Crush Stuff.

by Lisi Harrison

  “No, Tootsie Pops are timeless,” Henry said. “Those flat ovals are for baby teeth, and your presentation was, you know . . . Tell them, Will.”

  Will’s cheeks reddened.

  Fonda sat up a little taller. “Tell us what, Will?”

  “Uh.” Will shifted uncomfortably on the vinyl seat, which made a farting noise. Only the boys laughed.

  “Tell us what, Will?” Drew pressed, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. What if he said something mean behind her back? What if he betrayed her?

  “All I said was ‘that GIM looks interesting.’ ”

  Henry slapped a hand on the table. “What? No you didn’t! You said, ‘That GIM makes finals look fun.’ ”

  Will cheeks reddened again. “I did not!”

  “Then you said, ‘Where would you rather go for the field trip? Rikers Island or Catalina Island?’ ”

  Drew and Fonda looked to Ruthie for an explanation. “Rikers is New York’s main prison. It’s in the East River between Queens and the Bronx. It’s supposed to be hell.”

  “You said that?” Drew asked.

  “It was a joke.”

  “You’re the joke,” Fonda said, standing.

  Normally, Drew would have tried to smooth things over, but she didn’t feel like staying either. Will didn’t have her back; he’d stabbed it, and she wanted to leave before he saw her pain.

  “Where are you going?” Will asked as she stood.

  “To get more wowwypops?” Henry teased.

  “If anyone needs a wowwypop, it’s you,” Fonda said. “Because you suck!”

  “Good one,” Will said, offering to fist-bump Fonda. As if that would make up for his backstab. It didn’t. It made things worse.

  It was obvious now that Will’s loyalty lay with Henry, and that little piece of pork clinging to his lip wasn’t helping. There was a time when Drew would have envied the pork for being close to Will’s lips. But now she wanted to send it a thank-you note: Better you on that lip than me, it would read. Because she never wanted to be near Will’s two-faced face again.

  chapter twelve.

  RHEA, RUTHIE’S TAG teacher, struck the ancient sound bowl on her desk three times: the weekend had officially begun! Sort of. The Titans, as she called her students, were required to attend Saturday field trips, but those felt more like celebrations than obligations. They were that inspiring. And the best part? Rhea never straight-up told them where they were going. She gave them clues instead.

  “Get a good night’s sleep, everyone,” she told them. “We’re going on a real mission tomorrow.”

  “Mission San Juan Capistrano!” Ruthie and Sage shouted at the exact same time. The only thing more satisfying than beating their classmates to the answer was tying with each other—and the prize, of course, which was boarding the van first so they could claim the front seats.

  “Weekend plan alert!” Sage bellowed as they zigzagged through the crowded school hallway, with its glass ceiling and sneaker-squeaking sounds. It was the only time TAG’ers interfaced with the regular students—the only time Ruthie felt like she fit into anything mainstream. “Sleepover at my house. We’ll play Renaissance charades, watch the Michelle Obama doc, and spy on Steppy.”

  Steppy was Sage’s nickname for her stepsister, Ava G. Spying on her was Sage’s favorite, and only, form of exercise. Normally, it was low on Ruthie’s list of favorite things to do, but what if the Avas got to talking about their campaign? And what if said talking led to some spilled strategy secrets? And what if said spilled strategy secrets helped Fonda outsmart Ava H. and win the petition competition?

  “Weekend plan amendment alert!” Ruthie said as they pushed through the doors and into the blinding midday sun, where kids were arranging to meet at the beach or the skate park, Fresh & Fruity or Van’s. Ruthie’s après-school vision, however, was far more intricate.

  “I’m all ears.” Sage adjusted her black glasses as if proving her commitment to listening.

  “I have a standing sleepover commitment with Fonda and Drew every Friday, but tomorrow after the field trip, we can—”

  Just then, someone came up behind Ruthie and covered her eyes with their hands.

  She immediately felt the perpetrator’s wrists: nine beaded friendship bracelets that smelled like Arm Candy—a delicious combination of vanilla-and-caramel-scented oils Fonda made at the Orange County Fair. Had the wrist only had one bracelet and smelled like coconut lotion with SPF, it would have been Drew’s.

