“So she felt comfortable putting you in dance.”
“Exactly. And everything was all good, until about two years ago. I came down with pneumonia and the next thing we knew, I was out of school again, undergoing surgeries. I came closer to dying than I ever had.”
“God, Red! I’m so sorry!”
Again she paused. Took a breath. Finally, she said, “I’m not. Now, every day that I dance feels like a victory. I don’t think about being a ballerina when I grow up. Dancing makes me feel alive—it’s like celebrating that my heart is healthy. So I don’t do it because it might turn into a career. I do it because it’s like my way of being grateful. Ballet is what I love to do. When we read that story in the Free Press about Lacy and her friends, it really touched me. I wish I’d had friends like that when I needed them.”
It was my turn to be quiet for a bit. I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Well, you’ve got a friend like that now.”
Red leaned back against the headrest. “You know, I’m only on this bus, going to this conference, because you made it seem so do-or-die. I mean, you are truly committed. My ballet teacher freaked when she found out I’d be gone for a few days.”
“Why?”
She turned in her seat and faced me.
“I won the lead role in the Nutcracker performance at the Fox Theatre.”
“Oh my goodness! What a huge honor!” I practically squealed. “It must feel so good to accomplish something like that.”
“After several surgeries and a lot of time alone, tell you what, Justice. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as making a friend. So, don’t blow it. Now hush up and get to sleep!”
The swoosh of the bus’s tires created a soothing rhythm. I drifted away, conscious of one important thing:
The tension that squeezed my insides whenever I thought about Sara and Becks changing, well, it seemed to loosen. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe just a little bit better.
Civics Journal
Ancient Rome and Middle School
One of my favorite myths out of ancient Rome is “Horatius at the Bridge.” Horatius was a soldier when Tarquin the Proud was king. Good ol’ Tarquin was the last king of Rome and he was terrible.
When the Romans ran his butt outta town and across the Tiber River bridge, Tarquin tried to fight his way back.
If it hadn’t been for Horatius fighting alone, Tarquin may have retaken control of Rome.
I’ve been feeling like that—like I’m fighting the enemy on my own.
The Peas and the rest of the so-called populars are like Tarquin—trying to fight their way on top when they should be driven out of the city. Or at least the middle school hierarchy. What I’m saying is in middle school, you have to dig deep and find your inner Horatius, because there’ll always be a Tarquin trying to push you aside. Rip down that bridge, baby. Keep Tarquin out!
14
SPQR
The lobby appeared to reach all the way to heaven.
We had taken an escalator up from the ground floor. Pale shades of gold and cream covered the walls, the furniture, the carpets and tiles. The hotel’s ceiling was a lacework of glass and snow-white iron beams.
I couldn’t believe these hotel people were letting a bunch of kids invade their nice space. If Mr. G. and Principal Striker had to pay a deposit, we might get sued out of our school and have to hold classes at the National Guard Armory back home!
Of course, we weren’t the only sixth graders. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows we watched dozens of kids huddled together, laughing and running along the sidewalks. It wasn’t nearly as cold in D.C. as it had been in Detroit. No snow on the ground. A toasty warm forty-three degrees, we’d heard the bus driver say as he was parking.
Mr. G. and my mom went to the check-in counter while we stood behind a wall of teachers and other chaperones.
“Oh, Lordy! Brianna, this place is amazing. Are you responsible for this?” Red looked impressed and mischievous at the same time. Light spilled from the glittering chandeliers and lit her red hair like a flame. I self-consciously tossed my own hair over my shoulder, still not used to it being all loose and swingy.
“Well, of course. Because I’m classy and I demand classiness wherever I go!” I said.
“So, that’s a no, then,” Red said, giving me a shove to the shoulder. We did our best to wander away from the herd (despite being specifically warned not to wander away from the herd). In front of us was a small staircase, and at the foot of the stairs were these creamy white cards, large like poster board, but much more elegant.
Each card sat in a brass holder that stood about three feet high. And each card featured elaborate golden cursive writing.
The Gemstone Society Show
Mezzanine Level
Clockmakers of America
Ballroom G
Handmade Doll Craft Association
The Neptune Room
Welcome!
Leadership Conference USA
and All Class Presidents
Opening Reception at 4 p.m.
The Coral Room
I knew it was probably dorky, but a chill ran through me as I read the welcome card. Red whipped out a camera and we went into a selfie frenzy.
But before we could sneak back to the group, I was totally busted. A huge man wearing a white chef’s hat and apron came out of nowhere, shouting my name.
“BRIANNA! LOOK AT YOU!” He was darker than dark roast coffee.
Lauren bent down and whispered, “You know him, Bree?”
“Uncle Al?” I said, squinting up at the man. By then Mom and Mr. G. had returned to our group. Of course, all the kids who had been minding their own business were now all up in mine.
“Al!” said Mom, going on tiptoe to hug her brother-in-law.
“How’ya doing, girl!” he boomed, lifting her into the air and twirling her around.
