“For real?” Owen lowered his hand. “You don’t think it makes me look . . . slovenly?”
Ruthie beamed. Of all the adjectives he could have chosen to describe his disheveled appearance, he picked that one. Her second-favorite word, after oodles. “I think it makes you look puissant.”
Owen smiled like someone who knew the definition of puissant. “Why, thank you, m’lady.” He plunged his paddle in the water and began turning the kayak.
“What are you doing?”
“You wanted to go back to shore.”
“I have a better idea.” Ruthie handed him the flash cards. “You study, and I’ll paddle. It’s a perfect day. Why rush?”
chapter sixteen.
“HAPPY MONDAY, POPLAR Middle,” Principal Bell said over the loudspeaker. “As many of you know, there were several mishaps and misunderstandings with the seventh-grade field trip petitions last week . . .”
Fonda and Drew exchanged a giddy glance as they settled into their first-period seats. Henry’s petition had been lost at sea, and if Sage’s photobomb plan worked, the Avas, who probably spent the weekend overwhelmed by fake makeover requests, had forfeited. But not Fonda. She slapped her two-page petition on the school administrator’s desk the moment the doors opened, and now Principal Bell was probably going to name her the victor.
“. . . to ensure that every voice is represented, we are going to hold a traditional election today during lunch . . .”
“NO!” Fonda shouted at the intercom. Then she turned a red-hot shade of mortified when everyone in language arts swiveled and glared.
“. . . If you are in seventh grade, plan on eating in the gym. Each candidate will have two minutes to state their position, and then the ballots will be cast. The results will be announced at the end of the day. Go, democracy, and may the best idea win.”
Hands shaking and breakfast churning, Fonda bolted to the bathroom for a self-pity cry. Her team worked hard for their signatures. Why was she being punished for her competitors’ inability to cross the finish line? How was that even fair?
Fonda slammed the stall door, locked it, and held a wad of toilet paper to her face. Tears were about to fall and they, like her, deserved to be caught.
Just as the deluge began, the bathroom door kicked open and a familiar voice shouted, “No crying!”
“Sage?” Didn’t TAG students have their own bathrooms? “What are you doing here?”
“As your campaign manager, it’s important that I know where you are at all times.”
“But how—”
“I put a tracking app on your phone. When that announcement ended, I was notified that you were en route to the bathroom. I knew you didn’t have to pee. You went right before class.”
Fonda unlocked the stall door, her insides heavy with unreleased tears. “What do we do now? I’ll never win a vote against those two. Quitting is the only option.”
Sage gathered her pink hair and twisted it into an efficient topknot. “How about you work on your attitude, and I’ll work on your speech. Remember: when the going gets tough . . .”
Fonda rolled her eyes and mumbled, “The tough get going.”
“No! The dumb-dumbs lose. Now get back to class and manifest confidence. I’ll have something for you within the hour.”
* * *
Voices were echoing off the gym walls, and sandwich smells thickened the air. A dense fog of panic was closing in on Fonda. At least the Avas were a no-show. It didn’t fully alleviate Fonda’s stress, but it helped.
“They must have dropped out,” she told the girls as they escorted her to one of the three chairs behind the microphone.
“Super unfortunate, am I right?” Sage said.
Ruthie nodded. “Very right.”
“Why is that unfortunate?” Drew asked.
Sage shrugged. “It would have been fun to beat them.”
Laughing, everyone exchanged a high five except Fonda. She was too shaky to raise a hand, let alone aim it. Yes, Fonda had memorized Sage’s speech, but could she deliver it? What if she froze midsentence? No one would ever want to join her friend group. And her sisters, who risked their reputations by endorsing Fonda on Instagram (Thank you, Inga Thornbird!), would never take her seriously again.
“Students, please take your seats and settle down,” Principal Bell said. But the chatter continued to build as the entire seventh grade waited for Ava H. to arrive and fill the empty chair between Fonda and Henry.
Sitting stiffly, Fonda tried to review her speech, but Henry was speed-bouncing his feet and singing “Rap God,” making anything other than wanting to punch him impossible.