  “What’s up?” she asked, wiggling free.

  “Nothing.” Fonda sighed. “Everything is down.” Her upbeat outfit—a polka-dot T-shirt, a floral skirt, and leopard-print high-tops—mocked her sadness like a birthday-party clown at a funeral. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What happened?”

  Fonda, on the verge of tears, gazed out at the parking lot, where students jumped into cars and mounted their bikes with a level of joie de vivre she seemed unable to fathom.

  “Ava H. and Henry are tied with sixty-two signatures each,” Drew explained. “So they’re teaming up.”

  “For what?”

  “A Camp Pendleton Makeover field trip.”

  Fonda sighed. “It’s over.”

  “Ha!” Sage shouted. Several people turned around and gave her the stink eye.

  Ruthie’s cheeks burned. So much for fitting in.

  Sage waved them off like a swarm of poop-shovel flies, linked her arm through Fonda’s, and said, “A Camp Pendleton Makeover field trip is the second-dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

  “What’s the first?” Fonda dared.

  “You saying it’s over.”

  Ruthie felt a zing of gratitude. She loved her pink-haired friend, now more than ever. Fonda needed a tough-love speech about perseverance and grit, and Sage was the only one brave enough to deliver it.

  “But it is over,” Fonda pressed.

  “Only if you’re a pathetic quitter who would rather plan a pity party than an effective strategy to crush the competition,” Sage declared. “And if you are, tell me now, because I’ll let go of your arm immediately so no one thinks we’re friends. I do have a reputation to maintain.”

  Drew and Ruthie exchanged a delighted glance.

  “What reputation is that?” Fonda asked.

  “As a keen political strategist who has put five class presidents in office.”

  “Yeah, but this is bigger than a class election. This is—”

  Sage dropped Fonda’s arm and turned to Ruthie. “So about sleeping over—”

  “Wait!” Fonda pleaded. “I won’t be a pathetic quitter. I’ll listen.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Sage said. “You already have sleepover plans, which is a shame because the Avas are sleeping over and we could spy—”

  “Wait!” Fonda said, brightening. “Let’s move the sleepover to your house!”

  “So you, Drew, and Ruthie would come to my house?” Sage nod-pouted slowly, as if considering this for the first time. “Hmmmm . . . I mean, two TAGs are better than one . . .”

  “Let’s do it!” Ruthie said, imagining the game of Renaissance charades they would play when the planning meeting was over. “Drew?”

  “Sounds good to me,” she said, blond ponytail wagging in agreement.

  “Okay, then.” Sage glimpsed her gold high-tops to downplay her excitement. She did it every time she got a compliment from Rhea or a perfect grade, which was always. “You guys go home and pack. I’ll pick up my bike and ride back, and then we’ll go into town for snacks.”

  Their moods, like Fonda’s outfit, could not have been brighter. But no one was more excited than Ruthie, who would have all her friends at one sleepover.

  Teeming with hope, the girls ran down the street, shouting out items they needed to pack.

  “Th
ere you are!” Owen panted as he jogged toward Ruthie. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You really need a phone.”

  Ruthie stopped running. “Highly aware. What’s up?”

  “I have a bio test on Monday.”

  “Nice,” Ruthie said, picking up her pace. Those snacks weren’t going to buy themselves.

  “And I need your help A-SAP.”

  “Oh,” Ruthie said. “Well . . . I have a field trip tomorrow, but I can come on Sunday.”

  “No can do. I need help tonight.”

  The zing fizzled. “I can’t tonight, Owen. I’m sorry. But Sunday—”

  He shook his head. His Lego hair didn’t move. “I really need help while the lesson is still fresh in my mind . . .”

  Ruthie tried to process. “Uh . . .”

  “If you can’t do it, it’s okay,” Owen said, cheeks red and blotchy. “My mom found another tutor who wants the job. But if you can do it, we’ll pay you double, you know, on account of the short notice.”

  “Double?”

  “Duh-ble.” He held up two fingers.

