by Linda Johns
I got off six blocks from school. I didn’t want any snoopy or snooty parents to see me on a city bus. No matter how bad middle school can be, at least Chavez isn’t completely miserable. It’s the north end’s AA school. Officially, that’s for “Alternative and Accelerated.” Everyone at Chavez is considered “advanced.” Whatever that means. You have to have certain test scores or recommendations from teachers to go there. You also had to live north of the Ship Canal. We used our old address in the Maple Leaf neighborhood for my school assignment. We were superlucky there, too, because the people renting our old house kept our mail for us.
I was a block from Chavez Middle when a little white two-seater convertible with a BMW emblem screeched past me and pulled over to the curb. I had a flashback to Mimi Hansen parking in front of Belltown Towers yesterday. Uh-oh. It was Mimi Hansen. But she wasn’t getting out here. A blond girl about my age stepped out of the passenger side. The door hadn’t even closed all the way when Mimi accelerated away.
The girl looked around, as if checking out who was watching her. She glanced at me, then looked quickly away. She was the kind of girl who wanted to be watched (especially getting a ride to school in a spiffy car like that). But she also looked nervous, as if she didn’t want anyone to see her. She was heading toward the front doors of Chavez, just like I was. She turned around and glared at me again, as if I were following her. Well, I was, technically. But only because I had to get to school before the final bell. If she was starting at Chavez, the New Girl Alert would spring into action, and we’d know all about her by lunchtime. This girl was one mystery I didn’t have time for.
The first bell rang, and I headed into school and straight for homeroom.
“Hey,” I said to Lily.
“Hey back,” she said. She didn’t even look up from her book, but she wasn’t being rude. She was just being Lily. And that means preoccupied with a story. She unclipped her bangs on the right side and reclipped them, then did the same thing on the left side, managing to turn a page in the middle of clipping. Both of us play with our hair—I’m a hair twirler and she’s a hair twister—and both of us are trying to get out of the habit. Today Lily had her shoulder-length straight brown hair in two pigtails twisted into buns. She says if she restricts her hair she won’t play with it as much. The result is that my fair-skinned, blue-eyed, freckled Irish friend looks like a cross between a leprechaun and Princess Leia from the original Star Wars movies. But I’m not about to tell her that. Her right hand reached up for her hair clip.
“Put the clip down,” I whispered in a mock-cop voice. “Walk away from the clip and we’ll all be okay.”
She looked up at me. Glared up at me, actually. Then back to her book.
“Who done it?” I asked, flopping my messenger bag down next to her desk.
“Not sure yet,” she replied, still not looking up. Lily was on an Agatha Christie mystery binge. She’d gone on a mystery-reading jag last summer, starting with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and then moving on to Dame Agatha. She was on a mission to read every single book by Agatha Christie.
I peeked at the cover of her book: Murder at the Vicarage.
“What’s a vicarage, and who was murdered there?” I asked.
Lily still didn’t look up. “A vicarage is like a church. I don’t yet know who murdered the magistrate. I daresay it wasn’t the vicar, but I’m not sure I trust Griselda. However, I do believe it was someone in the parish.”
“Huh?”
“Hannah, you really need to learn to speak British if you want to keep up with me, old chum,” Lily said with a bloody good accent. “Now leave me alone so I can get to the bottom of this before Miss Marple.”
“Don’t forget our local art-thief mystery, Miss Shannon,” I said. Lily and I had emailed back and forth yesterday, so she was up on the action at Belltown Towers.
“Listen up, people,” Mr. Claussen, our homeroom teacher, called. “We’ve got a few announcements, and then we’ll take the rest of the period for quiet time. You can read, do homework, sleep, or draw.” He looked right at me at the end, which I assume was for the drawing suggestion, as I’m not much of a classroom sleeper.
“It’s so unfair,” I whispered to Lily. “An entire school year will go by without us having a class together, and we don’t even get to talk in homeroom half the time.” The cruel scheduling program didn’t even give Lily and me the same lunch period.
She sighed dramatically and went back to Miss Marple, and I worked on a female sword-wielding manga bike messenger until the bell for second period rang.
“Note you?” I queried.
“Note me,” Lily confirmed. “I’ll note you back.”
We were on a retro covert communication mission. Everyone at Chavez was into instant messaging after school and text messaging between classes. I’d read this article about students in Japan who were actually using paper and pencil to scribble notes to one another, then using their camera phones to take a picture, and sending the note to a friend. The whole idea was so preposterous that Lily and I vowed to be devoted paper-note correspondents.
