Monday morning rolls around faster than I expect. As soon as I wake up, my mind recaps all the reasons going to school stinks—failing grades, too many absences, the upcoming play, my extreme stage fright, my new nickname, and my math book. All of it tumbles around my brain like clothes in a dryer, and before I even set one toe on my bedroom floor, I feel sick.
My head hums, my body randomly aches, and my stomach rolls.
I find the thermometer and take my temperature. When it reads normal, I’m utterly shocked.
I wander into the kitchen holding my stomach.
Mom’s at the table with a cup of coffee. She takes one look at me and says, “You’re going to have to power through, honey. Dad told me about your meeting with Principal Huxx. No more sick days.”
“But I could infect people. I think I have a stomach virus.” I stick a Pop-Tart in the toaster.
Mom raises her eyebrows.
“What? It’s my comfort food.” I go to her and lean down so she can feel my head.
She half-heartedly puts her hand on my forehead. “All good.”
I scowl at her. I don’t trust her assessment. Her fingers barely grazed my skin.
Mom takes a sip of coffee. “Do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you?”
It’s not easy to share my worries, even with Mom. No one sees the world the way I do, and people always dismiss my concerns in an attempt to make me feel better. It doesn’t work. It just makes it hard for me to be honest.
I put my Pop-Tart on a plate and sit down. All weekend, I tried to formulate the best argument for homeschooling and looked for the perfect opportunity to talk to Mom as a last-ditch effort to save myself from having to go back to school. I could never find either and time’s run out. “I’ve been thinking, now is the perfect time to homeschool. Having Butter with us is a unique experience. Animal husbandry is practically a lost art. Now that Dad’s home, he could manage my learning and you could leave to go to your landscaping—”
Mom interrupts me. “Dad won’t be able to stay home permanently right now. You know that.”
I do, but I’ve been secretly hoping something had changed. I let the reminder of his impending departure uncomfortably settle for a minute, and then forge ahead. “I’ve been having all these attendance issues, and if I was homeschooled—”
Mom interrupts me again. “Your solution for too many absences is to stop going to school altogether?”
I feel like Mom is intentionally misunderstanding me. “No. I’m just saying, you wouldn’t have to stay home with me. You could still go anywhere you wanted, and I could do my learning online. I mean everyone says homeschoolers are the most interesting people. Didn’t some kid write a novel—”
Mom interrupts me a third time. I thought she wanted me to talk.
“We don’t send you to school because we think you need babysitting. We send you to school because we value the education you get there.”
“Well, that’s a good point. Am I getting a good education? The spring semester is mostly focused on the play, which feels … unbalanced. What about math and science?”
She puts her hand on mine. “I know you’re nervous about the play, but try to look at it as an opportunity. A do-over.”
Exactly what I don’t need—a chance to make a fool out of myself, AGAIN. “If I mess up the play, which is pretty much guaranteed after the other day, I’m going to fail sixth grade. Mom, I can’t …”
I abruptly stop speaking as a lump forms in my throat and a vision of Addie, Theo, Mercedes, and Jamie moving up to seventh grade while I stay behind in sixth plays out in my head. Because of the way my school, Bayside Academy, is set up, I’d see them constantly even though I’d be held back. Every time I passed them in the hall, I’d be reminded that I failed. Worse, they’d know I flunked. A knot twists in the pit of my stomach. “That would be awful.”
She squeezes my hand and holds it. “You’re a good student. Dad and I have faith in you.”
At the mention of Dad, the desire to not let him down presses against me. I drop my head and stare at my half-eaten Pop-Tart.
“You can do it. And you and Addie have started hanging out. Don’t you want to go to school to see her?”
I don’t want to go to school for any reason. I look at Mom. “We went to the pet store together once, and I’m pretty sure that’s because she likes Butter.” I knew Mom had her hopes up. She needs to adjust her expectations accordingly. I have. My outing with Addie might be a one-hit wonder.
