“Absolutely,” I say . . .
. . . just as Momma says, “Absolutely not.”
“She’ll need one for school,” Nana Dottie explains. “Kids here have been on the Internet since they were old enough to reach the keyboard.”
“And I’m sure the school has many computers for students to use.”
“Of course. But Ruby will have homework, and pencils and paper will only get her so far.” Nana Dottie shrugs. “It’d be my pleasure to buy it for her.”
I wait nervously for Momma’s reaction. Going school supply shopping together every year is one of our favorite traditions. I appreciate Nana Dottie’s suggestion and certainly wouldn’t mind having my very own computer—but not if it upsets Momma and ruins the day.
“Now’s not a good time,” Momma says.
“Of course it’s not,” Nana Dottie snaps. “It never is.”
As we pull into the Super Walmart parking lot, the quiet hum of the air-conditioning seems to grow louder, and the car seems to get hotter. The air is suddenly so thick, I can’t wait for the car to stop. When it does, I throw open the door and hurry into the sweltering, humid haze.
I’m not sure whom to feel worse for. Nana Dottie’s obviously very unhappy after losing Papa Harry. Momma tried to do something good by moving to Florida to support Nana Dottie but is now being bossed around like a little kid. And I am a kid, and there’s nothing I can do to help either of them.
On top of which, I have to deal with my first day at Sweet Citrus Junior High. It’s just hours away, and no one seems to realize that a dozen new computers won’t make it any easier.
5.
I’ve pretended to be sick to get out of school before.
I’m not proud of it, but it’s happened on more than one occasion. Like when Mrs. Humboldt, my fifth-grade teacher, announced to the class an upcoming doctor’s appointment instead of just surprising us with a substitute, and I came down with a sudden sore throat on the morning of her anticipated absence. Or when Gabby visited her grandparents in Topeka and missed a few days, and I contracted a terrible stomach bug that coincidentally started when she left and ended as soon as she returned. Momma’s a smart lady, so I’m pretty sure she knew when I was faking, but she always heated up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup and let me stay home anyway. As long as my grades never dropped below a B average, she didn’t mind my taking the occasional breather.
Somehow, I don’t think she’ll let me miss my very first day at Sweet Citrus Junior High . . . but that doesn’t keep me from trying.
“Momma, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think something’s wrong.”
“Pacific or Tropical Punch?” She holds up two Capri Sun pouches like she didn’t hear me. “What sort of Cooler are you feeling today?”
“That’s just it.” I slide down in the seat and make my best sick face. My mouth hangs open and my eyelids droop. “I’m not feeling cool. Not at all. I think I have a fever. At least a hundred and eight. Maybe higher.”
She lowers the Capri Suns and tilts her head. “A fever several degrees cooler would land you in the hospital. Next time shoot lower.” But she leans over the car’s middle console and presses her lips to my damp forehead to make sure.
“See?” I say meekly.
“You’re warm, but who isn’t?” She rummages through the plastic bag in her lap. “You could throw some raw eggs, cheese, and broccoli on the sidewalk and have a quiche in seconds.”
“Broccoli?” I shudder.
“Don’t worry.” She hands me three plastic baggies filled with my favorite cereals: Froot Loops, Golden Grahams, and Lucky Charms. “I had to hide the boxes between towels in the linen closet so your grandmother didn’t find them.”
“The breakfast of champions!” There’s no believing I’m sick now. My smile’s too big. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” Momma scoffs like she’s offended I’d think otherwise. “We left Curly Creek, but we did not leave our traditions. What kind of mother would I be if I let you loose on your first day without the proper feel-good fuel?”
“Probably the kind who’d try to sneak broccoli into my meals,” I say. “What about—”
She reaches into the plastic bag and triumphantly holds up a bottle of chocolate syrup and a canister of Reddi Wip. “Positions, please.”
I open the Froot Loops. She holds the syrup over the bag and gives it three good squeezes. When the multicolored cereal is mostly brown, she squirts a dollop of Reddi Wip on top. We repeat the process with the other bags of cereal. Once we’re done, I snap the bags shut and squish them with both hands until the cereal crumbles.
