I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear him right, which—because he’s so quiet—is very possible. Teachers never invite me to participate in special stuff. “Me?”
“Yes, of course you.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be sending a permission slip by email to your parents. It’s a commitment, three days a week after school. Think about it.”
“Sure. Okay.” I smile. This is unexpected and a really great reason to get called to the office.
I turn to go back to class when Mrs. Sandbeam, the office assistant, stops me. “Westin, where are you going? It’s that time of year. A new Friendship Group.” She points to the counseling room.
My lower lip curls. Ugh, that’s why I was called here? I’ve done Friendship Group for the past three years. The teachers wait a month to see who’s not adjusting, then they stick us all together. It’s usually filled with kids who wear their pants up around their chests and only talk about banana slugs or super angry kids with attitude problems or ones who can’t sit still long enough to stay out of trouble—like me.
When I walk into the counseling room, there are four other kids already there, gathered around a long, white table. The walls have posters that say:
“You can make a difference!” and “Listen has the same letters as Silent.”
I take a seat next to a girl with long, red hair. She’s new this year—in fifth grade like me—but I haven’t met her yet. Across the table is Cranky Steve. He’s in sixth grade, but he looks like he’s in college. And he hates me. We were in Friendship Group together last year too.
Steve flares his right nostril as I sit down. “Great, Hyper Hopper for another year.”
I’m not exactly happy to see him either. He’s in a constant bad mood.
I tap my fingers on the table like I’m the drummer for my favorite band, Cheap Plastic Part. I have to drum. I can’t stop myself. There’s a buzz in my body, pinging in a million directions, coming out my fingertips.
Cranky Steve reaches over the table and grabs my hands. “Knock. It. Off. I swear. Another year of your table drumming, and I might have to kill you.”
I slowly pull my hands away.
The girl next to me scowls at Steve and smiles at me. “I think you have good rhythm.”
I look at her and squint. “Thanks?” Most people who can hear pretty much hate my drumming.
“I can do the spoons pretty good,” she says.
“Spoons?”
“You know, you put them back to back, then bang on your knee. Spoons,” she says. “We could form a band.”
Cranky Steve looks at her. “Why are you here? I’ve seen you around. Thought you were normal.”
The girl doesn’t answer right away. She chews her lip and looks at the posters around the room. Finally she says, “Anger issues. I punched a girl, and apparently, that’s not allowed at this school.”
Steve raises his eyebrows like this girl might be his new favorite person, but I can’t figure out if she’s serious. Before I can ask, Ms. Molly walks in. She was the Friendship Group leader last year too. She has a really nice smile, but she looks barely older than Cranky Steve.
“Welcome to this year’s Friendship Group!” she greets us, sitting down at the head of the table. “We’re going to be meeting on Fridays during first recess, but I want to introduce everyone today. Let’s go around the room. Tell us your name, age, and grade, then tell us one true thing and one false thing about yourself. We’ll guess which is which.”
Ms. Molly claps her hands and rubs them together, like this might be the highlight of her day. She needs to get out more.
Evan goes first. He’s in sixth grade, loves Bigfoot, and stares at the table the whole time. His lie is that he saw Bigfoot in Yosemite last year. He glances up, and I can see his one wandering eye. Kids call him Stink Eye behind his back. Maybe to his face too, which isn’t nice.
Next is Cranky Steve. He cracks his neck and says, “I’d rather be in science class than here, this group is a waste of time, and I already have enough friends. You figure out the lie.”
Ms. Molly laughs nervously and quickly moves on to Marjorie without letting us reply.
Marjorie has short, dark hair that’s shaved up the back of her neck, and she mumbles. I have no idea what she says. She looks super afraid to be here, probably mostly because of the girl she’s sitting next to—the one with the red hair and apparent anger issues.
I kind of don’t blame Marjorie. The new girl sits with her hands clasped on the table, elbows splayed out, like she owns the room. She’s even chewing gum and not trying to hide it. She has a baseball cap on backward, and when she turns her head, I see that it’s a Red Sox cap.
