She chatters all the way to math class, which even on the best of days is the worst.
“You know this is exactly how Fourth Dimension broke up,” she says. “Gigi blew up on Fotobomb faster than the rest of the girls in the group. Pippa got jelly because she was supposed to be the lead singer, and she talked Joy and Niecy into trashing Gigi all over the socials and sharing those terrible pics of her …”
Paisley is practically tearing out her double buns just thinking about it.
“That’s not going to happen,” I assure her.
“It would be so tragic for Morgan & Ella to break up when you’re so close to global multiplatform domination.”
Then we have to stop talking about it again because we’ve got a test on negative integers that I had totally planned to study for on Saturday until Morgan rearranged her busy schedule to record content instead. I’m all shaky and sweaty, and I can’t tell if I’m more upset about Morgan or this test.
I try to remember the rules.
−25 + 25 = 0
The sum of any number and its opposite is zero.
25 + 25 = 50
Adding two positives is always positive.
−25 + −25 = −50
Adding two negatives is always negative.
25 − −25 = 50
A minus sign followed by a negative sign … turns it into a positive sign? Can that be right? That doesn’t sound right. How can two minuses turn into a plus? That seems to go against all logic. And now I’m starting to panic because I have no idea how I’m going to confront Morgan and Maddy about cutting me out of all this weekend’s videos. Or Sophie about … what, exactly?
It’s too many negatives and not enough positives, and every answer I come up with is zero.
So we’re sitting down to lunch, and I’m still doing a very bad job at being normal. Fortunately, Morgan is laser focused on her phone instead of me.
“Omigoddess!” Morgan squeals. “It’s happening!”
“What’s happening?” Maddy asks.
Morgan’s thumbs are blurry, she’s texting so fast.
“Kaytee is transferring to Mercer Middle School!”
It takes me a moment to remember who she’s even talking about.
“The girl with Sophie?” I ask.
“The Mystery Hottie’s twin sister?” Maddy asks.
Alex. Lexi. Alexander Michael Ray. The Mystery Hottie.
“Yes!” Morgan literally pats herself on the back. “She’s transferring to Mercer, and it’s all because of me!”
In between nibbles of baby carrots, she tells us how Kaytee hated the stuck-up girls at Ivy Academy but couldn’t convince her parents that public school would be any better until she told them all about meeting us and how sweet and totally not snotty we were even though we totally could’ve been because we’re on the verge of global multiplatform domination …
I am stunned.
I had no idea that Morgan and Kaytee had been in any contact with each other since we ran into her on the sidewalk. This is clearly news to Maddy, too, because she hasn’t even opened her own Ziploc bag of baby carrots.
“What House?” Maddy asks.
“The Cool House, of course.” Morgan twirls her finger and whoops. “She wouldn’t have known to ask for House One if it hadn’t been for me. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me. If Kaytee hadn’t run into me on the sidewalk, she would still be stuck at Ivy Academy. She’d still be settling for Ickface just because she happened to move in next door. I made Kaytee see how much better her life could be!”
Morgan’s phone buzzes, and she looks at the screen and laughs. She doesn’t bother sharing the joke.
“Anyway, Kaytee obviously has no idea what she’s gotten herself into with Ickface,” Morgan says. “We need to tell her what’s what before her reputation is permanently trashed.”
I hate to admit this because we only met verrrrry briefly, but it is strange that someone like Kaytee would be best friends with Sophie. They make an odd pair. Kaytee is superfun, Sophie is serious. Kaytee is pop cultural, Sophie is pop clueless. Kaytee is faboosh, Sophie is … well … forgettable.
Morgan and Kaytee … ?
Now that’s a friendship that makes sense.
“Alex and I are so destined to be a couple!” Morgan points a celery stick at me. “Which means you and his best friend, Diego, are destined to be a couple!”
Me? And Diego?
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Because—duh!—that’s just how these things work!”
Diego is funny and all, but I don’t think I’m really all that interested in having him or anyone else as a boyfriend. There are some uke cuties I kind of crush on when I’m watching their tutorials, but I’m not ready for a relationship IRL. I watched Lauren suffer high school heartbreaks, and I want no part of it.
Not to mention what happened between Mom and our father.
“It’s too bad Kaytee’s not into music,” Morgan says. “But she says she was the best girl on her soccer team in Virginia, so I was like, ‘Omigoddess! You have to try out for Squad Goals!’ ”
“Squad Goals?” Maddy asks.
“Ummm … that’s what we call ourselves,” Morgan replies. “We’re the best travel soccer team in the state. Maybe even the East Coast. If she’s as good as she says she is, she should totally have no trouble making the team!”
Morgan looks at her phone and laughs at another private joke too hilarious to share with me. My only consolation? Maddy isn’t in on it either.
I’ve never been a teacher’s favorite before. But I’m the best in my fencing class by, like, a lot. The Moms are too giggly. Gilda is too hesitant. Bob is too large a target. D.J. is too asthmatic. And though there’s not much competition for the top spot, it still feels pretty great to be a positive example others can learn from.
