Dedication
To my mother, Thelma Ann Jones,
and the multitude of strong women in my line.
Because of you, I know I can do anything.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Crystal Allen
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Sweet Mother of Teen Vogue magazine, I’m model-marvelous in this new outfit! And when the doors of the bus open like stage curtains, I pooch my lips, raise my chin, and use the school sidewalk as my runway. A rhythm I didn’t know I had moves my feet to a beat only I can hear. But it’s all good because I know I look amazing.
This shiny black-and-gray sweater with the matching black pants is getting lots of looks from my classmates. That’s because this outfit screams, “Laura Dyson’s in the house!” and I’m going to let it talk for me all day.
My girl Sage will be here soon, so I lean against a pole and cop a pose while I wait for her bus. The spring breeze blows my pigtails, and I can’t help but think the wind is just trying to cool me down because I look so hot. I close my eyes and daydream as my thoughts quickly drift to an exotic island in the Caribbean, where a photographer gives me detailed instructions on how to pose for the cover of Girls’ Life. I’ve got my outfit and my attitude working the cameras as the entire crew gives me thumbs-ups and huge smiles.
But suddenly the smiles turn upside down. And so do the thumbs as my daydream fades.
“Hey, Fat Larda! Hahahaha!”
The exotic island disappears when the laughter grows louder. My eyelids snap open, and there, in front of me, is a giggly crowd of my classmates, led by Sunny Rasmussen. Sunny scans my outfit, rolls her eyes, and says the worst thing ever.
“Are you daydreaming again or just holding up the pole behind you, Fat Larda?”
I step away from the pole and squint. “The name’s Laura.”
She smirks and passes me. “That was almost as funny as the costume you’re wearing.”
I study my outfit. Am I wearing a costume? Was I wrong? Heck to the double no! This outfit bangs. I’ve figured out Sunny’s problem. She’s mad because today, I’m the best-dressed seventh grader in Brooks County, Texas, and maybe even on the whole planet.
If I were a student in a modeling academy instead of here, I wouldn’t have to deal with haters like Sunny Rasmussen. I’d learn about fashion and makeup and cool stuff like that instead of the useless junk I’m taught here at Royal Middle School. Why do I need an English class? Models don’t talk, they walk. And I don’t need math. It’s not about how many steps I take, it’s about how smoothly I stroll down the runway. And the only history I’ll need is what I wore yesterday so I don’t wear the same thing two days in a row.
“Laura!”
It’s Sage, but I can tell by the way she keeps looking left and right before stepping off the bus that something’s wrong. I’m thinking her drama has to do with why she’s wearing a coat buttoned all the way up to her neck. I frown, then point and wiggle my finger at her.
“Sage, what’s—”
She blows by me. “Come on, I need your help.”
I don’t want to run, because when I do, my thighs rub together and my pants will make that weeshy-sweeshy noise. This outfit is supposed to be beautiful, not musical. I try to keep up with her and dig for clues at the same time. “Can you slow down a little and tell me what’s wrong?”
She yanks the school door and it flies wide open as she heads down the hall toward the girls’ restroom near the back of the building. Nobody uses that restroom because the Dumpster is near it and sometimes it reeks in there. But this spot is perfect for us because we don’t have to worry about other girls watching us or asking us what size we wear.
“Just hurry, Laura.”
“Okay, okay, I’m right behind you.”
In the restroom, Sage slides her backpack down her arms until it plops on the tile near her feet. She unbuttons her coat, peels it off, and lets it drop on the floor, too. She’s wearing the new outfit she bought last night. I can’t help but grin as she slowly spins in front of me.
“Be honest, Laura. Does this make me look . . . you know?”
Sage is always looking for something to make her look thinner. She never uses language like “fat” or “big” to describe her shape. Anything she’s uncomfortable saying, she just won’t, as if the words were forbidden.
I shake my head. “You look great, Sage!”
She pulls at the collar of her black-and-white blouse, then fluffs her hair.
“Seriously, does the white in this blouse clash with my blond hair? It’s too much black and white, isn’t it? What about up front? Does it hide my . . . you know?”
I examine her from head to toe, even walk around her. She moves one of my pigtails off the front of my shoulder to the back and grins at me.
“By the way, you look fabulous. And I like your necklace.”
I touch my necklace and freeze. That’s it! I back up toward the mirror, rest my backpack on the sink, unzip it, and dig deep in the corner, near my candy stash. There it is! I keep a vinyl pouch with extra jewelry, just in case I don’t have time to put it on before I leave home. I reach inside the pouch and grab two red bracelets, red earrings, and the matching red necklace. I hand Sage the bracelets and earrings.
“Here, Sage, put these on while I fasten your necklace.”
Sage shoves her hand through the bracelets until they loop her wrists, and then puts the earrings on. She looks my way. I grin with my hands on my hips.
“We look gorgeous!” I turn her toward the mirror. “See for yourself.”
