“You’re pretty cool too, Thor. But you don’t have to worry about me.”
“Is my lady among these ogres’ enemies?” He raises his mallet. “I shall have to bring them to their knees if they harm her.”
Guess it’s not me he’s worried about, after all.
“They’re not enemies. And you don’t have to worry about Lenora. She can take care of herself.”
“Shall we go one more course with the great dragon, then?” Thor begins to mount T.
Before I can answer, T falls to his front and then flops to his side, panting. I kneel beside him, and Thor climbs onto his belly.
“What’s wrong with him?” I place my hand on T’s chest. His breathing is fast, and I can feel his T. rex heart beating wildly. Not in a rhythm—more like a ball bouncing off walls.
“He spent the morning on his side, breathing like this,” Thor replies. “After I fed him, he rose. However, I fear your flat, red meat may not be enough to sustain him. Alas, Mjolnir struck to the cranium ofttimes brings many a beast to its demise.”
My own heart beats faster. Poor guy. Thwacked on the head too many times and he needs more food. I grab my blue fleece blanket with the white baseballs and one of my sweatshirts and make a little T. rex bed for him on the floor.
“You guys don’t have to sleep in the closet anymore. Now that I know he won’t kill me.” I pat T’s head. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m going to bring you dinner. I bet you’d love cat food. Right, Fiddles? Hang in there, T.”
Thor and the men curl up next to T.
“Or… maybe you want to go home now?” I’d die to keep T. Especially since he’s turning out to be the coolest T. rex in the world. But he’s growing and needs real T. rex food—whatever that is. I sort of don’t want to know.
I pull the wooden box from my backpack, carry it over to Tiny T, and drop the magic pouch down by his side. Just in case he decides to go back in—somehow. Even though he’s now about fifteen thousand times bigger than the pouch.
But he doesn’t move.
“I have to go eat my dinner. Then I’ll bring food.”
“We shall stay with your dragon, ogre,” Thor says.
“Thanks.”
Fiddles jumps off the bookshelf and swaggers over to where T lays on the blanket. She curls herself up into the nook of his belly and starts to lick her tail. It’s so cute. I wish I could show someone. That’s the worst part of having friends who are mad at you. I have this totally awesome thing, and no one to share it with.
FRIDAY
When I wake in the morning, T is still curled up on his little blanket on the floor at the foot of my bed. Thor is huddled by his belly, still sleeping, while the army men stand guard.
Fiddles scratches at my door to be let out, so I put her collar back on and open the door. Then I slip the magic pouch back into the wooden box and into my backpack. Today I’m going to prove to Josh and Snake that I’m not making this stuff up.
I tiptoe out and, when Mom isn’t looking, stock up on more cat food, leftover meatloaf, and water for T’s bowl. Thor and Tiny T don’t wake before I leave. I guess the big night of obstacle course racing wore everyone out.
At school, Lenora hops out of her dad’s truck, and I run over to her. She’s wearing a Giants cap, and it stops me in my tracks. The Giants?
She pushes past me without even looking.
“Lenora?”
She keeps walking. “Hey, Alicia! Wait up!”
“Come on, Lenora!” I say.
She picks up her pace.
I chase after her until I’m close enough to whisper, “The T. rex is tamed. Thor can ride him now. I have video.”
“Don’t care.” Lenora catches up to Alicia and says something into her ear, making Alicia laugh.
I stand there and watch them run off as the first bell rings. Lenora’s so mad she’s done the unthinkable—gone over to the Barbie side.
When I run into class, Mr. Widelot stares me down. I can’t even begin to decipher today’s shirt.
Shut Your ∏ Hole
I can feel his eyes on me as I zip to my seat. It’s creepy that he still hasn’t said a thing about me not showing up for detention four days straight.
Mr. Widelot claps his hands. “Okay, mathletes, today is Friday. You all know what that means.” He glances at his desk and the large basket filled with colorfully wrapped candy that will never enter my mouth.
“Candy Friday!” everyone yells.
“That’s right, Candy Friday. Are we ready to tally the points?”
