by Tish Cohen
As Mr. Renzetti continues, a bunch of scraping and rustling comes from the hallway. “Now we get to the better part. Half of Mrs. Peebles’s class will be absorbed by the other sixth-grade class.”
Harrison Huxtable’s hand shoots up.
“Yes, Harrison?”
“When you say they’re absorbing the kids, do you mean it subliminally? Like when a commercial flashes Cokes at you zillions of times and I can’t figure out why I’m thirsty?”
The class giggles and snorts.
“Shut up!” I cough a classwide warning into my hand. Harrison might be bulkier than the rest of us, pound for pound, but that just means he deserves more respect, not less.
Mrs. Patinkin writes subliminally on the board and Mr. Renzetti smiles. “No. It means half of the sixth-grade class will move into the other sixth-grade class. Effective today.”
Up goes Laurel’s hand. Quickly, I pour chocolate chips onto my desk to reward her. She got “satisfactory” for class participation on her last report card, so any kind of effort deserves to be noticed. Laurel asks, “What happens to the other half of Mrs. Peebles class? Are they going to Oregon, too?”
Mr. Renzetti smiles. “No. They’re being absorbed by another class. A seventh-grade class with very small numbers…”
“Ooh, ooh!” Brianna says, her hand waggling in the air.
Renzetti looks about ready to retire. “Yes, Brianna?”
“What about the empty classroom? Has anyone decided what to use it for? Because some schools in California have meditation rooms.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t begun to plan—”
Lame Wizard Richard looks up from his hobgoblin GameWizard like he’s just noticed there are humans on the planet, and says, “Maybe it could be a video-game room. Like a social gathering place.”
“As I mentioned,” Mr. Renzetti continued, “we haven’t yet allocated our extra space.”
“So then where are the leftover kids going?” asks Harrison Huxtable.
“Right here,” says Mr. Renzetti with his chest all puffed up. “As of this minute, you’re officially a six/ seven split class.”
“Your face is a six/seven split class,” mumbles Smartin.
Mr. Renzetti looks around, confused. “Did somebody say something?”
Everyone looks at Smartin, then the door flies open. A bunch of Sixers file in, each one pushing a grubby metal desk and chair. Mrs. Patinkin claps her hands and shouts, “Will my Sevens from the back of the class please slide your desks up into the empty spaces between the front desks?”
You don’t have to ask me twice. Before the words are out of her mouth, I’ve got my backpack and chair piled on top of my desk and I’m shoving the whole thing up front. I don’t stop until I’m settled right between Susannah and Laurel and directly in front of Riley, so he can’t get me out of his mind.
This is shaping up to be the very best Wednesday ever. My Frontie status has finally been restored! At the exact same time, Susannah and Laurel give me our secret punch for joy. It’s rarely used because the level of joy I’m feeling after my chicken-pox exile and Backie exile doesn’t come around too often. This punch involves the heel of the hand and a dainty whoop sound. But that’s all I’m at liberty to say.
We turn around and watch the Sixers, all of whom are depressingly taller than me, slide their desks to the back, where they belong. One Sixer burps out a hello—and I pray I’m mistaken, but it sounded like a girl—and a couple of Sixer boys snort and scratch themselves like baboons.
Ugh.
At recess, I’ll have to issue these immature vulgarians a couple of rules. Starting with Unwritten Rule # 17, which I’m just this minute inventing. Words Made of Churning Bubbles of Intestinal Gases Are Not Words. They’re Sewage.
After Mr. Renzetti leaves, Mrs. Patinkin gets the vulgarians settled then makes a big deal about stapling together the two class lists. So now we have to sit through double the number of lousy names after announcements. She reads our names first, as she should, and when she flips her page and starts calling the Sixer names, we all giggle and look at one another. What were these Sixer parents thinking?
Pilar Bliss?
Lettice Weatherhead?
Cheever Duff?
The names just keep getting worse and worse, until finally Mrs. Patinkin finishes and puts her list into the attendance folder. I’m digging out chocolate chips for my new neighbors, when a singsongish voice calls from the back, “Mrs. Patinkin? You forgot me.”