Mom gives my hand a final squeeze, wrapping up the conversation. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
I roll my eyes. She’s such a mom.
“Go get ready. I’ll drop you at school today.” Mom dumps the rest of her coffee in the sink.
My stomach still hurts, but I get ready despite the aching. Before leaving my room, I crawl under my bed and retrieve my mangled math book. It looks like it’s been attacked by a lawn mower. I blow dust off it and shove it into my backpack, hoping whatever lesson is on the page Butter ate never gets taught. Then I go outside to check on her.
Butter’s enclosure is perfect. It’s cozy and secure. She seems to love it.
I give her some fresh hay and water, glad she doesn’t have to scrounge around in trash cans for food anymore. Her life, at least, is better, and that gives me something to hang on to as I head back to the most miserable place on earth.
Mom honks the horn.
I hug Butter around her neck. Her fur tickles my face and prickles my arms. For a split second, I forget my hurting stomach and the reasons for it as my senses fill with the scent of hay and the warmth of her against my skin. “I’ll come home right after school, and we’ll go for a walk.”
Butter nibbles at my ear.
I rub between her ungrown horns.
Mom honks again.
I reluctantly say goodbye to Butter.
As I walk away, she bleats and bleats, hurting my heart. I know exactly how she feels; I don’t want to leave her either. Everything feels better when I’m with her.
I grudgingly get in the car and buckle up for a miserable journey.
Mom backs her Prius out of the driveway and steers it toward school. The knot in my stomach expands as we close the gap between home and school. I calculate how much time there is between now and the play—five weeks. I’m not going to be able to keep this up that long.
“Are you sure I have to go?” I ask when I see Bayside Academy come into view. I don’t even try to make my voice sound sad and pathetic; it just does.
“You do, honey,” Mom says simply, and pulls into the car line. She creeps along until we’re at the front of it.
I grab my backpack and give Mom one last forlorn look.
“You got this!” she says encouragingly.
I groan and push open the door. As I step out, she says, “Mr. J organized a friendship group for you. You meet today at lunch.”
“What?” I stand on the sidewalk but refuse to shut the car door to keep her from driving away.
“A friendship group. You’ve done them before. Mr. J suggested another one. It sounded like a good idea, so I signed the paperwork.” She smiles as if she’s not out to get me.
“Mom! Are you kidding me?” A car behind us honks. (What is it with these suburban parents? Noise pollution is as bad as air pollution, just ask the poor whales tormented by oceanic shipping noise.)
Mom leans over to pull the door closed and says, “Try to be open-minded, honey. New day, fresh start,” and slams it.
Wow, Mom. Just wow.
I watch her drive away with the hopeless desperation of a sailor marooned on a deserted island. When she finally fades out of sight, I head into school.
I weave through the halls, making my way to class. I have social studies first period, but one of the weird things about my middle school is the schedule. It rotates. Some days, we start with first period and other days we end with it. Sometimes third period is after lunch and fifth period is before. O
ther days, it’s flip-flopped. The only dependable thing about the schedule is that it’s different every day. It’s very weird and causes me a lot of stress. I constantly worry I’m going to mess up and go to the wrong class at the wrong time. Both my math and science teachers have sixth- through eighth-grade classes and my biggest fear is that I’ll stumble into a classroom full of eighth graders by mistake. That’s why, at almost the end of the year, I’m still hanging on to my worn-out schedule like a life preserver.
I pause outside my math class door and pull out my schedule just to make sure I actually do have the class I think I do. I smooth the creases so I can read the writing and run my finger down the list of my classes. Yep, as I suspected, math’s first.
“Yo, Frosty. Still lost in May?”
I look up and see Jamie’s brother, Matt, and an entire squad of eighth graders behind him. “What?” I say stupidly. Curse Jamie and his stupid nickname for me.
“Still lost in May, Frosty?” he repeats, as if my what was an invitation to repeat his words instead of a declaration of disbelief at his comment.
Someone behind him says, “No way, man. That’s Frosty, the girl who froze onstage?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, laughing.