“Yeah!”
I take a deep breath. This will go one of two ways, and both are usually disappointing.
“Let’s see. On Monday, things went well until a student got detention. So that’s six out of seven points. Not bad.”
The class claps. I don’t. He mentioned the detention.
“Then Tuesday,” Mr. Widelot continues. “As a class, you earned a full seven points. Congratulations. But that student never showed up for Monday’s detention, so that’s minus a point.”
So that’s how he’s going to play this. This whole time he was just waiting to see if I’d show.
“Can anyone tell me how many points we have now?” Mr. Widelot asks.
Nicole shoots up her hand. “Twelve out of thirty-five total, with a minimum of twenty-five necessary for candy.”
“Thank you, Nicole. So, Wednesday. Wednesday was an extremely unfortunate day, and we don’t need to dwell on the reason why. Needless to say, a poor choice was made in tech class, which resulted in only three points that day. Nicole?”
I sigh as we enter extremely familiar territory where candy does not appear.
Nicole turns to me and twists her mouth. “A total of fifteen points.”
“And unfortunately, the student who received detention did not show up on Tuesday either,” Mr. Widelot says. “Minus another point.”
I slump a little lower in my desk.
“Fourteen points,” Nicole says glumly.
“Thursday,” Mr. Widelot says. “The class behaved… interestingly. The alarm set off by Mr. Hopper cost a point. And the screaming fit at the end—I’m not sure what that was, so we’ll just leave it alone. I’ll give you six for the day.”
The class moans. But let’s be real—that could’ve gone much worse.
“Unfortunately, the student missed detention again on Wednesday. So even though the class had six points for yesterday, I am afraid you can only keep five.”
I don’t know why he keeps saying student. Everyone knows it’s me. If the stares of my classmates could burn my clothes to a crisp, I’d already be naked.
“Nineteen total,” Nicole says.
“So how many do we need today?” Mr. Widelot asks. “Westin?”
“Six.” I groan. “Six points to get to twenty-five.”
“And did the student come to detention yesterday?”
My shoulders slump. “No.”
The class grumbles.
“So six is the maximum we can possibly get,” Nicole calculates. “Since we already lost a point because—ahem—someone forgot to go to detention. Again.”
Mr. Widelot nods. “That is correct. Everyone needs to be on their best behavior for class today. There is no room for error. Shall we begin?”
Nicole sits up straight and readies her pencil. Mr. Widelot starts droning on about adding one-half to three-fourths.
I doodle in my notebook: a picture of Thor sitting on my shoulder while we walk T on a leash through the park. As I draw, I think. Lenora has no right to be mad at me. I met her five days ago, and she expects me to resurrect her mom? When she knows it might not even work? That’s a lot to ask of a brand-new friend.
Plus, that stuff she said. First, she points out all my positive qualities, and then she takes it all away. Your
brain is you. That wasn’t nice. Maybe she wasn’t a real friend. Maybe she just liked me for my magic.
I look at the back of Snake’s head three seats away. While Mr. Widelot faces the board, Snake flicks a folded paper football through Josh’s finger upright two rows over. It misses by a mile, and the football lands on the floor by my foot.
I lean down to grab it, but Mr. Widelot turns around at that exact moment. His gaze zooms straight to the paper triangle in my hand. “Mr. Hopper? A paper football?”
I glance at Josh. His eyes are pleading for me to keep quiet, and I’m torn. Do I tell the truth, that it belongs to Snake? Telling on them will only make my life ten thousand times worse. Not telling on them could make things better. Show that I’m one of them.
“It’s not mine,” I say. “I was just picking it up.”
Mr. Widelot takes a step toward my desk. “Whose is it, then?”
No one moves. The plan for a late-morning sugar high just went south.
“Well?”
Me? Why me? Why won’t someone else just yell out, “Snake did it!” and save me?
I hunch both shoulders.
Mr. Widelot exhales loudly. “Westin, I’m at a loss. I can’t have the constant distractions. I think you should go to the office for the rest of class.”
