by Julie Bowe
When it's time for lunch, Jenna grabs Stacey by the arm and starts dragging her off to the lunchroom. But Stacey glances at me and stops.
"What about Ida?" she says to Jenna.
"What about her?" Jenna replies.
Stacey turns to me. "Do you want to eat lunch with us, Ida?" she asks.
Even though I wish it was Elizabeth inviting me to lunch, it's a relief not to have to eat alone.
I nod.
Stacey smiles.
Jenna rolls her eyes. Then she links arms with Stacey and heads down the hall. I follow along.
When we get to the lunchroom, Jenna informs us that she has a cold lunch—bean sprouts on a whole wheat bagel, baby carrots, soy milk, and for dessert (yum-yum) carob brownies. So while she and her lunch go looking for a table, Stacey and I get in line for our UFOs (Unappetizing Food Options).
"Is the food any good?" Stacey asks.
"It's okay," I say. "If you don't mind food poisoning."
Stacey smiles her big crayon smile right at me.
"The food at my last school was so bad even the cook brought her own lunch."
"Oh, yeah?" I say. "Where was your last school?"
"Oh, not far," Stacey says, her voice trailing off. "Actually, technically, my last school was in my house. My parents wanted to spend more time with me, so they homeschooled me for awhile."
"But I thought I heard you say that your parents are always traveling because of their important jobs?"
"Oh, d-did I?" Stacey stammers. Stammering is what you call it when your mouth moves faster than your brain. "Well, they usually take me along when they travel, so they taught me while we were ... um ... on the road."
I nod like I believe her, but I raise one eyebrow like I don't.
"So, what do you like to do, Ida?" Stacey asks, like she's trying to change the subject or something.
"Oh, you know," I say. "The usual. I like getting up in the morning. Going to school. Going home. Going to bed. Stuff like that."
I am trying to sound as uninteresting as possible, but Stacey gives me a friendly laugh, anyway. "You're funny, Ida."
This conversation is going from bad to worse. Thankfully, the line moves forward and it's our turn to examine today's UFOs: turkey tetrazzini, buttermilk biscuits, and green beans.
"What'll it be, girls?" Mrs. Kemp asks, in her grumpy school-cook voice. Her pea-sized eyes blink at us over the thick rims of her steamy glasses.
Stacey and I look at the globs of turkey and noodles floating in gravy. We look at the rock-hard biscuits. We look at the soggy beans. Then we look at each other.
"Well?" Mrs. Kemp says. "Do you want hot lunch or not?"
Stacey and I gulp. Then we nod.
We get our food and Jenna waves Stacey over to a table where she is sitting with Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene. Stacey takes the seat across from Brooke. I sit next to Jenna.
"You're going to eat that?" Jenna says, wrinkling up her nose at my lunch. "Disgusting," she says, looking at me. Then she looks at Stacey and smiles. "Be sure to bring a cold lunch tomorrow, Stacey. Then you can swap desserts with us." Jenna gives a glance to Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene.
"We swap lots of stuff," Brooke says. "Earrings, bracelets, shoes..."
"That's right," Jenna interrupts. "This necklace is Meeka's and this bracelet is Jolene's," she says, pointing at her neck and wrist. "Bring something to swap tomorrow."
"Su-ure," Stacey says. "I'll ask my gr—...my aunt if it's okay."
"Of course it's okay," Jenna says. "We do it all the time."
I scoop up some turkey tetrazzini on my fork and think about last summer when Elizabeth and I swapped flip-flops. We never got around to swapping them back before she moved away.
I'm right in the middle of remembering how much fun we had gluing pom-poms and plastic lobsters onto those flip-flops when I notice Jenna is glaring at me again.
"Wha?" I say through my turkey tetrazzini.
"You know what's in that turkey, don't you?" Jenna says back.
"Um, no," I say, swallowing. "I didn't realize there would be a quiz."
Jenna just shakes her head. "Horbones," she announces to the other girls. "Lots and lots of horbones."
"What's that?" Stacey asks, poking suspiciously at the food on her tray.
