“Do you ever . . .” She breaks off, unsure how to go on. Do you ever not know who you are? is part of it. Also, Do you ever wish you were someone else? But those are hard things to say out loud, especially when your mom seems so comfortable with herself. When both your moms seem totally comfortable with themselves.
Sometimes Milla feels different from the other girls at school because of having two moms.
Sometimes Milla feels different from her two moms because of being . . . well, just a plain old normal girl, the sort who would rather be the same as everyone else than different.
“Do I what, honey?” Mom Abigail asks.
Milla jumps. She forgot she’d asked a question.
“Um . . . do you think I look okay?” She smoothes her black yoga pants and stands up tall so that her white top hangs right.
“You look beautiful,” Mom Abigail says. “You’re a beautiful girl, inside and out.”
Milla smiles unconvincingly, wishing it were true.
and everyone is squealing. The squeals make her feel like a pinball being bounced back and forth.
Modessa! You highlighted your hair—it looks adorable!!!
Do I have food in my teeth? For real, do I?
Oh. My. God. Been to Salvation Army recently, Katie-Rose?
My guinea pig had babies!!!!!
Don’t be mean. She has to wear it because of her religion.
Hold up! Wait for me!
Violet is bounced around by the squeals—pummeled, really—but no bright lights flash and no prize bells go ding ding ding! Why? Because none of the squeals is directed at her. Because she is un-squeal-worthy. She’s the new girl, and though she can feel people checking her out, not one person bothers to say “hello.”
Everybody here is so snobby.
“Can you, um, tell me where Mr. Emerson’s class is?” she asks a tiny Asian girl with pigtails. The last girl Violet asked ignored her. The last girl wore an insanely huge headgear, the newfangled kind that doesn’t go around the wearer’s head, but instead is held in place with a forehead brace and a chin brace. She looked like a medical experiment, that girl, but still she deemed Violet unworthy of a simple response.
Will this teeny pigtail girl in her bright yellow peasant blouse do the same?
“You’re in Mr. Emerson’s class?” the pigtail girl says. “Lucky!”
So Violet is visible. Her ribs open to let more air in. “Why?” she asks. “Is he nice?”
“Omigod, super nice. He’s missing an arm, though—just so you know.”
Violet blinks.
The pigtail girl waves it off like it’s no big deal. “Car accident. Really sad. Just don’t stare, and you’ll be good.” She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Katie-Rose. I’m in Ms. Perez’s class, blech. Not blech ‘cause of Ms. Perez. She’s actually super-nice, too. Blech because . . . well . . .”
Katie-Rose lets her sentence trickle off in a meaningful way, and Violet suspects she’s supposed to say, “What? Tell me!”
But Violet is stuck on the arm thing, which does seem like a big deal. Katie-Rose might think it’s not, but Katie-Rose still has two arms—one of which is hovering in front of Violet like a pale white fish. Violet shakes it, but as quickly as humanly possible. Since when do fifth graders shake hands?
“So . . . Mr. Emerson’s room?” she repeats.
“That way,” Katie-Rose says, gesturing exuberantly. She whacks a girl wearing a headscarf, who stumbles backward and crashes into a pretty blonde girl.
Both girls—headscarf girl and pretty blonde girl—go down. They go down hard.
It really is a pinball game, Violet thinks.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” the headscarf girl cries from her sprawled position.
A third, beanpole-ish girl—still standing and not sprawled on the floor—glares at headscarf girl. Then she directs her attention to the pretty blonde girl. “Milla,” she says, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” the blonde girl says, looking dazed. Her backpack has spilled open. Her stuff is all over the floor. People step over it, or try to. Some pause briefly. Some laugh. Some scrunch their foreheads with concern, or with relief that it wasn’t them.
“Nice, Spazaman,” Beanpole says to the girl in the headscarf. “I see you didn’t take coordination classes over the summer.”
The girl in the headscarf blushes. Katie-Rose, Violet notices, seems to be inching away from the scene of the crime. She’s certainly not waving her hand and saying, “No, really, it was me! My fault, so sorry!”
“Quin, hush,” Milla says to Beanpole. She turns to the girl in the headscarf. “Yasaman, I’m fine.”
