Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship

by Anna Hays

  Amy looks up at Misty. “Excuse us, but Portia and I are focusing on serious business here.”

  Misty insists, “This is about a missing grasshopper with only three legs. I’d say that’s pretty serious.” She sighs. “How will she ever survive without me?”

  Amy just shakes her head in an “I told you so” sort of way, slipping her fashion sketch into the center of her pop-star-emblazoned homework folder. “Portia, text me when you’re ready to get serious about beautification.”

  Caught in the middle, all I can do is just nod okay. In an attempt to escape this tense girl triangle, I take out my PDA to make a few quick notes.

  OBSERVATION: Amy and Misty appear to be from different planets, both of which are currently circling the same galaxy, and unless I figure out a solution soon, they are about to collide!

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN MIX

  Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN and related logo and ALADDIN MIX and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2009920708

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-8525-9

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-8525-5

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  www.SimonandSchuster.com.

  For Buzz,

  my true friend

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Friendship is everything. For Clare, Carol, Roxanne, Chesley, Mary, Amy, and all of my friends who are the magic formula for my joy and happiness.

  Special thanks to…

  Liesa for her gentle touch, Dan for his unwavering support, and Matt for believing in Portia and me from the very beginning.

  Elsa and Norman, you wrote the book on true friendship.

  Mom, Susie, Stevie, Hannah, Joey, Olivia, Mary, Sophie, Josie, Elaine, Larry, and my whole family, whose love and devotion inspire me everyday.

  And to the coolest and most loyal friends I could ever ask for, Benjamin and Will.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Portia’s Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship

  Chapter 1

  2:42 P.M.,

  MATH CLASS, PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Loretta was hungry. She looked into the refrigerator, but all she saw were three jars of apricot jam and an old bottle of ketchup. She then checked the candy jar, but came up empty there, too. Nothing but a sticky old cherry lollipop. Suddenly she remembered that she had hidden exactly $3.66 under her pillow. She raced to see if it was still there, and it was! Now she could buy something to eat. If a stick of grape swirl licorice cost twelve cents, then how many sticks of licorice could Loretta buy with her hidden stash?

  Math! What an incredibly irrelevant subject. Aren’t there other bigger problems in the world to solve than a strange girl’s candy budget? There is world hunger, overpopulation, and I’m pretty sure there are hundreds of animals going extinct every day. And Miss Killjoy is having us ponder a totally ridiculous and fictional shopping spree? I’m not even allowed to let candy enter my household. It’s a major Indigo (she’s my mom) violation to even think about refined sugar. So this whole math exercise relates to my life as much as hot chocolate marshmallow fudge does to agave-sweetened soy carob pudding!

  Since Indigo is a health food chef and restaurant owner of a local organic eatery called Contentment (aka The Tent), my house, and in particular my refrigerator, is a no-sugar zone. Instead it’s packed with fresh vegetables and fruits handpicked from our overgrown backyard garden. In our sputtery ancient refrigerator, you can also find recyclable containers of every possible size, filled with food experiments created by Indigo herself for The Tent’s ever-morphing menu. Many of these food combinations will most likely never make it past our driveway, but to my “good fortune,” they do make it to our dining room table almost every meal.

  I try to focus on what Miss Killjoy is teaching us, but the numbers and decimal points blur together until my eyes cross. I switch pencils, adjust the angle of my head, tuck my hair behind my ears for better listening, but still I find it hard to pay attention. It sounds like she’s repeating the same words over and over again.

  IMPORTANT FACT: Miss K. is threatening a pop math quiz any day, so there’s extra pressure to stay alert.

  THREE POSSIBLE REASONS FOR MY CURRENT GRUMPY STATE:

  Winter break has been over for approximately seven hours. Now there will be no more homework-free days until spring!

  Miss Killjoy will not be getting an award for “entertainer of the year” any time soon.

  Nothing is ever new at Palmville Middle School. It’s just one extra large homework-spitting factory that’s been stealing kids’ free time for about a zillion years!

  NOTE: If anyone reads this, please gently remind Miss Killjoy and her other teacher “friends” that life is more than juggling compound numbers. And that, in my not-so-humble opinion, acute angles are not even remotely cute. Big thanks! Signed, Portia Avatar.

  As I look out the large floor-to-ceiling window of our classroom, I see the quiet semitropical small town of Palmville, California, just beyond the tall palm trees that border the middle school’s parking lot. I imagine that right now Indigo is in the back office of The Tent, figuring out how many pomegranates she’ll be ordering today for a new round of menu-tasting. There’s more than a 70 percent chance that her mind is swimming with thoughts of organic ingredients for just the right food combination that she will serve to her loyal customers, who expect only the healthiest and the most delectable creations from her. My taste buds, on the other hand, don’t always agree with Indigo’s 100 percent organic and cruelty-free food experiments. My idea of a fortified breakfast consists of an oversize bowl of Frosted Flakes with two lightly toasted strawberry Pop-Tarts for dessert.

