You have brown curly hair that people are obsessed with. You guess they’re obsessed with it in a good way, but it’s not that fun when people see you in the hallways and go, “Ch-ch-ch-ch-Chia!” Well, at least that’s better than when they call you “Pube Head,” which did happen one time.
It’s probably worth mentioning that that one time was like, two hours ago, right after your first class of seventh grade.
Okay, you’re not going to let that one experience ruin your day or your year or anything. It was just one of Hannah’s stupid friends, and those guys are all overgrown four-year-olds.
Mr. Morales said that this writing exercise is all about seeing how much you can and will change in a year. But honestly, it’s everyone else who’s been changing. Not you. Stuff just seems different now. The guys came to school this year with baggier pants, and the girls have tighter tops, and Danny looks like someone stretched him out with a medieval torture device.
But you’ve got to remember that those changes are just physical. People can’t change who they really are just because they want to. That’s like the whole reason everyone hates junior high—because people know exactly who you are right away, and they don’t let you change it, and they never let you forget it.
Like me. I’m not cool. It’s common knowledge that Hannah has a dorky little brother who embarrasses her and tries too hard in his classes. I’m fine with that. If that’s where I am a year from now, that’s good.
I hope it’s a good year. Danny and I were talking last night about what kinds of things we want this year. I said the usual stuff: good grades, good memories (with funny photos that go along with those memories), and for my bar mitzvah to go off without my voice cracking. Danny said that what he wanted—besides a bunch of girls, haha—was to figure out what makes him happy and go for it. I like that. I guess that means that Danny’s going to be eating a bunch of pizza this year.
I wonder what it’s going to be like reading this a year from now. I’ll probably laugh a lot, like at the part where I wrote “Pube.” That was pretty funny.
I just hope I don’t cry. I do that too much. It’s embarrassing for everyone. Danny says that when I cry it makes me seem like a little boy who’s freaking out because his friends have all already learned how to ride bicycles, but he’s still stuck riding a trike. I didn’t point out to Danny that I was that little boy, only I didn’t care about being on a trike because trikes are cool. And I wasn’t ready for a bike yet. And really, trikes are cool! Still, I guess it’s not a very seventh-grade attitude to have.
Seventh grade. Wow. Seventh grade…then eighth grade. Then high school. Then college. Then whatever it is you do right after college. Then marriage, I guess. Then career and family. Then midlife crisis. Then the senior discount at the movie theater. Then grandkids. Then me and Danny getting so old that we get to play bingo and shuffleboard in the same retirement home every day. That’ll be fun. But I’ve got to make sure I enjoy every minute up until then.
Okay, I can stop crying now. It’s time for fourth period.
Here’s to a good year.
Sincerely,
Jake
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am preposterously grateful to the following people:
Christian Trimmer, my editor at Disney-Hyperion, for changing my life with one phone call and for being so insightful and hilarious on every other call. • Alex Glass, my agent at Trident Media Group, for offering to fly to L.A. just to meet me and for always going to the moon and back for me. Also to Michael Ferrante at Trident. • The dream team at Hyperion: Suzanne Murphy, Stephanie Lurie, Marci Senders, Ricardo Mejias, and the fantastic copyediting, production, and marketing folks. • My early readers: Sophie Carter-Kahn, Lindsey Toiaivao, Zoë Georgakis, and Andrew “Andrea” Molina. • My Stanford mentors: Dan Klein, Wendy Goldberg, and especially John L’Heureux, who paid this book its highest-ever compliment when he called it “publishable.” • All of my phenomenal teachers in Santa Barbara, and in particular Mrs. Chancer, Mrs. Bachman, Mr. Battle, Ms. Carey, Ms. West, and Ms. Mason. • Tim Federle, for taking this earthbound manuscript and helping it become a winged bear of a novel. • Michael Weldon for the cover art, Ray Liu for the photos, Diogenes Brito for the Web site, Amber Sweeney for the designs, Jason Richman for the showbiz secrets, and to Fallon Leung for being Fallon. • Chiba, Delmy, Lupe, and Eva, for being such big parts of my family over the years. • Courtney, for being my three-hours-each-day back when I was first working on this book, and for being my twenty-four-hours-each-day now. • Kit, for showing me how to be a real writer. • Brian, for marrying Kit. • Emma, for coming up with most of the best jokes in this book. • Dad, for driving me to school every day of seventh grade and for always letting me win at one-on-one. • And, finally, Mom, for all of the hours she spent brainstorming with me, for all of the times she woke up at four a.m. to re-read this book for no reason, and for all of her millions of ideas—especially the ones I said were stupid. • They really weren’t, Mom. I promise.
Okay, fine. Some of them were.
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