“So on Wednesday, you’ll come to school dressed as a servant girl from ancient Greece,” Ms. Perez says.
“I will?” Katie-Rose blurts.
“And if we end up with some baklava, you can pass it out. Won’t that be fun?”
No! Katie-Rose thinks. Not fun at all! Of all the possibilities, she got the role of servant?
“Thervant girlth mainly went around naked,” Natalia says. “I know becauth of Altered Beath for Wii? The upgraded edition? You have to rethcue the goddeth Athena, and the thervant girlth are naked.”
“Yes, thanks, Natalia,” Ms. Perez says lightly as everyone laughs and Katie-Rose tries to sink into the ground. “But don’t worry, Katie-Rose. We won’t subject you to that.”
“You mean subject us to that,” Modessa says.
Ms. Perez moves on. “We’ll need some members of the upper class as well, so raise your hand if you’d like to be an Athenian citizen of status.”
Hands shoot up, a rustling of hungry birds.
Ms. Perez selects a handful of students, and yes, Modessa and Quin’s names are called. They are officially recognized as privileged members of the highest caste in school, and now Katie-Rose is no longer sure she’s a fan of Ms. Perez after all. Does she have no memory of what it was like to be in fifth grade? How can she think it’s a good idea to take two MEAN GIRLS who already think they’re God’s gift to the world and say, “Hey! You two! You’re God’s gift to the world!” Or ancient Greece’s gift to the world, same difference.
And she, Katie-Rose, “volunteered” to be a servant. Great. That’s just great.
She props her forehead against her fists and makes a personal, private aaargh sound. Only, did she accidentally say it out loud? Because someone is staring at her from the other side of the room. She can feel it. Not Quin and not Modessa. They’re behind her, probably writing notes about how fabulous they are and how much of a joke Katie-Rose is.
She glances to her left, and her stomach plummets, because the staring person is Yasaman Tercan, the girl who took the blame when Milla tripped. The girl Katie-Rose let take the blame. She’s watching Katie-Rose with dark, unreadable eyes.
break. That’s the way it works at Rivendell. Then, at 11:30, they’ll have lunch, followed by a second break. Lunch and both breaks take place outside on the playground, as long as the weather allows.
So, at 10:14, Ms. Perez says, “Okay, kids, go off and be free.” Her classroom has a back door that opens onto the playground, and as soon as the words leave her lips, there’s a loud, crazy exodus and much scraping of chairs on the floor.
Yasaman knows what to expect next. Outside, some of the guys will play football, some basketball, some soccer. Some of the girls will play with them. That slightly odd boy, Max, will circle the playground endlessly with his best friend, Thomas, and they’ll pretend to be Pokémon trainers. That’s what they did last year, anyway.
Other things Yasaman knows from five years of watching her Rivendell classmates:
• Max and Katie-Rose are friends, but they don’t hang out at school.
• Katie-Rose doesn’t have many (or possibly any) other friends, especially not ones who are girls.
• Katie-Rose wants to have friends, though.
• What Katie-Rose really wants is to be BFFs with Milla Swanson, but Milla is part of the popular group, so it’s unlikely to happen.
• The popular group is made up of Modessa (queen), Quin (second in command), and Camilla (third in command). Sometimes Modessa and Quin gang up on Milla, and when that happens, Milla sometimes ditches them, but only for a day. She always goes back.
• Once, last spring, Yasaman saw Milla staring at herself in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom. Not like I’m so beautiful, though she is. More like, Who am I? Who is this person staring back at me? Then Milla noticed Yasaman, and her expression reverted to perky and sweet (and, underneath, embarrassed).
Yasaman notices other things, too. Unimportant but interesting things, like how Carmen Glover picks her nose when no one’s watching, but says, “I would never pick my nose. I used to, but I don’t anymore.” How the teachers have an unofficial “time-out” bench for when a kid breaks a rule and needs to be alone for a while. How Cyril Remkiwicz writes things down in a black spiral notebook but never ever shows it to anyone. It’s some sort of scorecard, Yasaman thinks. Cyril will peer at someone and then scrawl down a number. Once Yasaman tried to get a better look, and he rotated violently away from her and hunched over his notebook to hide it.
