The Rizzlerunk Club

by Leslie Patricelli

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Worst First Day

  Chapter 2: Duck Day

  Chapter 3: The Doofus on the Bus

  Chapter 4: Hummus Yummus

  Chapter 5: Do Not Eat!

  Chapter 6: Insta-Friends

  Chapter 7: The Haunted Zoo

  Chapter 8: Of Frogs and Ghosts

  Chapter 9: The Jilly Beans

  Chapter 10: The Invisible Clubhouse

  Chapter 11: Candy Couture

  Chapter 12: Scritch Scratch

  Chapter 13: The Ghost of Jill

  Chapter 14: ’Ello!

  Chapter 15: Brilliant Unibrow

  Chapter 16: Mystery Kid of the Week

  Chapter 17: Uniformly Ugly

  Chapter 18: Funky Bars

  Chapter 19: Double Trouble

  Chapter 20: Amplexus-tastic

  Chapter 21: The Frog Clog

  Chapter 22: Strike One

  Chapter 23: The Nobody Club

  Chapter 24: Bad News Darby

  Chapter 25: Frogball

  Chapter 26: Check Yes

  Chapter 27: Five Hundred Frogs

  Chapter 28: Democracy Rules!

  Chapter 29: Cheerio

  Chapter 30: The Endish

  A Bunch of Thanks

  That is the sound of a partially digested cheese sandwich — my partially digested cheese sandwich — hitting the ground between my brand-new tennis shoes, right here in the middle of a game of four square with three girls I just met this morning. Fourth grade, first day, brand-new school, and I’m barfing in front of everyone.

  I can hear the kids who could have been my first friends.

  “Ewwwwww!”

  That’s this girl Gabriella. She’s the one who invited me to play four square with her. I thought she seemed nice!

  “Groooooss!”

  That’s Gabriella’s friend Tillie, who sat next to me at lunch today — but I’m guessing she won’t sit by me tomorrow.

  “Look at the new kid!”

  That’s Mikey Frank. Tillie told me at lunch that he’s the cutest boy in school and all the girls have a crush on him, especially Gabriella. He’s the worst person to see me throwing up!

  Still, I can’t stop. I’m bent over, and from between my legs I can see everybody staring at me. Everybody is watching me! This never would’ve happened at my old school.

  Somebody would have helped me.

  Why did this have to happen today? I’ll tell you why.

  This morning my little sister, Abby, who’s starting first grade, and I were both feeling sick.

  Mom took our temperatures, and since we didn’t have fevers, she decided that we were nervous! Well, of course we were nervous. It’s our first day at a brand-new school!

  Anyway, I knew she was wrong. I’d been nervous before, and this didn’t feel like that.

  That was nervous. This was sick; seriously stomach-full-of-a-whole-five-pound-gummy-bear sick.

  Mom felt our foreheads again. “Nervous butterflies — that’s what it is,” she decided. “Perfectly understandable. I really think you’ll feel better once you get to school and see your new classrooms.”

  Then there was Dad . . .

  Even my dog, Snort, came into the kitchen and barked five times, like, “You. Should. Go. To. School!”

  So we ate our eggs and toast (bad idea), grabbed our brand-new fifty-pound backpacks, loaded into Vanna (our minivan), and went. I looked out the window across a pasture, gold and glowing in the morning sun, and this is what I saw: horses, goats, and cows.

  We moved from a normal street with a bunch of cats and dogs to the country full of farm animals. The cows smelled, too, which made me feel like barfing. Barfing. Yuck. I hate it. Even thinking about it made me want to . . .

  That’s when I lost it. I opened my window and threw up my breakfast all over the side of Vanna. When we pulled into the parking lot, I was looking at my new school through a curtain of regurgitated eggs and toast.

  “Oh, honey, this is awful!” Mom said. “This is the worst case of nerves I’ve ever seen. You know you don’t have to go to school — though I’d hate for you to have to go through this again tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go,” I told her, because I felt a little better having just gotten rid of my breakfast.

  “I’ll go, too,” said Abby, who probably just wanted to get far, far away from Vanna.

  So we went.