Interesting.
When it’s her turn, she says, “I’m Lenora Pickering. I’m ten, in fifth grade. My dad and I just moved to Grannie’s, off Green Gulch Road, so we could help her with the farm. My mom was a famous ballet dancer, but she died when I was little.” She taps her finger against her lips. “Um… oh, I raise chickens, and I’m entering a brown one named Bobbie in the county fair.”
“I think the lie is that your mom died,” Evan suddenly blurts out.
“Evan!” Ms. Molly looks as horrified as I feel. Marjorie tenses, like she expects Lenora to punch Evan any second. I halfway wonder myself.
“I’m so sorry, Lenora. Group, do we think what Evan said to Lenora was an expected or unexpected behavior?”
“Expected or unexpected” are Ms. Molly’s favorite code words. It’s her way of teaching us to recognize when we do unusual stuff—stuff people think is more appropriate for a circus act or a cartoon character.
We all drone “un-ex-pected” and move on. I’m up next.
“My name’s Westin Hopper,” I start, bouncing my leg, which helps calm me a little. “People call me Hyper Hopper, but I don’t like it.” I look at Cranky Steve. “I’m eleven, and I’m in fifth grade because my birthday’s in August.”
“I’m eleven, but I’m in sixth grade,” Cranky Steve says. “Did you get held back?”
“We don’t interrupt, Steve. Let West finish.” Ms. Molly says firmly but still with a smile.
“At least stop shaking the table.” Steve makes a sour face.
I stop bouncing and pick up a rubber band that someone left on the table. My pinging buzz now comes out in elastic stretching.
“I love the Red Sox. And…” I’m supposed to come up with a lie, but it’s too irresistible. …I have a live T. rex in my room.”
Everyone laughs, even Ms. Molly. “That’s the lie!” Evan yells, way loud.
By mistake, I stretch the elastic too hard, and it zings right into poor Evan’s wandering eye.
“Ow!” His hand flies up.
“Shoot, I’m so sorry!” I shout.
“Great. Flick the kid with the bad eye.” Cranky Steve leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
Ms. Molly gets up and checks Evan’s eye, which seems okay because it still wanders off in the wrong direction. She picks the elastic off the ground and tucks it into her pocket.
“All good. Evan’s okay. West apologized. We’ll just stay away from those elastic bands.” She smooths her skirt and sits down. “Now, before our next meeting on Friday everyone has two tasks. The first—write a list of three things you’re good at and why, plus one thing that’s challenging and why, and turn it in to me. Then, before Friday, I want each of you to schedule a get-together with someone from this group for some time after school. I’ll give you a few minutes to sort it out.”
I cringe. I can’t have one of these bananas at my house. Obviously.
T. rex. In room.
If I’m going to have anyone over to see him, it’s gonna be the guys.
Marjorie turns to Lenora and says something softly, but Lenora’s back is turned, and she doesn’t seem to hear. Which is totally possible, give
n the whole mumbling thing.
Instead, Lenora tugs on my sleeve. “So, you like the Red Sox, huh?” She points to her hat, and I smile back. “Should we do this pointless get-together thing or what? You could come to the farm. Check out Bobbie the chicken. You know, meet her before she wins the fair and the fame goes to her head.”
“Um.” I tap on the table, and Cranky Steve glares at me.
“We have horses and stuff too.” She shrugs.
“Sure. But not today. There’s… something I gotta take care of.”
“Tomorrow?”
I grunt, and she smiles.
And that’s how I possibly make a new friend when I’m not looking.
MONDAY—AT RECESS
I complete the first Friendship Group task during recess.
What I’m good at:
Art, I guess. Because I like it, it’s fun, and Mr. Lowde says I’m good at it.
In class, when we have to write nice things about each other for Star of the Week, everyone writes, You’re good at art. One time Lacey Franklin wrote, You smell nice, but I seriously think she thought Josh was Star of the Week, because she couldn’t look at me for months.
