Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  FOR MY HERD: CLARICE, WILLIAM, GAVIN, AND DAVID

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Cowardice 101

  2. Blank Slate

  3. Frozen

  4. Glowworm

  5. Soulmates

  6. Homecoming

  7. How Your Garden Grows

  8. Family Dynamics

  9. Plans

  10. Kerpow

  11. Cheerios

  12. Canine Encounters

  13. Lost Creature

  14. Marooned

  15. Friendship Group

  16. Self-Help

  17. My ESA

  18. Big Trouble

  19. Drama

  20. Leave It

  21. She Followed Me to School

  22. Test

  23. I Do Not Work with Animals

  24. Connections

  25. Last Straw

  26. Grandma Prisbrey

  27. Degrees of a Broken Heart

  28. Bravery 101

  29. Group

  30. Anything for Love

  31. Reunited

  32. The Show Must Go On

  33. Encore

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Spirit of Cattail County Teaser

  Copyright

  It’s not easy being a coward. In fact, it takes a lot of work to be afraid of everything. I have to always be on alert for things that might happen. Impending doom.

  Catastrophes like: terminal illness, food poisoning, global warming, famine, earthquakes (I live near San Francisco), rising sea levels, species extinction, and that big island of plastic floating through the ocean. I know how I sound. But spend five seconds on the Internet, and it’s all right there. For every tragic event I mentioned, there’s a story to prove it could happen or is happening—that floating plastic island is real.

  My parents say I’m too young for all these worries, but I can’t help it. My mind just goes there. It whirls like one of those miserable spinning rides at amusement parks (a ride I would never go on because all that turning could trigger incurable vertigo), whipping up every possible tragic outcome.

  Mom and Dad (and the school therapist) call my worries an anxiety disorder, but I call them armor. I mean, if something can happen, it will. That’s what Murphy’s Law is all about. (Google it. It’s terrifying.) I need to be prepared.

  Even when I’m not thinking of global, world-ending tragedies, I’m thinking of small worries—me-centric concerns. Things like: friends (not having any, having too many, losing the one I think I have), tests (especially math), flunking sixth grade, getting called on by the teacher, classroom presentations or (way worse) whole-school presentations, public humiliation (all kinds—unwanted crushes, wrong answers, tripping, falling … let your imagination run wild. I do).

  The school therapist says I have a generalized anxiety disorder. That means I’m a free-range worrier, like an organic chicken. I basically worry just to worry. I’m supposed to work on it—do deep breathing exercises, practice mindfulness, journal, make fact-based charts, and logically explore my fears. But honestly, I’m afraid to; I might discover more things to worry about.

  It’s like my mind leapfrogs from one stomach-dropping terror to the next. Though, right now, I’m most concerned about my Famous Californian presentation. It’s a BIG DEAL because it’s the start of our public speaking unit that ends in the grand finale—the sixth-grade play. A huge, showstopping extravaganza that everyone at school PLUS parents, grandparents, brothers, and sisters (and probably distant relatives) show up to see. They even record it and upload it to the Internet, where it can be viewed over and over and over again until the end of time. Can you imagine anything worse? Just thinking about it makes my insides squirm, and trust me, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Like … Every. Single. Second.

  But that horror is six weeks away. Today, I’m supposed to get up on the auditorium stage and pretend to be a famous Californian. That’s why I’m currently wearing a costume in the car as Mom drives me to school. Later today, I’ll march onto the stage with the rest of my class and stand frozen until the spotlight (a gigantic flashlight wielded by my teacher) hits me. When it does, that’s my signal to perform the speech I wrote and memorized. SOLO, with the WHOLE SCHOOL WATCHING.

  Everyone in my grade had to pick someone and participate. I chose Grandma Prisbrey, an old lady who built a village out of recycled garbage in the seventies before upcycling was cool, so I figured no one would care enough about my Californian to really pay attention to me. (If you’ve ever sat crisscross applesauce through a school presentation, you know how much mind wandering happens during the boring parts. My goal is to be so mind-numbingly dull that I’m practically invisible.)