“Ready?” Momma clicks the finger holds of a pair of cuticle scissors.
She snips one bottom corner off each bag, and we take turns squeezing the crunchy, chocolaty mush through the holes and into our mouths.
“I almost got low-fat whipped cream,” Momma says quietly after several minutes, as if she’s confessing that she daydreams of hiding Nana Dottie in the linen closet too.
“We may have to move again,” I say, licking my fingers. “The humidity’s making you think funny.”
“Speaking of funny . . .” Momma swivels in her seat and looks out the window at Sweet Citrus Junior High. It’s across the street, and several groups of kids are hanging out on the benches scattered across the lawn, talking and laughing. Four girls on a bench near the street are cracking up, three of them doubled over from something hilarious the fourth said.
“That’s not funny,” I say. “That’s scary.”
She turns back to me. I suppress a giggle when I notice her thin chocolate mustache. “What’s the worst that can happen?” she asks. “Seriously.”
“Seriously, I can trip walking up the steps, scrape my hands and knees, bleed all over Ava Grand, stain her designer clothes, get laughed at by the entire school, and spend the whole day crying for Curly Creek in the nurse’s office.”
Momma frowns, and I think maybe I’ve got her. Maybe my first-day worst-case scenario is bad enough that she’ll let me stay home. At least until we’ve come up with a solid preventative plan involving tripless shoes, some sort of protective skin covering, or, best of all, a one-way journey back to Kansas.
“That would be bad,” she admits. “But I know what could make it better.”
“A new-friend machine?” I ask as she unbuckles her seat belt and reaches between the two front seats. “Because unless you have Gabby hidden back there, I’m going to need one of those.”
“Close.” She hands me the solution to my problems, her smile so wide the chocolate mustache spreads to the bottom of her nose.
“An ABBA lunch box!” I gasp and grab the present. “It’s beautiful!” And it is. It’s ice blue and sparkly, like freshly fallen snow under a late winter sky. Best of all, Agnetha, the band’s prettiest member, is pictured on both sides, her arms over her head and a glittery white dress swirling around her.
“Bet no one else will be sitting with their very own Dancing Queen at lunch,” Momma says proudly, referring to the group’s most popular song—and the one we used to dance to nearly every night in Curly Creek.
“Momma, thank you.” I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Really. This is the best first-day present I could’ve gotten.” It might not create friends out of thin air, but it could be a great conversation starter that eventually led to friendship. Plus, if I start to feel uncomfortable at any point in the day, I can just look at the pretty pop group and picture Momma singing and dancing to her old album at home. That always makes me feel better.
“What about you?” I look up suddenly. She still has a chocolate mustache, but I don’t feel like laughing now.
“What about me?”
“I’ll be gone all day. Will you be okay? Alone in that big house . . . with Nana Dottie?”
“Oh, sure!” She waves one hand, like I’m silly to be concerned. “We’re going to write tiny letters in tiny boxes in the blazing-hot sun, pretend to listen to
boring music as we nap with our eyes open, and if we’re really lucky, race each other to see who can name all of the world’s vegetables in order of most nutritious to least. It’ll be a hoot.”
I pause. “My money’s on Nana Dottie to win that race.”
“Mine too.” She pats my knee. “I’ll be fine. Thank you. Now what do you say? Are you ready to show these sun-heads what the Midwest’s made of?”
I’m still not sure, but I don’t really have a choice. The groups of kids are slowly standing and heading for the front door. I’m already the new girl; I don’t want to be late too.
“I can do it,” I say when she starts to open her door. “Go alone, I mean.”
She sits back. For just a second, her blue eyes are confused—almost sad. “But I always walk you in on the first day.”
“I know.” I search my brain for an explanation. I loved having Momma walk me in to school in Kansas, where everyone else’s parents did the same thing. But I can already guess that being escorted by Momma into Sweet Citrus Junior High is a surefire way to get noticed—and not in a good way. “It’s just—”
“You know what? Never mind. I get it.” She reaches over and grabs me in a tight hug. “Have a wonderful day. Be yourself. And remember, Coconut Grove isn’t any different from Curly Creek. You’re one of a kind—the best kind—wherever you are.”