“Best assembly ever!” The kid whips out his phone and scrolls. “Check out this text chain. Someone caught Huxx carrying her offstage on video …”
Holy smokes! Heat shoots through my entire body, making my face turn scarlet.
He says more, but I don’t hear it because I shove open my math class door and tumble inside. Good grief. I’ll never be able to walk down the halls without being laughed at now that I’m on an EIGHTH-GRADE TEXT CHAIN. That’s literally my worst of worst-case scenarios.
I put my head on my desk, trying to hide from the world. I will myself to not sob. I’ll never make it through the last twenty-five days of school if I start crying now.
My math teacher, Mrs. Spikes, walks in and unceremoniously gets started. “Eyes up, ears on, books open. Page two hundred and forty-three, everyone.”
I drag my head up because getting in trouble for keeping it down would be way worse and pull out my math book. I flip through it. I have pages 242 and 245, but no page 243 or 244. That’s the one Butter ate, so I can’t follow along with the lesson or do the homework that’s sure to be assigned.
I sigh and settle in for an absolutely fabulous day at school.
During lunchtime, I reluctantly go to Mr. J’s office for the friendship group as ordered.
Friendship group sounds so innocent and so friendly, but it’s a sham. First off, friendship groups are for little kids—kindergartners through fourth graders. NOT middle schoolers. Second off, it’s a setup. Groups are organized to help one kid (we all know in this case it’s me) become more socially acceptable. Usually, they take four kids from different, carefully curated social statuses and have them meet once a week. The adults have high hopes for these groups and the best of intentions—more empathy for one another and new, exciting budding friendships, but it NEVER EVER works that way. I know. I’m a bit of an expert. I’ve participated in several.
“Welcome, Marvel! Come on in.” Mr. J holds his door open.
I settle into my favorite chair. I don’t mind talking to Mr. J. In fact, I like it, but I’m resentful about this group. I need less peer-to-peer interaction, not more.
“We have a few minutes before everyone gets here. How are you feeling about things? I know the last few days have been rough.” Mr. J is one of the only people who asks me questions about how I’m feeling. Most other people like to tell me how I’m feeling or how to fix what I’m feeling.
I pick up one of the fidgets Mr. J strategically places around his office and play with it. I consider telling him about the eighth-grade text chain and my new nickname, but I decide against it. Tattling might make the teasing worse, so I tell him part of what’s bothering me. “I’m really worried about the play and freezing up again.”
Mr. J nods. “I’m sorry you’re feeling that way.” That’s another great thing about Mr. J; he never tries to fix me. He just listens. He pauses for a moment and lets the silence sit between us.
I half-heartedly manipulate the fidget, sifting through my thoughts. None of them are very comforting until I land on an image of Butter in her enclosure. I can’t wait to get home to see her.
He glances up at the clock. “The other students will be here in a second, but let me know if there’s some way I can support you at school.”
“Thanks.” I’m probably going to need to take him up on that offer because I’m not sure how I’m going to manage the next five weeks on my own.
Someone knocks on Mr. J’s door even though it’s open.
“Welcome!” Mr. J says. “Come in! Come in!”
Kiera and Kylie, two girls from my grade who look oddly similar, grab chairs and sit down. We all know the drill.
Our school loves these groups. The typical mixture is one kind-hearted, gentle soul (me); two medium-hearted, popular kids (Kiera and Kylie); and one other kid (TBD). They call it a friendship group, but the goal is social skills for the outliers. Friendship groups are like reading levels. The grown-ups can call it whatever they want; us kids know the truth.
In unison, Kiera and Kylie say, “Hi, Marvel.”
I wave at them. I don’t mind Kiera and Kylie, but we don’t have much in common. They’re majorly into boy bands, lip gloss, and matching outfits, but differences make the world interesting, so I don’t hold it against them.