Now, Yasaman is the last person to leave Ms. Perez’s room. As she walks slowly onto the playground, her autopilot thought is, Here we go again. Another year of sitting. Another year of watching.
Unless . . .
A new thought slips into Yasaman’s brain: Unless you choose not to sit and watch. You could do that, you know. You could walk over to Katie-Rose and ask her what she was daydreaming about while Ms. Perez explained the ancient Greece unit.
Whatever her daydream involved, Katie-Rose was so absorbed that Ms. Perez had to call her name three times when she was assigning the “You will be this person from ancient Greece” roles.
Yasaman is intrigued by how inwardly focused Katie-Rose was, because not everybody has that capacity. Mr. Aslan does; Yasaman saw it during her summer computer class. Her mom does; Yasaman sees it in the way she worries her lower lip while painting one of her tiny, painstakingly detailed pictures of flowers.
But her little sister, Nigar, for example, doesn’t get intense about things. Nigar is cheerful nearly all the time and skips around and hums. She pretends their cat, Blackberry, is her baby, and she lugs him around and rocks him and puts hair bows in his fur. There’s nothing Nigar gets passionate about, though.
Wouldn’t it be cool if Katie-Rose had a secret passion? And . . . what if her secret passion was computers?
It probably isn’t, Yasaman warns herself. Don’t get your hopes up.
Still, her feet lead her to Katie-Rose. Anxiety squeezes her throat, but she keeps going.
Five feet away now.
Four.
Three.
She’s two feet away when Katie-Rose spots her, but Katie-Rose doesn’t respond the way Yasaman hoped. In fact, Katie-Rose steps back. Quickly.
Omigosh, she doesn’t even want to talk to me, Yasaman thinks. Her fluttering heart says, Run! Leave this big mistake NOW!
She’s about to do just that when she notices something probably no one else would. Katie-Rose is blinking. Like, a lot. Blink, blink, blink. And people don’t blink when they’re repulsed. They blink when they’re nervous.
Katie-Rose—omigosh, it’s true—is nervous.
Seeing that flips a switch in Yasaman, and bam! Yasaman herself isn’t nervous anymore. Instead, she wants to make Katie-Rose feel better.
“Hi,” Yasaman says.
“I-didn’t-mean-to-I’m-so-sorry,” Katie-Rose says in one big rush.
Yasaman wrinkles her forehead. “Excuse me?”
Katie-Rose blinks. “You know. About . . .”
“About what?”
Katie-Rose looks pained, and also a little annoyed, as if she doesn’t want to explain it, whatever it is.
Ohhh, Yasaman thinks. Katie-Rose must have been there this morning when Yasaman bumped into Milla. Katie-Rose must have heard Quin call her “Spazaman,” and she feels bad in that way people do when they witness someone else’s shame.
Yasaman doesn’t want to go there, however. So she crosses her eyes and shrugs to say, Yeah, not fun, but what can you do? Quin’s stupid, anyway.
Katie-Rose seems surprised. She blinks again, then offers a hesitant smile. Yasaman smiles back.
“So, I wanted to ask you something,” Yasaman says.
“Ok-a-ay,” Katie-Rose says.
“When Ms. Perez was explaining our ancient Greece unit . . . what were you thinking about?”
“What do you mean?” Katie-Rose asks suspiciously.
“You were in your own l
ittle world, that’s all.”
Katie-Rose hitches her shoulders. Her glance strays to the grassy area of the playground, where Quin, Modessa, and Milla are in a huddle.
Yasaman waits. Sometimes waiting is the best thing to do, and plus, she’s had lots of practice.
“I was just thinking . . .”
Yasaman raises her eyebrows.
“Well, just about . . . you know. How in movies the good guy always wins.”
“Oh?”
“See, I want to be a cinematographer when I grow up,” Katie-Rose continues. Her eyes brighten, and her words spill out faster. “Or maybe a producer. I haven’t decided for sure. But one or the other, and probably a screenwriter, too, so I can produce my own material.”
Yasaman grins. Katie-Rose does have a passion—and even though it’s not computers, it’s still pretty cool.
“That’s awesome,” she says.
“I know,” Katie-Rose replies, and Yasaman laughs.