"That's the stuff that makes turkeys so fat," Jenna says, giving me a glance. Then she starts to explain how my turkey spent its whole life inside a crowded pen eating horbones day and night with all the other unfortunate birds.
Three minutes into Jenna's lecture, I'm wishing I had warned Stacey not to show any interest in anything Jenna has to say. But then, I'm trying not to say much of anything at all to Stacey Merriweather.
I tune out Jenna's yakking, nibble on my rock-hard biscuit, and get a better look at Stacey.
She has pretty eyes and pretty, evenly spaced teeth. And pierced ears. Her hair smells the same way my mom's hair does after she gets a perm. I can't imagine having any friends if I smelled like that. Not that smelling the way I do has gotten me lots of friends. It hasn't. Oh sure, I've had the regular kind of friends. The kind you wander around the playground with, making up excuses together for why you don't want to join the dodgeball game, when really you just don't want to look stupid when the red rubber ball smacks you in the face.
But that was before I met Elizabeth. She was the kind of friend who made it worth getting up and going to school every day just so I could sit by her on the bus and play with her at recess. The kind who told me secret things she never told anyone else. The kind of friend I never thought about having to say good-bye to until she all of a sudden decided to move away.
As I sit and watch Stacey listen to Jenna's description of her family's summer camping trip ("We had to brush our teeth with baking soda and pee in a hole. It was great!"), I think about Elizabeth and wonder if she's eating lunch at that exact same time, too. I wonder if she's as happy in her new school as Stacey Merriweather seems to be in hers. I want to say, Excuse me, Stacey Merriweather, but don't you miss your old best friend at all?
But before I have a chance to say anything, I see it. A spitball. Right in the middle of my turkey tetrazzini.
I look up and see another one fly. This time it sticks in Stacey's curly hair.
I look around the lunchroom. Two tables away, Rusty Smith and two other fourth-grade boys, both named Dylan, are cracking up. A shredded napkin lies in front of Rusty. A straw is in his hand. I look at Stacey again. She's still eating and listening to Jenna talk, but I can tell by the way her eyes stop sparkling that she knows she's being used for target practice.
Then I see Rusty take aim again. And again.
After six direct hits, Stacey sets down her fork and quietly says, "Excuse me, ladies." She walks over to Rusty. He's so busy laughing with the Dylans that he doesn't notice Stacey putting her hand on his bony shoulder.
But he starts paying attention when she smiles at him and says in a sticky sweet voice, "You like me, don't you?"
Everyone within earshot turns and looks.
Rusty looks, too. "Huh?"
"You do!" Stacey squeals. "You like me!" Then she puts her arm around him and practically sits on his lap.
Now everyone in the whole lunchroom is turning and looking.
Rusty peels Stacey's arm off his shoulder like it's a poisonous snake. Stacey puts it back. Everyone laughs. Then the Dylans start singing "Rusty li-ikes Staa-cey ... Rusty li-ikes Staa-cey..."
Stacey smiles and scoots even closer to him.
By the third round of the song, the lunchroom sounds like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. And Rusty's ears look as red as his hair. He wiggles out from under Stacey and bolts out the door.
I sit there, staring at Stacey Merriweather and wondering how a person with six spitballs stuck in her hair can do something like that.
Then Stacey gets up and walks back to our table. She sits down, picks up her fork, and finishes every last bite of her lunch.
Chapter 4
&
nbsp; When I get home after school my mom is waiting for me in the kitchen with a plate of cookies. And a million questions.
"Do you like your new teacher?" she asks.
"He's okay," I say.
"What's he like?"
"Oh, you know. Nice."
"How about the kids in your class. Are they nice, too?" she asks.
I think for a moment. "Most of them," I say.
My mom looks pleased. "Who did you play with at recess?"
"Um ... I ate lunch with Jenna."
"Well, that's good," she says. "But who did you play—"
Before my mom can finish her question I grab three cookies off the plate and say, "Don't you have a student coming soon?" My mom teaches piano lessons in our living room.
My mom sighs and glances at her watch. "You're right. I have a piano lesson scheduled in a few minutes. We'll talk more about your day at supper, okay?"
