THANKS
FOR DOWNLOADING THIS EBOOK!
We have SO many more books for kids in the in-beTWEEN age that we’d love to share with you! Sign up for our IN THE MIDDLE books newsletter and you’ll receive news about other great books, exclusive excerpts, games, author interviews, and more!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/middle
For L, my number-one Brooklyn girl, and all of the fierce and lovely friends who have brightened our world.—DAL
For my beloved grandmothers, Frances Jane Clark Brown and Dorothy Roberts Riley. One loved to cook and the other cooked for love . . . both inspired the girls around them.—JER
CHAPTER 1
Liza
Whoever invented school lunch must have really hated kids. Or at least not wanted us to eat. The sad-looking, blah-colored lunchroom walls alone are enough to make you lose your appetite. Then there’s the smell—greasy tater tots, sour milk, and that bucket full of moldy, cloudy water the custodian keeps in the corner with the mop. And don’t get me started on the food. I mean, what could be more depressing than a soggy taco? A limp burrito is one thing—at least they’re supposed to be sort of mushy. But tacos are supposed to be crunchy, right?
I’m pondering this and trying to figure out how to take a bite of my leaky lunch, while across the table my best friend, Frankie, is digging into some tasty-looking pasta she brought from home. Frankie’s dad makes these amazing family dinners, and she always brings the leftovers for lunch. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with the school lunch plan since my mom’s too busy these days to go grocery shopping, let alone cook. Last year we did a unit on the justice system in social studies, and looking at Frankie’s lunch next to mine, one thing is clear: There is no justice in the school cafeteria.
“You’re not seriously going to eat that, are you?” Frankie asks, practically hollering over the dull roar of yelling kids, screeching chairs, and the random CD mixes our music teacher, Mr. Jackson, puts on every day at lunch (today’s is Broadway/hip-hop/Latin jazz, I think). “It looks like they scooped the leftovers out of Rocco’s bowl and wrapped them in a used tortilla.”
Rocco is Frankie’s pug, and I bet even he’d turn up his pushed-in little nose at the contents of my taco. Thankfully, Frankie starts spooning half of her penne into the empty rectangle on my lunch tray.
“Thanks, Franks. I would starve without you,” I say, grateful that my best friend is generous and well fed.
“I know,” Frankie says with a grin. “It’s exhausting to be so kind and generous all the time, but it’s just my way.”
I gently kick her under the table and eagerly dive into my pasta. Even cold, it’s tastier than anything the Clinton Middle School lunch ladies have to offer. Not that it’s their fault—they don’t make the slop, they just heat it up and plop it down on our trays. They probably bring their own lunch from home, just like Frankie and every other sane person at Clinton.
Out of nowhere, Frankie throws her fork down on the table and starts bouncing up and down like she just sat on a hairbrush. She looks so ridiculous, I almost spit out my last bite of pasta because I’m laughing so hard.
“What’s up?” I manage to ask, holding my hand over my mouth and trying to swallow.
Frankie leans over and grabs my arm, dramatically. “Today is Tuesday!”
“Um, okay,” I say. “And tomorrow is Wednesday. Then comes Thursday. . . .”
Frankie rolls her eyes. “Liza,” she sighs, “we have a double period of social studies on Tuesdays.” She’s bouncing again.
Our social studies teacher, Mr. McEnroe, is tall and green-eyed with long, sandy hair that he wears in a ponytail. He’s really young (you know, for a teacher) and looks sort of like a brainy surfer. Frankie has a major “secret” crush on him that’s completely obvious to everyone who knows her. I’m not boy crazy like she is, but even I have to admit he’s pretty cute.
“You’re insane,” I tell Frankie, who is packing up her lunch so fast, you’d think there was a clean-table competition or something. On Tuesdays we have social studies right after lunch, and Frankie says she likes to get there early because it’s her favorite class, but I know she just wants to spy on Mr. McEnroe through the door while he gets ready. I usually go along with her, even though I think she’s nuts. Someday I’ll do something she thinks is crazy too, and I’ll want her to stick by me, won’t I?
“C’mon!” Frankie calls out to me. She’s already halfway up the stairs to the second floor, and I’m still jogging down the empty main hallway past the library and the eighth-grade gym. I can hear my own shoes squeak because we’re the only ones here. I finally catch up to her by the water fountain that is just down the hall from Mr. Mac’s room. I take a much-needed gulp of water while Frankie sneaks closer to the door. When I look up from the fountain, I see that for the first time ever, the door to Mr. McEnroe’s room is already open. Frankie nearly faints when he pokes his head out and smiles as if he were expecting us.
“Hello, girls,” he says. “Right on time as usual.”
Actually, we’re thirteen minutes early, but I appreciate Mr. McEnroe not making us feel like total geeks. He’s not clueless, so I’m sure by now he’s figured out why we’re always so “on time” for class.
“I’ve got something pretty exciting for you guys to get started on today,” he tells us as we settle into our desks in the totally empty classroom and take out our notebooks.
“What is it?” Frankie asks with a little too much enthusiasm. “Another field trip?” It’s only the first week of October, and we’ve already gone on two social studies field trips.
