Abby in Oz
Page 11
Adjective
Adjective
Noun (plural)
* From Whatever After Book 12: Seeing Red
Nana’s Here!
“Nana, please tell me I can go to Penny’s?” I beg.
Please say yes. Pleeeeeeeeeaze!
“I’m sorry, Abby, but no,” Nana tells me, dipping a slice of (a) into the egg mixture she’s whipped up.
“You don’t even like Penny,” Jonah reminds me.
I frown at Jonah. “I like her sometimes!” I say to him. Then I look back at my nana. Maybe I can talk her into it. I just have to lay out the facts. My parents are lawyers, and that’s how they win their trials. By pleading their cases. When I grow up, I want to be a lawyer, too — well, I want to be a (b), but you have to be a lawyer first — so this will be good practice.
“It’s a (c),” I explain to Nana, “and my two best (d) will be there. I don’t want to be left out.”
Nana shakes her (e). “I came to spend time with you, Abby. So the answer is no. Maybe you can sleep over next weekend.”
Penny isn’t having a (c) NEXT weekend. She’s having a (c) THIS weekend. She’s having a (c) TONIGHT.
“But I’m going to miss all the stuff,” I say. “They’re going to stay up late telling (f) and I won’t know anything!”
“We can stay up late telling (f),” Nana says.
Nanas are for hugs and bedtime stories. Not for (f).
“I’ll get out the (g),” Jonah offers.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Nana says to him.
“So I really can’t go?” I ask Nana with my best (h) eyes. That means they get very (i) and (j) and match the (k) smile on my face.
“No,” she says. There’s a slight DO NOT ASK ME AGAIN edge to her tone.
(l).
Don’t miss Abby and Jonah’s next adventure, where they fall into the tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears!
Look for:
See how Abby’s adventures began! Go back to the beginning and start the series with Whatever After #1: Fairest of All. Here’s a peek at it…
once upon a time my life was normal.
Then the mirror in our basement ate us.
Do you think I’m joking? Do you think I’m making this up? You do, don’t you?
You’re thinking, Um, Abby, mirrors don’t usually go ahead and slurp people up. Mirrors just hang on the wall and reflect stuff.
Well, you’re wrong. So very WRONG.
Everything I’m going to tell you is the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I’m not making anything up. And I’m not a liar, or a crazy person who thinks she’s telling the truth but secretly isn’t. I am, in fact, a very logical person. Fair, too. I have to be, since I’m going to be a judge when I grow up. Well, first I’m going to be a lawyer, and then I’m going to be a judge, because you have to be a lawyer first. That’s the rule.
But yeah. I am an extremely logical, extremely practical, and extremely un–crazy ten–year–old girl whose life went completely berserk after her parents forced her to move to Smithville.
Still don’t believe me? You will when you hear all the facts. You will when you hear the whole story.
Let me start at the beginning.
The moment the recess bell rings, the kids in my new fifth–grade class decide they want to play tag. We eenie meenie miney, and somehow I’m it. Me, the new kid. Great.
Not.
I cover my eyes to give the other kids a ten–second head start (okay, five), then run toward the fence. Straightaway, I spot Penny, who is very tall. Well, taller than me. Although most people are taller than me. She’s also wearing a bright orange sweatshirt that’s hard to miss. I don’t know all the kids’ names, but Penny’s is easy to remember because she always wears super–high ponytails and I just think, Penny’s pony, Penny’s pony, Penny’s pony.
I dash over and tap her on the elbow. “You’re it, Penny’s pony! I mean, Penny.”
She looks at me strangely. “Um, no. I’m frozen.”
Huh? It’s not that cold. Plus, her orange sweater looks really warm.
“What?” I ask.
Penny wrinkles her forehead. “You tagged me. I’m frozen.”
“Noooooo,” I say slowly. “I was it. I tagged you, so now you’re it. Now you have to tag someone else to make them be it. That’s why the game is called it.” I blink. “I mean, tag.”
“The it person has to tag everyone,” Penny says. Her tone suggests she knows way more about tag than I do, and my cheeks heat up. Because she doesn’t. “When you’re tagged, you freeze, and the very last person tagged is the next it. It’s called freeze tag. Got it?”
The LAST person to get tagged gets to be it? If you’re the last person tagged, that means you’re the best player. If you’re the best player, you should get to do a happy dance while everyone throws confetti on you. You should not have to be the new it, because being it is not a reward.
My heart sinks. If I have to be it until every last fifth grader is tagged or frozen, this is going to be a very, very, VERY long game.
Here’s the thing. I am trying to have a fresh start and be flexible about my new school. But how can I when the people here do EVERYTHING wrong?
Please allow me to present my case.
Everyone in Smithville calls Coke, Pepsi, and Orange Crush soda. Ridiculous, right? Pop is a much better name. Pop! Pop! Pop! Coke pops on your tongue. It doesn’t soda on your tongue.