Baseball. I hit five home runs the last season I played, and my batting average was .350.
I haven’t played in over a year, though. The coach said I had to take a break after I struck out and threw my bat so hard it hit Joseph in the face and broke his nose. I felt bad about that.
The third thing kind of stumps me. Not good at school. (Ha!) We probably can’t use video games as one of our things. I don’t skateboard (terrible at balancing), don’t play an instrument (can’t sit still through piano lessons), can’t play chess (totally do not get that game), and have never been skiing (that’s a disaster waiting to happen). So, I come up with this:
Friendship. Even though I do dumb stuff like spacing out and missing a pass that gives my friend a black eye and makes him kind of hate me. That doesn’t make me a bad friend.
At least I don’t think it does. I’m not sure why I’m in Friendship Group all the time, but anyway that’s okay. So, yeah, I’m good at friendship.
What I’m bad at:
Everything else.
MONDAY—AT LUNCH
“Quit shaking the table,” Snake says.
We’re sitting outside near the quad, eating lunch like most days. Our school is built around a grassy yard, and the classrooms open to the outside. Sometimes the guys eat at tables around the quad, sometimes on the field behind the quad, and sometimes on a grassy area by the basketball courts, which we nicknamed the Back Five.
Lately, because Snake’s mad at me, the guys—Josh, Snake, Alex, and Frankie—don’t tell me where they’re eating. It’s always a race to get my lunch and then figure out where they went.
Alex and Frankie look under the table to confirm that I’m the table shaker. Of course it’s me, bouncing like a superball, but I stop just in time.
Alex and Frankie are twins, but they don’t look alike and play-fight all the time. They’re Snake’s minions. They laugh at all his jokes, dress like him—down to the same brand of sport socks—and do whatever he says. So, I guess if Snake is mad at me, they are too. Which is pretty dopey if you ask me.
Snake is really popular this year. My feet still don’t reach the floor when I sit, but Snake has always been super tall, and he got even taller over the summer. Like he’s an anaconda now, instead of just a plain old snake. Even the fifth-grade PE uniform is getting too small on him. He has acne and armpit hair now too. And lots of girls have crushes on him. Gross.
I take a giant bite of my PB&J and think while I chew. I’m waiting until Josh gets to the table to tell everyone about the T. rex. I can’t stop thinking about it. After Friendship Group, I stopped in the office and asked Mrs. Sandbeam if there was any, like, out-of-the-ordinary news. Or anything. She told me to get to class.
But what if he escapes? What if he escapes and then grows super fast? I might have left my window open. If he climbs up my bookshelf, maybe his little T. rex arms could pry open the window, and he could squeeze out. It’s only a few feet down to the ground. What if he escapes, grows super fast, and eats everyone?
My leg starts jumping again.
“Whoever’s shaking the table, knock it off.” Snake stares at me. “Where’s Josh?”
“At the office. He’s coming,” Frankie says.
Someone lets a large one rip, and Alex howls.
“Nast-O. That was totally you, Frankie.” Alex aims his crust at his brother’s big head.
Frankie has a head the size of a pumpkin, and his face looks like a freckle-meteor crashed and broke apart on impact. Alex has a tiny head. I always picture Alex as one of those floppy, shaggy dogs with big, round glasses. Tripping his pumpkin-headed brother, seeds flying all over the place, as he smashes to the ground.
Ducking right, Frankie laughs and bats the crust away. It hits my face instead. Which is not awesome. Alex is eating bologna with mustard, and I can feel the mustardy crust stick to my cheek, then slide slowly down, leaving a gooey trail before it falls off.
The other guys erupt in wails of laughter. I wipe the mustard off with the back of my hand, then clean it off on my shorts. I laugh along with them—what else can I do?—and shake my leg more.
Frankie sticks his tongue out at his brother. “Nice throw, Alex.”
Alex shrugs. “I don’t know how I missed. Your head’s as huge as one of those monster trucks at Snake’s party yesterday.”