“Not this time, Francesca,” Mr. McEnroe says. Frankie blushes a little whenever he calls her by her full name like that. “Today I’m going to assign the class your first project.”
Another good thing about Mr. McEnroe is that he’s really big on us working together—“collaboratively,” he calls it—so we’re never just sitting silently at our desks while he drones on and on. I’m a pretty good student, but I don’t know how some teachers can expect us to pay attention for a full forty-five minutes while they just blab about something even they don’t seem to care about. I love working on projects, though, especially with Frankie, because when it comes to the creative stuff, like brainstorming ideas and making posters or dioramas, it’s as if the two of us are somehow sharing a single brain.
Mr. McEnroe watches as Frankie and I turn and give each other a silent fist bump. Okay, maybe we are a little geeky about class projects. “Liza and I are partners, right?” Frankie asks.
The two of us are partners for pretty much everything. In P.E., I count to twenty while Frankie does crunches, and she holds the rope while I huff and puff my way to the top (okay, more like the middle). In Spanish we quiz each other on verb tenses, and once we even made up a little skit called “Las Señoritas Bonitas” and put on wigs, makeup, and these really poofy dresses that looked completely ridiculous and not at all bonita. My mom still shows her friends the video of us demonstrating how to make a banana smoothie back in third grade—we were so nervous, we forgot to peel the banana.
“Well,” Mr. McEnroe says, turning a chair around and straddling it backward like boys always do, “that depends.”
Frankie and I freeze mid–fist bump and exchange another look, only this time we’re more confused than excited. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Depends on what?”
“I know you two like to work together, but I’ve decided the class will be working in groups of three for this project. So, you girls can collaborate, but you’re going to have to find a third partner, too. You may be the Dynamic Duo, but being part of a team is a great skill to learn.”
Frankie and I look pleadingly at Mr. McEnroe. “But—,” we both say at exactly the same time, but Mr. Mac just smiles at us and shakes his head.
“Cheer up, girls,” he says, still grinning and getting up from his chair. “Sometimes you have to stir things up.”
Just then the bell rings and the rest of the class starts filing in.
CHAPTER 2
Frankie
Dylan Davis has greasy hair and one of those skinny little almost-mustaches that’s too thin to start shaving but just obvious enough that you can’t stop staring at it. At least I can’t. I have two older brothers (better known as “The Goons”) who are far from babe-magnet material—but at least they never had cheesy-looking facial hair like Dylan’s. For the next fifteen minutes I’m stuck staring at the ’stache because Mr. Mac told us to pair up with the person sitting across from us, and for me, that meant Dylan. Our new unit is on immigration, and our first assignment is to “interview” our partners about where their ancestors lived before they came to America.
“So, uh, where are your, uh, ancestors from?” Dylan asks me. Actually, he reads the question straight from his notebook, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know what “ancestor” means. The only thing less appealing about Dylan Davis than his looks is his personality. He doesn’t actually have one from what I can tell.
“Italy,” I say automatically, because I know this history so well. Family lore and all that. “Sicily to be exact. My grandparents came to Brooklyn straight from there—both sides.”
Both sets of my grandparents arrived in Brooklyn from Sicily right after they got married, and our family has lived in Carroll Gardens ever since. My grandparents have been New Yorkers for something like fifty years, but they still have such heavy Sicilian accents, you’d think they just got here last week.
I can tell Dylan is not remotely interested, so I look him directly in the eye, because I know it makes him nervous. My turn: “How about you?”
Dylan picks at his already-ragged cuticles. “I, uh, I’m not sure. My granddad’s parents were from England, I think. He has a picture of one of those flag things with the messed up X over his desk.”
“You mean the Union Jack?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t make him feel dumb, but can I help if he does? No.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says. “I don’t really know where anyone else is from. My mom’s family and my dad’s family don’t get along, so we don’t see our relatives very much or anything.”
I can’t even imagine what that would be like. At my house it’s all family, all the time. There are six of us—my mom, my dad, my three brothers, and me—and both of my parents come from big families too. I have twenty-seven first cousins, no joke. Having so much family around all the time can be seriously annoying, but at least my people aren’t in a feud. And there’s always some drama somewhere with some member of the family, so it keeps things interesting. I’d almost feel sorry for Dylan if he weren’t so boring.
“You’re probably going to have to find out more about your ancestors for the project,” I tell him. Mr. McEnroe explained the project in his usual smart, funny way right before he had us pair up to do these interviews. He can make anything appealing—at least to me. I hope I don’t let it show. He gave us a handout that said, American Immigration: Wave upon Wave Arriving at Our Shores (only Mr. Mac can get away with nerdy assignments like that!) and told us that at different points in American history, people moved to the United States in groups, or “waves,” from all over the world. Sometimes they were welcomed, sometimes not. For our project we have to choose an aspect of immigration to study and present. We can do anything we want—as long as it includes a written report and a hands-on project. Then all of us seventh graders will present our projects in an “Immigration Museum” we create at the end of the unit, the week before Thanksgiving.