  My costume is a baggy sweater, old jeans, and a gray wig. Not exactly an attention grabber. Grandma Prisbrey’s actually pretty cool once you read about her, but I know I won’t get the same oohs and aahs and head-snapping attention as Addie Lucas. She chose Mrs. Fields and got special permission to pass out homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  Mom turns into the school driveway and queues up behind the long row of cars. As Mom and I inch along in the car line, I rethink my original plan to survive this awful day. I thought I could handle it if I picked someone boring and forgettable (cue Grandma Prisbrey). Now I think I shouldn’t even go. My stomach has been hurting since we left the house, and I am practically positive I have a fever.

  “I don’t feel so well.” I let my voice sound groggy and weak.

  Mom gives me the look of suspicion. We both have hazel eyes, but hers are lighter than mine because she’s older and her pigmentation is flaking away. (In very rare cases, this causes blindness. Mom assures me this is not happening to her. I hope she’s right.) “You were fine five minutes ago.”

  “I wasn’t. I didn’t mention it because today is a big day. But I think I have a fever.”

  Mom puts her hand on my forehead. “Definitely not a fever.”

  I imagine standing onstage while everyone stares at me, and my stomach rolls. “I feel queasy.”

  Mom hits the breaks as the car in front of her stops to unload. It’s a minivan with a billion kids of different ages. My school, Bayside Academy, is of the K–8 variety, so siblings get stuck together for years.

  Mom uses the downtime to pull her brown hair into a ponytail and slap sunscreen on her arms. She’s a landscape designer. Mostly, she works from home, but sometimes she has to go to client sites. Today is one of those days, and she can’t be late. She stressed this several times before we left the house this morning. “You’re just nervous, honey. Once you get inside, you’ll be fine.”

  I give her the look of betrayal. Moms are supposed to want to care for their sick children.

  Mom tries to reason my fear away. “It’s simply your cortisol levels run awry. Your fight-or-flight hormones going haywire. Your anxiety making you think you feel sick.”

  I don’t think I feel sick. I do feel sick.

  “You spent a lot of time on that speech and practiced for days and days. It’s so good! You’re going to be amazing!” Mom uses her cheerleader voice, but her opinion doesn’t count. She’s my mom. She has to say stuff like that to me.

  We somehow manage to creep to the front of the car line in record time, and I start to panic. I really can’t go through with this Famous Californian presentation business.

  Principal Huxx is overseeing the car line, making sure drop-offs happen quickly and orderly. She used to run a tech company before she decided she needed a profession with meaning, so she likes her school to run extra efficiently. She pulls open the car door with her no-nonsense attitude, and Mom is visibly relieved. She has backup now.

  I try to c
atch Mom’s eyes. I need her to save me, but she’s ignoring me. It’s a game she and I play on rough days. She pretends not to notice my distress. I do my best to show her my anguish (often by holding my stomach and moaning a little). Sometimes she wins. Sometimes I do.

  Principal Huxx starts hauling my stuff out of the car, making my odds of victory slim. I’m not a fan of Principal Huxx.

  I shouldn’t have waited until we were already on the way to school to tell Mom I wasn’t feeling well. I should’ve told her at breakfast. It would have given me more time to convince her that my stomach really does hurt.

  Principal Huxx reaches for my wig, but I don’t let her have it, which I can tell bothers her. My reluctance to get out of the car is slowing down drop-off. My backpack is already sitting on the curb, waiting for me to collect it. “Prepared for your presentation?”

  I try to catch Mom’s eyes one last time before I leave the safety of the car, but she’s doing a frozen, straight-ahead stare to avoid my gaze while also answering Principal Huxx for me. “She’s Grandma Prisbrey. She’s been practicing her speech for days. She’s going to be great!”

