But no infinity ring.
“I don’t see it,” I tell Mimi.
“Can I help you two lovelies with something?” One of the Threads salesgirls approaches us.
“My granddaughter is looking for a ring she had that went missing. Tessie, what was it called again?” Mimi asks.
“An infinity ring,” I answer. “It was silver, and very small, and it had an infinity symbol across the front, connecting the two sides.”
“Oh, I remember that one,” the salesgirl says. “No, unfortunately, I haven’t seen that in a couple of weeks. We only get one or two of everything in the store, so things tend to sell out quickly.” I nod, since I thought this would be the case. Even though I didn’t expect to replace the ring today, it’s sad to know that I may never be able to. I walk over to the rack of scarves and begin sorting through them one by one, examining each pattern.
“Sorry I couldn’t fix it,” Mimi whispers into my ear from behind, and I lay my head on her shoulder with a smile.
“You don’t have to fix it, Mimi,” I tell her. “I’m a big girl.”
“You’ll always be a little girl to me,” Mimi says. “Can I get you a scarf?”
“No, nothing today,” I say. “Let’s get Toby home before he throws up from dizziness.” Mimi and I leave the store together, waving good-bye to the salesgirl, and begin the short walk home, with only the sounds of Mimi’s shoes and Toby’s wheels filling the air.
When we reach our house, I pick up my book bag from the kitchen floor and head down to the basement. No, not the basement—my room. My new room.
Mimi moved in with us just this past summer, so she took my old room, and I moved into the basement. It’s not as scary as it sounds, or as dark and damp. It’s kind of awesome, actually.
In fact, it’s definitely awesome.
Mom and Dad made me my own “bedroom” down here, with all of my old furniture and everything, but that’s not the real awesome part. The best reason for living in the basement is that there aren’t any real closets, so I have a whole entire section of my room devoted to all of my fashions. Dad put together the clothes racks, which line one wall—shirts on one, skirts and dresses on another, pants on a third, and jackets on the last. My shoes are placed in pairs under each of these racks, sorted by season (flip-flops on one end, snow boots on the other) and then by color (from favorite to least favorite—purple, green, blue, pink, orange—just like my daily gel pens).
Across from all of these racks is the greatest part of my “closet”—a row of bookshelves with absolutely no books on them. Instead I’ve used them to display all of my accessories, organized by type and style. Bags take up one section, a few placed in each of the squares; jewelry is in the middle, with overflowing plastic boxes lining the little cubbies; belts and scarves hang from shower curtain hooks separating each shelf unit; and all of my hair and miscellaneous accessories are at the very end.
Mom and Dad like to say that if I would only spend as much time organizing my schoolwork as I do organizing my accessories, I would be on the honor roll. But social studies notes just can’t hold a candle to the thrill that a perfectly arranged bracelet shelf gives me.
The other best part about my new bedroom is that at the back of this whole fashion section, against the wall under one of the small basement windows, sits a purple couch that Mom and Dad bought me as my “basement-warming” present. It’s my go-to place to do my homework, even more than the desk that sits in the opposite corner. Because when I’m on this couch, I’m in the midst of all of my favorite things.
Which is also the best inspiration I can think of for completing Ms. Castleby’s journal entries.
I slide my shoes off and into their proper place in line. Then I pad across the soft carpet barefoot and collapse onto the couch. I pull my phone out of my pocket and see a text from Bree: Any luck with the ring?
I stand and double-check my ring box, just to make sure I put it on today, though I’m certain that I did. I push around the rings, hoping by some miracle to see it, but it’s not there. I return to my couch and type back to Bree, Nope, with a sad face.
Sorry, friend, she writes back.
Me too, I answer. I place my phone aside and pull my language arts journal out of my bag, along with my green Thursday gel pen. I glance around my beautiful fake closet and tap my pen against the front of my notebook. This little place of mine could really use a name, I think, so I turn to the back of the book and begin writing on the inside cover.
Accessory Castle. Boring.
Tess’s Fashion Tower. Obnoxious.
Fortress of Fashion. Not bad, but not great.