  Mrs. Larson is my new teacher. She seems sort of strict but nice. She asked me if I was feeling okay, and of course I said yes. No one wants to stand out on their first day of school — especially me. That’s because I’m shy. Actually, I’m supershy (which sounds like a superhero but isn’t because there’s no such thing as a supershy superhero). In my old school, being shy wasn’t such a big problem, since I’d known everyone since kindergarten, but here I don’t know anyone. I had planned to blend in, like the handful of spinach Mom adds to our smoothies.

  I did feel better for a little while. But then, during first recess, Gabriella invited me to bounce on this cool springboard thing. I couldn’t say no. She might have been my first friend, for all I knew.

  After that I felt really bad. I started feeling sick enough that I actually raised my hand in the middle of math in front of everyone (which is a big deal, because supershy people hate interrupting class) and asked Mrs. Larson if I could go to the nurse’s office.

  Obviously, she let me go. If I were a teacher, I wouldn’t want to mop up throw-up.

  On the way to the office, I looked around at my new school. Everything was different. My old school was an “experimental alternative” school (that’s how parents say “more fun”). We actually had class on the floor in a giant plastic bubble! But then someone spilled their milk in there, and two days later the plastic bubble was gone.

  When I got to the office, the office lady brought me to the nurse lady, whose name is (no joke) Mrs. Feverfew. When we walked in, Mrs. Feverfew was taking the temperature of another kid. Abby!

  “Hi!” Abby said.

  “Hi!” I said.

  Mrs. Feverfew looked at us looking at each other.

  “We’re sisters,” I explained. “It’s our first day at this school.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see. Well, first days can certainly be tough.”

  She put a thermometer under my tongue, then pulled the one out of Abby’s mouth and checked it.

  “No fever,” she said.

  “My mom thinkth we’re jutht nervouth,” I mumbled, trying to keep the thermometer under my tongue. “But I think we’re thick.”

  She took the thermometer out of my mouth. No fever.

  “You know, I’d be willing to guess that you are both suffering from nervous butterflies,” Mrs. Feverfew said, like she had already planned this all out with Mom. “I suspect that you’ll feel better as the day goes on. Why don’t you try going back to class?”

  So we went. I made it through geography, then lunch (why did I eat?), then it was recess and Gabriella, Tillie, and another girl, Sonja, invited me to play four square. As soon as I got into my corner and she served the ball, I knew. The worst thing that could ever, ever happen on the first day of school was going to happen. To me.

  I will not be sick! I thought. I swallowed. Then . . . my stomach flipped. I took a deep breath. I swallowed again and . . .

  I felt better!

  I hit the ball back to Gabriella.

  What a relief, I almost . . .

  So here I am barfing on the four-square court.

  And now someone is taking my arm. It’s a girl in my class. I think her name is Darby. I noticed her this morning because of her funny glasses and her weird last name. I think it was Dorski, or something like that. (Bu
t, then again, my last name is Lattuga, which is extra-super weird. It means lettuce in Italian — which is perfect for us since Mom’s so into healthy food. Most of what we eat is lettuce.)

  “C’mon, I’ll walk you to the nurse,” she says, taking me by the arm. “You’re Lily, right? I’m Darby.”

  I barf again.

  Then we get to the nurse’s office and I do it again. Oh, no! I see barf spots on Darby’s new shoes as she hands me off to Mrs. Feverfew. I’m so embarrassed. Darby will never talk to me again, that’s for sure.

  Mrs. Feverfew seems to believe that I’m sick now, because right away she puts on a doctor’s mask, rubs antibacterial stuff on her hands, and calls Mom. While I wait, Abby comes back to the office. A boy is with her, carrying her backpack.

  “Abby thwew up in the coatwoom,” he says.

  Mom arrives in Vanna, which is all sparkling clean, and we’re finally going home. At least Mom feels bad. I mean, sure we were nervous about going to a new school, sure we didn’t want to go to a new school. But, Mom! Adults can be so dumb sometimes.

  P.S. I’m never going to school again!

  Well, I’m going to school again. I tried playing sick to Dad by holding the thermometer up to the lightbulb to make it hot so it looks like I have a fever, but he didn’t believe me.