  “I look forward to seeing Marvel live up to her potential,” Principal Huxx says, and my stomach flippity-flops with the pressure. Now I have to give my speech and impress her.

  A car behind us honks. The car line is for quick drop-offs. The honk is a friendly one, but the message is clear—move it or lose it.

  “Coming?” Principal Huxx asks me in a way that’s definitely not a question.

  I step onto the curb next to my backpack.

  She slams the car door and waves my mom forward.

  Finally, Mom looks at me through the rolled-up window. She gives me her biggest smile and two thumbs-ups. Then she speeds away, abandoning me to my doom.

  My classroom buzzes with excitement about the presentations. Honestly, I don’t get these kids. It’s like they don’t even see the potential problems. Anything could happen. We could get a bad grade, forget our speeches, blush too much, sweat uncontrollably, get laughed at, fall off the stage, or do some other terrible thing that is yet unknown.

  I try to deep breathe the panic away. It doesn’t work. I keep getting big whiffs of Addie’s chocolate chip cookies, which bring me back to my impending doom.

  Addie walks around with a tray, offering homemade baked goods to everyone. She really shouldn’t do that. She might run out before the presentations even start, but she looks blissful in her white dress and red apron. I wish I could be like her—relaxed and excited. I don’t like being the class worrywart. It’s just who I am. Taking my worries away would be like scrubbing the freckles off Addie’s face. It can’t be done.

  Before Addie has a chance to offer me a cookie, our teacher, Ms. Day, makes us line up at the classroom door. From this point, it’s just one long march to the stage.

  I’m really not feeling good now. It’s like a thousand tiny pins are jabbing at my insides. I want to ask my teacher if I can go to the office to call my mom, but I’m trapped between Theo (posing as Steven Spielberg) and Jamie (dressed up as Chet Baker, some dude who played the trumpet), and the line moves me along like a conveyor belt that doesn’t stop until we’re standing in the curtain wings of the auditorium stage.

  I feel hot and sick, but no one seems to notice. That’s the thing about anxiety. It happens in the head, and no one sees it. Sometimes I wish I had a broken arm or something. At least then people could see what’s wrong with me. They might even sign my cast or ask me how I’m feeling.

  Ms. Day walks down the line checking our placement, and my spirits rise. As soon as she gets to me, I’ll tell her I’m sick and need to leave. I fixate on Ms. Day like a cat tracking a mouse. She’s close, so I’m mere seconds away from rescue.

  While my head is turned toward her, Jamie (the most obnoxious kid at Bayside) blows his trumpet in my ear.

  I nearly jump out of my skin. I whip my head around and give him a death glare.

  He falls over laughing.

  I really don’t like that kid.

  I turn back toward Ms. Day. She’s already three kids down the line. Jamie’s little joke made me miss her, and I’ll never forgive him for it.

  I try to get Ms. Day’s attention by frantically waving my arms over my head, but she doesn’t see me. No one notices me at all, and before I can get out of there, the stage lights flicker.

  “Showtime, people! This is it!” Ms. Day shouts like we should be excited.

  Only, I’m not. I’m terrified—knee-knocking, heart-pounding fear. But I can’t escape. I have no choice but to suck it up and power through. Mom’s right. I’ve been practicing for weeks. I know my speech. I’ll just say it quickly, and it will be over. It’s thirty tiny seconds—not even a full minute. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. I shake my hands to release the jitters.

  Addie is leading the line. She moves forward.

  The rest of us follow, moving ahead with baby steps like a slow-motion conga line.

  As we shuffle past Ms. Day, she says, “Don’t forget to smile for the camera.”

  What? Camera? I tap Theo (one of the nicest kids at Bayside) on the shoulder as our line creeps along. “What does Ms. Day mean by camera?”

  He looks at me like I’m from Mars. “They’re going to record our speeches so we can review them together in class. She told us yesterday. Don’t you remember?”