  “Okay,” Ruthie said as she watched Fonda and Drew disappear into their houses. Did they even notice she was gone? “I just have to tell my mom. I’ll be over soon.”

  “Thanks, Ruthie. You’re a lifesaver.”

  And you’re a life killer, Ruthie wanted to say back. Instead, she thanked her new boss for the opportunity and told herself that the sacrifice would be well worth it in the end. Hopefully, she’d be right.

  chapter thirteen.

  “THIS IS YOUR room?” Fonda asked Sage because, come on! Black walls, drawn curtains, and rock posters were not typical TAG. Where were the bookshelves stuffed with five-thousand-piece puzzles? The literary classics? The academic achievement awards? Where were the spinning globes? The inspirational quotes? The solar system mobiles? The ceramic owls?

  Sage tapped an app on her phone. Strings of fuchsia LED lights popped on. “Not what you expected?”

  “Uh . . .” Fonda didn’t want to seem judgy, but this was not the bedroom of an intellectual snob; it was a clubhouse for bats. “I just—”

  “Are you flippin’ kidding me right now?” Drew blurted. She was standing in front of the posters, each featuring a leather-clad, pink-haired, wide-mouthed singer who gripped the microphone like a starving woman clinging to her last baguette. “You like Inga Thornbird?”

  “I do.” Sage sat on her bed and reached for the electric guitar she had propped up against the headboard. She began fingering the strings with the ease of a skilled musician.

  “My brother is obsessed with her,” Drew said. “He even thinks she’s hot. Which is weird, because she’s, like, old.”

  “Same with my sisters,” Fonda said. “They dressed up as Inga for Halloween a few years ago.”

  “Old?” Sage looked down at her strings. “She was thirty-three when she died.”

  “No way,” Fonda said. Not so much because Inga died young, but because Sage knew her age when it happened. “I didn’t realize you were such a superfan. I thought you wore all-black because of the whole Steve-Jobs-did-it-so-he-wouldn’t-waste-creative-energy-thinking-about-clothes and you wanted to be like Steve.”

  “That is why.”

  “And I thought your hair was pink because you kooled it and now you can’t un-kool it.”

  “Affirmative,” Sage said.

  “And aren’t you super into jazz music?”

  The LED lights automatically switched from fuchsia to yellow.

  “Jazz is my favorite,” Sage said. “Why?”

  Fonda indicated the posters. “Then what’s all this?”

  Sage set down her guitar. “My mom.”

  Fonda laughed. There was no way! “That explains the guitar.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Sage said. “My mom was a singer-songwriter, dumb-dumb. The ax is all me.”

  “Wait,” Drew said. “Inga Thornbird is really your mom?”

  “Was. She died in a car accident when I was two. The press was too much for my dad, so we left Los Angeles and moved here to hide out. Steppy has no idea, and we need to keep it that way. Understood?” Her tone was serious, and her eye contact was strong.

  “Understood,” the girls answered.

  “Good,” Sage said, satisfied. “Moving on. Now tell me why I should vote for Catalina Island.”

  “Well . . . um . . .” The sudden gear change threw Fonda. Who was this girl? Not that it mattered. Sage’s unpredictable personality held Fonda’s attention the way Inga held that mic. No wonder Ruthie liked her so much.

  “Tell me,” Sage insisted. She was standing in front of the empty black wall, holding a piece of chalk.

  “Well, I think it’ll be fun and—”

  “Borrrr-inggg!”

  Laughing, Drew buried her face in the grocery bag and unpacked their snacks.

  “Your campaign is missing three crucial ingredients,” Sage began. “Strategy, strategy, and strategy.” She wrote Catalina Sea Monster on the black wall and underlined it twice. “On Monday, Ruthie and I will start a rumor about an elusive sea creature named Pearl, who only shows herself two days a year—the same two days as our field trip. Curiosities will be piqued, and cameras will be ready, especially when we tell them that the Catalina Times pays for Pearl pics.” Next, Sage wrote Makeover Takeover.

  “What’s that?”