“But it wasn’t me!”
I look over at Josh, wishing he’d defend me. But he and Snake just slump down in their seats.
Mr. Widelot nods to the door. “Come on. And no candy this week. Sorry, kids.”
The class moans. “Hyper Hopper blows it again,” Nicole mutters.
I grab my backpack and try to make eye contact with Josh as I leave. He looks away, and I slam the door behind me. I’m starting to wonder if the code is a bad idea—a house-smashing robot sounds pretty good right now.
In the office, I crash down on the hard wooden bench at the Wall of Shame. This bench should have a metal plate with my name on it:
In honor of Westin Scott Hopper. Because his butt warms it at least once a week.
I swing my legs back and forth, the rubber from my sneakers squeaking against the floor as they brush past and come to a stop. Screech. Thwamp. Screech. Thwamp.
Mrs. Sandbeam, the office assistant, raises an eyebrow. “Stop squeaking, West. You’re giving me a headache.”
I pull out my sketchpad and flip through the pages until I come to a blank one. Some of the pages are tearing away from the metal rings because I don’t always close the sketchbook when I’m done. The fire monster that I finished at Gram’s slips off and flutters to the floor, landing at Mrs. Sandbeam’s feet. She picks it up.
“Where did you get this?” she asks.
I stand up and take the drawing from her. “No place.” I put it on top of my sketchbook.
“I love his giant eyes. And these flames. It’s really good. Did you draw that?”
I shrug.
“You’re very talented.” Mrs. Sandbeam says it like she’s surprised.
Just then the class bell rings, signaling first recess. It’s Friday, which can only mean one thing: It’s Friendship Group time.
Time to face Lenora.
FRIDAY—FIRST RECESS
“What does it mean to be a friend, Steve?” Ms. Molly stands by the whiteboard in the counseling room, ready to write down the incredible words of middle-school wisdom we blurt out.
Lenora sits next to me, not by choice, but because it was the only open seat when she came in. She won’t look at me, and she’s biting her upper lip so hard I’m worried she might leave permanent teeth marks.
Cranky Steve starts his response with his usual eye roll, as if we need a reminder that he doesn’t want to be here. “It means you let me go first on Xbox, you let me win, you give me the cookies in your lunch, and you let me copy your homework.”
Ms. Molly holds her dry erase marker inches from the board but doesn’t write down what he says. Steve has managed to throw Ms. Molly off her game in a record thirty seconds. She caps the marker and taps it against her left palm.
“Okay. Sharing. I think that’s what Steve means. Being a friend means sharing meaningful things with someone.” She uncaps the marker and writes SHARING in big, blue letters on the board. “Marjorie? What does it mean to be a friend?”
Marjorie darts her eyes side to side. She pulls at her lip and talks in a whispery whine. “Um… sort of… well… places, like… or sometimes…”
“You’re mumbling,” Cranky Steve says.
Ms. Molly caps the marker again. “Okay. This is a good example of expected and unexpected. Now, who can tell me what Marjorie did that was unexpected?”
Evan’s hand flies up, and he waves it wildly while cupping his armpit with his other hand. But Cranky Steve beats him to it. “She’s mumbling. Like I said. No one can understand her.”
Evan lowers his hand and makes a pouty face.
“Steve, it’s polite to wait until you’re called on,” Ms. Molly says. “Evan, you had your hand up?”
Evan looks surprised. “Yeah, but… what Steve said. That’s what I was going to say. Also, I was going to say that tomorrow me ’n’ Dad are going to look for Bigfoot in the Mistral Mill Gorge because I helped him clean out his car, which was dirty because Sasquatch—that’s our dog—rolled in a mud pile after it rained, and he jumped onto Dad’s black leather seats, so if we find Bigfoot and he’s muddy Dad said he can’t sit on his leath—”
“Oh dear.” Ms. Molly, who’s been standing there with her jaw dropped like the rest of us, finally interrupts him. “Evan, you’ve gone a bit off-topic. Now, where were we?”