  I shake my head like a gyroscope. I definitely do not remember that. Most likely, I was in the office with a stomachache when my teacher dropped that particular bomb. “I thought they only recorded the play?”

  Theo shrugs and moves forward with the line. “Some parent volunteered to do it, I guess.”

  I gape at him and stop moving. Kids pile up behind me.

  I’m not going out there. Cameras were never part of the deal.

  Jamie pokes me in the back. “Move.”

  “No.” I’m not letting them record me making a fool out of myself.

  As the front of the line continues to march onto the stage, a space begins to open up in front of me, but I don’t want to go forward. I want to go back. I turn around and try to go in the other direction. I’m a salmon swimming downstream while the rest of the school is swimming up.

  I plow into Jamie.

  He pushes me off him. “Knock it off, Marvel.”

  When did Jamie get so big? He’s a brick wall blocking my escape. “Stop it. Let me through.”

  “I can’t! There’re too many people behind me. Just walk, weirdo.” Instead of getting out of the way, he moves forward, pushing me toward the stage like a bulldozer.

  This kid has a serious problem. He needs to let me through. “Stop it, Jamie. Get out of my way,” I hiss at him.

  “Shut up, Marvel,” he hisses back. He sounds furious but the weird thing is he’s smiling. “Turn around, you freak.”

  I turn … and that’s when I see them—hundreds upon hundreds of beady kid eyes staring right at me.

  Holy moly. I’m onstage.

  The whole school is there. The front rows are filled with the little kids, the kindergartners and the lower school students—first through fifth grade. The back rows are filled with the upper school kids and the scariest of the bunch—the eighth graders.

  Around the perimeter of the room, the teachers stand watch like guards. I mean, it’s almost as if they expect someone up on stage to make a break for it, which isn’t entirely bananas because I just tried to run.

  I glance over at Jamie and glare. Me being out here is all his fault.

  He ignores me.

  One by one, kids head to the microphone to give their speeches.

  In the center of the aisle, there’s a camera so big someone must have stolen it from a movie set. It’s obviously recording because there’s a red light on top of it that I can’t stop staring at.

  Ms. Day stands next to the giant camera with her flashlight. Every thirty seconds, she turns it on and off as each new kid walks up to the mic to recite the
ir speech.

  I cannot believe this is happening.

  I don’t hear what anyone else says because I’m too busy wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans and trying to slow my heart down.

  I know I can’t do it. I can’t say my speech. No way, no how. I mean, jumping out of a plane would be easier, and I would never, ever do that, so this speech is definitely not going to happen.

  I can’t even stand on the stage for one more second, but there’s no escape. I’m trapped.

  I’m so freaked out I don’t hear anything that is happening around me. I don’t even realize Theo has given his speech and come back to his place in line until Jamie pokes me in the side. “You’re next.”

  I turn toward him with bulging eyes. “What?”

  “Go,” he says through gritted teeth, and pushes me.

  For crying out loud, what does that kid have against me? I stumble toward the microphone.

  Ms. Day flashes the light at me.

  I try to speak.

  I really do. Except I can’t get any words to come out. My mouth is a desert, so dry it won’t work, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t remember words anyway.

  I mean, no words at all. I’m a blank slate. The universe before the big bang.

  Ms. Day turns the flashlight off and back on again as if that’s the problem.

  She wants me to talk, but I can’t. I don’t know how.

  My heart takes off like a speed racer, and I start to breathe in short, rapid gulps.

  The quicker I breathe, the more air I need, but I can’t seem to get enough.

  That unknown bad thing I was worried about is happening, and I try to get myself under control so I can make it stop and get off this stage.

  I tell myself to take deep, slow breaths, but I’m a runaway cable car hurtling downhill.

  My head begins to feel woozy.

  My ears start to ring.

  My hands go numb.

  My legs turn to lead.

  And then my entire body freezes. Ceases to work. Refuses to function.

  I can’t move.

  I can’t speak.

  Not.

  One.

  Single.

  Word.