I worked really hard on my article. When Mrs. G. read it, she decided it was worth more space and attention than just a point-counterpoint that would run on the back page.
She made my article a front-page news feature on the digital and print versions of this week’s Blueberry Chronicle.
FRIENDS RISK SUSPENSION WITH ACT OF LOVE
Friday, October 24
Friendship is more important than a dress code. When a girl is struggling to survive, and her friends try to help her feel better, nobody should be worried about what they’re wearing.
Earlier this week, an article in the Detroit Free Press stated that a headmaster in Bloomfield Hills wanted to suspend middle schoolers Toya Mayhew and Reagan Stuart. Why? Just because they shaved their heads to show support for their best friend, Lacy Ann Hart, who had cancer.
Even though the headmaster had warned the girls that they could be suspended for violating the school’s dress code policy if they shaved their heads for nonmedical reasons, Reagan and Toya did it anyway. Now they are studying at home while the headmaster decides whether to suspend or expel them.
After I read the article, I knew I had to find out more. My dad works at the same hospital where Lacy gets her cancer treatment. Because of him, I got a chance to meet her and her friends. They were very nice. Reagan and Toya are worried about Lacy Ann. And they are scared. When they found out that their principal wanted to suspend them, they say they were not shocked.
“He did warn us,” Toya said. “But friends are more important than hair.” I agree.
And how does Lacy feel to have such awesome friends?
Lacy said, “I’ve been friends with Toya and Reagan since kindergarten. Our dads golf together. We’re in and out of each other’s houses all the time. It means so much to me that they would do something like this to show their support. They are the best friends in the world.”
Toya is on the honor roll and the volleyball team. She also takes dance in her spare time. Reagan is in chorus and orchestra; Lacy Ann was in chorus and orchestra, too. However, now she is being homeschooled while she gets treatment.
Still, Toya and Reagan visit her every day.
Reagan said she and her parents hope they can change the headmaster’s mind.
“When we found out about Lacy’s illness, we told her we had her back no matter what. My mom and dad understand and they support me. They want to try and work this out with the school.”
Toya’s father is Maxim Edgar Mayhew, the attorney who advertises on WKBD. Mr. Mayhew, she said, is considering legal action if the school fails to reverse the girls’ suspensions.
“This was something I had to do. Period. If it makes some people uncomfortable, they need to get over it,” Toya said.
I agree with Toya. I hope they can work it out. If not, I hope Mr. Mayhew gets all up in it—and by “it” I mean the school’s business.
Shaving your head to support a sick friend should not get anybody kicked out of school. And standing up for a friend is something to be honored, not punished!
Everybody was talking about the article.
“What were they like in person?” they all asked. Mrs. G. said she was really proud. We even had a TV reporter show up to talk to me about why I wrote it. I kinda think Aunt Tina put them up to it after I e-mailed her a link to the school paper, but still, it was cool. Mrs. G. chimed in to say something about encouraging all her students to speak up, and I told them I just plain thought the policy was dumb and had to do something about it.
Sara hugged me. Lauren high-fived. Becks told me she was proud.
“I’d totally cut off my hair for you guys,” I said. “Anytime!” When Becks picked me up and twirled me around, I didn’t even put up a fight. Well, not much of one. We goofed around a little in the halls until the bell rang.
After that, the week got back to normal. In between homework and developing my new journalistic skills, I was still worried about how to raise enough money to get our sixth graders to D.C. Not to mention worrying about stuff like the speeches that all class presidents had to give AND trying to help us win the thousand-dollar scholarship for our school.
It was time to focus.
All week long, my classmates had been coming up to me telling me their ideas.
“Can we take a limo instead of a bus?” asked one boy about our transportation to D.C.
“What about sightseeing? Do you think we can rent a helicopter when we get there? I saw that once on the Discovery Channel,” said another kid.
“Know what’d be cool? If we flew to D.C. in a private jet,” said a girl from my Civics class.
It was as if they had no clue how money—or the world—worked. I was a businesswoman. I knew about adding and subtracting. I knew about the bottom line—that the budget is not negotiable.
Still, I was determined. I made a list of our upcoming fund-raisers:
1. Bake sale at tonight’s high school football game. (I was all set with trays I’d baked and packaged at the bakery. Goal—sell 144 cupcakes at $1.50 apiece. We could make $216!)
2. Garage Cleanup on Saturdays. $20 per garage.
3. Yard Work After Church. $20 per yard.
I’d posted all the details in the Blueberry Chronicle, and they were approved by Principal Striker, so ha! No idea-stealing allowed, Braxton!
Mr. G. made announcements asking for volunteers, too, so everything was all worked out. We had a plan; now it was time to execute.
For the bake sale, we would work in teams so we could cover more ground. Lauren and I would work at the main concession stand, Sara and Becks would work the home-field side, and Ebony Loudermill and Britney Dial would sell cupcakes in the stands on the visitors’ side during the game.
Sounds simple, right?
Everyone showed up pretty much on time. I gave Britney and Ebony a double-decker tray holding forty-eight cupcakes; I gave an identical tray to Becks and Sara.
