“What?” Mom asked. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No—it’s just the ponytail. It reminds me of some girls at school, that’s all.”
“Not girls who are making you smile, I see. Tell me.”
“Oh, I sit with three girls who wish I wasn’t there.” I wished that I could stop time and curl up in a soft chair with Mom and tell her all about the Bees. I wanted to tell her about everything, but I didn’t want her to worry—and I didn’t want to be a tattletale.
Mom spun me gently toward the table, where Nana, Dad, and Tyler were sitting. “It takes time to adjust to anything new,” Mom said. “They’ll come around. Just give it time, Chrissa.”
Just time? Now I felt myself getting annoyed. I sort of expected Nana not to get what I was going through, but I thought that Mom would see. Why doesn’t she get it? She was my age once. Didn’t she know any mean girls then? Giving it more time wasn’t going to change a thing. I had a better idea—never go back. And right now was the perfect time to tell them about home-schooling.
Saturday’s regular lunch was set out on the table: sloppy Joes, pickles, chips, and veggies and dip. It’s the extent of Mom’s cooking. Dad usually does most of the cooking, both because he likes to and because he’s home more. Now he and Nana are sharing the cooking, just like they’d share in home-schooling me—at least when Dad wasn’t too busy in his studio.
But before I could bring up my plan, Dad set his glass of milk down and said, “Hey, gang, I need your help. I’m in over my head. Last summer, Grandpa asked me to help with a fund-raiser by making two hundred bowls. I said yes. But that was before I knew we’d be moving. Somehow the delivery date crept up on me, and, well, frankly, I need some help.”
“I’ll help,” Nana said.
“Thanks, Louise,” he said with a wink. “I can always count on you.”
Tyler screwed up his face. “My bowls aren’t very good, Dad. They’re more lopsided than round—more like comets than planets, if you get my point.”
“Point taken,” Dad replied. “But throwing the bowls isn’t where I’m behind. I’ve already thrown and done the first firing of more than half of them. It’s the glazing that’s really got me in a pickle.” He lifted a pickle from his plate to underscore his point. “If I didn’t have that restaurant order to ship to Vermont in three weeks…”
Tyler piped up. “Hey, I know! You could ask our art teacher, Ms. Rundell. She’s really nice, and if you tell her it’s for a good cause, I bet she’d ask her classes to help.”
Dad’s brow relaxed and a smile crept over his face. “Perfecto! I’ll talk to her first thing Monday.”
“Great,” I said under my breath. Now I’d have to return to Edgewater Awful Elementary, at least until Dad finished his project.
On Sunday the temperature dropped to ten degrees below zero and the wind flung bare willow branches like toothpicks across Nana’s yard. I sat in the shelter of the sunroom with Nana, the fire in the big fieldstone fireplace warming us. Keefer curled himself into a ball at my feet and licked the toes of my socks.
“Keefer’s a good foot warmer,” I said, working at the craft table Nana had cleared for me to use.
“He’s always liked you,” said Nana.
I wished others liked me as much.
To cheer up my bedroom—and myself—I was decorating a throw pillow for my bed with sequins and shiny ribbons. While I cut and stitched, Nana was turning a basket of clean and carded llama fleece she’d bought from the llama raiser into yarn on her spinning wheel. It is amazing how something so clumpy can be reshaped into yarn and eventually into scarves, mittens, hats, and sweaters. If only I could reshape my life into something different.
“I know you’re feeling blue about moving,” Nana said.
I was startled by how well Nana read me. I guess she saw more than I’d thought. “It’s that obvious?”
“Obvious, but not hopeless,” she replied. She stopped her work and looked me in the eye. “Sometimes it helps to look for someone who could use a friend.”
The lump in my throat that I’d kept pushing down all weekend nudged up again. And to make myself feel worse, I pictured Amanda with Haley in Des Moines, a trip Amanda and I had made once with my family. I could barely reply. Finally I whispered, “But I’m the one who needs a friend.”
“Yes, I realize that.” Nana reached over and drew a light line with her finger down the side of my cheek. “Still, it’s something to think about.”
