Mr. Valakis looks at me, not pleased at all, and Dina steps back a few feet, twirling a strand of hair so tight around her finger.
“No problem, Dina. Chelsea here can—and will—help you with the video!” Mr. Valakis claps and the whole class looks up, which makes this whole thing seem even worse. Just a second ago, wasn’t I going to work with my friends on whatever they were working on? How did things change so drastically so fast? “Right, Chelsea?”
“I thought I was gonna work with Kendall and Molly,” I say as quietly and as politely as possible. “I’m really interested in their project.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. I don’t even know what the project is, but I’m hoping Mr. Valakis doesn’t know that!
Dina’s looking at the floor like she’s counting the little specs on the hideous green linoleum tile.
“You’ll do great with the video,” Mr. Valakis says. “You’ll show Dina the ropes. With her video skills and your knowledge of Rockwood Hills Middle School, this is going to be superb.”
Both of us are silent.
“Now get to work,” he says.
Dina nods, a little reluctant and a little enthusiastic, a combination that seems impossible, really. Then she walks back to her desk and I start to follow her.
“Chelsea,” Mr. Valakis says, catching me before I walk away. “I expect you to take this seriously.”
This is my last chance to make a case for why I should be allowed to work with my friends. Video isn’t my thing, I don’t know this girl, and maybe I can show Mr. Valakis how much I can contribute to something I really do care about.
“But I really think I can add so much more if I—”
“Get to work, Chelsea,” he says. “And don’t ever laugh at someone like that again. In my class or anywhere else.”
I walk back to my desk and try to grab my stuff and go to the front of the room without anybody noticing.
I can’t believe this is happening. What happened to the silver lining?
I have to work on a project I don’t care about at all. And on top of that, I have to work with Dina, this super-weird video girl. This is eighth grade; we’re the oldest in the school. I’ve been looking forward to being in eighth grade since sixth grade, and it’s supposed to be awesome. But it’s starting to feel awful.
If only Kendall and Molly had kept me in the loop, I could be in the back of the room working with them right now.
Why didn’t they keep me in the loop?
Do they know more about my secret than I think they know?
Suddenly, my worry about working with the new girl turns into worry about whether my friends know about everything that’s happened.
I never had to worry about two things at once before, and I really don’t like it.
I sit down next to Dina, low in my chair, thinking that if I sit like that, people won’t notice what’s actually happening here.
“It’s good you’re into video or whatever because this is so not my thing,” I mumble.
“Oh,” she says, still grinning, “It’s really cool to capture stories on film. Or in this case, video. You can get really great stuff with just a simple video camera.” It seems like she’s waiting for me to say something, which I don’t. So she just shrugs and keeps smiling at me. “I used to video something random every day at my old school. And then my friends and I would watch them over and over again.”
I’m in hell. A brand-new kind of hell that I never knew about and didn’t know existed before this very moment. All I can do is pray that one day things will be back to normal, the way they used to be, the way they’re supposed to be. And I just hope beyond hope that Mr. Valakis doesn’t make us work on this after school, at each other’s houses.
I can’t have that. For a million different reasons.
Video tip: The 180-degree rule: When shooting
a two-way interview with two cameras, keep both
on the same side of the action.
I’m snuggled in bed under my covers processing my first day at Rockwood Hills Middle School. What amazes me most is how the smallest little actions can have an impact on the rest of your life.
If I hadn’t had my camera out, if I hadn’t been playing with it because I felt uncomfortable that no one, not one single person, was talking to me, then I wouldn’t be making this video—with Chelsea, of all people.
Chelsea, the girl who thinks she owns the school. And maybe she does. Only time will tell. Chelsea’s the girl that every girl wants to be like, and if they can’t be like her, they want to be best friends with her. Even if they don’t admit it.
I figured her out in about ten seconds.
It was easy—I used to be that girl. And I’ll be that girl again. Either that or I’ll be that girl’s friend, which is just as good.
My cell phone rings, and I don’t even have to look at it to know who it is.
I don’t have to say hello, either. She’ll just start talking.
And she does. “So, what’s it like? You’ve been there one day. Do you have a million friends already? Who’d you sit with at lunch?” It’s Ali. She’s bombarding me with questions, like always. Before I moved, we decided we’d talk or video-chat every night at eight thirty, after dinner and before the good shows.
“It’s okay.” I’m not sure what to tell her. She’s my best friend, and I usually tell her everything. But I can’t be honest with her. Not yet, anyway. I can’t tell her how I didn’t really have anyone to sit with at lunch so I sat at the end of this one table, toward the back. It was a table full of girls who didn’t really seem to go together, like mismatched socks. They were stuck together because they had nowhere else to be. I can’t tell her about the whole potato chip thing. “I mean, really, it was just my first day. I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Yes, you did.” Ali sighs. “We thought you’d be, like, I don’t know, something, someone cool right away. We thought it’d be a utopia, the way your mom described it.”