For some reason this makes me feel like crying, so I hug her back, then gently pull away. I give myself a quick once-over, even though there’s nothing much I can do about my appearance at this point, and take a deep breath. I open the door just as the first bell rings.
“Gotta go!” I hoist my backpack onto my shoulders, hug my ABBA lunch box to my chest, and hip-check the door closed. “Have fun, but save some for me!”
I round the back of the car and wait for a break in traffic before running across the street. I wave to Momma as soon as I reach the lawn. She blows me a kiss and starts the car, which slowly grumbles to life. As she pulls away from the curb, the muffler burps, leaving behind a thick black cloud.
“Excuse you,” a voice says from behind me.
My shoulders slump. Really? This is really how my day’s going to start? With bodily function jokes I haven’t heard since the third grade?
“It’s an old car,” I say reluctantly, turning around. “My momma . . .”
I stop. Ava Grand stands before me. She’s smiling, but the expression is more “Poor new girl doesn’t stand a chance” than “Welcome to Sweet Citrus.” This greeting is enough to send me sprinting in the opposite direction, but I’m too distracted by Ava’s outfit to move. She’s wearing a long white sundress, silver sandals, and a sparkly silver scarf looped loosely around her neck. Her accessories include silver hoop earrings and at least a dozen silver bangle bracelets lining her left arm. As she switches her silver leather tote bag from one shoulder to the other, her long hair sways behind her back, and the bracelets jingle like some sort of magical musical instrument.
Ava Grand is a modern-day Dancing Queen.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Oh.” I smile. She was kidding. Maybe that’s just how kids break the ice here. “That’s okay. It is a noisy car. Nana Dottie says she can hear us coming ten minutes before she sees us.”
Ava’s sky-blue eyes flick quickly to the right, where three girls stand in a straight line, as if waiting for their cue. They’re all wearing sundresses and metallic sandals, and they’re using grown-up purses instead of backpacks to carry their books.
None of the papers Marie the mean office lady gave us mentioned a dress code. I wish they had, because right now I feel pretty silly in my new denim shorts, yellow T-shirt, and old red Converse. I also wish my ears were pierced, since my only accessory is a thin green belt Momma knitted last night.
“I meant . . . sorry?” Ava cups one hand against her ear. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you just say Momma?”
“And Nana Dottie?” one of the backup dancers adds.
Ava’s smile grows as she starts walking toward the school steps, her friends in tow.
“By the way,” she calls over her shoulder, “love your shirt!”
I look down. Momma and I spent hours trying to find the perfect top to wear with my new shorts. I wanted something fun but not crazy. Different but not strange. We finally decided on this one—a yellow T-shirt with SOUTH BEACH printed in gold block letters around a glowing orange sun—after dismissing countless others. We were sure it did everything I wanted my new first-day shirt to do.
Apparently, we were wrong.
I follow the crowd down the walkway leading to Sweet Citrus Junior High. I know I should probably look around and take mental notes on what everyone else is wearing so I don’t make the same mistake twice. But I can’t. My eyes stay locked on my red Converse the whole way. I love these sneakers. They’re worn. They’re comfortable. They make me think of Gabby, who has an identical pair. And if I can just concentrate hard enough, maybe they’ll take me home the way Dorothy’s ruby slippers did for her.
“Well, hello to you, too, Kansas!”
At least I think that’s what Mr. Fox says. It’s hard to hear him—or anything else—over the shrill, frantic beeping overhead.
“What?” I shout and cover my ears at the same time.
He’s standing inside the building, a few feet from the entrance. He motions for me to back up, which makes me realize I’ve stopped walking. I was so focused on my sneakers I didn’t notice the ground beneath them change as they left the walkway, climbed steps, and stopped. I look up now and see I’m standing in one of the big gray boxes that fit the front doors like puzzle pieces.