  Just around the corner from Indigo’s office, past the storage cabinet and walk-in refrigerator, you will find The Tent’s assistant chef, Hap Lester, who is just shy of thirty years old. He is chopping away at an assortment of sweet onions for the late breakfast rush, perfecting a Spanish omelet with a new twist. He barely misses his index finger midway through one of his expert chops. That’s because he’s caught in a daydream starring none other than my mother, whom he imagines will recognize his true love for her one day and then fall deeply and hopelessly in love with him.

  Suddenly Miss Killjoy’s high-pitched voice sends me soaring back to middle school reality. With an “I just wolfed a whole bowl of super sour lemons” puckery smile, she asks, “Portia, what do you think the solution is?”

/>   Oh no! My temporary mind vacation has led to a potentially disastrous result and a further rift in the not-so-compatible ongoing relationship between me and mathematics. I open my mouth, hoping that my brain will provide me with just the right word combination to rescue me from this math jam. Just then, by some miracle of awesome timing in the universe, someone knocks on the classroom door. In walks a shy-looking girl, clutching a shiny purple retainer case like it’s the last one on the planet Earth.

  Miss K. welcomes the new girl. “Class, this is Misty Longfellow. She just arrived from Precipitation, Oregon. I want you all to give Misty a great big sunny Palmville welcome.”

  Halfheartedly and terribly out of sync, the whole class attempts a communal greeting. “Welcome, Misty.”

  Misty lifts her head slightly and manages a quarter of a wave. She responds with a quivering whisper. “Thank you.”

  Miss K. then leads her to the empty seat just to the right of me. Misty’s head faces in the downward direction of the classroom floor the entire time she makes her way to her seat. Just as she’s about to sit down, she drops her retainer case and shrieks at the top of her lungs, “My Ralphie!”

  I’m not sure, but I think I see a furry black thing with eight legs that looks suspiciously like a spider crawl past my olive flats. Hold on, it is a spider!

  For the first time in the history of seventh grade, I see Miss K.’s sour-lemon smile fade away. She screams, “It’s a spider! Okay, nobody panic. It’s only a SPIDER!”

  Twenty-two kids plus one terrified teacher equals total chaos. The only three kids who aren’t freaking out about the runaway spider are Misty, Webster (the class brain with the sparkling green eyes), and me. Remembering what Indigo has always taught me about being kind to all living things, I zero in on Ralphie. He’s crawling stealthily up Miss Killjoy’s chair, about to nose-dive into her leather briefcase. I take out a lavender-tinted tissue from my convenient pocket pack and silently make a beeline for the confused spider. I corner him, take a long deep breath, and then scoop him up with the tissue.

  Meanwhile, Misty zigzags between the disordered desks that used to be set in neat rows before Ralphie decided to make an escape. She opens her retainer case, excitedly insisting that I place Ralphie inside, which I do, tissue and all. Snap. The case closes, and Ralphie is back home safely.

  Misty then leaps over a chair, catching my left elbow as I return to my desk. “You did it! You are Ralphie’s savior. You must surely have a name.”

  I take two steps back and answer her. “Portia.”

  Misty freezes. With her eyes glazed over, she utters, “That’s a magnificent name. Do you have a last one too?”

  “Avatar.”

  “Portia Avatar! That is the most perfect name I truly have ever heard in my entire life. It is unbelievably amazing to meet you, Portia Avatar.” She giggles as the rest of the class, including Miss Killjoy, slowly straighten themselves out and slide their desks back to their pre-Ralphian positions, pretending that the last five minutes of their lives never actually happened.

  Then the bell rings. Miss Killjoy is so concerned about making a speedy exit from the classroom that she forgets to give us tomorrow’s homework assignment.

  NOTE: I never knew that a creepy-looking black spider could be such a good luck charm!

  Chapter 2

  12:15 P.M., CAFETERIA,

  PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Amy is midway through one of her famous Clamdigger monologues. “P., I am so excited for moi. Yesterday Mama agreed that I deserved another sparkling new pair of wedged flip-flops and so, yes, they are ordered, purchased, and waiting for me as we speak. I got the confirmation e-mail this morning.”

  “That’s so cool, Ame. I’m incredibly thrilled for you.” I look down at my worn pair of flats and plot how I will convince Indigo that I deserve a sparkling new pair in a different color next time. Maybe blossoming pink. I quietly determine that my wardrobe is in need of a serious rescue mission if it’s going to survive the rest of the school year.

  Amy continues, “Life is delectable. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be right now. Maybe the Queen of England. Erase that thought. She’s ancient. I guess that leaves little young me again.”