Once they left, Lauren and I set up in the concession stand. The women selling fried chicken wings, catfish and white bread, French fries, hamburgers, and hot dogs, along with sodas, chips, and candy bars, were nice and helpful.
“I know you!” said a coffee-colored woman with curly brown hair. “You that little gal from the bakery. Wetzel’s.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
The women said they were all for a girl learning how to make money at an early age. They even high-fived me.
Cool Michigan air and a backdrop of a million stars made it the perfect night for football. The stadium was packed. Selling all of our cupcakes should have been easy.
By the start of the third quarter, Lauren and I had sold all of ours. We earned seventy-two dollars. Off to a good start, I thought.
Then, when the game ended, I needed to collect cash from everyone else.
So I found my way to Britney and Ebony.
“How’d you do?” I asked.
“We sold all our cupcakes, I think,” Ebony said. Uh… you think? They’re either sold or not sold. Be easy, I told myself.
When I asked for the money, they gave me sixty-five dollars.
“Where’s the rest?”
They looked at each other. Britney said, “That’s all we have.”
Um, what? I said, “Well, if you sold all the cupcakes, there should be seventy-two dollars.”
And she was like, “Um, I don’t know. I think this one dude, his name is Martel—”
“No, Brit,” Ebony cut in, “his name is Darnell.”
“Are you sure?” Britney asked.
“Yeah, it’s Darnell. He’s friends with my brother. He got, like, six cupcakes and was supposed to come back with the money.”
“I think he forgot,” said Ebony. Then, squinting really hard, like thinking was making her head hurt, she looked at Brit and said, “Maybe his name is Martel.…”
Really, girls? Really? I took a deep breath and told myself this was the kind of colorful story that would look good in a book about my life when I grew up
to be famous and rich. So I didn’t karate chop anybody in the neck.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “Thank you for your help. Hope to see you tomorrow at Oak Woods Park.”
The two of them walked away, still arguing over whether the non-paying boy was named Martel or Darnell.
It didn’t take long to find Sara and Becks. Sara’s pinkness practically glowed.
“So, how’d you guys do?” I asked, plopping onto the bleachers next to them. I was all ready to share the crazy story of Ebony and Britney, but the goofy look on Sara’s face stopped me. Becks was texting furiously, her face glowing in the phone’s light.
“Brianna, it’s so wonderful!” Sara said. “Becks got a date with Bakari!”
Ever have that feeling like you’ve stepped on a rake and got smacked in the forehead by the handle? Dwoing!
I felt so tired. “Becks, really. Congratulations. I’m happy for you. But I’ve got to get up really early tomorrow. If I can get the cupcake holder and the money from the sale, I’m gonna go. Grandpa texted. He’s waiting. Anybody need a ride?”
Sara looked at me and said, “Oh, the cupcakes.” She pushed the container to me.
“We didn’t get to sell all of them because Becks was texting Bakari, and I was helping her figure out what to say,” she said.
“We’ll totally help again next week,” Becks said. “Promise we’ll sell more next time.”
I opened the lid. Out of forty-eight cupcakes, only twelve were missing. The remaining cupcakes looked like they’d been poked and sat on.
“You only sold twelve?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment.
Sara stood quickly and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
“You’re missing the important thing here, Bree. Becks is in love. It’s all so romantic. We’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”
“Here!” Becks shoved a wad of cash into my hand, then she and Sara raced off toward the parking lot.
In my mind, I heard Red’s drawly voice saying, “Ouuuuuuusome!”
Yeah, a whole eighteen bucks. D.C., here we come!
Sometimes, being a sixth grader was so hard.
One good thing, though. I got a text from Toya, one of the girls from the hospital.
Hey, BJustice—wanted u to know, Hdmaster let us come back to school. Did u know the Freep contacted him after your article was posted? Thanx from all.
Civics Journal
Ancient Rome and Middle School
Spartacus was a slave who became a mighty gladiator. The people loved him because he spoke to them like they mattered. Because he knew what it was like to be one of them.
Okay, I had always considered myself to be a Spartacus, at least where my friends were concerned. They always came to me for advice because I understood them. I looked out for them.
This thing with the cupcakes, though… I was not feeling it at all.
In middle school, Spartacus would have been one of those jock boys always talking about football. He’d have hung out in the hallway, leaning up against the columns, looking chill.
I wanted to be like that. I thought I was like that.
But listening to Becks and Sara go on about being in love and everything, it made my stomach hurt. I didn’t understand them—and honestly, I didn’t want to.
7
Pantomime
Saturday, October 25
The weekend started out fine. By eleven thirty on Saturday morning, we had almost thirty kids ready to work. Mr. G. was there. So were my uncle Earl and a friend of his, Mr. Otis. They both had clunker pickups. We needed them to haul away trash after we cleaned garages.
We explained to everyone that Saturday was for garage cleaning only. Sunday was yard work. “I’ve already talked to the homeowners association people for approval. They are expecting us to charge twenty dollars per house because that’s what we agreed to, okay?”