“That was the best party ever.” Frankie tosses a potato chip, and Snake catches it in his mouth. I feel like I have five thousand potato chips lodged in mine. What party?
“He’s right, Snake. That monster truck rally was killer.” Alex blows his stringy hair off his face and shovels pudding in his mouth.
Was this yesterday? Was this why no one could hang out? They were all at some monster truck thing for Snake’s birthday, chowing awesome chocolate cake, without me? I suddenly can’t eat anymore.
“Yesterday’s was waaaay better than last year’s rally,” Frankie says.
What is happening here? My mind is being blown all over the place.
“You guys went to a monster truck rally for Snake’s birthday last year too?” I ask.
Why didn’t I go? Last year Snake wasn’t mad at me. At least I don’t think he was. Was he?
Before the guys can answer, Josh comes up to the table.
“Move over and make room,” Snake says as Josh bends his wiry legs over the bench to sit down.
Josh and I have been friends since our moms met in a mommy’s group when we were babies. Our hair is the same brown color, and when we were little, people thought we were brothers. Which was cool. Josh is taller than me now, but skinny, like the pole of a basketball hoop.
“Dude, did you see when the Devastator did that slap wheelie? That was so amazing.” Alex high-fives Josh.
Everyone’s talking about the stupid trucks, like, “Yeah! Legendary! Rad! That was so baller.” Josh won’t even look at me. How come he didn’t tell me about Snake’s party?
“What’s a ‘slap wheelie’?” I ask. No one answers.
“How about when the Hulk did that jump!” Alex hops off the bench excitedly and almost knocks his glasses off his face with his own hand gestures.
“Geez, chillax.” Snake leans away from him. “I almost spilled my drink.”
Alex quickly sits back down.
“Nimrod.” Frankie laughs.
“That truck is like ten thousand million pounds,” Josh says.
“Is it green? Is that why they call it the Hulk?” I ask.
“Duh,” Snake says.
“I can’t believe it made that jump!” Josh pretends to launch his sandwich off his lunch bag, flying it through the air—whoosh!
“I know, right? I t
otally thought it would land in the water,” Frankie says. “Kersplunk!”
“Moron,” Alex says. “It had tons of room to land.”
Frankie kicks at Alex under the table.
I sink my teeth into my PB&J, even though I mostly feel like I want to puke. “Happy birthday, Snake,” I say with my mouth full.
The whole table goes quiet. Josh pretends to find something interesting on the ground to look at. Alex nudges Frankie, and they snicker under their breath.
I swallow past the pit in my tummy. Why didn’t you invite me? I want to scream. But no words come out.
Snake shrugs. “Thanks.” He wads his lunch trash up. “This table shaking is freaking insane. Let’s get out of here. Hoops time!” He stands, followed like robots by Josh, Alex, and Frankie.
“Yeah, man. Don’t know why we put up with table shaking anyway,” Alex says as they walk off.
“I don’t know why we put up with your face, Alex.” Frankie laughs.
“Oh, good one!” Josh high-fives Frankie as Alex tries to hip-check him from behind.
I stay and finish my lunch. I don’t want to shoot hoops with them. Or see monster trucks crush cars. Who needs a truck to crush a car anyway? I have a T. rex. Maybe the first car he crushes will be Snake’s.
MONDAY—AFTER SCHOOL
I sit in carpool, my knee bouncing, in the back seat with Macy McGee and Nicole King. They play Rock Paper Scissors, and the one who loses has to sit next to me. Thankfully they never talk to me and mostly pretend I’m not even in the car—unless it’s to whine at me for wriggling or tapping my knees. “Quit it. So annoying.”
The whole day was torture and mostly felt like there was a pack of lemurs in my belly, slipping and rolling around. I didn’t stay for my detention, so tomorrow Mr. Widelot will probably find some way to humiliate me. Maybe make me stand in front of the class wearing one of his dumb shirts.
Before we get to my street, Josh replies to my message from yesterday. Guess he was too busy with Snake’s party to text.
J: What did you find at Gram’s?
Trouble with a Tiny t Page 4