  Sometimes I have to tune out Amy’s random meanderings. I know that she basically means well, but she has this weird habit of thinking too much about herself. She gets so caught up in Amy with a capital A that she forgets about her best friends, for example, Portia with a capital P.

  FACT: Amy Clamdigger has been my best friend since kindergarten. We share almost everything—our top secrets and even our confidential crushes. If I were to make a list of my top ten friends of all time so far in my twelve years on Earth, the Amester would be at the top. Even though she gets stuck in Amy’s world a lot, she is always there for me when I truly need her.

  As I think about Amy and look around at the other tables with groups of kids huddled together at the same spots they have claimed since the first day of school, I wonder what makes a friend a friend.

  QUESTION: What are the ingredients of a true friend?

  I slide my PDA from the side pocket of my knapsack and type in the following: “Portia’s Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship.” Careful not to attract attention, I pretend that I’m checking my horoscope, while I clandestinely type in my first rule.

  FRIENDSHIP RULE #1: True friends stick by you, no matter what!

  Then I look up from my PDA to experience a strange moment. Silence. Amy Clamdigger silent? She stares me down with suspicious eyes. I fumble, then regain my composure. I search for a way to fill the dead air space with a fictional account to distract Amy. Scrambling, I say, “Cozmik Newz reports that my intuitive powers will be on overdrive today!”

  “So what else is new? Your brain is always on the lookout for something unusual.” She takes a bite of her grilled-cheese-and-tomato pressed sandwich, then surprises me. She asks me something about myself. “How’s the case going with your missing-but-somewhere-in-the-universe father? Is he still halfway across the globe?”

  “Not sure yet. Being a Girl Psychoanalytic Detective definitely has its ups and downs.”

  “So what’s it today? Up or down?”

  “I’d have to say it’s moving in a downward direction at the moment.”

  IMPORTANT NOTE: I should mention that I am a Girl Psychoanalytic Detective, and I solve the mysteries of people. I strongly believe that people have many sides worth investigating, with hidden truths that for some reason or another are not brought to the surface. That’s where I step in. My first case stars Patch, my missing father, whom I have never met. After the big earthquake a few months ago, I discovered a photograph of him. Indigo, who until a few months ago had refused to disclose even .75 of an ounce of a clue about him, has now agreed to help me with my search to find him. But progress remains slow.

  Suddenly, from the shadows of the endless rows of plastic cafeteria chairs, Misty appears, leaning over my shoulder. “You’re the one!”

  I decide to interpret her mysterious comment as a compliment and thank her. She just stands there with her feet glued to the ground; not even her toes move. Then she sits down in an available plastic chair at our table. She nervously tries to join in on my conversation with Amy. She begins with a question. “Did you say ‘detective’?”

  QUESTIONS: Has Misty been listening to me and Amy C.? How long has she been standing behind us?

  As I try to figure out if I’m going to reveal my double identity as a detective to “new girl,” I watch Misty adjust her wire-framed glasses, which are hopelessly bent out of shape. She can’t wait another second for my response. “Did I do something wrong? It’s just that I think you’re incredible, Portia Avatar. You’re utterly and completely the person I’ve been looking for since preschool.”

  Amy, meanwhile, pores over her new copy of Kewl Teenz magazine, refusing to even acknowledge Misty’s presence at the table. Every once in a while, I hear a loud, exag
gerated sigh emerging from Amy’s side of the table from behind the fluorescent glossy teen zine. For a split second, Amy even turns her head to check out the exchange between me and Misty. That’s when I hear a loud scream. Amy leaps dramatically from her chair, sending it flying across the cafeteria, bouncing like an oversize toddler’s toy. She points madly in the direction of the table, shrieking, “That thing is back!”

  Then I see it too. Misty has brought Ralphie back for his second school visit of the day. She stumbles out of her chair and starts chasing Amy around the cafeteria, opening and closing the purple retainer case, insisting that Ralphie has been safely relocated, promising that the only thing that resides in her retainer case now is her red-tinted plastic molded retainer. Amy screams anyway, “Get that thing away from me!”

  The rest of the kids in the near vicinity crack up at the live comedy act that’s totally free of charge. Before you can say “super-awkward moment,” Amy has vanished out the door, clinging to her designer tote, which contains half of her life. Her more-than-a-little-bit perfect hair is less than perfect now, which is by my calculation what’s really upsetting her most.

  I slowly walk toward the overturned chair and make believe that no one is watching me as I drag it back to the table. When I sit down again, I check my lemon yellow daisy wristwatch, wishing and hoping that time will pass faster than usual, even though it’s against the laws of astronomy. There’s exactly four minutes and thirty seconds left until the bell rings.