Sage stares at her reflection. Her eyebrows lower as she vogues with me. Then she reaches over and gives me a hug.
“You are such a fashion goddess, Laura! The red sets off this outfit in the best way ever.”
I zip my jewelry pouch as Sage pulls a brush from her coat pocket. She brushes her long hair and talks at the same time.
“Did you get your essay done last night?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was a hard choice between being a model and . . .”
She stops brushing. “Don’t say it, Laura. . . .”
“. . . a baseball pitcher.”
She’s glaring at me. “Sooooo, you wrote your essay on . . .”
I stare at the sink. “Why I want to be a model when I get out of college.”
Sage sighs. “Good. Baseball’s not a girl thing, Laura. How many woman pitchers are there in the major leagues? Let’s see . . . how about none!”
I hold up a finger. “That’s not true. There’s women pitc
hers in the minor leagues and one even threw batting practice in Arizona during spring training.”
Sage sighs. “Okay. How many girls here in Brooks County play baseball? Zip. Zero. None-zo Rapunzo! Stick with modeling. It’s safer. You won’t get laughed at.”
I think about Sunny. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
I keep digging through my backpack but quickly stop. “Oh, no.”
Sage steps closer. “What are you looking for?”
“I think I left my calculator at home.”
The restroom is so quiet that we can hear voices through the air-conditioner vent. Sage puts her brush down. “Mr. Belcher hasn’t done a supplies check in fifth period this week.”
I shake my head. “Third period either.”
I’m in deep trouble, and Sage says what I already know.
“Then today’s the day. You’re gonna get a zero if you don’t have that calculator.”
The first bell rings, and that means classes start in five minutes. I dig like crazy in my bag. “I’ve got to find it! I can’t get a zero for the day, not over a dumb calculator!”
Sage opens her backpack and hands me hers. “Here. Problem solved.”
I take the calculator and breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Sage.”
She grins, and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I will always . . .”
I nod and put my hand on hers. “. . . have your back.”
We flick imaginary dust off each other’s shoulders, gather our things, and rush to class.
I make it to English just before the bell rings. Once I place my essay with the others on Mr. Helms’s desk, I take my seat in the back of the first row. I like it there because I can rest my shoulders on the cement wall when it gets too hot in class, and that helps me cool down.
Mr. Helms steps in, closes the door, and takes attendance. Then he grabs the stack of reports.
“Well, this stack feels pretty good. I’m guessing each of you got your essay finished. Let’s have some fun. I’ll read a few titles and you try to guess the writer, okay?”
Mr. Helms mixes the reports up as if he’s shuffling cards, then pulls one from the stack.
“This one is entitled, ‘Why I Want to Be a Professional Baseball Player.’ Any guesses?”
Hands go up everywhere. Mr. Helms calls on Jake Collins.
“That’s got to be Shane Doyles’s essay.”
Mr. Helms smiles. “You’re right! Here’s another. ‘Why I Want to Be a Pediatrician.’”
Everybody knows that’s Bindu Shah’s. Both of her parents are pediatricians. Somebody shouts out the answer, and Mr. Helms puts his hand up.
“Let’s keep it fair. Please raise your hand instead of shouting out the answer. Okay, this next one is entitled, ‘Why I Want to Be a Professional Model.’ Any guesses?”
I look around the room, wondering if anyone else has the same dream I’ve got. Mr. Helms calls on five different students and they all give wrong answers. He stands at my desk.
“The correct answer is Laura Dyson.”
First there’s silence, and I’m thinking I’ve blown everybody away. But then whispers turn to giggles that explode into full-blown laughter. Heat rushes through my chest and up my neck, filling my head, because they’re not just laughing at me right now, they’re laughing at me in the future, too. Shane Doyles laughs louder than anyone as he adds my nickname to his chuckle.
“Fat Larda.”
Mr. Helms snaps a response. “Shane, one more remark like that and you’re out of here!”
Now everybody’s staring at me as if I’m the one who got Shane in trouble. I grab the ends of my pigtails and stare at my desk. I hate this class.
Once the room’s quiet again, Mr. Helms reads the title of the next essay. Hands go up in the air as my classmates correctly guess the writer. I tune out the guessing game and realize Sage was wrong. I could’ve written about baseball because it didn’t matter. They were going to laugh at me no matter what I wrote.
Chapter Two
By third period my new strut has faded back into my old shuffle. It didn’t take long for my essay title to get around school. In between classes, I get the same question. “Is it true that you want to be a professional model?”
I hold my head up. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Hahahahaha!”
By fourth period I’m ready to go home. Other than Sage, nobody’s complimented my outfit, and the only thing being whispered about me is that I’ve made a bad career choice.
On my way to lunch, I find Sage standing near the cafeteria door with an old-timey town-crier bell, selling copies of the school newspaper.