“Footwork isn’t just about the feet,” Dede says, adjusting the angle of my shoulders. “It’s about getting the whole body in balance from the ground up.”
Dede always chooses me to demo new maneuvers, so it’s almost like I’m getting one-on-one instruction. And I’m taking in these lessons, like, on a physical level, because when I’m in the middle of a bout, it’s not at all mental. I’m not really thinking about anything but getting a hit on my target. It’s automatic in a way that I can only compare to when I used to pick up and play the ukulele for fun, without worrying about whether the song would go over well with the OMGs or if I’d have to master the whole thing in a different key because Morgan couldn’t hit the high notes.
Again, the hour goes by too quickly.
I leave the fitness center happy about the lesson but also sad because I’ve only got two more lessons left. I guess my brain is too caught up in this battle to pay attention to where I’m going because I crash right into someone exiting the room next door.
“Owwww!”
“Omigoddess! Sorry!”
And I’m so startled by the collision that it takes me a few seconds to recognize who this boy is.
“Kaytee’s brother, right?” He’s rubbing his shoulder. “Alex?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m Alex.”
We’re walking in step with each other now toward the exit.
“I’m Ella,” I say. “You probably don’t remember me …”
“I remember you, from downtown,” Alex says. “You were the only girl who didn’t act like a fool.”
The only girl who didn’t act like a fool? This doesn’t seem possible. He must be mistaken. I have to fix this error—and fast.
“No, you’re confusing me with Morgan,” I say. “She’s the cool one. I’m the goofy one.”
“Nope,” Alex says simply.
He pushes the door and holds it open for me to go through before he does. Who knew the Mystery Hottie had such impeccable manners? The blast of chilly autumn air feels refreshing after such a sweaty workout.
“Well,” I say, pointing to the bike rack, “I’m pedaling home.”
“I’m running,” he says. “Good cardio for soccer.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Right! Were you practicing with your soccer team today?”
The question doesn’t make any sense. The room next to ours is a mirrored dance studio. Alex isn’t wearing a soccer uniform and is the only boy exiting the fitness center among a group of graceful girls wearing leotards with tightly wound buns in their hair …
Like ballerinas.
“Something like that,” Alex says in a rush. He doesn’t offer any more of an explanation. But his cheeks are blazing pink, and for some reason I don’t think it’s from exercise or the wind.
“See ya around!” Alex sprints away on the sidewalk. Obviously, he doesn’t want me knowing any more than I already do. And that’s fair, because I don’t want him knowing any more about me either.
Well over a month into middle school, and I’m still wondering how to go about talking to Sophie in gym class.
This is the type of dilemma Mom totally does not understand, because as much as she loves sharing life lessons, I don’t think she remembers what it’s really like to be a twelve-year-old girl. She’d tell me to walk right up to Sophie in the locker room and just start talking to her. As if it’s just that easy. She doesn’t get how weird that would be. I can’t just walk up to Sophie and start talking to her like oh, no big, I haven’t been avoiding her for ages. It’s not as drastic as sitting with the same two girls at lunch every day and then suddenly deciding to sit at a totally different lunch table in a totally different section of the cafeteria with a totally different group of girls, but it’s pretty darn close.
Leave it to Coach Stout to provide an awkward solution to my awkward situation.
“It’s that time of year again!” She pumps her fists. “Physical fitness testing!”
The whole class gags in agony, but nothing can dampen Coach Stout’s enthusiasm for this annual assessment of our athleticism—or lack thereof. Recent victories in fencing aside, I am not expecting to rock this test. She blows a whistle to put an end to our moaning and groaning.
“Pair up!”
I don’t have any friends in this class. Sophie’s friends—Harumi and Sofie-with-an-f—choose each other. The sorry-not-sorry shrug they give Sophie instantly reminds me of Julie and Jennifer from fencing class. As much as I’d like to believe that as adults we’ll all outgrow this kind of pettiness, the blonde moms are living proof that—sadly—some girls never do.
“You two.” Coach points at me, then Sophie. The leftovers. “Pair up!”
We barely look at each other as we trudge over to the gym mats on the floor. We’re starting with sit-ups. Coach instructs us to take turns. One holds feet and counts, the other crunches. Then switch.
Neither of us is eager to get started.
“Do you want to go?” I ask. “Or should I?”
These are the first one-on-one words I’ve spoken to Sophie in over a year.
“I don’t want to do this at all.”
I wince. She’s talking about all this—being with me—not just lying down on a gym mat that reeks equally of socks and bleach to crank out as many sit-ups as she can in sixty seconds.
“Okay,” I say, lowering myself to the mat. “I’ll go.”
We haven’t so much as brushed shoulders since sixth grade. It’s just so weird that we’re, like, forced to invade each other’s personal space like this. She’s visibly skeeved to grab hold of my sneakers.
“This is very unsanitary,” she says, crinkling her nose.
Coach Stout blows the start whistle before I can argue. Or agree.
Sophie gives me credit for thirty-five crunches in a minute. I would’ve given myself thirty-six, but I was less than halfway up on the last one and Sophie is a stickler for rules and regulations.
We don’t say anything when we swap spots on the mat.
