Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

mathletesmartin: Told by who?!

  PicknLittle: The YouTube.

  LadyOfTheStage: And, of course, “calcu” as in “calculus.”

  PicknLitle: Calcu-yaaas.

  mathletesmartin: I get it, I get it

  LadyOfTheStage: Anyway, we’ve figured out how to get you to both the drag show AND Regionals all in one night.

  PicknLittle: We’re going to need some help, though. Like, an adult who’s in on the plan.

  LadyOfTheStage: Do you think your uncle would help?

  mathletesmartin: I guess it depends on what you had in mind?

  PicknLittle: Oh, we’d draw the line at murder

  LadyOfTheStage: Pickle!

  PicknLittle: Well, wouldn’t we?

  mathletesmartin: Oh, jeez

  LadyOfTheStage: Listen, the night of the competitions, we’ll have your Mathletes uniform in a go-bag and the car running.

  mathletesmartin: Where did you get a car?!

  LadyOfTheStage: Well, when I say we, I really mean your mom and uncle. It’ll be one of their cars! Or, you know, a taxi. Ooh, or a limousine! I’m not picky.

  PicknLittle: You’re also not driving

  LadyOfTheStage: A fair point

  PicknLittle: Meanwhile, the three of us will get dropped off at Regionals.

  mathlesemartin: Three of us?

  vividviolet: Hi, guys!

  LadyOfTheStage: Hi, Violet! Thanks for joining Operation Calcu-Yaaas.

  vividviolet: I was super excited when Peter asked if I’d help plan. It’s so Game of Thrones.

  vividviolet: Only, you know, without all the murder and dragons.

  LadyOfTheStage: Oh man, your mom lets you watch that?

  vividviolet: She fast-forwards through the inappropriate stuff, but yeah.

  PicknLittle: I mean, you don’t know there won’t be dragons . . . or murder.

  LadyOfTheStage: Pickle! Stop that! Ugh, I’m so jealous, Vi.

  mathletesmartin: Guys?

  LadyOfTheStage: Sorry! Violet, we’re just getting to your part.

  vividviolet: Yes!

  PicknLittle: So, right before the clock hits 7, I will suddenly make a Big Scene.

  mathletesmartin: By doing. . .?

  PicknLittle: . . .Don’t worry about it.

  mathletesmartin: Pickle!

  PicknLittle: What?!

  LadyOfTheStage: I’ve already told him no fire.

  vividviolet: And no fisticuffs.

  LadyOfTheStage: Good rules to live by, really.

  PicknLittle: Martin, relax. Of course there’s a plan. Would I be Pickle “The Planner” Tufts otherwise?

  LadyOfTheStage: I thought your middle name was “Silly Questions.”

  PicknLittle: Carmen!!! Not in front of Violet!!!

  vividviolet: Aw, it’s okay, Peter. Besides, technically I will be the one making a Big Scene.

  LadyOfTheStage: Yesssssss. Enter Violet, stage left!

  vividviolet: Obviously, we need a distraction beyond Peter . . . well, just being Peter. So I came up with an idea!

  PicknLittle: It is, in fact, a pretty great idea. My girlfriend is kiiind of a genius, you guys.

  vividviolet: So here it is

  vividviolet: Right before Regionals starts, I’m going to pretend to pass out. Just for a minute, but long enough for Peter to make the necessary Big Scene calling for help.

  vividviolet: And, because they can’t just ignore a medical emergency, they’ll HAVE to delay the competition! For a little while, at least.

  mathletesmartin: Violet, this is so nice, but you really don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable with it.

  vividviolet: Martin, I appreciate your concern, but this was my idea! Honestly, if a disabled person so much as sneezes, non-disabled people assume it’s an emergency. It’s pretty insulting. But, in this case, at least, I can use it to our advantage.

  vividviolet: I wouldn’t normally condone using one’s disability to pull off a con, but . . . there’s a championship and a queendom at stake, people!

  LadyOfTheStage: Pickle, who knew you were dating a rebel?

  PicknLittle: Isn’t she the best?

  vividviolet: Plus, I can make my sure my chair isn’t in manual mode, so it’ll be basically impossible for them to push me to the nurse’s office. Sometimes being a wheelchair user has its perks!