The image of Gwen Thompson floated up in my mind. Gwen Thompson with the over-grown bangs. The one the Mean Bees called the “Loser Girl.” Tara’s words taunted me: “You two could start your own club.”
I wasn’t sure Gwen was the kind of friend I had in mind. She was awfully quiet. And she seemed so alone. But then, it occurred to me that nothing would bug the Mean Bees more than if I befriended her. They’d rather see her lonely and friendless—someone they could tease. Like me. What if we teamed up? Maybe it was wrong to want to get back at the Bees that way. But Nana had said to look for someone who could use a friend.
And in Room 103, Gwen Thompson certainly wasn’t winning a Miss Popularity contest.
As my brother and I plopped into our bus seats on Monday morning, Tara and Jadyn called out, “Hi, Tyler!” I braced myself for teasing about “llama beans,” but to my relief, they didn’t say anything more as the bus bounced along. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe giving it time would change things.
Gazing out my window, I thought about my newest plan to become friends with Gwen Thompson—if Gwen wanted to be friends. There’s power in numbers, isn’t there?
But the only thing I honestly looked forward to, the only shimmering bright spot at the end of my school day, was swimming. Tyler and I had gotten our registration forms signed by Dad before leaving the house, because Mr. Beck had made it clear: no registration form—no swimming. I was all set.
I breathed against the frosted pane, melted a tiny round circle, and gazed out. The sun glinted high in a watery blue sky and I imagined it was a huge upside-down lake, like Lake Chandler in reverse. The summer when I was five, Grandpa taught me to swim in the lake. I had talked so much about being a mermaid that Nana had made me a shimmery green swimming outfit with an elastic waist and fringe around the ankles. Every time I wore it over my swimsuit and fins, I became a mermaid. My eyes grew so red from trying to see underwater that Nana bought me a mask and snorkel, too. Clams and crayfish became octopuses and giant squid. Sand castles turned into royal palaces. I had tried to get Tyler to join in, but he’d been more interested in launching Lego astronauts from the dock than in playing mermaids with me.
The bus stopped, jolting me out of my daydream. Reluctantly, I shouldered my backpack, headed into school, and trudged to Room 103.
When I approached my desk, Tara pinched her nose. “Whoa! Something stinks.”
Jadyn clamped her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “P.U.!”
“Hey, today’s taco day, Chrissa. Are you going to have some llama beans with your taco?” Tara asked.
Though Sonali hadn’t seen the llamas, she pinched her nose, too.
I set my backpack beside my desk, sat down, and lifted my desktop, pretending to organize my boxes. This was going to be another awful day.
Luckily, Mr. Beck kept the class jumping all morning from one subject to the next. Before I knew it, I was in line for lunch, right behind Gwen. The smell of seasoned taco filling wafted through the cafeteria. I remembered Nana saying, People love to talk about themselves, so just ask. So when I picked up my plastic tray, I asked, “Gwen, are you going to swim practice?”
She nearly jumped at hearing her name. “Uh-huh,” she said so quietly that I strained to hear. “I’m sort of scared, though. I don’t really know how to swim.”
I was stunned that someone in fourth grade wouldn’t know how to swim, but then I’d had the chance to spend a few weeks every summer at Lake Chandler—plus back home I went swimming as often as I c
ould. “You’ll learn fast. And if you need help with anything, just ask. I could help.”
She glanced up from under her bangs. “Thanks.”
Someone snickered and I looked back over my shoulder. The Mean Bees were behind us by a few people and Tara rolled her eyes at me. I pretended I didn’t care.
In art class, I was surprised to see Dad standing next to Ms. Rundell. He winked at me when he saw me walk in. I gave him a small wave as I took my seat at one of the large black tables with wooden stools—right beside Gwen. So far, my plan to become friends was working out perfectly.
“Hi again,” I said.
She tilted her head and peered sideways with her wide brown eyes. “Hi,” she whispered. She didn’t exactly smile, but it was better than nothing at all.