Eventually, Principal Bell decided that the show must go on without Ava H. and stepped up to the microphone. She said some things about democracy and explained the voting rules. Then she introduced Henry. He shuffled toward her, enthusiastic as a kid on his way to do yard work. Still, he was met with enough whistles, woots, and claps to make Fonda question her entire existence. It didn’t matter that Sage and the nesties were thumbs-upping her from the bleachers. Or that the TAG’ers were holding signs about the Catalina sea monster that read get paid for pearl pics! Unlike Henry, Fonda couldn’t act too-cool-to-care. She cared way too much and had the sweaty pits to prove it.
“All of you have a slip of paper to cast your vote,” Henry began. “But it’s more than a slip of paper. It’s a ticket to the future. A future that will teach you what it’s like to be in the army with your buddies, only super fun. If you like paintball and ropes courses and surfing at San Onofre, choose Camp Pendleton today and have an epic tomorrow. Thanks.” Henry’s friends jumped to their feet and cheered while Henry ran a hand through his hair and shy-smiled like the humble guy he wasn’t.
Principal Bell returned to announce Fonda when the gym doors pumped open.
“We’re here!” Ava H. announced, as if that needed clarifying. She was flanked by Ava G. and Ava R. as they jogged across the gym floor, fists pumping like Laker Girls at halftime.
“Sorry we’re late,” Ava H. said into the microphone as she nudged Principal Bell aside. After a slight nod, Ava G. and Ava R. began unfurling a scroll that stretched from one end of the gym to the other. It contained all the awkward photos Sage had sent them—photos that were meant to overload their systems and cause their makeover idea to crash. Instead, they’d turned them into props.
Once the scroll and the girls were in position, Ava H. smoothed her brown lob and lowered her glossy lips to the microphone. “I have two words for you . . .” She paused and leaned closer. “Makeover.” Then she dropped the mic and sauntered off the stage while Ava G. and Ava R. ran around the gym, waving the photo scroll like a victory flag.
The applause was so explosive—and so undeserved—it flipped a switch inside Fonda. What had once been dark was suddenly lit. If she was going to lose and be forgotten, why not be remembered for it?
Amid the applause, Fonda calmly picked the microphone off the floor and said, “Just so you know, Ava, makeover is one word, not two. If you want two words, try Catalina Island.”
The nesties began jumping, Owen blew on his trumpet, and Fonda decided to abandon Sage’s speech and wing it. These people didn’t want brilliant rhetoric and inspiring quotes about adventure. They didn’t want fun facts about the buffalo that had inhabited the island since 1924. They wanted paintball, makeovers, and sea monster sightings. They wanted ice cream shops, spooky night hikes, zip lines, and surf spots. And Fonda promised it all.
When her two minutes were up, Fonda bowed to thundering applause. Even Sage, who had spent close to an hour perfecting a speech that was never used, seemed thrilled. Fonda’s pitch appealed to all genders and all interests. She threw down like a hammer and nailed it.
* * *
“The following information is for seventh-grade students only,” Principal Bell announced at the end of la
st period—a period that seemed even more painful than the monthly kind Fonda’s sisters often complained about. Granted, this period didn’t have cramps or bloating, but it was full of heart-thumping anticipation and stressed-out nail-biting. It didn’t matter how loudly the crowd had cheered for Fonda’s speech; the ballots were cast anonymously. What happened behind those voting-booth curtains was anyone’s guess. At least, it had been until now. Principal Bell finally had the results.
“After today’s spirited lunchtime rally, it appears as though the new destination for the overnight is . . .” Principal Bell played a drumroll sound effect. Everyone found it charming except for Fonda’s churning stomach and clammy palms. They desperately wanted her to get on with it. “Ferdink Farms! Just kidding, it’s Catalina Island!” She went on about the importance of democracy, freedom of expression, and some other stuff that Fonda tuned out. Her ears only cared about the victorious squeals and high-five slaps that filled the classroom and spilled into the halls once they had been dismissed.