Mrs. Patinkin opens her folder and scans the names. “Oops. I’m sorry. And you are?”
I turn around in my chair. A proud-looking blond girl is arranging a cupful of sharpened pencils on her desk. She flicks something off her pink cardigan and says, “I’m Devon Sweeney.”
My mother always tells me it’s rude to stare. So I’m trying really hard not to. Correction, I’m trying really hard not to let anyone see me stare. I have this shiny chrome lip-gloss container I keep in my schoolbag, and if I hold it at just the right angle, I can see everything Devon does. The way she licks the tip of each pencil before she writes. The way she gathers her eraser shavings into a tidy little pile then sweeps them into a Ziploc baggie. The way she tucks her wellbehaved hair behind her ears over and over so not one single hair ever gets the chance to roam free.
Then Laurel jabs me in the ribs and I look up. Mrs. Patinkin is waiting for me to answer some question I didn’t hear. She is pointing to the words This week’s keeper of the pig on the blackboard.
“I know you’ve been waiting for a chance to watch Boris for months now, Zoë. And this would have been your scheduled turn.”
Would have been?
Mrs. Patinkin continues, “It’s just that I’ve had a rather special request from one of our new classmates. Devon has a very important weekend planned and wants to bring Boris home to help her celebrate. Devon, why don’t you come to the front of the class and tell everyone your exciting news.”
I make a shocked face at Susannah. Devon getting Boris is an Indescribable Indignation. Which means it’s crazy annoying.
Susannah huffs out loud in agreement. You gotta love Susannah.
Devon swishes her skirt as she makes her way to the front. Then she spins around and smiles way too sweetly. Her cheeks turn all pink. “This is so embarrassing,” she says, and everyone giggles in sympathy. “I’m getting my black belt in karate this Saturday. There’s a big presentation where I have to chop a piece of wood in half and perform in front of a panel of tons of people. Anyway, my parents are making this huge, insane deal out of it and asked what I wanted for my gift.” A piece of blond hair falls down against her perfect chin and she tucks it back in place. “They were thinking I’d ask for an iPod or a portable CD player.” She laughs and crosses one coltish leg in front of the other. “But all I really wanted was to bring home my new homeroomclass guinea pig for the weekend.”
Her class guinea pig? She’s only been in the class for about fifty-five seconds! Who’s the one who’s been feeding him, watering him, changing his cedar shavings all year? Putting in his eyedrops when he scratched his cornea on a jagged piece of timothy grass? Trimming his toenails? Me, that’s who.
I put up my hand to ask the question that, I’m sure, is on everyone’s mind. “Devon, what happens if you don’t break the board in half? I mean, what if you crush your hand, or wake up Saturday morning with food poisoning or chicken pox?”
The whole class is silent. Mrs. Patinkin’s smiles melts down her face.
Devon tilts her head. “My dad says that’s the thing about me. Once I set my mind on something, I don’t let anything stop me.”
Mrs. Patinkin claps her hands. “Well then, it’s all settled. Boris will spend the weekend at Devon’s house.”
Devon kind of bows; then, on her way back to her desk, she stops at Boris’s cage to pick him up and nuzzle him. Holding his brown, white, and black body in her palms, she kisses him on the nose. Then Boris lets out this happy little squeak—t
he kind of squeak he only ever makes when he hears a carrot being cracked in half—and the whole class goes, “Awww.”
Even Mrs. Patinkin!
The Missing Link Is Not So Missing Anymore
When the recess bell rings, the Sixers barrel out of the class like savages. Doesn’t surprise me. I have a theory about Sixers. Anyone under the age of seventh grade has not yet developed the part of their brain that turns them into actual human beings. They still don’t know enough to shower more than once a week, only half of them look like they’ve ever held a brush, and, if it’s raining, you can be sure that almost every Sixer will show up soaked to the knees from puddle-stomping.