Okay, as much as I hated to have that done to me, I had to admit, it was fun watching Mom spin like a pinwheel. I watched the faces of the other kids and I saw that it seemed to make them happy, too. Was this how people looked at me when other kids were spinning me around? I mean, it was still beyond annoying, but maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Mom said, “It’s so good to see you, Al. We brought you a little baker!” Mom patted Al’s thick arm and he gently placed her back on the floor. She waved me over and said, “Brianna, you remember your uncle Al, right?”
He bent down in front of me. His eyes were milk-chocolate soft.
“Oh, child!” he exclaimed. He reached out and took my hand. His thick fingers closed over mine, his palms swallowing my hand like oven mitts. “You really are a sight for sore eyes. What a beautiful girl. You better be glad your mama is a looker, ’cause your daddy is the funniest-looking thing this side of the Mississippi!
“I’ve got recipes that will blow your mind. Just come across the street to my restaurant, the Kitchen, and see me when you’re ready,” he said.
Mr. G. called everyone’s attention as Uncle Al made his way back across the lobby. We got our room assignments and were given an itinerary—a schedule of what we were going to be doing over the next several days.
Our opening ceremony was in the Coral Room. That was when they would introduce all of the class presidents.
Lost in thought about my upcoming speech, I felt a tug on the back of my jacket and turned.
I was shocked to see who was standing there. And wearing a super-serious expression.
Beau Brattley.
“Brianna, we need to talk! Like, right now!”
I took a deep breath and remembered my new vow to stay calm and upbeat. Not fake, but mature and leadershippy.
“Hey, Beau, did you have fun on the bus ride?”
He looked at me like I had two heads AND a tail. Okay, so much for small talk.
“Look, Brianna, I just need to tell you something about your friends Sara and Becks,” he said.
My heart flipped. I knew I was supposed
to be mad at them or whatever, but swear to goodness, if he started ragging on them, I was about to go off.
“What?”
He pulled me away from the group. When we were closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street, he leaned in and practically whispered:
“Those chicks they’re hanging around with, the Peas, they’re just using your friends.”
I scowled. Outside, the sidewalks were filled with students, the scene playful and wintry, like a snow scene from a video game with very high pixels. Inside, I was whispering like a spy, all hunched over and conspiratorial like I was trading top secret recipes with a rival government chef.
“What are you talking about?” I said. Ghostly fog whirled against the cool window.
Mr. G. looked over in our direction. We both ducked our heads. We heard him say, “If at any point anyone decides to make a moose call or any other sound that isn’t yes, ma’am or yes, sir, we will send you home immediately, per the agreement we have with each and every one of your parents.”
Beau Brattley hissed, “Look, it’s none of my business, okay. But I just thought you’d want to know. I know for a fact that the only reason Prya and Paisley wanted Tweedledee and Tweedledum to room with them is because they’re planning to trick them out of their savings… or something like that. Didn’t the four of you used to save money together?”
I nodded.
He continued, “Once they get the two of them to spend as much money on them as possible, then they’re going to try to humiliate them and get them in trouble.”
My face flamed hot. I knew those girls were up to something. She-devils—absolute she-devils!
“Why are you telling me this? Why not tell them?”
It was a fair question. He shifted from foot to foot. When he looked at me, his eyes darted back and forth. Definitely spy material. Maybe D.C. was making us paranoid.
“Okay, here’s the thing. I know my brother has been giving you a hard time about the whole president thing, but the truth is, I never even wanted to be president. I just…” He looked at his shoes for a minute. Then he looked at me and gave me a mischievous grin.
“That’s why I sent that e-mail to Principal Striker. Someone had to shut my brother down. Using class funds to buy junk for his weird little science experiments. He’s trying to be like some evil science genius. I did not want to be president, but he kept trying to drag me into it just for some kind of power trip.”
“So you blabbed on your own brother?” I said, incredulous.
His cheeks turned bright pink. “I had to! He was out of control!” His voice squeaked, then he lowered his pitch. “Anyway, whatever. I know they’re your friends and I know those girls are up to no good. That Bakari dude, too. Anyway, that’s all.”
He looked both ways, then started to walk away. He stopped short and looked back. “Oh, and good luck with your speech and everything.”
And he was gone.
“So what was that about?” asked Lauren when I returned to the group.
I just shook my head. “Tell you later,” I said.
This was just great. Just excellent.
What was I supposed to do? Becks and Sara were both being super-pissy. How was I supposed to save them when they didn’t even want to be around me? That was the question.
We found our rooms and were allowed to go in and dump our stuff. I took out my dress for the reception and hung it in the closet. We were supposed to be super-grown-up and elegant.
Mom and Mrs. Garcia, Click’s mom, were our chaperones. They got us settled and told us we could go explore the hotel for one hour, but had to come right back.
For the next hour we went up and down the elevators; down and up the escalators. On the mezzanine level, we found the Gemstone Society show. Cases and cases of multicolored gems from deep reds to sparkly clear crystals.
We read the tiny cards that described each piece, but we didn’t dare touch anything. Especially since some of the people guarding the gems appeared downright hostile to have sixth graders looking at their stuff.
It was hard to concentrate. Becks and Sara were in trouble. They needed my help. But I didn’t know how or what to do. Or if they would even want me to do anything.
Heading down to visit another area, I heard Mom calling my name.