I think about what would be the fanciest. What are some of the most sophisticated-sounding places in the world?
The Magic Kingdom. . . . The Taj Mahal. . . . Buckingham Palace.
Yes. A palace. What kind of palace? Accessory Palace. No.
Miscellaneous Moxie’s favorite word pops into my head—“bling.” Tess’s Bling Palace. No.
Palace of Bling. Dumb.
Blingingham Palace.
YES.
It’s kind of cheesy, maybe, but I sort of love it. I write it three times in a row on the back cover of my notebook, just to make sure: Blingingham Palace, Blingingham Palace, Blingingham Palace. Perfect.
This name also, of course, makes me the official, the esteemed, and the very royal Bling Queen.
Chapter 5
GLITTER: TO SPARKLE OR TO SHED—THAT IS THE QUESTION
I love glitter—I do. In small doses, it adds, well, sparkle to any outfit. It also just adds sparkle . . . to . . . everything. Your hair. Your lip gloss. The tip of your nose. Suddenly you’re a life-size leaf-blower, only instead of spouting air, you spout glitter. You add shine to whatever you touch. Silver on the carpet, gold on your friend’s sweater, rainbow on your test.
There are some people who wear glitter as part of their makeup. This, to me, is a gigantic no-no. Who wants to spend their days as a walk-around mirror ball? I promise you that there are ways to find your inner “glow” that do not involve covering yourself in actual shiny objects.
Then there are the glitter accessories. They seem like a good idea at the time, right? I mean, they’re cute, they’re fun, they give you the “pop” you’re looking for. Only then you wear them, and KA-POW, you’re a real-life Christmas card. You know how your parents hate those people who fill cards with confetti that then spills out all over your kitchen counter the minute you unseal the envelope? That is who you have become—a glitter monster.
Here’s my tip with glitter: use the fake stuff. There are plenty of objects out there with what I call “faux glitter.” It’s glitter in disguise—teeny, tiny shiny objects that make you look like you’re full of razzmatazz but don’t actually make you full of razzmatazz. I have a pair of shoes that accomplishes just this function—from a distance, I’m parading around in heels stacked high with silver glitter, but up close, guess what? Just rhinestones. Miniature rhinestones that shimmer and shine and catch the light. And best of all?
They don’t shed.
Once I finish the day’s journal entry, I place the notebook next to me on my purple couch, keeping the pages open to make sure my gel pen doesn’t smear. I get up to retrieve the rest of my pen pack from my book bag, and then I begin doing some mini-sketches in the paper’s margins. I also write the word “glitter” in gigantic bubble letters at the bottom of the page, and I make soft polka dots onto the letters to make the word look like it’s sparkling. I draw a picture of Deirdre’s belt at the top of the left margin, and a picture of my non-glitter glittery shoes at the bottom. I’m not the best artist—my bubble letters are prettier than my illustrations—but I like adding some visuals to my journal. They make the whole thing more fun to look at.
I use the rest of my gel pens to underline and highlight some of the most important words in the entry, and then I step back and stare at it, seeing if it needs anything else.
And I must say that I
’m pretty proud of the whole thing.
I pick up my phone and snap a photo of the entry, just like I have done for every journal page I’ve written. I file it into the correct picture folder on my phone, and then I flip through the photos quickly, looking for some of my favorite entries:
Overalls: Not Just for the Farmer in the Dell Anymore
Bibbidy Bobbidy Bobby Pins
Flannel: Still Not Back, Certainly Not Better Than Ever
Cuff Your Way Out of Fashion Jail
Bodysuit: The Ultimate One-Piece
Everyone’s Inner Annie Oakley: Stirrup Pants
I rename the photo folder from “Journal Pics” to “BLING QUEEN.” Then I decide to text Deirdre the picture of today’s entry with the caption, You inspired me, including a winky face. Feeling accomplished, I reward myself by opening the Miscellaneous Moxie website. I slide my body down into the corner of my couch with my knees curled up to my chest, as if I’m about to hear my most beloved preschool picture book. I scroll and see a photo of a boot with a charm bracelet wrapped around the ankle portion. “Snowed-In Fashion: Ankle Bracelets for Winter,” the headline reads, and I am instantly intrigued. I have a few ankle bracelets stacked in my jewelry boxes, but I’ve never worn them anytime but the spring and summer. This is a brilliant idea.