Ahhhh, Violet thinks, matching names with faces. Beanpole equals Quin, and the headscarf girl is Yasaman. Blonde falling girl equals Milla.
She goes over it again: Quin, Yasaman, Milla. And Katie-Rose, the teensy pigtail girl who’s to blame for this collision. Only . . . where is she?
Violet glances around. Katie-Rose has dematerialized.
Yasaman gathers Milla’s strewn belongings. Her eyes are so dark that Violet can’t make out her pupils, and she’s got the most amazing lashes Violet has ever seen. Thick, lush eyelashes that brush her brow bones when she glances at Milla.
“I . . . I don’t know what happened,” she explains. “I was just walking along, and . . . I think somebody bumped into me?”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” Quin says. “What happened is that you’re a spaz, Spazaman.” She elbows Yasaman out of the way. “I’ll help Milla get her things. You can go.”
Quin shoves notebooks and glitter pens into Milla’s backpack while Yasaman awkwardly gets to her feet. She wants to help Milla, Violet can tell. But Quin said no.
The bell rings, high and tinkly and not like Violet’s old school’s bell at all, and the congestion in the hall clears. Soon the only people left are Milla, Quin, Violet, and Yasaman.
“Oh my God, look,” Quin says, snatching and smoothing an escaped piece of paper. “Our logo—it could have gotten crumpled!” It doesn’t look like anything special, just a printout of a panda bear with words underneath.
“But it didn’t,” Milla whispers. She seems embarrassed that Quin’s making such a scene. “Shhh.”
As for Violet, she feels stupid and doesn’t know why she’s still standing there . . . except she kinda wants to tell Yasaman it’s okay?
Don’t make friends with the class outcast, whispers a voice in Violet’s brain. You’ve got enough problems already, wouldn’t you say?
Yasaman hovers for another moment, then takes quick steps down the hall and disappears. Quin and Milla stand up. Quin swoops back down for one last item, a sparkly pink bracelet, and hands it to Milla.
“Geez, Milla, you carry around so much crap,” Quin says, and Violet finds Quin’s change in tone interesting. With an audience, Quin was mean to Yasaman and sweet as pie to Milla. With her audience gone—all except for Violet—Quin no longer treats Milla like a precious doll.
“All this crap,” Quin goes on, “and except for our logo, none of it’s the slightest bit practical.” She laughs. “If you got stranded on a mountain? You’d totally die.”
“I have a Tootsie Pop,” Milla says. Her eyes flit to Violet.
“A Tootsie Pop,” Quin repeats. “Yay.”
When Milla doesn’t respond, Quin snaps her fingers in front of Milla’s face.
“I’ll see you at break,” Quin says to Milla, and it’s the spookiest thing how she honestly doesn’t acknowledge Violet at all. “That’s when we’ll start recruiting.”
Milla bites her lower lip, then nods. She goes one way, and Quin goes the other.
Now Violet’s all by herself. Lovely. She’ll be tardy on the first day and have to explain to her one-armed teacher why she couldn’t be bothered to be on time.
She hitches her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, then pauses, spotting something small and bright. It’s on the floor, by the wall. She walks over. She puts down her bag and squats.
&nb
sp; Huh. It’s a tiny wooden turtle, painted orange and red. It’s cute. When Violet places it on her open palm, its head wobbles. She closes her fingers over it, and it grows still.
domino effect in the hall. The human domino effect she triggered. For all she knows, she might have even pulled off the elusive reverse thingie Max has been preoccupied with. It wasn’t pretty.
Thanks to Katie-Rose, Milla went down hard, the contents of her backpack skittering every which way. And then Yasaman ended up on the floor, too. And Quin was mean and called Yasaman names, and Katie-Rose dashed away like a chipmunk who was this close to being run over by a car.
Ag. Where is the Rewind button when Katie-Rose needs it?
FADE IN TO KATIE-ROSE’S FANTASY SEQUENCE:
INTERIOR RIVENDELL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL—HALLWAY—MORNING
The walls are plastered with colorful posters and artwork. PENNIES FOR PEACE! reads one hand-drawn sign. TEACHERS OPEN THE DOOR. IT’S UP TO YOU WHETHER YOU WALK THROUGH IT, reads another. Students head noisily to their classrooms.