“I mean, thanks,” Katie-Rose says, turning pink. “I think it is, too. I’ve been filming stuff all summer—”
“You have a video camera?”
“Of course. Then I download my footage to iMovie and edit it. That’s the really fun part. When I’m old enough, I’ll probably post my movies on YouTube, which is a site on the internet where you can upload your own videos.”
Katie-Rose pauses, her gaze drifting up to Yasaman’s hijab. “Do you, um, know about the internet, Yasaman?”
“Katie-Rose, please,” Yasaman says. “Just because I’m Muslim doesn’t mean I live in the Dark Ages.”
Katie-Rose’s blush deepens. “Oh.”
Yasaman’s not mad, but she is enjoying Katie-Rose’s discomfort. Or maybe she’s just enjoying Katie-Rose, period. Talking to her and laughing and not being alone.
“Anyway,” she says, “I was in Mrs. Gratz’s computer class with you last year.”
Katie-Rose’s expression is classic oops. She could have a speech bubble over her head, that’s how clear the oops is. Then she rearranges her features and attempts to recover her bravado.
“Well, have you heard of YouTube?” she asks. “Do you know what it means to upload videos and stuff?”
Yasaman smiles, wondering how Katie-Rose will respond when Yasaman tells her that not only does she know about uploading videos, but that she’s created her own internet network, where someone—Katie-Rose, for example—wouldn’t have to be a certain age in order to post her movies.
“What?” Katie-Rose demands. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Yasaman links her arm through Katie-Rose’s—it’s odd how natural it feels—and guides her to the vacant timeout bench. “Sit,” she says. “I have so much to tell you.”
doesn’t like the way Modessa and Quin have to pick apart every single girl in their grade, snidely detailing why not a single one of them is Panda material. Making fun of Katie-Rose’s peasant blouse (which Milla happens to think is cute), mocking Natalia’s new headgear, snickering—always snickering—about how clumsy Yasaman is and how stupid she looks with her head covered like an old lady’s.
“But she has to wear it,” Milla hears herself say. “It’s for her religion.”
Quin and Modessa look at her. Then they look at each other.
“Camilla,” Modessa says, and her intonation is all that’s needed to shut Milla up. Modessa shuts Quin up sometimes, too, but not as often, because Quin is a mini-Modessa. She agrees with everything Modessa says, and she knows what Modessa’s going to say before she even says it, since in most cases Modessa’s already texted Quin whatever it is.
Modessa and Quin love texting.
Milla probably would, too, if she had a cell phone. Though she would try hard not to text mean things.
Cell phones aren’t technically allowed at Rivendell, but both Modessa and Quin have one anyway. Modessa’s is sleek and black; Quin’s is plain silver but with a leopard-print cover. Both girls looooove their cellies, but Quin’s love comes awfully close to obsession. Maybe ‘cause it’s her lifeline to Modessa?
“There is one girl with potential,” Modessa says. She jerks her chin at a girl from Milla’s class. The new girl.
“She stared at me during morning announcements,” Milla murmurs.
“Why, because you’re so beautiful?” Modessa says, and it’s somehow meant to put Milla down. Milla doesn’t have a clue why the new girl was staring at her, only that she was.
“I like her style,” Modessa pronounces, surveying the new girl’s high boots and crisp gray skirt, which she’s paired with a tailored green blouse. “Plus, she’s fresh meat. She’s got to be more interesting than the rest of these wannabes.” She turns to Milla. “Milla, go get her.”
“Wh-what?” Milla says.
It takes Quin a beat to catch up. Then she puffs her chest and says, “You heard her. Go get her.”
Milla has a familiar feeling of How did this happen? How did I get here? Because what is she supposed to say? Come here, new girl? Modessa wants you?
She passes Katie-Rose as she approaches the swing set, and Katie-Rose calls out and waves. Katie-Rose is sitting with Yasaman Tercan, and if Milla weren’t so distracted, she might stop to wonder why. Katie-Rose and Yasaman aren’t friends, are they?
“Hi,” Milla says vaguely.
She reaches the swing set and kind of edges in front of the new girl, only not too in-your-face-ish. She feels bad for not knowing the new girl’s name, but it’s not her fault. The new girl got to class late. She checked in privately with Mr. Emerson at his desk.