“I have news!” she said, waggling her phone in my direction. When she told me, I couldn’t believe it.
“Really? You really did it?”
“Who’s the greatest mother in the world?”
“Um…”
She swatted at me, but I ducked in time. All in fun. Then I gave her the biggest hug ever.
“I can’t believe you got us into the White House!”
“Well, I already asked for the passes. I could only get four—so I gave them my name, yours, Rebecca’s, and Sara’s. Tell Lauren I’m so sorry, but I thought if you were trying to mend fences with those two, well…”
“Mom! You’re the best. The best best best best!” I hugged her tight.
Lauren would understand. I just knew she would.
I glanced in Red and Lauren’s direction. “Let me handle this part,” I said. A plan was already forming.
When I told Red, Lauren, and Ebony about my conversation with Beau, they were mixed on whether I should say something. Then I told them my plan.
“You really think that’ll work?” Red asked.
I chewed my lip. “I think Becks and Sara are just going through a crazy period. Getting to go to the White House after we visit the Capitol, just hanging out away from the bad influences, it’ll make a big difference. I’m sorry. I really wish I had enough passes so we could all go.”
Red said, “No worries, Miss J. If you think this’ll help, I say go for it. While you’re at the White House having tea and crumpets with the President, I’ll be checking out an exhibit at the National Gallery.” She did a first-class ballet twirl and added, “A collection of Degas. He was a master at capturing the art of dance on canvas.”
I giggled and did a much less perfect twirl of my own. “Um, first off, Miss Thing, tea and crumpets? He’s President, not the queen!”
Red went up on her toes and did a very graceful leap. “And second?” she asked.
“Second off, or secondly, you’re ridiculous. But thanks for the support. I really mean it.”
Lauren, in her usual easygoing tone, said, “She’s right, Bree. It’s okay that I’m not going to the White House. I just want you and Becks and Sara to work things out once and for all.”
Ebony, however, disagreed. “Well, I think you shouldn’t say a thing to them.”
“Why?” blurted Lauren.
“ ’Cause I think they’re doing exactly what they want to do, hanging out with those nasty Peas,” she said.
I sighed. Ebony just didn’t understand. They were my best friends. As far back as second grade, Becks used to be so awkward. So… needy. Kids picked on her all the time. She was the shyest person I’d ever seen. Always a little, um, heavy, she got teased and called roly-poly. I stood up for her then, and still felt like I had to. And Sara? Always sweet and silly and making us laugh. Thanks to her, we grew up watching My Little Pony and giving one another ridiculous horse names.
So it was up to me to help them see what a huge mistake they were making. Before I could explain, however, Lauren jumped in.
“You don’t know Brianna that well yet. She’s been helping them since we were little kids,” Lauren said.
“No offense, Ebony, but Lauren and I know them better than anybody else. Trust me, they don’t really like those girls; they’ve just gotten caught up in the whole popular thing.”
Ebony snorted. “If you say so, girl.”
Guuuurl, I truly do!
The afternoon flew by and before we knew it, it was time for the reception. I showered and put on my dress. It was black with burgundy flowers. I wore black tights and tiny black heels with a strap over the top. Mary Janes, Aunt Tina called them.
When we
entered the Coral Room of the hotel, a wave of noise washed over us. It was like the cafeteria at school, only it smelled better and all the noise was polite, sort of.
Kids from a few dozen middle schools filled round tables all over the room. We would later learn that most schools brought only a few students. Mr. G. was one of the few teachers crazy enough to try to bring such a huge group.
I was getting nervous thinking about having my name called for recognition. It didn’t help any when I saw Sara and the Peas walk in. Where was Becks? For a brief moment, I made eye contact with Sara. I waved and she was about to return the wave when the Peas realized who she was looking at. One of them looked right at me and rolled her eyes. Then she pushed Sara along and made her sit with her back to me. Trolls!
“Good afternoon, and welcome to the twenty-third annual Leadership America Conference,” said the man at the podium.
My heart fluttered. All around me kids were snapping photos. Red and Lauren and Ebony, too. The speaker asked for everyone’s attention and Mom asked us to all put our phones down.
My moment had arrived. “Now, I’d like to do our annual roll call for sixth-and seventh-grade class presidents,” he said. Mr. G. had explained that even though the conference was for both grades, he made a decision to bring only one class. One by one, the speaker called out names from a sheet. Each time, the kid stood and received applause.
When it was my turn, it felt like I was in a movie.
Or maybe a dream.
“… Miss Brianna Justice…”
I stood on shaky knees. It was only for a few seconds, but in that time I glanced around. I saw the smile on Mr. G.’s face and a huge one on my mom’s. They looked so proud and it made me feel proud to have their support. All of our students applauded and cheered. Blueberry Hills came to represent! I’m just saying, we rocked it.
The rest of the names floated past in a beautiful ribbon of camera flashes and rippling applause. When he had read the last of the names, the speaker told us to go out and enjoy the reception. He said he’d look forward to seeing some of us in our sessions the following morning. My first session wasn’t until Wednesday, so I had all day Tuesday for touring and sightseeing.
President of the Whole Sixth Grade Page 11