“Class,” Ms. Rundell began. “We have a professional potter—Paul Maxwell, who is also Chrissa’s father—here with us today. The fourth- and fifth-grade teachers and I met with him this morning to hear his proposal, and, well, I can’t wait to tell you about it. As part of our art class, you will each paint a bowl that Mr. Maxwell has thrown on his wheel. You’ll be free to design and glaze the bowl as you like, but there’s one catch.”
The room quieted.
“You must be willing to give it away.”
“Give it away?” someone repeated.
“In a couple of weeks,” Ms. Rundell continued, “there’s a fund-raiser for Sunrise House at the Community Center. People who attend will be served homemade soup in beautiful bowls—and as a thank-you for coming and for their financial donations, they get to keep their bowls.”
“Dirty bowls?” someone asked. “That would be pretty gross.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ms. Rundell replied. “I’m sure bowls will be washed before donors take them home. Yes, Joel?”
“What’s Sunrise House?” It was the boy who had asked if I lived on a farm.
Ms. Rundell looked from Joel to my dad.
“It’s a nearby house—” Dad explained, “—an old mansion, really—that offers a safe shelter for women and children in need of housing.”
Ms. Rundell picked up her wand and swirled it above us. “If you think this is a marvelous idea, raise your hand!”
Every hand in the room flew up, except for Gwen’s, which she lifted with little enthusiasm only a few inches off the table. Maybe she didn’t like the idea of parting with something she made, which I could understand. Anytime I make something and give it away—like the scarf I knitted for Amanda last Christmas—it always pains me a little. But Nana always says, A gift worth wanting is a gift worth giving.
Ms. Rundell continued, “The classroom work is required, but the rest of this is a volunteer opportunity. My hope is that each and every one of you will help with decorating, serving, and yes, even cleaning up at the supper.” My dad tapped her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “Oh, and one more thing. Mr. Maxwell has invited us all over to see his studio on Saturday morning and help out with more bowls, if you’d like. I’ll give you more details later, but for now, start thinking about how you’ll decorate your bowl.”
My classmates might come over? This was news to me. Why hadn’t he told me this? What if the Mean Bees come over? As Dad left, I wished I could leave with him and never return.
After art, we headed back across the hall to our homeroom. Before I sat down, Mr. Beck waved a large manila envelope in my direction. “Chrissa, would you please run this to the office?”
“Sure,” I said, happy to put off sitting with my cluster, if only for a few more minutes.
“Already his favorite,” Tara whispered.
I ignored her comment and walked up to his desk, but the Bees followed at my heels, abuzz with comments.
“Can I do it?” Jadyn whined. “She’s new, and like, I’ve never been asked to take something to the office?”
Sonali added with a toss of her hair, “I’ll do it!”
Something sharp poked into the small of my back. It hurt, but I didn’t flinch, not wanting to make a scene. I clenched my jaw and focused on Mr. Beck.
“Chrissa, please take it directly to the office. It’s all the registration forms for swimming, due there in exactly—” he glanced at the clock above the door, “—three minutes. Now, I believe I called Chrissa, not Cluster Number Four. Take your seats, girls.”
I was glad to get out of there. As I headed down the hallway, I heard Mr. Beck announce, “I’ve been reminded that we didn’t take a restroom break last hour. So go now if you need to.” A rush of footsteps and chatter followed.
Before going into the office, I hurried into the girls’ restroom. I had to know what the Mean Bees had done to my shirt. In the bathroom stall, I set the packet on the floor and then craned my neck to look at the small of my back. When that didn’t work, I yanked off my shirt to examine it. I squinted at the back of my shirt, and sure enough, there was a tiny pencil-point-sized hole. I touched the small of my back, winced, and pulled out a small piece of lead from a mechanical pencil. I huffed, “Great.”
Voices filled the bathroom as stall doors opened and closed. I double-checked that my door was locked. I didn’t want to be embarrassed by someone swinging it open and finding me with my shirt off. That was the last thing I needed.
Swoosh! A soft scrape across the floor of my stall made my stomach drop. I glanced down to see the edge of the packet disappear into the stall on my left.