By the water fountain, two girls pause. One girl is black and has a tense expression on her face. She’s new. The other girl wears jeans and a yellow peasant blouse and looks like the type of person who would make an excellent friend. She would also make an excellent president of the United States one day, just for the record.
The new girl asks a question, and the girl in the peasant blouse happily stops and answers. In fact, she is EXCEEDINGLY WARM AND FRIENDLY ABOUT IT, even though the new girl doesn’t give her much to work with in the way of smiling back.
KATIE-ROSE
(mid-sentence)
—so just keep going straight and you’ll see Mr. Emerson’s room. And if you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to ask, ‘kay? Because I’ve been at Rivendell forever, and I pretty much know everything there is to know.
The new girl nods. She’s really pretty, and she’d be even prettier if she didn’t look so . . . detached.
KATIE-ROSE (CONT’D)
I can tell you about all the cliques and stuff, too. Like, there are certain girls who are nice and certain girls who are not, if you get my drift.
YASAMAN TERCAN approaches. Yasaman falls into the “nice girl” category, although she’s kind of a fringe element as she doesn’t hang with any certain group. Today she’s wearing sneakers, jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt. Oh, and her hajib, of course. Last year Miss Akins made Yasaman give a presentation on what it meant to be Muslim, and everyone learned that the headscarves some Muslim women wear are called hajibs. Or, wait, maybe hijabs? Muslim girls don’t usually wear them till they’re older, but sometimes they do.
KATIE-ROSE
(to Yasaman)
Hi, Yasaman! It’s so great to see you! How was your summer?
YASAMAN
Hi, Katie-Rose! It’s great to see you, too!
Yasaman steps forward to hug Katie-Rose and accidentally hits an innocent passerby.
CAMERA PANS TO MILLA.
MILLA
(surprised)
Oh no!
She stumbles, pinwheeling her arms. Yasaman’s eyes grow wide.
MILLA (CONT’D)
I’m falling! Somebody help!
A really mean girl smiles cruelly. Her name is QUIN, and she’s shifty like a fox.
QUIN
(evilly)
Ha ha ha ha ha! Seeing people fall is so funny!
Ha ha ha ha ha!
CAMERA PANS TO KATIE-ROSE.
With characteristic quick-thinking-ness, Katie-Rose leaps forward and grabs Milla’s elbow.
KATIE-ROSE
Whoa there! Steady, girl!
(No, that’s stupid. Milla’s not a horse.)
TAKE TWO:
KATIE-ROSE
That was close. You okay?
MILLA
(gratefully)
Oh, Katie-Rose, thank you. I almost fell on my butt. If you hadn’t been here, who knows what would have happened!
YASAMAN
(seeming dazed, as if she, too, has just escaped terrible humiliation)
Yes! Thank you, Katie-Rose! If not for your quick thinking . . .
Yasaman’s words trickle off as the mean girl, Quin, roughly pushes her aside.
QUIN
(to Katie-Rose)
You ruined my fun! I like seeing people fall on their butts!
MILLA
Quin!
Katie-Rose puts her hands on her hips. Her eyes gleam.
KATIE-ROSE
Just like you like seeing people drink mud? Is that what you’re saying?
MILLA
(gasping)
Katie-Rose!
Quin, the mean girl, takes a step back. She suddenly looks uncertain.
KATIE-ROSE
That’s right, I know all about it. And I don’t want it happening again, understand? No butt-falling, no mud-shakes. Got it?
Quin nods foolishly. She had no idea Katie-Rose was so . . . She never realized Katie-Rose was such a . . . She trembles in the face of Katie-Rose’s power, while Milla, Yasaman, and the new girl gaze at Katie-Rose with open admiration. The other kids in the hall applaud.
KATIE-ROSE
So let that be a lesson. You hear me, Quin?
THE IMAGE WAVERS.
KATIE-ROSE (CONT’D)
I said, do you—
DISSOLVE TO:
“—hear me, Katie-Rose?” Ms. Perez asks. Her smile is amused. “I’ve called your name three times.”
Several kids laugh. Katie-Rose’s face heats up.
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
“It’s okay, I know how hard it is coming back to school,” Ms. Perez says.