A text dings from Deirdre at the top of my screen. Reynolds = HUGE poser is all it says. I reluctantly tap away from MM’s site to answer her.
Huh? I write back.
Look what she just posted on ExtraUniverse. Two words: fashion journal.
I open ExtraUniverse’s page and scroll to my “Universe of Acquaintance” list until I find Kayte’s name. I click on it, and her profile appears before me.
At the top of her page is a photograph of an open notebook. A notebook that looks eerily similar to the ones we use as journals in Ms. Castleby’s class. And on this page, besides Kayte’s writing, are tiny illustrations, bubble letters, highlighted words, and underlined phrases. And color—so much color. Plus, in this entry, on the notebook’s faint blue lines, Kayte’s loopy handwriting reads, Fake Glitter: It’s Not What’s for Dinner. The caption below the picture says, All set for Castleby’s journal collection tomorrow! Signed, *Glitz Girl*.
I feel warmth spreading up my neck and onto my face. Fury. Rage. Shock. I quickly call Deirdre, my fingers feeling too fluttery to type properly.
“Absurd, right?” she says to answer the phone. “She’s totally posing you.”
“Is that— Do you think that’s how her whole journal is?” I ask. “It looks just like mine.”
“I know,” Deirdre says. “Hence why she’s a poser.”
“It’s even worse, though,” I continue. “How did she know that I did today’s entry about glitter?”
“Clearly she stole your journal,” Deirdre says. “It’s the only explanation.”
“She didn’t steal my journal. I’ve never lost it,” I say. “Plus, I just wrote that entry now.” I take a deep breath. “This is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. What if Ms. Castleby thinks I was copying Kayte? What if she thinks I’m the poser?”
“She won’t. Castleby loves you,” Deirdre says.
“But how is it possible that we both wrote about glitter on the same day? Ms. Castleby will definitely find that suspicious. I can’t believe this is—”
“Wait, did you write specifically about my glitter belt? Seriously? It wasn’t that bad,” Deirdre interrupts me.
“No—well, yes, indirectly, but not really,” I say. “I said faux glitter is better than real glitter, so it’s completely the opposite of what Kayte wrote, but really, how dare she? She can’t do this.”
“She just did,” Deirdre says. “Now we have to find a way to stop her. What do you want me to do? I could try to steal her journal tomorrow.”
“Too risky,” I tell her. “You can’t go around stealing people’s stuff. Especially not Kayte’s.”
“What if you just tell Castleby that you did the fashion journal idea first?” Deirdre suggests.
“I think that will make me look guiltier,” I say. “Like I’m too defensive about it. I mean, Kayte used different-colored pens and drew pictures and did bubble letters and everything. Hers is just like mine.”
“Only yours is way better,” Deirdre says.
“You have to say that,” I tell her. “This is a disaster. I was working really hard on this, and now the whole thing could be ruined. What if Ms. Castleby makes me write the entire journal over again, with no fashion stuff? I don’t like writing about anything else.”
Toby bounds down the basement stairs and flops down onto the couch next to me, repeating the word “dinner” over and over, so loudly that I can’t even hear Deirdre’s response.
“Toby, I’m talking!” I yell at him, more harshly than I usually do, but I have no patience right now.
“It’s DINNERtime!” Toby yells back, right into my ear.
“You gotta go?” Deirdre asks.
“I do,” I say. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” she says. “I’ll keep thinking about this poser situation. But I say you just hand in your journal and let Castleby see that all your fashion entries are superior. I mean, you’re definitely her favorite anyway. She’d never believe Reynolds over you.”
“I hope so,” I say.
“DINNERTIME!” Toby laughs harder at himself every time he yells it. I try to place my hand over his mouth to stop him as I say good-bye to Deirdre, but he wiggles his tongue against my palm.