  Anyway, Abby and I both feel better. Now Mom’s convinced that it was food poisoning. “You should have told me how bad you actually felt!” she says.

  Whatever. I’m glad it’s over with, except now I really do have nervous butterflies.

  On the way to school, I imagine a magic genie coming out of my backpack and giving me a wish. I know what I’d wish for, because I’ve wished for the same thing a million times: on shooting stars, birthday candles, and anything else wish-able. I know I shouldn’t tell my wish . . . but I will.

  I wish I had a shell, like a turtle.

  Wouldn’t that be cool? Whenever I felt embarrassed or shy or just like being alone, I’d head into my shell. That would be the best part: my shell.

  No genie grants my wish, and the next thing I know, I’m back at school. I walk to class slowly, like a turtle, thinking about how everyone is going to be so grossed out by me. In one day, I went from being the New Girl to the Barf Girl.

  Eventually, I get to class. I walk in and sit down at my desk and stare at it like it’s my favorite book. Maybe if I don’t look at anyone, no one will notice me. Then Darby comes over. I don’t look up, but I know it’s her, because she’s wearing the same shoes as yesterday, only they’re all cleaned up.

  “Hi, Lily, are you feeling better?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, still looking at her shoes.

  “Good, because I only want to see your sandwiches before you eat them. That was gross!”

  I don’t say anything. She stands there for a second, then the bell rings and I watch her feet walk away.

  Once everyone is seated, Mrs. Larson turns on her SMART Board and the coolest thing happens! We watch our own school news channel! Even though we didn’t have to sit in rows or desks in my old school and we did a lot of art (which I love), we didn’t have our own TV station! Mrs. Larson tells me that it’s called SHTV for Sunny Hills TV. Everyone starts saying, “Shhh! TV!” and laughing. I guess that’s a joke.

  There are two kids at the news desk. The boy looks terrified, like he just saw a Sasquatch or something. The girl sitting next to him is wearing a striped sweater, and we can see the backdrop photo of our school through the stripes. She looks like she’s cut into layers.

  “Green screen!” everyone shouts.

  “Class, that is not necessary,” Mrs. Larson says.

  We say the Pledge of Allegiance with them, then the girl announces the news. The boy starts to give the weather report, but then he stops and just stares at the camera. The girl elbows him, but he looks too scared to move, so she reads the weather instead. The whole class laughs, even Mrs. Larson. I decide I will never, never, ever do the news.

  After SHTV, Mrs. Larson puts on her teacher face and calls roll, then tells us, “Please get out your social studies books and turn to page twenty-eight, and we will read aloud.”

  Oh, no. I hate read-aloud. We’re reading about Northwest Native American tribes. I can hardly pronounce Issaquah — the Native American name of my new town! I look up at her, pleading with my eyes.

  Please pick someone else, I think. I’m the new kid!

  I guess Mrs. Larson doesn’t have ESP, because she calls on me. I read:

  “‘Northwest coastal Indian tribes inhabited much of the Pacific Coast, including Alaska, British Columbia, Washington, Oregon, and Northern California. Some of the tribes that inhabited the area were the Salish, Nez Percé, Nis . . . Nisqually, Quinault, Kwak . . . Kwak . . . Kwak . . .’”

  “Quack, quack, quack!” shouts Darby.

  “Quack, quack!” says Mikey Frank.

  Suddenly everyone is quacking like ducks. I can feel my face turn red-hot, like a volcano of embarrassment has just erupted.

  “It’s pronounced qua . . . cue . . . tal,” Mrs. Larson says. “Kwakiutl.”

  But it’s too late. Everyone is laughing at me. Especially Darby, who sits two rows away. Why does she think she can laugh at me? Her bangs hang down so you can’t see her eyes, and when you do see them, they look like giant bug eyes because her glasses are so thick.

  When it’s Darby’s turn to read, I draw a picture of her.

  I love to draw! It always helps me feel better. In my old school, I was always drawing funny pictures and making my friends laugh, but I don’t have any friends to appreciate this one, so I crumple it up and shove it in my pocket.

  “Class!” shouts Mrs. Larson. “Please! That is not necessary!”