Those are the only instructions Mr. McEnroe gave us, which is kind of cool, but also a little stressful. When teachers say things like, “The only rule is that there are no rules” or “There is no right answer,” they’re usually not telling you the absolute truth. If you do a really lame job or come up with an answer that’s completely out there, they’re not just going to say, “Excellent work.” They’re going to make you do it again. I like to get things right the first time and have someone say, “Excellent work.” So does Liza, which is another reason we make such a great team.
Since Mr. Mac is determined to have us work in groups of three, I start looking around the room for a third partner who’s not a slacker. Luckily, the person we’re interviewing doesn’t have to be part of our project group. Dim-bulb Davis with his skeevy mustache definitely isn’t a candidate. It will have to be someone who’s smart and creative but won’t try to take over when Liza and I come up with one of our brilliant ideas. None of our good friends are in the class, but I notice Maya Lutz and consider her a possibility. She’s a decent student and seems like she’d be easy to work with. But in the next second I remember something and scratch Maya off my mental list. I’ve heard some kids call her “Lutz the Klutz,” and she must have done something to earn the nickname. Klutziness is not a desirable quality in a project partner. That could be dangerous. I don’t want to be mean, but I want to get a good grade, so forget Maya, no matter how nice she is.
I scan the room again and land on Evan Jacoby. Interesting. He’s a hard worker—I think he might actually be taking notes on Arianna Martinez’s family history—and he’s been in love with Liza since sixth grade, so he’d definitely go along with whatever idea we come up with. He also lives right down the block from school, which would be super convenient for project planning. Liza might not be thrilled about teaming up with a guy who’s been crushing on her for a year, but I’m sure I can convince her he’s the right choice. I mean, who else is there?
I look over at Liza to let her know our problem is solved—we practically have ESP, so all I have to do is, like, raise my eyebrow and she’ll get it—but she’s still chatting away with her interview partner. Her name is Lillian, I think, and she’s new. She didn’t go to Clinton last year, so she must have moved or switched schools or something. To be honest, I’d hardly noticed Lillian until just now, and I can’t imagine what they’re still talking about. But Liza is always super friendly and asks a lot of questions. I think she learned how to connect well with people in that support group her mom and dad made her go to for kids dealing with divorce.
Dylan Davis and I, on the other hand, are pretty much interviewed out, since he couldn’t exactly answer any of my questions and does not seem inclined to ask me any more. Mr. Boring is apparently really into his cuticles, and I can’t get Liza’s attention, so I decide to take a good long look at Lillian. She’s Asian American, with straight, practically black hair that covers almost half of her face when she doesn’t tuck it behind her ears. She wears dark blue glasses, and her clothes are okay, but there’s something about them that’s a little too neat. Her jeans look sort of stiff, like they’ve been ironed or sent to the dry cleaner.
Whenever I get my hands on the remote—which, in a house with three brothers, isn’t often!—my favorite thing to watch on TV is makeover shows. Right now I wish I were the stylist and Lillian the guest because I can think of at least twelve different things she could do to really improve her look.
She must have sensed someone was looking at her, because all of a sudden, Lillian turns around and catches me staring. Liza looks over too and smiles. I smile back and nod my head toward Evan Jacoby, but she just scrunches up her forehead. Something in the atmosphere must be interfering with our ESP. I’ll have to wait till after class to tell her my perfect project partner solution.
CHAPTER 3
Lillian
“You know what, Lillian? You’d be the perfect third project partner,” Liza practically squeals. “I can’t wait to tell Frankie!”
We both look over at Liza’s BFF, Frankie, who—weirdly—is staring right at us. Liza smiles and waves at her, so I do too, even tho
ugh we don’t really know each other. Frankie doesn’t seem to even notice me as she waves at Liza. It isn’t really surprising. I’m in two classes with Frankie, and she’s never spoken a word to me. I have the same two classes with Liza—social studies and math—and she always says “hi” when we pass in the hall, but this is the first time we’ve ever talked. She’s really nice, and I hope she means it about being project partners with them.
“Okay,” announces Liza with purpose, bringing my attention back to her. “Now it’s your turn to talk about your ancestors.”
Liza just finished telling me her family’s story. Her mom grew up in Atlanta, but she says her relatives got lucky and found some really good records, so they can trace her ancestors back to Africa, before they were brought to America as slaves. She said her dad’s relatives fled eastern Europe along with a lot of other Jewish families who were treated unfairly or forced to leave around the beginning of the last century. I guess on both sides, Liza’s ancestors had a lot to overcome. My family history in the United States is a lot less interesting—and shorter—than hers.
Mr. McEnroe mentioned something about a first wave of immigrants from China to America during the nineteenth century, but that was long before my parents came. They’re actually not even citizens—which is perfectly fine with them—but since my sister, Katie, and I were born here, we’re officially Americans.
“Um, so, both of my parents were born in China and grew up there,” I say. “They even got married there. Then, about twenty years ago, they moved to Berkeley to go to graduate school. They had a lot of relatives in San Francisco, and when they got jobs, they decided to stay. A few years later, my sister was born, and then me. That’s pretty much the whole story, unless you count moving here this summer.”
Kitchen Chaos Page 1