Hugs were exchanged, tears of joy were shed, and a victory party at Fresh & Fruity was scheduled for right after school. Were there a few minor details to sort out? Yes, but not today. Today was for celebrating. Surely, Fonda would figure out how to bring paintball, makeovers, and sea monsters to Catalina Island. They had two weeks! How hard could it be?
chapter seventeen.
DREW UNDERSTOOD FASHION well enough to know that beat-up skate helmets were not a thing. Still, she wore one as a personal reminder when they joined the line inside Fresh & Fruity. She was out of coupons and had dipped into her helmet savings fund twice in the past few weeks: once to buy that tragic green trucker hat and again to get Doug a costly slice of pizza he didn’t want. Wearing the old helmet would remind her that she needed to save for a new one, and she’d say no-go to fro-yo. It was an odd but effective tactic. One that Fonda would never allow under normal circumstances. But there was nothing normal about that afternoon. A triumphant pack of seventh graders was at Fresh & Fruity to celebrate the nesties’ win. It wouldn’t have mattered if Drew had been wearing a used diaper on her head; Fonda was too excited to care.
“Oh my frog!” Ruthie said as she took in the snaking line of bodies. “This place is a fire hazard!”
Owen blew his trumpet and bellowed, “The queen of Catalina has arrived!”
Leah Pellegrino began hyper-waving from the middle of the line. “Fonda, I made this for you!” She held up a purple-and-red pom-pom keychain. “Thank you for saving us!”
Everyone applauded. If the sudden attention made Fonda feel awkward or uncomfortable, she hid it like a pro. Golden-brown eyes glistening with gratitude, she glanced down at her leopard-print high-tops and said, “I couldn’t have done it without your support.”
“I still have my bling,” Kat Evans called, proudly displaying her I ♥ CAT bracelet. “I never take it off. Not even for church.”
Toni Sorkin added, “I’m still more of a dog person, but I’m super stoked for Cat Island! So are my traumatized nasal passages.” Then she waved Fonda closer. “Come. Cut the line.”
Fonda stepped forward.
Sage grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back. “Stay grounded.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t deserve special privileges just because you won. Doesn’t Qu’ils mangent de la brioche mean anything to you?”
“Not really.”
“ ‘Let them eat cake,’ ” Ruthie explained. “Marie Antoinette said it in 1789 when she learned the peasants were starving and didn’t have bread.”
“What’s so bad about cake?” Drew asked, tempted by the sugar smells wafting off the toppings bar. “It’s better than bread.”
“Hmmmm,” Ruthie said. “Solid point.”
Drew thought of Will. If only he had been there to hear her solid point. Maybe he would like her a little more—a little more than he liked Keelie. But why would Will be there? A bald man wouldn’t go to a hairbrush party. It would only remind him of what he lost.
A gust of cool air entered the shop. Will? Drew whip-turned to find the Avas—each with a Fjällräven Kånken backpack slung over their shoulders.
“Ugh,” Sage groaned. “Steppy alert.”
“What are they doing here?” Fonda asked, her tone a mix of hope and fear.
“Probably demanding a recount.”
“Nothing of the sort, nerd herder,” Ava G. said in that high-pitched voice of hers.
Drew leaned closer to Sage. “How did she know what you just said?”
Sage covered her mouth and muttered, “She watches TV on mute so she can learn to read lips. Who’s the nerd herder now, am I right?”
“We’re here on official business,” Ava H. said as they approached.
“We are? I thought you wanted to see if Henry was here.”
Ava G.’s cheeks reddened. “What? No! We came to deliver this, re-mem-ber?” She handed the scroll of pictures to Fonda.
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“The beauty-challenged population at our school is huge. Huge and desperate. We tried to help, but in the end, they chose you. Which I totally get, by the way.”
Fonda crinkled her nose the way Drew did when crop-dusted by a Doug fart. “You do?”
“Of course. They’re intimidated by us. You’re more . . . relatable. They see themselves in you.”
Sage twisted her pink hair into a topknot. “You did not just say that!”