“Hey, what’s this?” came Tara’s voice, followed by a chorus of giggles. “Wasn’t this supposed to go directly to the office?”
A nearby toilet flushed with a roaring swoosh.
“No! You wouldn’t!” I yanked my shirt back on as fast as my fingers could fumble, but it seemed to take me forever.
When I finally stormed out, the bathroom was nearly empty. The only other girl left was Gwen, who was washing her face at the sink.
“Where did they go?” I asked.
Her bangs and eyelashes were damp, making her eyes look even bigger. She shrugged her shoulders.
I stepped into the hallway, uncertain if I should return to the classroom and tell Mr. Beck exactly what had happened. I turned this way, then that, circling slowly. They wouldn’t really have flushed all the registration forms, would they?
If I were to tell Mr. Beck the truth, he’d know I had disobeyed his order to go straight to the office. And I would be tattling, wouldn’t I?
I had enough troubles stacking up against me without adding tattler to the top of the heap.
Then I saw Tara come out of the principal’s office. At least that meant she’d probably turned in the envelope, so maybe I didn’t need to say anything to Mr. Beck about it. I let out my breath, which I just then realized I’d been holding.
As I stepped back into our classroom, Sonali and Jadyn were chatting about practice and what kind of ranking they hoped to get on the team. They ignored me and acted as if nothing had happened.
I sat down, but my heart thudded in my ears.
Seconds later, Tara stepped in and took her seat. She was absolutely glowing.
“Don’t worry, Chrissa,” she whispered smugly. “I’m not a tattletale, so Mr. Beck won’t ever have to know how irresponsible you were with that envelope. Imagine just leaving it lying on the bathroom floor! How could you?”
After school, I met up with Tyler. Together we followed the shoveled sidewalk from Edgewater Elementary to the Community Center for swim practice.
“Hey, Tyler and Chrissa!” Sonali called from up ahead. She was alone for once, and she waited as we approached. Then she smiled at us.
I didn’t smile back.
She fell into step with us, with Tyler in the middle. “So, you’re both going to swim club practice?”
“You bet,” Tyler answered. “Can’t wait!” He pulled his steamed-up glasses off and tucked them into his jacket pocket. Glancing sideways at him, I had to admit that he was getting cuter as he got older. The thought crossed my mind that maybe the kids at Edgewater saw him differen
tly than I did. Maybe I had it wrong about the Mean Bees and their friendliness toward him.
“I’m really interested in diving,” Tyler said.
“Me, too,” Sonali replied, “but Tara’s the one who’s really good. She’s the best girl diver in fourth grade.”
I slowed my pace so that I fell a few steps behind Tyler and Sonali. I just couldn’t trust her or any of the Bees. I flashed on the manila packet disappearing into the nearby stall. Everything had happened so fast. Tara had returned to our classroom with that smug expression, and before I knew it, school was dismissed. I hoped against hope that Tara really had turned the envelope in, even though she had played another mean trick on me. My jacket was warm, but I shuddered.
“Sonali,” I ventured, “um, do you know what happened to that packet?”
She shook her head and her glossy hair swooshed from beneath her hat. “I have an idea, but I’m, well, I’m not sure.” And then she darted ahead and joined Tara and Jadyn, who were waiting inside the glass doors of the center.
Tyler and I pushed through the doors and humid, chlorine-scented air engulfed us. The woman behind the registration counter pointed us toward the locker rooms.
“Last one in’s a hard-boiled egg,” Tyler said, turning right toward the boys’ locker room.
“You mean a rotten egg,” I called back.
“Whatever!”
As I entered the girls’ locker room, Tara’s voice snagged me like a fish on a hook.
“—can’t wait to see Chrissa’s face. It’s going to be so funny!” Jadyn and Sonali laughed, and then Tara said, “Shhh. She might be coming.”
I pretended not to hear and went to the farthest set of yellow lockers. Their voices were lost in the clang of slamming metal doors and the hum of muffled chatter. A few mothers were there with younger girls. “Hurry up, honey,” one mom said. “You don’t want to be late for your first practice.”
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