Ali’s right about my mom. She talks about Long Island like it’s paradise. They even have drive-throughs where you can get milk and eggs and all the essentials. She told us that a billion times. She lived here until she was a ten, so she has all these happy little-kid memories of it, like the town Memorial Day parades and ice cream trucks and stuff. And it’s true that you’re not likely to find drive-through places to get milk in rural Massachusetts.
“Yeah, well, maybe it is.” I force myself to perk up. “I didn’t say it was all bad. I’m still getting used to things.”
“Yeah, that’s true, Deenie.” Ali pauses. “I miss you, though. Like today, at lunch, they had sloppy joes and I was singing that Adam Sandler song to myself and I wished so much that you were there to sing it with me.”
“I know. I miss you, too, Al.” I do miss her. She’s the only other girl our age that even knows the sloppy joes song. And it isn’t easy to move to a new school in eighth grade, but I have to make the best of it. I have to be happy here. My parents are beyond psyched to be here. My dad’s a partner in this great firm. We live fifteen minutes from my grandparents. On paper, everything looks awesome.
Ali’s still talking about her day. I’m trying to picture it. What would it be like if I was still there? Would we be in math together? Would I be at her house studying right now? Probably.
It’s not like I’ve even been gone for that long. Just last week I was at my old school. But I have to admit, even then I didn’t feel like I belonged. It was like I already had one foot out the door.
Our move was delayed because our new house wasn’t ready yet. My parents and brother went to live with my grandparents for a few weeks, while I got to stay behind and live with Ali. I wanted to squeeze out the last few drops of Sheffield. And it was pretty awesome, like a sleepover every single night.
Ali and I fantasized about what life would be like on Long Island. I don’t know why, but I pictured boys walking me home from school, kind of old-fashioned. And Ali said she thought there’d be a
lot of dances. She thought it would feel like real middle school.
Our school—well, my old school—definitely didn’t feel like real middle school. It was more like a tiny step up from elementary school. We didn’t even change rooms for most classes, and we had to be called up to get our hot lunch. The whole grade ate together.
But the thing about my old school was that kids were just accepted, even if they were a little different from everyone else. Like Ramona Bevins, who said she enjoyed watching traffic, or Simon Tome, who had three pet snakes and brought them in on Fridays. At my old school, the lockers weren’t even lockers; they were cubbies. No one stole anything. Not even once.
And no one was very mean.
No one crunched potato chips into someone else’s bag.
I may have only been at Rockwood Hills for one day, but something tells me it’s different. When I sat down at a table in the cafeteria, the kids sitting there barely even smiled. And in homeroom, Chelsea Stern and all those girls she’s friends with were making a list of all the boys they thought were cute. When this other girl who wanted to sit down near them came over, they said,“This seat’s taken. Sorry.” But they weren’t sorry.
And then there’s Chelsea’s whole attitude about working with me.
It’s different here—very different. But I can’t admit that to anyone. Not yet, anyway. I tell Ali more about my day, about the video and Chelsea and anything else I can think of, until I run out of ideas.
“Well, I gotta go,” Ali says. “We have a huge sosh test tomorrow.”
“We do?” I ask, not even realizing what I’m saying.
“Oh, sorry.” She pauses. “I do.”
Right then, it all hits me. Ali and I really don’t go to school together anymore. We’ve been in school together since kindergarten, but I don’t live in Massachusetts anymore. I live on Long Island.
And I don’t have any friends.
“Bye, Al,” I say.
“Bye, Dina. Can’t wait to hear more about that girl you’re working on the video with. Maybe you can text me a picture of you guys in matching shirts or something.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say. “You know you’re the only one I match with.”
“Yeah. For now.”
Ali’s jealous. She doesn’t realize that she actually has absolutely nothing to be jealous about, but it’d take too long to explain that. So I don’t. Instead, I imagine what it would be like if there was actually something for her to be jealous of. If Chelsea and I were actually friends.
My mom knocks on my door. She says she wants to hear all about my day.
“I told you guys over dinner,” I say.
“I know.” She smiles, like she’s expecting more. “But girl stuff. Any cute boys in your grade? Any new friends? Give me the gossip.”
She has this look on her face like she’s expecting something really exciting. What, though? That I already have a boyfriend? That I already have a million friends?
“Actually, I didn’t tell you about this project I’m working on,” I start. “Do you know about the fiftieth-anniversary thingie?”
“Yeah, we got something about it in the mail.” Her whole face perks up. “It seems like a really fun event. One of the moms I met at the PTA meeting said people are going all out—new dresses, getting their hair done, all that. I’m excited. It sounds fun, doesn’t it?”
She’s too excited about everything, too happy to be here, to ever tell her the truth about how I feel. “Yeah, definitely. So anyway, I had my video camera out, and then the teacher suggested I make some kind of ‘day in the life’ video for it.”
“That’s so great, sweetie!”
I kind of hate when my mom calls me sweetie; I’m not sure why. I sit back against the pillows on my bed. “This other girl in my social studies class is working on it with me.”
“Really? Tell me about her.”
“She’s really popular.”
“So? You’re popular.”
I glare at her. I don’t need a mom pep talk right now. “I have homework to do.”