  LadyOfTheStage: Meanwhile, you’ll be performing at Hoosier Mama

  Just then, my phone vibrated with another ReadMe notification, which was extra weird considering I was already chatting with everyone I normally talked to. I quickly swiped to the home screen of the app, and my heart skipped a beat.

  ReadMe App

  JAN. 7—1:15 PM

  This person would like to connect with you: Christopher-Jack Cregg (NotJPTheOtherOne)

  Message: Hey! It’s Chris! Add me so we can chat!

  mathletesmartin: Hey, Chris! Nice username.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Hey, thanks! Yours too!

  mathletesmartin: What’s up?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Nothing much. J.P.’s on the Xbox and Sara-Rose is watching some show on the PS4, so messing around on my phone was really the only option left for me.

  mathletesmartin: Sara-Rose?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Oh, my little sister. She’s in second grade. After her there’s Mary-Anne and Grace-Elizabeth.

  mathletesmartin: Wow, your parents really love hyphenated names, don’t they?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: To a fault. We’re just lucky they didn’t hyphenate their last names when they got married.

  mathletesmartin: That bad?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Can you say Wojciechowski-Cregg?

  mathletesmartin: I . . . cannot.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Exactly! So we count our blessings.

  mathletesmartin: Seriously

  mathletesmartin: Um, hey, could you give me one sec? I have to pop over to another chat really quick.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Sure thing!

  As much as I wanted to stay and talk with Chris, plans were in motion in the other group chat. And it appeared that in my absence, all hell had broken loose.

  ReadMe App

  JAN. 7—1:23 PM

  PicknLittle: All I’m saying is that if you needed a superhero to get the car to the competition without a driver, the Flash would be like, the WORST POSSIBLE CHOICE

  LadyOfTheStage: Why?!

  vividviolet: See, now you’ve got him started.

  PicknLittle: All he can do is run fast!

  LadyOfTheStage: Isn’t that what we need?

  Someone to run fast and push the car?

  PicknLittle: HOW MUCH DO CARS WEIGH, CARMEN?

  LadyOfTheStage: . . .So?

  vividviolet: Peter, play nice.

  mathletesmartin: Uh, hi, guys, sorry. What’s happening?

  vividviolet: Oh, thank goodness you’re back

  PicknLittle: SUPERMAN IS THE OBVIOUS CHOICE, HE’S SO OVER-POWERED.

  LadyOfTheStage: The conversation!!! Is over!!! Pickle!!!

  PicknLittle: FINE

  vividviolet: Basically, all you need to know is that right after your performance, you need to hop in the car and get to Baker’s Lake Academy as fast as you can.

  LadyOfTheStage: Google Maps says it’s like a half-hour drive, but Pickle and Violet’s distraction should delay the competition long enough for you to make it there in time. I’ll be there, too, so I can stage-manage their performance. I am HIGHLY qualified, after all.

  mathletesmartin: Should I warn Mr. Peterson that I’ll be late?

  PicknLittle: No way, dude. He’ll just freak out.

  LadyOfTheStage: You’ll have to change in the car if you want to make it on time, though. Maybe throw some construction paper over the windows or something?

  PicknLittle: Right, because with everything he’ll have going on that night, strangers seeing his Snoopy underpants pass by at 60 miles per hour is DEFINITELY the biggest thing on his mind.

  LadyOfTheStage: How do you know he’s got Snoopy underpants?


  PicknLittle: We’ve had sleepovers. Mind your business.

  mathletesmartin: I hate you

  PicknLittle: I kid, I kid! Anyway, by the time they’re done making sure my Sleeping Beauty is a-okay, you should be rolling up to the school.

  vividviolet: Leaving you plenty of time to wreck those Baker’s Lake jerks!

  LadyOfTheStage: Violet, the more I know about you, the more I like you.

  PicknLittle: I know the feeling.

  vividviolet: Aww!

  LadyOfTheStage: Okay, now that’s just gross.

  I grinned to myself. It was all happening! My friends and I were all on good terms again, we had a plan for the big day, and Chris Cregg was talking to me. To me!

  Is this real life? I thought, shaking my head in disbelief. Then I remembered Chris was still waiting for me. Shoot!