According to my science textbook, in the theory of evolution, scientists believe there’s a missing link between fish and land animals. Which means that when early fishy lifeforms finally swam to the surface and looked around, wishing they could crawl out onto the beach and lie in the sun to dry out their pruney skin, some kind of half-fish, halfland animal should have evolved before actual land animals did. That missing creature is the missing link. But I don’t think it’s missing at all. I think the missing link is Sixers.
I watch Smartin pull off his shoes, sniff his wet socks, and tug on his sopping boots. He stomps out, making sickening squishing noises with each step.
I sigh. Of course there’s a chance I’m wrong. The missing link could very well be Smartin Granitstein.
As I pull on my boots, I feel a timid little tap on my shoulder. It’s Sylvia.
“Hi, Zoë. Do you have a minute?”
See what I mean about the perfect-client thing? Sylvia doesn’t make it all about her. It’s all about me first, then, sometime later, we get to her. I like that.
“Sure,” I say. “Sorry about the holey stickers exploding.”
She tucks her chin into her shoulder and smiles. “That’s okay.” She holds up a stickercovered shoe. “They actually look good on my sneakers.”
They don’t, but I fake-nod to boost her self-esteem. I ask, “Did you get my e-mails while I was gone? About not using plastic in the microwave and taking the other route to school?”
“Yup. I cut through the townhouse parking lot, like you said, and I got to school two and a half minutes earlier. Now I have time to stop in front of Brandon’s house and see if I can see him through the bushes.”
No. Spying on your crush is very bad. Especially if your crush is Brandon Skinner, Lord of the LameWizards—Allencroft Middle School’s gaggle of electronic gamers. “Actually, Sylvia…” I put my arm around her shoulders and guide her into the hall before Laurel and Susannah go outside and get involved in some sort of horrid winter sport in the playground. “You might want to put those extra minutes to better use. Like getting to class early enough to comb your bangs after pulling off your hat. You know what static cling does to thin hair…”
She nods furiously as we jog down the stairs to the foyer. “Right. That’s true. But he actually waved at me when he was getting into his mom’s Jeep last Thursday.”
I stop her. “There’ll be no more hedge-hiding for you. No amount of waving is worth the scratches and scrapes on your face. Or your pride.”
“But I’m waiting for the chance to ask him to my Scottish dance recital.”
Whoa. “I’d rethink that one,” I say, holding the door open. Wind nearly blows off her hat and she grabs it.
“But why?” she asks. “I happen to know his ancestors are Scottish and Devon said—”
“What?”
Sylvia looks flustered. It’s so noisy in the playground, I can barely hear her.
“Well, I know one of his grandparents is from Scotland, anyway. Two of the others are from Ireland, but it’s still pretty close…”
From a snowbank, Laurel shouts, “Zoë, come see this!”
I wave to her that I’ll be a minute. “No, you said something about Devon.”
“Oh yeah. Just that she said I should get front-row tickets for Brandon and tell him I’ll leave a chocolate caramel on his seat.”
This makes my eyes clamp shut in horror. Unwritten Rule #4—One Lama Per School. No Exceptions—exists for a reason. Two lamas lead to a sticky, gooey mess. “No, no, no. That’s terrible advice!”
“She said it was romantic. Like something from a Hilary Duff movie.”
“It’s sappy and needy and…tragic!” I say, rubbing my forehead. “It’s not for real life. I don’t recommend you try that with any boy, but especially not a boy like Brandon.”
“Why? Devon says his long eyelashes mean he’s passionate.”
I roll my eyes. I swear I’m never going into quarantine again. “Long eyelashes mean he has dust allergies. Brandon has a long, ugly history of not wanting girls that want him bad.”
She crinkles her nose. “I’ve never heard that.”
“Of course you haven’t heard it. That’s what you have me for. Don’t you remember last Valentine’s Day, when Alice sent Brandon a cookiegram that said, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, buttercups have sunshine, and I have you’?”
“No.”
“He sent back a broken piece of cookie that said, ‘My dad’s a cop.’”
Sylvia looks sick. “Whoa.”
“Whoa is right. The only way to land Brandon Skinner is to shatter his core first. Nothing horrible, just enough to make him think you couldn’t care less about him. Then, and only then, you can think about inviting someone else to your dance recital right in front of him.”