“Mumbling.” Lenora’s leaning back in her chair, balancing only on the back legs. Probably so she can get farther away from me.
“Yes, Marjorie’s unexpected behavior. And what was Steven’s unexpected behavior?”
“Yelling out!” Evan yells out.
“You mean like you just did, dorkface?” Steve asks.
Ms. Molly puts her hands on her hips. I wonder if she gets paid extra for this. “Steve, we do not call each other names in Friendship Group.”
“Shouldn’t we not call each other names anywhere?” Lenora points out.
“Of course. You’re right, Lenora.” Ms. Molly exhales. “Now, Marjorie, would you like to finish saying what it means to be a friend?”
Marjorie pulls at her fingers, shaking her head no. Who can blame her?
“Fine, we’ll move along. Lenora?”
Lenora comes forward in her chair, landing the front legs softly on the linoleum. She taps a paper clip on the table while she thinks.
“Friendship. I think it means sacrifice. Like, you’re willing to do something for someone, even if it’s scary and uncomfortable, because your friend really needs it. Even if it breaks your dopey code.” Lenora looks at me the whole time she’s talking, and her eyes drill into my face.
“Why are you staring at Hyper like that? Creepy,” Steve says.
Ms. Molly writes SACRIFICE on the board. “That’s good. West, can you add to this list?”
I cock my head and stare right back at Lenora. Two can play at this game.
“I think being a friend means putting yourself in their shoes. Trying to understand them. Even if you don’t like the way they can’t stop bouncing their knee or making noises.”
This causes Ms. Molly to flash her piano-key-sized teeth. “Very good, Westin. Understanding.”
“Why should I understand someone who’s not willing to sacrifice for me?” Lenora crosses her arms.
I cross mine back. “Because maybe this one time, Vacation Brain has flown home and is making the right decision. Maybe what you think is a fair ask is actually wrong and something you’d be totally bummed about if it actually happened. Not to mention it could get us both in a pile of trouble with a capital T—when one of us is already
in a pile of trouble.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” Lenora snaps.
“Fine, it’s my fault. Like you said yesterday. Oh, yeah, that was really nice, by the way. You pointed out all my positive qualities, then took it back and told me how bad my brain is, just like everyone else does. Maybe I am curious and adventurous and a creative thinker. And I also have Vacation Brain.”
Lenora is momentarily stumped. She pulls apart the paper clip and won’t look at me.
“Is there something you and Lenora would like to share with the group?” Ms. Molly tilts her head.
“I know you want her back,” I continue, ignoring Ms. Molly. “And I’m sorry. I really am. But it wouldn’t even be her. It’s wrong, and you know it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Lenora grumbles. “You have two parents. Ones you’ve known your whole life.”
“Oh, sure, I know them. I know my dad never has time to talk to me, even on the phone. I know he’s always disappointed in me. And I know he’d rather be with his girlfriend. At least your dad is interested in your life and trying to help you make friends. He even moved you to a cool farm for the fresh air.”
“Are you joking?” Lenora’s face gets as red as her hair. “‘Cool farm’? Where your pets get murdered? At least you get to live in the house you grew up in!” she shouts.
“Not for long.” I throw my hands up. “My dad doesn’t give Mom enough money, so we have to move. And they’re fighting over which new school to send me to, and I don’t want to go to either one.”
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on with you two?” Ms. Molly asks.
Cranky Steve’s eyes are wide, like he wishes he had popcorn to go with the show. Marjorie and Evan are about ready to crawl under the table.
I suck in a hard breath, feeling sweat trickle down the back of my neck. Lenora turns slightly away from me.
Ms. Molly chews on the end of her marker, probably thanking her lucky stars it’s Friday. “Okay, then.” She uncaps her marker and writes UNDERSTANDING on the board.
I understand all right. I understand that if I’m going to sacrifice and share my magic, it certainly won’t be by creating a six-inch zombie mom for a bossy, red-headed chicken farmer who bats her eyelashes at the first tiny, muscled Norse god to look her way.
Trouble with a Tiny t Page 14