I stumble backward and the beeping stops.
“New girl knows how to make an entrance.” Mr. Fox chuckles as he weaves through the surrounding students. “Nice haircut, Batman. Sweet kicks, Sprout.”
I frown. Mr. Fox exchanges high and low fives with several kids as he moves toward the metal detectors. He seems to like the kids and they seem to like him . . . so why is he trying to embarrass me?
“What do you say we try that again?”
Mr. Fox looks at me. So do about a hundred of my new classmates. I’d really like to continue backing up, all the way down the front lawn, across the street, and right into the ocean, but doing so would require pushing through the crowd behind me. Which means I can go in only one direction.
Forward.
The metal detector screams before I can pass all the way through. I jump back. Behind me, in front of me, pushing up beside me, kids laugh and cheer. They seem to be eager for a show rather than eager to mortify me specifically, but I’m still tempted to curl up in my lunch box until dinner.
My lunch box. My beautiful ABBA lunch box. It’s made of metal.
I look at Mr. Fox. He’s smiling. He’s already figured out what’s setting off the detector and is waiting for me to make the connection. I reluctantly relax my arms and am only vaguely aware of people pushing against me as they try to get a glimpse of what dangerous item is about to be confiscated by security.
The beeping only lasts a second before Mr. Fox holds my Dancing Queen in his hands.
“Will I get it back?” I ask as soon as I pass through the metal detector. “Please, can I get it back? My momma just gave it to me this morning and—”
“Is that . . . ?
“It couldn’t be.”
“I haven’t seen one of those since preschool.”
The heat in my cheeks travels up my forehead and down my neck. It’s a good thing I won’t be wearing this shirt again, since it’ll probably be permanently sweat-stained after today. I turn slowly and am not even a little surprised to see Ava Grand and her backup dancers standing in front of the crowd. Now that I’ve made it through, the laughter and cheering fades. Everyone hears what Ava says next.
“It is.” She puts one hand to her chest, like Momma’s gift is a fluffy, adorable kitten. “It’s a lunch box. Just like the ones we used when we were little kids.
” She steps away from her friends and puts one hand on my shoulder. “Are you all that far behind? In—where is it again? Mars? Venus?”
“Kansas,” I say quietly, looking down at my Converse. I’m afraid she’ll make me say it louder, but the bell rings again before she can.
“Show’s over, munchkins!” Mr. Fox declares. “Let’s move it.”
I don’t look up as the crowd migrates down the hall. The lobby grows quiet, and even though I know I’m officially late, I don’t move. I’m still staring at my sneakers when my beautiful ABBA lunch box appears inches from my face.
“Enjoy your first day,” Mr. Fox says.
6.
“So Andy dares Brian, and Brian dares Clint, and Clint dares Justin, and around and around it goes until Andy tells Brian that if he’s that scared of getting caught, he should probably sit with the girls at recess, which of course makes Brian more determined than ever, so he finally does it . . . and you’ll never guess what happens next.”
“He gets caught?” I smile at the excitement in Gabby’s voice.
“Not just caught—busted. Like, empty-the-trash-cans-and-clean-the-blackboards-every-day-for-a-week busted. Mrs. Hamilton came in while he was turning her desk upside down, and he was so scared he lost his grip, dropped the desk, and broke her favorite red pen that was in the top drawer.”
“Wow. He really earned that punishment.”
“Definitely.” Gabby giggles, then groans. “I so wish you could’ve been there to see it! That was the only first first-day prank you’ve missed in—”
“Forever. I know. I wish I could’ve been there too.”
“Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about you. I want to know everything. What’s your school like? How are your teachers? Are the kids nice? What are they into? Do you like any of them half as much as you like me?”
“Not even close,” I say truthfully.
Picking up on my tone the way only a best friend can, Gabby pauses. “What about everything else? Was it bad?”
“Not bad.” I lower the back of the lounge chair until I’m lying completely flat. “Awful. Terrible. Miserable. Easily the worst day of my life.”
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