A lot of head nodding. I was standing on top of the base of a statue so I could see everybody. Beau Brattley, Braxton’s little brother, stood near the back with his hands in his pockets. Lauren was nearby; Red, too. Becks and Sara were off to the side somewhere. Apparently, Bakari was among the volunteers and love was in the air.
I worked on forgetting how mad I was at Becks and Sara. Trying to portray the mellow calm of a true leader. Today was a new day.
With the help of Mr. G., Mrs. G., and another sixth-grade teacher we’d recruited, we broke into groups and headed in different directions. We’d passed out the block numbers and streets of the neighborhoods where we expected the most participation.
Our group was led by Mrs. G. We went to three houses before we found an old lady who agreed to let us clean her garage. She said her name was Mrs. Elderberry. “But you can call me Ellie.”
Ellie was small and frail-looking, but her eyes were clear and alert. When she opened her garage door, I about fainted. One side was packed from top to bottom with just about everything you could imagine. The other side looked like it had been hit by a tornado. She wanted us to clean up the tornado side.
She also had nine cats—all named Johnny.
“After my late husband,” she explained.
We were introduced to Johnny Earl, Johnny Ray, Johnny Mae, and Rooster Johnny.
She said, “Rooster Johnny’s got all the girl cats ’round here worked up.”
Johnny Ray, a plump orange thing, took the opportunity to use a hidden litter box near the washer and dryer.
Click snapped a LEGO figure’s head on and off. He made a choking sign with his hands. I giggled. He whispered, “Smells like Johnny Ray’s got some digestive issues!”
We all held our breath and got to work.
I got us organized, broke up tasks, and gave everyone an assignment. It went pretty well. Hendrix, a boy from my language arts class, was hilarious, and I enjoyed working with him. Click, too. I realized I’d spent more time with Click since school began than just about anybody other than my girls.
“I have an idea for our next mini-film,” he said as we held our noses while removing boxes filled with used litter.
“What? Something in a cemetery, because we’ll all be dead from toxic fumes?”
He laughed. “No. I was thinking we could do something funny with a kid fund-raising for his school. You know? Have a character going door-to-door trying to sell candy. Each time someone more and more ridiculous could answer the door.”
We both started cracking up. I said, “Or… what if the kid kept trying to sell candy to the same person? Only each time the person gets madder and madder.”
“Yeah! What if we made his head explode ’cause he was so mad!”
Now we were doubling over laughing. But when this kid from the bus who always stares at me weird came over, Click changed. Acting more like a boy-boy than—I don’t know—Click.
He and the dude gave each other complicated fist bumps.
“Click!” shouted the dude. “You’re my man!”
Click-click.
Bus Dude answered the clicks with a nod. His eyes went from inky dark to a soft brown. A slow smile spread over his lips.
When I looked at Click, he wore an unexpected grin.
“Click?” I said, but he just backed away, whistling.
It was weird. I felt myself blushing.
But Bus Dude just laughed.
“When we finish here, can we go to my granny’s? She’s waiting for us to do her house, too,” he said. She lived around the corner, and when we got to her house, she was waiting for us.
It turned out his name was Romeo James. And his grandmother was the sweetest thing. She gave him a big hug and he grinned like it was his birthday. A kid who loved his grandma that much was okay by me.
“Hey, Grandma. These are my friends,” he said. She gave each of us a hug, then told us what she wanted cleaned up. When we finished, she insisted that we meet her in the backyard for lunch. It was all set up—tuna fish, turkey, and fried bologna sandwiches, along with chips and lemonade. The cold air r
ushed over us and kicked up some leaves. Still, for Michigan, it was fairly warm and sunny. A good day.
“Why do you stare at me like that on the bus?” I finally asked Romeo between bites of tuna fish.
“Like what?” he asked.
“You know.”
“You know, too.”
I blushed again. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.
He looked down, and it seemed like maybe he was blushing a bit, too. Either that, or the cold breezes were turning his brown cheeks red.
“Don’t worry, girl,” he said, getting all street on me. “I’m messing with you, that’s all. You know you look good, though. But when a brother’s name is Romeo, well…”
Click said, “He’s gotta walk the walk. If my name was Romeo, maybe I’d play with girls instead of LEGO pieces. We all gotta have our thing, right?”
My eyes went wide. Julio Ramon Garcia! They fist-bumped again, and I shook my head.
The two of them talked and it was clear they’d gone to elementary together. Romeo James played football for a city league but was here because they had the week off; Click had played football, too, but got hurt last year and had to have surgery. His mom didn’t want him to play anymore.
“We miss you, man,” Romeo was saying as we cleaned up our lunch trash.
Listening to the two of them, I was having such a good time that I forgot to check on the other groups.
Big mistake.
When I finally remembered to call Mr. G., it was almost the end of our workday. He answered his phone after one ring. He didn’t sound good.
“I just sent a text to my wife,” he said. “Gather your troops and meet back at Oak Woods Park. Quickly.”
Once we’d all assembled, Mr. G., usually so enthusiastic, growled his disappointment with “certain individuals.”
He said some kids had been asked to leave one home because they seemed more interested in goofing around and throwing leaves at one another than doing any real work. I noticed Becks look up quickly, then look at the ground.
President of the Whole Sixth Grade Page 5