I take hold of her ankles and notice for the first time that she isn’t wearing plain white tennis sneakers. She’s wearing a sportier brand, the kind I often see on Brianna and Hailey and the other interchangeable girls on Morgan’s soccer team. Are the sneakers Kaytee’s influence?
Sophie’s jaw is set in the way it gets when she’s determined to succeed at something. At the sound of the whistle, she curls upward and loudly blows out a puff of air.
“WHOOSH!”
She sucks in air as she leans back.
“SHOOHW!”
Curl up, blow out.
“WHOOSH!”
Lean back, suck in.
“SHOOHW!”
She does this over and over again, fast at first, but slowing down as the seconds tick away.
“WHOOSH!”
“SHOOHW!”
Sophie probably watched a documentary about this exercise breathing technique, like, ten years ago and never forgot it, because she’s got the kind of brain that remembers everything it ever needs to ace tests—even a stupid sit-up exam in remedial gym class.
With five seconds left, she’s on crunch thirty-four … thirty-five …
“Come on, Sophie!” I cheer. “You can do it!”
The whistle blows as she falls back with a final “SHOOOOOOOOOOOOHW!”
“Thirty-six! One more than me!”
She totally earned it by sitting all the way up on the last one. She’s red faced and panting … and totally pleased with herself.
“I didn’t think I could do so many!”
“Oh, I knew you could do it,” I say. “You were the underwater karaoke champ.”
Sophie cracks the tiniest smile at the memory of one of the silliest games we used to play at the Mercer Community Pool. The rules were simple: We’d plunge below the water’s surface, and one of us would sing a pop song while the other tried to guess what it was. Sophie came up choking the first few times we played, but she got really good at it—even better than me.
“Next up! Flexibility testing!” shouts Coach Stout.
This one is supereasy. All we have to do is sit and stretch our arms as far as we can go.
“Oh, I like this one,” I say. “With my monkey arms, I’ve got an advantage.”
A silent puff of air escapes Sophie’s lips. It’s not a laugh exactly, but close enough that I feel victorious, like I completed 360 sit ups in 60 seconds.
“Lauren only said you had monkey arms to torture you,” Sophie says. “I’ll never understand why siblings bully one another like that. You should see the battles Kaytee and Alex get into!”
She sits and extends her legs next to mine. This conversation is flowing so easily. I close my eyes and imagine we’re eleven years old again, side by side on beach towels in the shade, swapping damp copies of the Dragonologist Chronicles …
I wonder if Kaytee likes the same books.
I wonder if Kaytee plays underwater karaoke.
I wonder if Kaytee is good at school.
I wonder if Kaytee will like me.
“You must be so happy about the news,” I say.
Sophie tenses.
“What news?”
Sophie pushes her hair behind her ears, as if it will help her hear me better.
“The news,” I say, “about Kaytee.”
Her face is a blank. Either Sophie has watched a documentary on how to make the perfect poker face or she honestly has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Kaytee is leaving Ivy Academy and coming to Mercer.”
Sophie’s jaw drops.
My stomach drops.
“How do you know this?” she asks in a small voice.
I really don’t want to be the one to tell Sophie her new best friend shared her big news with Morgan, not her. Hearing it from me—her ex–best friend—will only make this sucky situation even worse.
“How do you know this?” she repeats, even quieter.
“I guess she’s been texting Morgan and …”
All the color drains from Sophie’s face.
All the hope.
“She’s doing it again.” A whisper.
Morgan is stealing my best friend, says The Best Friend in My Head. Again.
And if Morgan is successful … what does that mean for me?
Coach Stout blows the whistle.
“Next up! Chin-ups!”
Sophie barely grips the bar before letting go.
She limps the shuttle run.
Lies down for push-ups.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. This is worse than just giving up. Sophie—the most focused and determined girl I know—is failing on purpose. I hate that Morgan has such power over her.
Over me.
Over all of us.
“Ella!” Coach Stout claps me on the back as I’m heading to the locker room. “Make sure you come see me after class today.”
“Okay,” I say.
But I already know I won’t.
I don’t even change my clothes. I grab my backpack, race out of school, and run all the way home.
By the time I get home, my body is aching from the inside out and back again. It’s not from the run or the Presidential Physical Fitness test.
The discomfort definitely goes deeper.
I pace around the apartment, telling myself I have nothing to do with what’s going on between Sophie, Kaytee, and Morgan. But I know it’s not true. We’re all connected.
If Sophie weren’t my ex–best friend …
If Morgan weren’t my new best friend …
If Kaytee weren’t Sophie’s new best friend …
If Morgan …
If Kaytee …
If …
If …
If …
DING-DONG!
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the doorbell.
DING-DONG!
I creep to the peephole, hoping to see a Girl Scout I can quietly ignore.
“Open up, Ella!”
Morgan rings the bell again. And again. And again.
DING-DONG!
DING-DONG!
DING-DONG!
“I know you’re in there!”
I take a deep breath before unlocking and opening the door.
“Oh, hey, Morgan!” I’m all casual. “What’s up?”
Morgan pushes her way past me.
True to Your Selfie Page 11