We stare at one another for a few minutes while we wait for our fourth person. I can tell Kiera and Kylie don’t want to be missing out on the great things that happen during lunch for people like them. They keep wistfully glancing at the door as if wishing for escape and don’t talk. My embarrassment at being the reason they’re stuck here grows like a weed, getting thicker and thicker with the lengthening silence.
Just when it starts to get so weirdly awkward it’s almost unbearable, my worst nightmare joins us.
Jamie shoves open the door and stomps in like he owns the place. “What’s up, Frosty?”
I wince and glare at him. You’ve got to be kidding me. Out of all the people in the sixth grade to invite to my friendship group, they somehow landed on my bully and thought, Pick him.
“Jamie, we talked about safe spaces,” Mr. J says kindly.
Jamie spies a beanbag and plops into it. He sinks all the way down, hitting the floor. “Whoa.”
I feel smug. The beanbag is the worst place to sit. It looks comfy, but the beans are so beaten down by overuse there’s no poof left. If Jamie wasn’t such a meanie, I would have warned him.
Mr. J motions to a chair. “Feel free to move, if that would be more comfortable.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Jamie says, playing it cool.
I roll my eyes. Ridiculous.
“Marvel, safe spaces.” Mr. J says.
Me? I’m queen of safe spaces.
“I think you’ve all been in a friendship group before, but just in case you don’t remember the basics. There’s no goal. We simply carve out this time for you four to hang out, play a board game, chat … really just relax in a safe space for the twenty minutes we’ve set aside. And because this is about you all and not me, I’m just here to observe, occasionally facilitate, or answer questions.” Mr. J finishes his introduction, then leans back in his chair relaxed and thoughtful, letting us take the lead.
Kiera and Kylie stare at their Converse sneakers.
Jamie tries to find a comfortable position in the beanbag without being obvious.
I fiddle with the fidget and stare at Jamie.
But none of us talk.
After five minutes, I sigh. Loudly. This silence could go on forever. Mr. J’s tolerance for quiet is extraordinary, and the four of us have zippo in common.
As I watch Jamie struggle in the beanbag, I’m reminded of Sonny, the Newfoundland. Like Sonny, Jamie is overgrown. He’s definitely too big for that beanbag.
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Thinking about pets makes me long for Butter and the way I feel around her. She makes every situation happier and easier. Even calling her to mind eases my stress slightly and makes this horribly uncomfortable situation a tad more tolerable. If I had her physically with me, school might be bearable. Out of nowhere I blurt, “What do you think about therapy animals?”
“You mean like seeing eye dogs?” Kylie asks.
I shrug. “I was thinking more about comfort animals, but I’m not exactly sure of all the differences.”
Mr. J seems surprised by the sudden introduction of this topic. He’s probably stunned any subject has come up at all. He had to know this group was doomed from the start, but he doesn’t let it show for long. “I can help clarify. Emotional support animals and service animals are different. A service animal is a special designation for highly trained dogs and miniature horses. Emotional support animals can be any pet that brings their owner comfort.”
“Any pet?” I ask. “Even something unusual?”
“Technically, yes,” Mr. J says.
Jamie wiggles in the beanbag chair. “My dad says it’s a scam for people who want to sneak their dogs into grocery stores and take them on airplanes for free.”
“I don’t agree with that at all!” Kiera turns on Jamie, unusually passionate. “The lead singer of P.O.P. has an emotional support dog named Apple that he takes everywhere with him. He has a flying phobia and stage fright. Without Apple, we wouldn’t have his music.”
Now I get the connection.
“I love P.O.P. Did you know Apple has her own social media accounts?” Kylie asks.
“Of course.” Kiera hits Kylie on the leg like she’s suddenly been struck by brilliance. “Oh. My. Gosh. I have the best idea! Marvel should get an emotional support dog like Apple to help with her issues.”
The word issues hits me like a punch. It melts down my whole being, everything I am, to a single molecule—anxiety—and leaves nothing else. It makes me angry that everyone at school only notices the very worst part of me. I want things to be different—me to be different.
Better With Butter Page 9