The people here do not know how to make a peanut butter and banana sandwich. The right way is to slice the banana up and then press the slices one by one into the peanut butter, preferably in neat and orderly rows. But the kids in my new school mash the bananas, mix a spoonful of peanut butter into the mashed bananas, and then spread the whole gloppy mess on their bread. Why oh why would they do that?
And now, instead of tag, they want to play “Ooo, Let’s All Be Frozen Statues While Abby Runs Around and Around and Around.”
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury:
I do not want to call pop soda.
I do not want to eat gloppy banana mush.
I do not want to be it.
“I’m pretty sure the way I play is the right way,” I say, my throat tightening. I’m right. I am.
“No,” she states. “I’m frozen. And you’d better get going, or it’ll just get harder.”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I don’t want things to get harder. I want things to be the way they used to be. Normal!
“No thanks,” I say in a careful voice that’s meant not to let my tears out but might sound a little squished. Or prissy. Or spoiled–brat–y, possibly.
“You’re quitting?” Penny asks. Her eyebrows fly up. “Just because you didn’t get your way?”
“No! I’m just … tired.” I’m not even lying. I am tired. I’m tired of everything being different. Why can’t things be like they used to be?
I go to Mrs. Goldman, the teacher on playground duty. I ask her if I can go to the library.
“You mean the media room, hon?” she asks.
I shrink even smaller. They don’t even call a library a library here?
But the second I step into the media room, the world gets a little better. I take a deep breath. Ahhhh.
Maybe in Smithville a room filled with books is called a media room, but it smells just like the library in my old, normal school. Musty. Dusty. Papery.
The books on the shelves of the school library — media room, argh — are books I recognize. They’re books I’ve gobbled up many times before. Many, many times before.
My shoulders sag with relief, because guess what? No matter how many times you read them, stories always stay the same.
I get my love of books from my nana. She used to read to me all the time. She’s a literature professor at a university in Chicago, the normal place where we used to live.
I feel a pain in my gut when I think about my old house. My faraway friends. My nana. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches made the
right way.
And then I shake off those heavy feelings and run my finger along the row of books. My finger stops. It rests on a collection called Fairy Tales, where good is good, and bad is bad, and logical, practical fifth–grade girls never get stuck being it forever.
My chest loosens. Perfect.
Magical thank-yous to:
Everyone at Scholastic: Aimee Friedman, Taylan Salvati, Charisse Meloto, Lauren Donovan, Rachel Feld, Erin Berger, Olivia Valcarce, Melissa Schirmer, Elizabeth Parisi, Abby McAden, David Levithan, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Robin Hoffman, Sue Flynn, and everyone in Sales and in the School Channels.
My amazing agents, Laura Dail and Samantha Fabien, Austin Denesuk, Matthew Snyder, and Berni Barta, and queen of publicity, Deb Shapiro. Rachel and Terry Winter! For everything!
Lauren Walters and Caitlen Patton who did all the stuff.
All my friends, family, writing buddies, and first readers: Targia Alphonse, Tara Altebrando, Bonnie Altro, Elissa Ambrose, Robert Ambrose, Jennifer Barnes, the Bilermans, Julie Buxbaum, Jess Braun, Max Brallier, Rose Brock, Jeremy Cammy, the Dalven-Swidlers, Julia DeVillers, Elizabeth Eulberg, Leslie Margolis, the Finkelstein-Mitchells, Stuart Gibbs, Karina Van Glaser, Alan Gratz, the Greens, Adele Griffin, Anne Heltzel, Farrin Jacobs, Emily Jenkins, Lauren Kisilevsky, Gordon Korman, Maggie Marr, the Mittlemans, Aviva Mlynowski, Larry Mlynowski, Lauren Myracle, Melissa Senate, Courtney Sheinmel, Jennifer E. Smith, Christina Soontornvat, the Swidlers, Robin Wasserman, Louisa Weiss, the Wolfes, Maryrose Wood, and Sara Zarr.
Extra love to Oz squad, Chloe, Anabelle, and Todd.
Love to my Whatever After readers. You are made of rainbows and magic.
Sarah Mlynowski is the New York Times bestselling author of the Magic in Manhattan series, Gimme a Call, and a bunch of other books for teens and tweens, including the Upside-Down Magic series, which she cowrites with Lauren Myracle and Emily Jenkins. Originally from Montreal, Sarah now lives in Los Angeles, California, with her family. Visit Sarah online at sarahm.com and find her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter at @sarahmlynowski.
#1: Fairest of All
#2: If the Shoe Fits
#3: Sink or Swim
#4: Dream On
#5: Bad Hair Day
#6: Cold as Ice
#7: Beauty Queen
#8: Once Upon a Frog
#9: Genie in a Bottle
#10: Sugar and Spice
#11: Two Peas in a Pod
#12: Seeing Red
#13: Spill the Beans
Special Edition: Abby in Wonderland
Special Edition: Abby in Oz
Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Mlynowski
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, April 2020
Author photo by Heather Waraksa
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
Cover illustration by Helen Huang, © 2020 Scholastic Inc.
e-ISBN 978-0-545-74670-0
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