“You okay, Dina?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Why?”
“Just checking.”
My mom closes the door, and I start to think more about my day. Is it possible to already know that this school is so different from my old school? Do I just miss what I was used to, or is it really a bad place? How can I know for sure?
And how am I supposed to make a video about the school when I just started and the girl I’m working with doesn’t care about it at all?
Chelsea has everything going for her—pretty in a way that seems like she doesn’t even try to look good, lots of friends, always someone to talk to.
She seemed so annoyed to have to work with me. She seemed weirded out when I said how much I liked shooting videos.
I stare at my bare walls, wishing that my dad had had a chance to hang up my pictures, when my cell phone vibrates.
She’s right. I shouldn’t be sad. Nothing good ever comes from feeling bad for yourself.
It was just my first day. First days of anything are always hard.
Sasha Preston piece of advice: If people around
you are grumpy, try to make them laugh. It may seem
annoying at first, but it will work eventually.
I hate when I come home from school and my dad’s still in his workout clothes. He works out, like, four hours a day now, like he’s training for the Olympics or something. Most people would be impressed by this, but it makes me nervous. It seems like his day hasn’t even started, even though it’s almost time for dinner. I don’t know if he or my mom cares, but everything about it upsets me because it’s a sign that things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be. My dad’s supposed to be wearing fancy pinstriped suits and ironed shirts and colorful ties, and he’s supposed to come in just before dinner and take his shoes off and ask Alexa and me how our days were.
He’s not supposed to be in workout clothes at dinnertime.
Every time I see him like that, I get even more worried. If this is how bad it is now, how much worse is it going to get? One day he stays in workout clothes and the next day he won’t leave his room? I feel like that could totally happen.
My mom just pretends everything is fine, and I guess it could be worse. They could be fighting all the time. I’ll take pretending over fighting any day.
“Chelsea,” I hear my mom calling from downstairs. “Dinner.”
My mom doesn’t cook and doesn’t feel bad about it, either, not a bit. But that’s another thing that’s changed around here—now she kind of pretends to cook. She’ll pick up an already-cooked chicken and make a side dish, or sometimes she’ll pick up a side dish, too.
No one complains, though, so I don’t either. It’s funny how when you don’t have anything to complain about, you complain all the time, and when you actually do have stuff to complain about, you just keep quiet.
“So, any news, anyone?” My mom looks around the table, smiling.
I can’t tell them how I basically got in trouble and then was forced into working on this dumb video. I can’t tell them because they’ll be mad and disappointed in me, and it will make them more depressed than they already are. I want to do the best that I can with everything so they don’t have anything extra to worry about.
I’m grateful Alexa speaks and I don’t have to. “I got a ninety-seven on my spelling test,” she says. She’s in fourth grade, and she doesn’t know how easy she has it.
“What happened to the other three points?” my dad asks. That’s his thing; he always asks that. I could get a ninety-nine point nine and he’d still ask, “Where’s the point one percent?” but he doesn’t say it in a mean way. It’s just that he finds it funny, and we find it funny, too.
I laugh. Now more than ever, my dad needs to know I still think he’s funny.
“Daaaaad,” Alexa groans. “It was the highest grade in my class.”
“And Chels, how was your first day back?”
my mom asks me.
“Fine.” I eat a bite of chicken. Maybe they’ll leave me alone if they see me eating.
“I bet everyone was psyched to see you,” my dad says. “Did they roll out the red carpet?”
I laugh again.
“Myrna told me that Molly and Kendall are working on some kind of science experiment thing for the fiftieth anniversary. I didn’t realize they were really into science. But I assume you’re doing that, too?”
“No.” I move my chicken around on my plate. “I missed the first month of school. Remember?”
“Chelsea,” my dad warns. “Lose the attitude.”
“Fine. Sorry.” I roll my eyes. “I have homework to finish. May I be excused?”
My parents nod reluctantly, and I go up to my room. I can’t believe I just lied to them that I have homework to finish and they bought it. Since when am I the kind of girl who lies to her parents? Since today, I guess. I also tried to lie to Mr. Valakis about the project, but that didn’t work as well as lying to my parents.
I just hate when my mom hears things from Myrna or Gwen and then she talks to me all nonchalantly about it, when what she’s really asking is if I’m doing what the other girls are doing. And if I’m not, why not?
I used to think it was great having friends who had moms who were friends with my mom. Like when we needed to go bra shopping, we all did it together, so it wasn’t awkward. That kind of stuff.
But now it just feels like a competition that I’m always on the verge of losing, and the losing isn’t even the worst part. It’s the sadness in my mom’s eyes when she realizes I’m losing.
I can’t take it.
So I call Molly.
“How come you guys didn’t save me a spot in what you’re doing for the fiftieth-anniversary thing?” I ask without saying hello first. We’re past the point of hello.
“What are you talking about?” she asks back. My nickname for Molly when we were four years old in nursery school was Mean Molly. She used to take the Velcro from her sneakers and scratch it on people’s legs, and once she told our first-grade teacher she was fat, right to her face.
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