“Get your Royal Crier here for just a quarter. It’s loaded with the latest news and gossip.” She flips her hair over her shoulders and hands me a free one. I take it without looking at her.
Sage whispers, “Are you okay, Laura?”
I ignore the question and stare at the newspaper, hoping she won’t ask about the essay. Just to be sure, I switch the conversation to her photography skills. “You’re golden with a camera. This front-page picture bangs.”
She blushes. “Thanks. Save me a seat, okay?”
I nod. “Don’t I always?”
Sage and I have been best friends since third grade. That was when we realized how much bigger we were than the other kids in our class. It didn’t really bother us until our classmates realized it, too. Then one day, during recess, Sage and I got corralled like cattle. We thought it was a new game until I listened to what they were shouting at us.
“Fat Larda, big as a Honda! Submarine Sage lives in an underwater cage!”
I broke through the circle, but Sage stayed, crying. So I went back in, took her hand, and pulled her out of that crowd.
“Let’s go! We don’t need them!”
Sage kept looking back. “But they’re our friends!”
I refused to let go until we were far away from them. “No they’re not! Not anymore!”
She cried harder. I turned, hugged her, and whispered in her ear. “Don’t cry. I will always have your back. We’ll start our own group of friends.”
But our new group never grew beyond Sage and me. So we did everything together, and after all these years, we still do. I can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like to have more friends to hang out with and do fun things like slumber parties, walking the mall, going to the movies, and other stuff girl crews do. And the way Sage tries so hard to make a good impression, I know she wishes we had a bigger group, too.
I’ve made it to the daily lunch specials area, but I pass right by it. I’m almost at the end of the food selections and my tray’s still empty. Someone says, “I bet Larda snatches five chocolate puddings and three milks for lunch.” I turn around, but no one’s looking my way. So I push my tray past the pudding, past the cold sandwiches; and just before the line ends, I spot what I want.
Sitting on crushed ice is a black plastic bowl of lettuce with one cucumber slice and three carrot threads. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a tomato hidden somewhere in the mix. Taped to the cling wrap on top of the bowl is a packet of see-through dressing. I put the bowl on my tray.
When I pull a bottled water out of the ice, there are whispers about my healthy choices. I grin to myself because it’s all part of the game I play in the cafeteria. I make sure the only thing anybody sees me eat in here is a pile of raw veggies. It’s easier that way, and everybody goes home happy. My delicious snacks are hidden in the backpack.
I have to be slick with snacks, because if anyone catches me chewing on an Almond Joy, they’ll start those Larda jokes again, and I’m not trying to hear that.
Sage’s voice rings in the cafeteria. “Laura, grab me a salad, too!”
I get her the same lunch I’m having and rest my tray across the table she saved for us. I take a seat, then wipe the mist from my forehead.
“We were so right about Belcher. He did a supplies check this morning. Thanks. Here’s your math stuff back.”
&
nbsp; I place the salad, water, and calculator in front of her. Sage starts on her salad.
“I’m so glad it’s Friday. And my English teacher complimented me on my outfit. I was thinking about going back to the mall and getting a pair of shoes to match, because . . .”
She trails off as most of the chatter in the cafeteria dies. I look around to see what caused Sage to shut down and spot three skinny girls at the cafeteria entrance, all dressed in pink.
I find the tomato in my salad and stab it. “Here we go. Time for the Pink Chip parade.”
Sunny Rasmussen, London Miles, and Amanda Kerns sashay around the tables like they’re from Planet Superior. Sunny leads the pack, and she’s heading our way. When they stop at our table, Sage freezes with her fork halfway between her bowl and her mouth. Sunny ignores me, holds up a copy of the Royal Crier, and eyeballs my friend.
“Your name is Sage, right?”
Sage looks left, then right, and over both shoulders. “Me? Yeah, Sage, that’s right.”
Sunny drops the newspaper on the table. “You took this picture, didn’t you?”
Sage nods, and I stop eating in case she needs my help. But Sunny cracks a devilish grin.
“I like how you got the Pink Chips in it. Are you the only photographer for the Crier?”
Sage doesn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”
Sunny picks up the newspaper. “Perfect. I’ve got a few ideas. Let’s talk later?” She turns to face London and Amanda, then says one word. “Leaving.”
Without waiting for Sage’s response, the Pink Chips move on. I tap my fork on the side of my bowl. “They’re gone. You can act normal now.”
Sage blinks a hundred times, as if coming out of a trance, then pushes her salad away.
“Sunny knows my name. She said we’ll talk later. I wonder what she wants.”
I shrug. “I’m sure it has everything to do with your camera skills.”
I take a swig of water and notice Sage is lost in space again. I shake her arm.
“Hey! Do you need a reboot? Stop acting like a frozen computer!”
Sage’s eyes zero in on mine. “Sunny spoke to me! This is major!”
I shrug again because I don’t know what else to do. “Congratulations, I guess. I know how much you want to hang out with them.”
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