“Ew, Toby, stop it!” I say, wiping my wet hand across the carpet. “That’s gross.”
Toby picks a shower curtain hook off of the bookshelves and begins draping each of its scarves over his head. “I am Scarf Man. I’ve come to eat you for dinner.” I grab him around the waist to tickle-tackle him, and he starts laughing uncontrollably as I dig my fingers into his armpits.
“You better watch it, Scarf Man, or Tickle Claws is going to ban you from Blingingham Palace,” I tell him.
“Tess and Toby, are you coming?” Mimi’s voice rings down from the top of the stairs.
“Yeah!” we call back, and I follow Scarf Man up the steps, leaving both messes—the pile of scarves and the copycatting Kayte Reynolds—behind me.
Chapter 6
Deirdre, Bree, and I meet at our usual corner of the seventh-grade hallway the next morning, and we huddle together in a pack to discuss our plan.
“Did you decide if you’re going to talk to Ms. Castleby?” Bree asks. Immediately after getting off the phone with me last night, Deirdre filled Bree in about the whole journal situation.
“I’m not going to,” I tell her. Bree places her flute case in between the two rubber soles of her sneakers in order to loop her dark hair into a ponytail. “You’re still carrying that thing around with you everywhere?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Deirdre says. “So you’re going to let Reynolds get away with copying your fashion journal idea?”
“I mean, I don’t even know for sure that she copied me,” I point out. “Maybe she came up with that idea on her own.”
“Oh, come on,” Deirdre begins. “There is no way that happened. It looks so much like yours. Are you sure she didn’t steal your journal out of your bag?”
“And then put it back before I noticed?” I say. “I don’t think that makes sense.”
“Stop shooting down all of my theories and concentrate on the problem at hand,” Deirdre says. “And speaking of problems . . .” Deirdre thrusts her chin out, gesturing for Bree and me to turn around. Sauntering down the hallway, today in red pants with a leather strip running up each side, a plain white T-shirt, gold clogs, and a matching gold vest, is Kayte.
“She looks like a clown,” Deirdre scoffs. “Look at that getup. Aren’t metallics and leather together a huge no-no?”
The combination, while I wouldn’t wear it, isn’t really that bad. I mean, it certainly makes you look, which seems to be Kayte’s entire mission in life. But it def
initely needs some accessories to go with it. A long chain with a big charm as a necklace, a shiny gold cuff as a bracelet, a simple black leather headband—that would pull the whole look together.
“Tess, are you even paying attention?” The back of Bree’s hand slaps against my wrist, pulling me out of my study. “Are you going to confront her or not?”
“Right. Yes, I am.” I run my fingers through the front of my hair to fluff it, as if I’m putting on a helmet for battle. I walk straight up to Kayte, who has stopped to deposit her things in her locker.
And then I freeze.
“May I help you?” Kayte barely glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I look over my shoulder at Deirdre and Bree, who nod encouragingly.
“I saw, um, that thing. That thing you posted,” I begin, which I admit is not that intimidating of an opening line.
“What ‘thing’?” Kayte asks in a mocking tone.
“Your journal,” I say. “For Ms. Castleby’s class.”
“What about it? Jealous of my brilliance?”
“Um, no,” I say. “You— I mean, it—well, it looks an awful lot like— Did you take that from—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Deirdre and Bree are suddenly on either side of me, standing like protection at each of my hips. “You copied Tess’s journal, you poser,” Deirdre launches in. “You took her fashion idea, and you copied it, because you’re too lame to come up with any ideas of your own.”
“Excuse me?” Kayte responds, slamming her locker door. “I didn’t copy anyone. Let alone Tess Maven.” She practically spits my name.
“What you posted on ExtraUniverse proves differently,” Bree pipes up. “It looks exactly like Tess’s journal, in the same style she’s been using all year. And the same type of topics.”
“Well, I have also been doing my journal like that all year,” Kayte snaps. “So I guess you have been copying me.”
The Bling Queen Page 3