  I’ve noticed that “not necessary” is something Mrs. Larson says a lot, but it doesn’t seem to work very well. Then she threatens to take away recess and everyone gets quiet.

  At recess everyone is quacking at me — except for the ones who are teasing me about getting sick. I close my eyes and imagine myself at my old school, on my old playground, with my old friends. I’m sure that I have magically transported myself there, but when I open my eyes, I’m still here: a turtle in a new school, surrounded by ducks.

  “Quack!” says a little kid running by with both shoelaces undone. I secretly hope he trips. I know I said the same thing yesterday, but this time I mean it: I’m officially never going to school again.

  Mom and Dad are always telling Abby and me that we should be empathetic, which means trying to understand how other people feel. Well, guess who’s not at all empathetic? Mom and Dad. So, even though I begged to stay home, I’m going to school again.

  Even worse, today it’s like the first day all over again, because Mom says it’s time for us to take the bus! I’ve never taken a bus to school. At my old school, I walked with Abby and all the neighborhood kids. Now I won’t know anybody. Plus, sometimes I get carsick. What if I throw up? I imagine the worst. Then I see Abby.

  “You are not wearing that hat to school, are you?” I ask her.

  Abby loves to collect things, like bugs, coins, rocks, and especially hats — and she wears them in public! I was hoping to ride the bus unnoticed, but that’s not going to happen if I have to get on with Abby the mountain girl.

  “Oh, it’s adorable,” Mom says, patting Abby on the head.

  “Hallo, guten Morgen, sprechen Sie Englisch?” Dad says.

  “Hello, good morning, of course I speak English, Daddy. I’m not German!” Abby says.

  When did she learn German? Abby is so smart. I think she remembers every word she’s ever learned. I look at her again. How could she wear that hat? All I ever wear are jeans and sweatshirts. I can’t imagine wanting to go to school — especially a new school — in something that no one else will be wearing and everyone will notice. But Abby doesn’t care and I guess Mom doesn’t either, so we grab our backpacks and head out the door.

  “Remember your bus number so you know whi
ch bus to get on after school,” Mom and Dad yell to us (for the seven millionth time).

  We have to cross through the neighbors’ yard to get to the bus stop. They have a Doberman pinscher named Zach who barks and growls and looks like he wants to have us for breakfast. He’s behind a cyclone fence, but he’s still as scary as a great white shark. We run by him.

  When I get on the bus, I see a few kids from my class. Gabriella is there, sitting next to Sonja. Tillie is behind them with no one next to her, but all three of their backpacks are on her seat so no one else can sit there. It seems like Gabriella, Sonja, and Tillie are always together, and they don’t play with anyone else (except for me on the first day, but I blew that). I hear them laugh at Abby. Then someone quacks at me.

  Abby and I find an empty seat near the back, and even though she looks like Gretl from The Sound of Music, I’m glad she’s here so I can sit next to her.

  Once I decide that I’m not going to get carsick, I take out some paper and my favorite pen, which I bring with me everywhere. Like I said, I love to draw. I think I’m pretty good at it, too. I know how to shade and everything. Mom also thinks I’m good. She thinks I might grow up to be a medical illustrator because of the card I made her for Valentine’s Day.

  For the rest of the bus ride, Abby and I play this game we always play in the car where she tells me what to draw and I try to draw it. She makes it hard.

  When we get to school, I stop and look at the number on the side of our bus and memorize it, just like Mom and Dad told me to.

  Two hundred eleven. Two-one-one. Two-one-one, I say to myself.

  I sing it to myself. Two-one-one. I sing it more at recess. I sing it in the bathroom. I sing it during math and miss a problem because I accidentally sing it out loud.

  But at least I remember the bus number. When the bell rings to go home, I walk to the bus quickly, since the playground monitor keeps shouting, “Walk, walk, don’t run, walk!” The first bus in line has 211 on the side, so I get on. There are lots of kids filling the seats, but I don’t recognize any of them. I find the only seat left, then realize it’s next to Darby. I don’t think she was on the bus this morning. Darby smiles at me — then quacks like a duck. Why can’t I get away from her? There’s nowhere else to go, so I sit down.