“Um . . . hi,” Milla says.
The new girl is startled. “What do you want?” she asks, jamming her hands behind her back.
Wow, Milla thinks. Defensive much?
But it’s got to be hard, being the new kid in a school where pretty much everyone’s known each other since pre-K.
Be nice, Milla tells herself.
“Well, I was, um, wondering . . .” She squinches one eye, a nervous habit she doesn’t know she has. “See my friends over there?” She indicates Modessa and Quin. “They want to meet you.”
“Why?” the new girl wants to know.
Milla shrugs.
The new girl sizes her up. Her hands circle around from behind her and dive deep into her front pockets.
“No, thanks.”
Milla’s eyebrows shoot up. No, thanks?
But they’re Modessa and Quin, she wants to say. You don’t say “No, thanks” to Modessa and Quin. You say “yes, ma’am!” And maybe even salute.
“Why not?” Milla asks.
“Why do you care?” the new girl shoots back.
“They—we—just want to meet you. We’re in this club, kind of, and maybe you’ll want to join.”
“A club?”
“If they—ack. If we say it’s okay, that is. If you pass all the tests.” Gosh, she sounds ridiculous. If you pass the tests?
Milla glances over her shoulder at Modessa and Quin, who look impatient. She turns back to the new girl.
“We’ll do tons of fun stuff, like hold bake sales, maybe. Or Pennies for Peace. We could help with that.” She’s winging it, as not one of these activities has actually been mentioned by Modessa or Quin. “And, um, we’ll donate everything we earn to pandas.”
“You can’t donate Pennies for Peace to pandas,” the new girl points out.
You can’t? Milla thinks. And then she answers her own question: Oh. Duh. Otherwise it would be Pennies for Pandas.
But every so often, Milla surprises herself with her ability to think on her feet. “Well . . . if the pandas were fighting, you could.”
The new girl’s expression hardly changes. Something happens, though. Something in her eyes, a sparkle, like one worthy opponent stepping up to another.
“Hmm,” she says, straight-faced. “There is a big problem with nonpeaceful pandas, I hear.”
“In . . . Borneo,” Milla contributes. Does Borneo even have pandas? Where is Borneo? Is i
t possible Milla made Borneo up?
“Right, the Great Borneo Panda War,” the new girl says. “They keep stealing each other’s bamboo.”
“And poking each other with it.”
“Pandas,” the new girl says in the resigned tone one might use when shaking one’s head at a pack of boys making farting noises.
Milla suspects the new girl is suppressing a smile. She knows that she herself is.
“Quin made us a logo,” she says. “I’ll show you.” She squats and unzips her backpack, hunting for the picture Quin downloaded of a panda with big eyes. Underneath, Quin added the club’s motto: ONLY THE BEST, FORGET THE REST.
Milla roots through her notebooks, her folders, a jumble of glitter pens. Where is that darn logo? Quin gave it back to her after she tripped and spilled the contents of her backpack . . . didn’t she? Not being able to find it sends darts of panic up Milla’s spine, because Milla needs everything to be just so.
She dedicates herself to a thorough inventory:
Seashell necklace: yes.
Keychain with the picture of her moms on it: yes.
Her cherry Tootsie Pop, a travel pack of Kleenex, a heart-shaped stone that Milla likes to rub. It’s gold with glittery flecks and looks magical. And oh, good, there’s the Panda picture, stuck in between the pages of her purple spiral.
But . . . where’s Tally? Where’s Tally the Turtle???
“Um, don’t worry about it,” the new girl says, sounding uncomfortable. “The logo, or whatever.”
Milla glances at her, but doesn’t really see her. Nor does it register that she’s been squatting for a while, head practically swallowed by her backpack. She dives back in, because she can’t stop now. Mom Joyce and Mom Abigail brought Tally to her from Guatemala, and Tally has even more magical powers than her heart stone, because of being folk art made by an actual shaman, which is like a lady witch, but a nice one.
“I have to worry about it,” Milla says urgently. “She’s my good-luck charm.”
The new girl inches backward. “She?”
Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh, Milla thinks. Tally isn’t in her backpack. She’s searched every inch of it, and Tally isn’t there.
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