“Especially for some of us,” Quin says from her prized back-row seat. Ms. Perez doesn’t hear her. Modessa does—and doesn’t bother to smother her laugh.
“What I was saying is that I think Greek Week will be an excellent way to kick off our fifth-grade year,” Ms. Perez says. “Mr. Emerson and I have come up with all sorts of activities: costumes, presentations, Potato Olympics—”
“Potato Olympics?” a guy named Chance says. “Sweet!”
Ms. Perez smiles. “And we’ve set it up to involve lots of class participation. I’ll assign roles today, as well as research topics, and on Wednesday we’ll get together with Mr. Emerson’s class to share our findings. We’ll all dress up as ancient Greeks, and each of you will report on a specific Greek character or myth.”
“When do we do the Potato Olympics?” Chance asks. “Can we, like, make them do dogsled races?”
“Can we pick our own topics?” a guy named Preston asks.
“Sure, just run it by me first,” Ms. Perez answers. She leans against the front of her desk. “You know what would be fun? We could decorate the commons with laurel leaves, and those of you who are artistic could make Greek theater masks in art class. We could even bring Greek snacks to munch on.”
Her round face brightens at this idea. She scans the rows of students. “Do any of your mothers know how to make baklava?”
“No,” Chance says.
“That’th thexthith,” Natalia says.
“I’m sorry . . . what?” Ms. Perez says.
Natalia, the girl who loves Pokémon, has returned from summer break with headgear the size of a small planet. She lisps now, and perhaps this should give Katie-Rose perspective on the fact that everyone has problems, not just her. But it doesn’t.
“Thexthith,” Natalia says. “Why do you only care if our momth know how to make baklava? Couldn’t our dadth make baklava, too?”
“Absolutely!” Ms. Perez beams. “Does your dad know how to make baklava, Natalia?”
“No, he never doth any of the cooking.”
Modessa shoots her hand up. “I don’t like baklava. Doesn’t it have paste in it?”
Kids titter.
“Almond paste, Modessa,” Ms. Perez says. “It’s delicious.”
“I don’t like almonds,” Modessa says. “Anyway, with all this Greek
Week stuff”—she says “Greek Week” as if it’s of very dubious benefit—“what’s going to happen to the ice cream social?”
Chattering breaks out, a sudden flood of concern. The ice cream social is a tradition at Rivendell. It’s on the first Friday of the year, and the parent volunteers go all out in terms of flavors and syrups and practically every sort of topping you could imagine.
“You can’t cancel the ice cream social!” a girl named Ava says. “Please, Ms. Perez!”
Ms. Perez holds out her hands. “Class. Hush. No one’s canceling the ice cream social.”
“Thank God,” Ava says, as others clap and hoot. Katie-Rose peeks over her shoulder to see Modessa sitting primly, as if she’s personally responsible for restoring the hopes of the fifth grade.
“I’ll speak slowly so that everyone understands,” Ms. Perez says with a smile. “All week long, we’ll be studying ancient Greece. On Wednesday, we’ll dress up and give reports. Thursday is Potato Olympics. And that leaves Friday completely free and open for our ice cream social. Now, I know it’s complicated, but I think it’ll all work out.”
Ms. Perez is teasing her class for getting so worked up, but not in a mean way. Even so, it puts Modessa in her place.
Katie-Rose decides she likes Ms. Perez.
“We’re packing a lot into our first week, I know,” Ms. Perez says. “That’s why I want to go ahead and assign roles. Remember, this is just who you dress up as, not necessarily what you give your presentation on. So what do you say, Katie-Rose?”
Huh? Katie-Rose thinks. Then she remembers that before the baklava and before the ice cream social, there was a chunk of class when she had spaced out. And apparently during that chunk, Ms. Perez had asked her a question. What that question was, Katie-Rose has no idea.
“Um, yes?” she finally says.
“Terrific!” Ms. Perez exclaims.
“Oh my God,” Quin says. Even without turning around, Katie-Rose knows Quin’s snotty voice. “Talk about typecasting.”
“I know, it’s hilarious,” Modessa says. Katie-Rose knows Modessa’s voice, too—the lazy, liquid quality of it, like dishwashing soap.
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