“I totally did. We’re stoked to see what the Catalina makeover team does with the scroll girls. I mean, who doesn’t love a makeover story?”
“Yeah,” Ava G. said. “We’re glad you guys are taking over for us. Helping people can be so draining.” Then to Drew’s helmet, “I’m surprised we didn’t see you on that scroll.”
The dig was so unexpected, Drew was unable to respond. She thought of Will again. Only this time, she was glad he hadn’t been there.
But he was.
“Here you go, D,” Will said, walking toward her with a cup of chocolate cream pie fro-yo topped with caramelized yuzu balls.
The harp music behind Drew’s belly button started to play. Have you been here this whole time? How did you remember my order? Are you wearing colored contacts, or were your eyes always this blue? She wanted to ask all these questions and dozens more. But her thoughts kept bumping into one another and couldn’t seem to find their way out of her mouth.
“That’s for me?”
“A bet is a bet.” Will handed her the cup and smiled.
Drew could barely feel her hand when she reached for it. The moment was too dreamy. The fact that he remembered their bet was one thing. The fact that he remembered the caramelized yuzu balls was ten other things—all of them amazing.
“What was the bet?” Fonda asked.
“Drew said you were going to win, and I said Henry would win. She was right. Anyway, it’s pretty rad that you’re going to get paintball on Catalina. How are you going to do that?”
Drew cut a look to Fonda. How was she going to do that?
“I was wondering the same thing about the makeovers,” Ruthie said.
“And the sea monster,” Owen added. “Is that a real thing, because I googled it and—”
“Henry!” Fonda called, welcoming the distraction. He was walking toward them with two cups of fro-yo and a sheepish grin. “For me?”
Ava H. rolled her eyes.
“Uh, no. I got two because the line was so long, I didn’t want to wait for seconds.”
Will gave Henry a nudge. “But you can have one if you want,” Henry said. “You know, because you’re gonna do the whole paintball thing.”
“Thanks,” Fonda said, no longer caring about special privileges or Marie Antoinette. Attention was her cake, and she was going to gobble up every bit of it. “What about Ruthie?” she asked, indicating H
enry’s other cup.
Owen lifted his palm. “At ease. I’ll get Ruthie’s and Sage’s. Go and sit, m’ladies. You saved us from the Slopover, and now I shall save you from this undignified line.”
“Well, enjoy,” Will said with a goodbye wave.
“You’re not staying?”
“Can’t. Kallax is waiting for me.”
The harp music stopped. He called Keelie Kallax? It wasn’t the cutest nickname, but it certainly beat D.
“Why doesn’t she come here?” Drew smiled, hoping to mask her jealousy.
“Kallax is not a she. Actually, it could be. I don’t know. Are desks male or female?”
“Desks?”
“Yeah, Kallax is the name of the desk my mom got from Ikea. She’s giving me ten bucks to put it together.”
The harp music resumed.
“Yeah, well, it’s not polite to keep a desk waiting,” Drew said, then cringed a little.
“K, well, congratulations and, you know, nice helmet.” He smiled. “You’re going to need it for paintball.”
“No, you are!” Drew fired back, then cringed again. Because what did that even mean?
What did any of this mean? All Drew knew for sure was that Will cared enough to honor their bet and remember her order. And that was good enough for now.
chapter eighteen.
RUTHIE WAS SITTING at Owen’s bedroom desk, watching him pace. “What is the literary term for exaggeration?” she asked, desperate for him to focus.
He paused in front of his wall-to-wall fish tank. “Bowling!”
“No. The answer is hyperbole.” We’ve been over it a zillion times, Ruthie wanted to say, along with Did you notice I just used hyperbole? But Owen had been sensitive lately. He got a fifty-two on last week’s biology quiz, fifty-eight in math, and fifty-nine in American history. The guy needed patience, not scolding. And as long as Owen put the pay in patience, Ruthie would stay the course. The fact that he’d stopped shellacking his hair into a side part made it even easier.
Crush Stuff. Page 9