I just nod and head to my room. A few minutes later the cookies are gone and some kid is plunking "If You're Happy and You Know It" on the piano.
I get up and shut my door. Tight.
When supper rolls around, I'm ready. As soon as my parents start asking me about my day, I stuff mashed potatoes into my mouth so all I can answer is "Mmm-hmm" or "Hmm-mmm."
The second I'm done with my third helping of potatoes, I ask to be excused.
"Are you sure?" my dad says. "I brought home chocolate ice cream for dessert."
Even though it's hard for me to turn down chocolate anything, I say, "I'm sure," and head to my room for the night.
***
When I get to school the next day it's apparent that standing up to Rusty Smith gets you magnetized or something. That's because fourth-grade girls are sticking to Stacey Merriweather like little bits of metal to a big shiny magnet. Jenna, Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene brush right past me as I walk down the hallway. They rush up to Stacey. Even Randi Peterson is taking a break from basketball to stick to her.
I stop and watch as they crowd together. Jenna is giving something to each girl. Probably money so they will keep pretending to be her friends. They are all chattering like chipmunks. Stacey is busy chattering, too. I bet she's telling them a bunch of new lies she made up overnight.
The only person drawing a bigger crowd than Stacey Magnet weather is Zane Howard. He's at the other end of the hall squeezing his neck until his face turns purple.
I swear, I will never understand boys.
"Ida!" Stacey calls to me. I look away from the boys and see Stacey's big-crayon smile shining like a supernova. I can feel its gravitational force pulling me in, but I dig my toes into the tile floor and hang on.
Stacey slips away from the other girls and walks up to me, waving a piece of purple paper. "Did you get yours?"
"Get my what?" I ask.
"Your invitation," Stacey says, handing me the paper. Unfolding it I read:
The next thing I know, Jenna is shoving an invitation into my other hand. "My mother says I have to invite every girl in the class. Even you, I-duh."
I look from the invitation to the crowd of girls. I see purple paper everywhere.
Jenna grabs Stacey's hand and pulls her away from me. And that's how Jenna and Stacey stay for the rest of the day. Stuck together.
***
When I get home after school I go straight to my bedroom. I toss my backpack on the floor and fall onto my bed, relieved to be somewhere soft and warm and familiar. I look at my sock monkey, George, who is lying on my pillow. George isn't particularly soft or warm, but he is familiar. He's been in our family since my dad was a kid.
I pull my invitation from Jenna out of my pocket and show it to George. "Everyone's going," I tell him. "Except me."
George just stares at me.
"Because," I say. "Sleepovers are stupid."
George takes time to think this over. While he's thinking I hear a knock on my door. A moment later my mom is peeking in.
"Hi, Ida! I thought I heard you come home. Can I come in?"
I slip the invitation under George and say, "Sure."
My mom sits next to me on my bed. "How was your day?" she asks.
"Fine," I reply.
"What did you do?"
"Oh, you know. The usual. Reading. Writing. Math."
"How about recess? Did you play with Jenna?"
"No," I say. "She was busy playing with the new girl."
My mom's eyes brighten. "The new girl?"
I fidget a little and nod. "Stacey Merriweather."
"Is she nice?" my mom asks.
"She's okay," I say, and fidget some more. Of course, George decides to fidget right along with me. It isn't long before Jenna's invitation is peeking out from under him.
"What's that?" my mom asks, pointing to the purple paper.
"Oh, it's just an invitation," I say. "To Jenna's sleepover. But I'm not going."
"Not going?" my mom says. "Why not?"
I just shrug and tuck the invitation back under George. "Jenna only invited me because her mom said she had to."
"Now, Ida, I'm sure that's not true."
"Yes it is," I say. "Jenna's mean. She only pretends to like me when you're around. I'm not going to her sleepover."
"But, Ida," my mom says. "You've hardly left this room since Elizabeth moved away. This party will be a chance for you to make some new friends."