  ReadMe App

  JAN. 7—1:29 PM

  mathletesmartin: Hey, sorry, I’m back! Anyway. Are you getting excited for Regionals?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Honestly, I’m way more excited about all things Mathletes since you’ve been captain.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Like, J.P.’s my brother and I love him, but he would have made a terrible leader. And Nelson is such a goon. You were the best choice.

  mathletesmartin: Thanks, man. That means a lot.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Anyway, I’m mostly stoked to see the look on Mr. Berg’s face when we crush his precious little team.

  mathletesmartin: He’ll probably just melt into the ground like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Ha! The Wicked Witch of Baker’s Lake.

  mathletesmartin: Exactly!

  mathletesmartin: Hey, sooo I was wondering

  NotJPTheOtherOne: What’s up?

  mathletesmartin: Do you want to come over?

  mathletesmartin: We could practice for Mathletes or we could play some video games like we talked about.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Like, right now?

  mathletesmartin: Um, yeah, if that’s okay?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: That would be perfect! This house is so full of kids I can’t even hear myself think. I can leave in like, 20 minutes?

  mathletesmartin: Awesome. I’ll send you my address!

  I let out a strangled screech. The coolest guy in school—not to mention the nicest and the funniest and cutest—was coming over to hang out with me.

  I could have dropped dead from excitement and absolute pants-wetting anxiety.

  ReadMe App

  JAN. 7—1:35 PM

  mathletesmartin: Hey, guys? I’ve gotta run. But this plan sounds like it could actually work.

  LadyOfTheStage: I told you it was perfect!

  PicknLittle: Technically, I told him it was perfect first.

  vividviolet: Hush, Peter.

  LadyOfTheStage: Operation Calcu-Yaaas is a go!

  vividviolet: Hear, hear!

  mathletesmartin: Thanks, guys. And for moving a whole car, you’d want Hela from Thor. She can teleport stuff. Instant travel. Much better than Superman or The Flash. Bye!

  PicknLittle: WHY THIS

  11

  Chris. Cregg. Was. Coming. Over.

  And my room is a garbage pit! It was a five-alarm, code red, call-the-fire-department, call-the-Coast-Guard emergency. It’d been forever since I’d had someone over who wasn’t Pickle or Carmen, and they were used to my mess. Chris couldn’t see my old Lincoln Logs and stuffed animals.

  As I whirled around in a tornado of tidying, the butterflies in my stomach returned, fluttery and vaguely nauseating. I hope he still likes me after actually spending time with me. Chris and I saw each other at Mathletes all the time, but there was a big difference between school friends and friend-friends. I wanted Chris to be a friend-friend, like Pickle and Carmen.

  By the time the doorbell rang, my bedroom floor was mostly visible, and all my dirty laundry had been shoved under the bed. Good enough! I ran downstairs and prayed he wouldn’t notice I was a little out of breath.

  I opened the door to find Chris on the front stoop, wearing an army-green coat and matching scarf.

  “Hey!” he said. “Nice place. I like this side of town. Lots of trees.” He shifted his skateboard under his arm and smiled. “I skated over. No snow after New Year’s meant I could bust out the board early!”

  Immediately upon seeing the living room, Chris’s eyes grew wide. Mom’s bright mural with all the flowers and vines and—oh no—my face, had captured his attention. How, how did I forget about the mural? My face, the one actually attached to me, went hot.

  “Whoa,” Chris said, kicking off his shoes. He walked farther into the room, his mouth hanging open. “Your mom did all this?”

  I nodded. “She’s an artist. She teaches at the university too. Color Theory in Painting, with Professor Perez. But this is what she does in her spare time. She’s out back in her studio right now.”

  “Wow. It’s really good!” Chris tilted his freckled face up toward the ceiling as he unbuckled his helmet, taking in Mom’s clouds and birds. “Is your dad an artist too?”

  “Um, no. My dad’s not around anymore,” I said. Chris opened his mouth, probably to apologize, but I rushed to talk over him. “He’s a filmmaker though, which I guess is sort of like an artist. He’s in Los Angeles.”

  “Oh,” Chris nodded, looking relieved. “That’s cool. Has he made anything I would’ve seen?” I shook my head.

  “I think he mostly does, like, weird indie stuff. I don’t really know.”

  “You’ve never seen one of his movies?”

  “Nope,” I said. Then, quickly changing the subject: “You wanna see my room?”