  Sage pointed at the open laptop on her desk. “I was head of the yearbook committee last year—totally unprecedented for a sixth grader, by the way. But the point is, I have all the student photos on my computer.” She removed her glasses. “Even the bad ones.”

  Drew and Fonda glanced at each other. Where was she going with this?

  “Everyone had five pictures taken, and we printed the best one,” Sage clarified. “Which means I have the worst ones. I propose we print them out, write a bunch of desperate letters from desperate girls who desperately need makeovers, and get them to Lulu ASAP. Then, bcchhh.” Sage splayed her fingers, miming a full-on head explosion. “Instant overwhelm. And if I know Lulu, she’d rather shut the whole thing down than leave someone out.”

  “You know Lulu?”

  “I read her memoir,” Sage said, surprising Fonda yet again. “Next, we get your sisters to post pictures of them having fun in Catalina.”

  “Ha!” As if Winfrey and Amelia would ever help. “The last time they did anything for me was never,” Fonda said.

  “That’s about to change.” Sage disappeared inside her closet and emerged with two signed Inga Thornbird posters, two Inga Thornbird tank tops, and two Inga Thornbird leather tassel keychains. “These should sweeten the deal.”

  “Genius!” Fonda said.

  “No, the real genius is this . . .” Sage wrote 62 + 62 + 11 = 135.

  “How is that genius?” Drew asked.

  “Those are the number of signatures on each petition. Henry and the Avas have sixty-two each, and Fonda has eleven.”

  Fonda’s stomach dipped. It sounded even more pathetic when spoken aloud.

  “That brings the total number of voters to one hundred and thirty-five. But there are one hundred and ninety-eight students in seventh grade. That means sixty-three were too lazy to vote. Any guesses as to who the sixty-three are?”

  “Surfers,” Drew and Fonda said together.

  “Exactly! Drew, your brother surfs, am I right?”

  “Every morning.”

  “Perfect. Hit the beach with him tomorrow. Take a fresh petition, a basket full of snacks, and a winning attitude. Paddle out. Harpoon them. Catch them in a lobster net if you have to. Just get those signatures.”

  “She will,” Fonda said proudly. “Drew could teach a master class on scheming.”

  “I could?”

  Fonda shook an imaginary Magic 8 Ball. “All signs point to yes.”<
br />
  Drew bit down on her thumbnail. “Why would you say that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why would you?”

  “I think you know the answer to that,” Fonda said with a slight wink. She was trying to remind Drew of the time she snuck onto Doug’s computer, wrote an apology email to their mom, and signed his name. They had been in a fight, and Doug refused to apologize. So Drew, in the name of family peace, did it for him. If Drew hadn’t sworn Fonda to secrecy, she would have reminded her out loud. But for now, winks were her best option.

  “I’m so sorry.” Drew sat on Sage’s bed and lowered her head into her hands. “How did you figure it out?”

  “Um, you told me?”

  “When?”

  “Like two minutes after you sent the email to your mom.”

  Drew lifted her face. “My mom? Wait, you’re talking about the apology I wrote for Doug?”

  “Yeah. Why? What were you talking about?”

  “Ugh.” Drew buried her face in her hands again. “Not that.”

  Fonda lifted Drew’s chin and glared into those squinty hazel eyes of hers. “Then what?”

  “The text Henry-slash-Will sent you and the one you-slash-me sent back to Henry.”

  “I-slash-you sent a text to Henry?”

  Drew winced. “We did.”

  “About what?”

  “Meeting at Van’s.”

  Fonda felt the sharp punch of clarity right between her ribs. “No wonder I couldn’t find the text from Henry. You erased it!”

  “I just wanted everyone to get along.”

  “Yeah, so you and Will could hang out!” Fonda snapped. “You played me.”

  “I didn’t play you!” Drew stood. “I mean, yes, I wanted everyone to get along so Will and I could hang out, and I knew you’d never form a truce with Henry on your own, so I schemed a little—”

  “A little?”

  “But when they started ganging up on you at Van’s, I left. I chose you.”

  Fonda wanted to argue back, but Drew was right. In the end, she chose Fonda. And wasn’t that what mattered? “Still, did you have to be so sneaky?”