"I don't need new friends," I say, and slide off my bed. "Besides, I like my room. And staying home with you. And Dad. And George. Plus, I'm busy with a new drawing." I grab my backpack and pull out my sketchbook.
My mom just sits there. Then she takes the invitation out from under George and looks it over. "Let's talk about this when Dad gets home."
"Fine," I say. "But I'm still not going." Then I open my sketchbook and start to draw.
As soon as my dad gets home, he and my mom start talking all quiet downstairs. I know because I'm pressing my ear against my bedroom door. A few minutes later, I hear my dad bounding up the steps, two at a time. I dive for my bed and give him a casual "Come in" as soon as he knocks.
My dad plops down on my bed, wearing his usual goofy grin. "Hi, Ida. Gotta joke for you," he says.
I sit up a little. "Let's hear it," I say.
"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Boo."
"Boo who?"
My dad frowns in a concerned sort of way. "Aw, Ida. Don't cry!"
I roll my eyes.
My dad laughs. "I know," he says. "It's not my best joke, but I thought it might cheer you up."
"I don't need cheering up," I say.
My dad's goofy grin trails away. "Yeah, you do, Ida. And Mom and I have decided you're going to the sleepover."
I jump off my bed and punch my fists into my hips. "But I don't want to go!" I shout.
My dad nods. "I know," he says, all calm. "But you can't keep moping around. We think making new friends is a good idea. Mom will call to let Jenna's mom know you'll be there."
I grab the closest thing to me, which is George, and throw him as hard as I can. George hits my dad in the chest and then falls in a gangly heap on the floor.
I fall to the floor, too.
My dad just sits there for a moment. Then he gets up and quietly closes the door on his way out.
I curl up into a tight ball, breathing hard and blinking fast so that no tears will be able to leak out.
Finally, I reach over and pull George to me.
"I'm sorry," I say.
Chapter 5
Friday morning my mom helps me pack my bag for the big sleepover. Pajamas, clothes, flashlight, hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant....
I want to bring George, but I know Jenna would do something mean to him. One time Elizabeth brought her favorite rag doll to school and Jenna stole it. Then she, Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene threw the doll in a Dumpster because they said it was old and smelly. I don't want George to end up in one of Jenna's recycling bins.
I spend most of Friday m
orning thinking about how much I don't want to go to Jenna's sleepover. But by the time lunch rolls around, all I can think about is—what is Stacey's real name?
I know, I know. You're saying, Her name is Stacey. And you're right. It is. But it isn't.
I guess I better try to explain.
It all started because our whole class was acting way more brainy than usual. We all got perfect scores on our first spelling quiz. Mr. Crow was so pleased he decided we deserved a reward.
"Howz' about we play a game?" he said. "It's called Fib."
Mr. Crow explained that each of us had to think of three things to tell about ourselves, but one of the things had to be a fib. "We'll try to guess who is fibbing about what," Mr. Crow said. "It'll be fun."
Mr. Crow started the game off by saying, "Three things about me are:
1. I was born in England.
2. I don't own a television.
3. My brother is a plumber."
Right away kids started waving their hands in the air. Everyone guessed that he was fibbing about not owning a television. But not me. I figured anyone with a ponytail as long as Mr. Crow's, who isn't a girl, probably spends most of his time reading really thick books instead of watching really stupid TV shows. Plus, he is always drinking tea, which means he must have been born in England since tea is pretty much all they ever drink over there. So I raised my hand and said, "You're fibbing about your brother."
"Good answer, Ida!" Mr. Crow said. "You are absolutely correct. My brother is a veterinarian, not a plumber."
"So that means you really don't own a television?" Jenna asked.
"That's right," Mr. Crow said.
"Weird," Jenna replied. Pretty much the whole class had to agree with that.
Next, we went around the room and took turns making up fibs. When it was my turn I said, "Three things about me are:
1. I have Dr. Seuss's autograph.
2. I want to be an artist when I grow up.
3. My dad wears Scooby Doo underpants."
Brooke guessed that I was fibbing about the autograph. Nope. That was true. My mom met Dr. Seuss when she was a kid, and she gave me the book he autographed for her.