“Another boy?”
“Sure. Or a girlfriend.” I reach down to smooth my scarf. “Someone who helps you out from time to time…”
Sylvia gets knocked sideways by a couple of sixth-grade boys having a snowball fight. She rights herself and adjusts her hat. “I already asked. Devon’s busy that day.”
“I meant me!” I squeak.
“Oh! I’d love to have you there. I just figured you might have rules about going to client events and stuff.”
I thump my fist above my heart, then start walking backward toward Laurel and Susannah. “For my best clients, I make exceptions.”
I catch up with the girls, who are stopping kids from trampling something that’s been written in the snow. It says:
I look around and see RS lurking in the bushes, grinning. His friends are teasing him. I give him a smile. Hedgehiding might not be allowed for Sylvia. Ever. But a boy as cute as Riley spying from the cedar bushes is definitely allowed. If he’s staring at me, that is.
There Is No Excuse for Guys Named Thunder Who Stand on Windy Cliffs
The next evening, I’m lying on my bed studying for my French test, and thinking caniche doesn’t really sound like it should mean “poodle” in French. It sounds more like some sort of greasy pastry filled with duck meat and walnuts. Just when I’m realizing France messed up poodles’ reputations even more by inventing that crazy pom-pom haircut, a warbling sound comes from my computer. An instant message!
I race to my computer hoping it’s from Riley. But it isn’t.
g-ma: yo zo ☺
I stare at the message, trying to figure out who g-ma is. Could it be Gina Mercer from health class? I answer…
zoelama: heeeyyyy
g-ma: met qt @ bingo
Bingo? What kind of seventh-grader plays bingo? Even more curious—since when are cute guys at bingo?
zoelama: ?name?
g-ma: ♥ Fritz ♥
Good grief. It’s worse than I thought. This is exactly why I discourage my clients from running around bingo halls. They’re drafty, crowded, and full of gamblers and boys named Fritz.
g-ma: he likes cigars
Gross!
zoelama: gina–I no Rodney broke yor ♥ last year but u cant lower yorself like ths. Unwritn Rool #20 clearly st8s: Smokng is Despcble and Loathesm.
g-ma: ?whoz gina?
zoelama: U!!
g-ma: Im GRANDMA!
zoelama: grandma? wat r u doing online?
g-ma: rofl, signed up 4 a class—Seniors on
Surfboards
I try to imagine Grandma sitting at a keyboard in her flowered housecoat and curlers.
g-ma: g2g…nos!!
zoelama: ?nos?
g-ma: nurse over shoulder!
I sit back in my chair, stunned. My grandma, who’s only been in Shady Gardens Home for Seniors for a month, has turned into some kind of instant-messaging hipster who picks up cigar-smoking, gambler boys named Fritz. And she calls herself g-ma!
The thing about Grandma is—she has Alzheimer’s. Which sometimes makes her do and say some pretty wild stuff. But now that she’s in a special home, Mom and I know she’s safe. So…maybe it’s not such a bad thing that she’s having a bit of fun. What’s the worst that can happen? That her curlers start to stink from Fritz’s cigar smoke? Suddenly I’m happy for her. My grandma is getting a life.
And, other than the g-ma part, it’s kind of cool that Grandma is IMing, since I’ve missed being able to ask her for advice. Like with this whole Devon thing—Grandma is about the only one who would know exactly how to make me feel better.
zoelama: Grandma? U ther?
zoelama: g-ma?
She’s gone.
“Aagh!” My mother wails from the kitchen.
I tear out of my room to find her on her hands and knees, beating the linoleum floor with our dish scrubber. “Bugs!” she says. “A whole revolting family of them.”
I look back into the hall to see a small brown insect with a shiny shell crawl out from under the wall. He stops and acts confused—like he expected to be someplace else and is disappointed—then wiggles his antenna thingies at me. Before my mother sees him and scrubs him to death, I try to poke him back under the wall. But I guess he likes what he sees in our apartment, because every time I poke at him, he runs around my finger so he can get back into the room. He scoots right past my sock and zooms—