  Upstairs, I showed Chris my video game collection and my superhero posters and the shelf where I keep all our Mathletes trophies. We decided on Minecraft and plopped down into the bean bag chairs near my TV as the Xbox started up. I handed Chris a controller in silence. Say something, Martin! I urged myself.

  “Your hands are really dry,” I said, without thinking. Oh, God. Something other than that. Chris looked down at his hands, surprised, and laughed.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s from pottery. When you throw pots you get a lot of stuff on your hands, and then you have to wash it off. All that washing and soap can make your hands look like crocodile feet.” He made his hand look like a crocodile mouth and chomped up and down.

  “My mom’s hands look like that too,” I said, “from painting.”

  “I bet!” he said. “She does some cool stuff. Maybe she and I could talk about it some time.”

  “She’d like that,” I said. But really, I was thinking about how that implied Chris wanted to hang out with me again. As the game booted up, Chris looked around my room.

  “Cool stars,” he said, pointing to my ceiling. “Did you do the constellations with them?”

  “Nah,” I said, “I made up my own.”

  “Your own constellations?”

  I nodded.

  “Do they have names?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, “but only for me. I’ve never, like, written them down or anything.”

  “Show me one!” he said, pointing to the ceiling-sky. “Like that one, with the swoop and the part that looks like a sword. Is that Martinius, The Warrior?” I laughed and shook my head.

  “Nope. That’s Ferrum Masculinitum.”

  “Ferruh-what?”

  “Ferrum, the Latin word for iron, and masculinitum—”

  “—meaning man, right? Iron Man!” Chris exclaimed. “You named a constellation after Iron Man? In Latin?”

  I shrugged. “It’s closer to Pig Latin than the real thing. I make up a lot of my own words.”

  “What about that one?” Chris said, pointing to a swirly one in the center of the ceiling.

  “That one’s called Gena Major,” I said, “for my mom.”

  “And that one?”

  “Kevinax.”

  “Who’s Kevin?”

  “Um, my dad,” I said. “Hey, the game’
s ready to go.”

  There was a pause before Chris picked up his controller from his lap. I tried not to look over, because I knew I’d see him looking back at me with pity.

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

  “You couldn’t have,” I said softly.

  “Um, are we okay?”

  “Yeah, of course. I’m not gonna get mad at you over my silly dad stuff.”

  “It’s not silly,” Chris said, looking very serious. “It must really suck.” The genuine sympathy in his blue eyes caught me off guard. Startled by the butterflies zooming around in my stomach again, I blinked hard and looked away.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “But other times it doesn’t feel like anything, because we’ve gotten so used to him being gone.”

  “Do you like having your uncle here?”

  “Uh-huh,” I nodded, my eyes fixed on the TV screen. “My uncle Billy is awesome. He has to move to Chicago soon, but he promised to . . .” I realized I couldn’t tell Chris what Tío Billy promised—to stick around for All-Ages night—so I coughed and quickly came up with something else. “He promised to come visit when he can.”

  “Well, maybe when he’s gone, we could hang out,” Chris said. “That way you won’t feel lonely or anything.”

  “That’s . . . really nice of you. Thanks,” I said, blushing a little. “And, I mean, I bet you wouldn’t mind getting out of your house every once in a while, with all those siblings.”

  Chris laughed, and it was like a crack of lightning, but lovely.

  “You have no idea,” he said. “It’s a zoo.”

  And then something happened. I was looking at Chris, who was so focused on the game, and all I wanted to do was tell him about Lottie. Maybe he would understand, like Carmen and Pickle did, I thought, feeling the words rise up in my throat. Maybe he would think it’s cool. Maybe he’d even want to see me perform. I imagined Chris’s face in the audience at Hoosier Mama, beaming with pride at watching me, and it was like the butterflies in my stomach were rushing around on a sugar high. My whole body felt as luminous as stardust, glowy and warm and hopeful. Is this a crush? I wondered. Is this like-liking someone?

  I pushed all the thoughts aside. Don’t make it awkward, Martin. Just enjoy hanging out with him. Focus on the game. So I did, and together Chris and I built a barn and a moat, and fought off hordes. While we played, we talked about all sorts of things—comics and Mathletes and whether or not Poppy would say yes when Nelson inevitably asked her to the spring formal. (I said no way, Chris said yes.)