesn’t even care! Grrrrr!” I crossed my arms across my chest. “I have got to find that kid and when I do …!”

  “I’m sure whoever did it knows they did the wrong thing,” Mom said. “It’s quite possible that they feel bad, but are too frightened to confess.”

  “Mom! I can’t believe you’re defending someone who did this to me,” I said. “You should be helping me blow their cover and send their sorry popcorn-popping self to the Butter Principal!”

  “Okay,” Dad said, getting up from the bed. “We’ll just take everything one day at a time.” He hugged me. “Go take care of your homework.”

  Mom came over and gave me a hug, too. I knew I didn’t deserve it.

  “And don’t worry,” Mom said. “These awful events won’t last forever. You’ll make friends, and have fun. Who knows? You might even start to like it here.” She winked and smiled.

  “U-girl, you might stop looking at what everyone else is doing wrong and start trying to see what lesson you’re supposed to learn in all of this,” my dad challenged tenderly.

  I got off the bed and left their bedroom.

  They just don’t understand, I thought.

  What I didn’t understand is that I actually did have a reputation already. I just didn’t know it.

  CHAPTER 4

  Detention Convention

  On Wednesday, the day of my first-ever detention, Rutherford B. Hayes Middle School rang with a unique sound. And it wasn’t a fire alarm. It was the chorus of names being woven into the song of my new reputation at my new school in my new town.

  Everywhere I went, kids made comments about me and the fire alarm. One boy named Brock actually tried to congratulate me at lunch.

  “Hey!” he said with his mouth full. “You’re that girl!”

  I could see chewed-up chips and hot dog mingling together in his mouth. Gross.

  Brock is shaped like an eggplant—round, but not flabby. And not purple. His hair looked like he’d just gotten out of bed … and not in that cool, skater-boy kind of way.

  “Sweet job on that fire alarm!” he continued. And he raised one hand for a high five.

  As he said the word “fire,” a soggy chunk of chewed chip hit me right near my mouth. Eew, eew, eew, eew! I silently panicked.

  Instead of high-fiving him back, I quickly grabbed my napkin and wiped my cheek. I wiped so hard, it felt like skin was going to come off. He didn’t even notice.

  “I didn’t pull the fire alarm,” I said, annoyed.

  “Whatever you say, Ding-Dong!” Brock said, mimicking the sound of the fire alarm. He popped his eyebrows up and down while grinning, and elbowed me in the arm a couple times. Of course he didn’t believe me. Nobody believes me.

  “Don’t call me that!” I said.

  “No problem, Ding-Dong!” he said, smiling. “See ya around!”

  Why do boys talk so loudly? There is no way I’m going to live with a nickname like that or the other ones being pinned on me. I have to find the real culprit and stick a few names on him.

  But first I have to survive detention.

  As the school emptied at the end of the day, I made my way to Mrs. Velasquez’s art room. The art room isn’t the usual place for detention, and Mrs. Velasquez isn’t the usual detention teacher. The rumor is that some girl threw her lunch at the regular detention teacher, Mrs. Hefty, a couple days ago. Everyone is saying that Mrs. Hefty’s face turned blue from the impact and that’s why she’s out for the week.

  As I walked in, I got a whiff of something wonderful. The crayon-glue-paint-clay smell of the art room is one of my very favorite smells in the whole world. Almost better than my mom making fried plantains. It made me feel a little better. A little.

  Mrs. Velasquez was sitting at a desk near the front of the room. She’s really pretty. She smiled at me. A real smile, like we knew each other. I handed her my pink slip. She signed it and handed it back. “I’m Mrs. V,” she said.

  “I didn’t pull it,” I said suddenly. “The fire alarm. It wasn’t me.” I felt it was important that she know that.

  “Well, who did it?” Mrs. V asked pleasantly.

  “I’m not sure. But I’m sure going to find out,” I said.

  “I hope you find the culprit.” Then she made a sweeping motion with her arm and said, “Feel free to use anything in the room.”

  I looked at her, surprised. I hadn’t been in detention before, but I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to walk around, using what you liked.

  Mrs. V, seeing my hesitation, said, “I know that’s not how detention normally is, but this week is a little different, and you’re in my art room. So go ahead. Use what you want.”

  Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  I got a large piece of cream-colored paper, some wide-tip markers, and some colored pencils. Then I sat down at a table in the back of the room.

  There were three other girls in detention besides me—a reddish-blonde-haired girl, an Asian girl, and a really tall brown-haired girl who looked a little like Mrs. V. Of course, I had no idea who they were or why they were here.

  I decided I was going to make a list of all the terrible things that had happened to me in the last week. I used different shades of blue for all the rotten things:

  1. Moved!!!

  I wrote that in really angry letters!

  2. Wiped out … in green spandex!

  I used a greenish-blue for that one.

  3. Not sure when to forgive Mom and Dad. Maybe never.

  4. The Ostrich

  I figured that pretty much said it all for my LA teacher.

  I selected a crazy-bright color for the really, really rottenest thing ever. Maybe it would seem less ho
rrible written in Sunburst Orange.

  5. Fire Alarm!

  The clock was ticking slowly. So I decided to use the colored pencils to draw little pictures next to my new list. It made me laugh to draw a picture of Mrs. Chickory next to “The Ostrich!”

  When I got down to the fire alarm problem, I had an idea. Maybe if I could just concentrate on what I saw in the hall, I’d be able to remember more details. I sketched as much as I could possibly remember about the jeans and the shoe and the mark on the sole.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, searching for more details. Then I felt a hand on my arm. I jumped and my eyes flew open.

  “Whoa. Didn’t mean to scare you,” said the tall girl. She must have walked over while I was concentrating on my list. “I didn’t know if you were okay,” she said.

  “Oh! Yeah, I’m okay. I was just thinking … really hard,” I said.

  “No kidding. You didn’t even hear me walk up,” the girl said. Then she smiled. Standing beside me, she was even taller than I thought. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back in a slick ponytail.

  “I’m Toni,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m Yuzi,” I said, smiling back.

  “Fire alarm chick?” Toni said, laughing.

  “I didn’t do it.” I’ve been saying that a lot lately.

  “There was someone else in the hall with me, but I didn’t get a good look.”

  “What?!” Toni said, shocked. “Then what’re you in here for?”

  “Well, I can’t identify who it was, and nobody seems to believe I saw anyone at all,” I said.

  “That is so totally unfair!” Toni said. She plopped down onto a seat next to me. “You have to figure out who you saw. Is that what you were concentrating on a couple minutes ago?” She tilted her head to look at my paper. “Wow. You can really draw.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slowly folding up the brightly colored sheet on my desk. I didn’t feel like having someone else read my “List of Terribles” just yet.

  “The thing is, I saw the person who did it … or at least part of him. I saw his shoe as he was running around the corner. I know it was a boy’s sneaker, and it had some kind of a mark on the bottom of it,” I explained.