We headed out the door. I raced down two flights of stairs and along a long hallway to the art studio. The one good thing about my schedule this year was that I’d finally gotten into Drawing/Painting 3. Getting to draw first thing in the morning was some consolation for not having the same lunch as Lily. I sat down at my regular table and got out my colored pencils. I am totally in love with the Prismacolor pencils my grandma gave me for my last birthday. They’re not at all like the ordinary colored pencils you get at the drugstore or Office Warehouse. These are considered “artist quality,” with wonderful pigment. It’s easier to control your color and line with really good pencils. And thanks to Grandma, I had a deluxe box of 120.
“Let’s get started,” Ms. Murdoch said. She expected us to be ready to work as soon as the final bell rang.
“You can sit right there by Hannah,” Ms. Murdoch said. I hadn’t been paying attention until she said my name.
I looked up as that new blond girl sat down next to me at the table. I smiled. She didn’t.
“This will be your permanent seat for the rest of the quarter,” Ms. Murdoch told her.
Great, I thought. This girl didn’t seem terribly friendly. Besides, I’d gotten used to having the whole table to myself.
The new girl smiled at Ms. Murdoch. Then she mumbled, “Just great.”
At least I hadn’t said anything out loud. Or had I?
“Um, I’m Hannah,” I said.
“I’m Jordan,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
“Bellevue,” she answered. And that one word said it all. Bellevue is a suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. Superrich people live in Bellevue, including Bill Gates, one of the guys who started Microsoft—who, in case you haven’t heard, is the richest person in the world.
“I want you to start right away sketching this still life. Don’t worry about colors or details at this point, of course,” Ms. Murdoch said, looking at me since I already had my colored pencils out. “Concentrate on the forms and their relational sizes.” It was an odd assortment of things for a still life—a small African-style drum, a clay vase with a single tulip, and an old-lady kind of teacup and saucer with dainty pink roses around the rims. The combination did not look particularly intriguing or attractive. I wasn’t sure if there was some weird hidden symbolism in these objects.
“I hope we don’t have to talk symbolism,” Jordan said under her breath.
I stifled a laugh. Maybe this new girl from the suburbs wasn’t too bad after all.
“I like your highlights,” she said. “They remind me of Vermilion. Or maybe Carmine Red.”
Interesting. This girl didn’t say “red.” She used specific Prismacolor pencil hues. Most people just say, “I like those reddish streaks in your hair.”
“Actually, I think of this more as Crimson Lake,” I said. “Number 925,” I added, to see if she really kne
w her stuff. She smiled, so I guess she did. I was going to ask why she’d switched schools so close to the end of the year, but the teacher was heading toward us.
“Jordan, I’m so thrilled to have you in class,” Ms. Murdoch said breathily. “I’m a huge fan of your mother’s work. I couldn’t believe it when I read in the Times this morning that someone stole one of her paintings from the Mafune Gallery and then another one en route to Belltown Towers.”
I stared at Jordan. “Is your last name Hansen?” I asked.
“No, it’s Walsh,” she said.
“But Mimi Hansen—”
“—is my mother,” Jordan finished for me. She had that steel-eyed look that said, You want to make something of it?
“Oh, wow. I just met her yesterday. She’s really famous. I saw this painting she did called Principally Blue. It’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll bet it is. She’s sure some artist.” Jordan clearly wasn’t interested in talking with me. Or maybe about her mom.
CHAPTER 8
THE BELL RANG. I packed up my things and headed toward the door. Jordan followed me out. I was still trying to get my head around all of a sudden having a new girl in school who just happens to be the great Mimi Hansen’s daughter. But then I turned into Hannah West, Helpful Girl and Ambassador of Kindness to new students. “Do you need help finding your next class? I can give you the lowdown on the best lunch line, too,” I offered.
“Are you both the school artist and tour guide?” Jordan asked. She said “artist” so it sounded like “artiste.” Then she added, “By the way, where did you get your Prismacolor-inspired streaks?” She smiled while she talked and walked. At least, the corners of her mouth were turned up, but her face wasn’t really going along with it. I suddenly saw the family resemblance between Jordan Walsh and Mimi Hansen. Twenty-four hours ago, I had never even heard of Mimi Hansen. Now she was everywhere, including a younger version right beside me in the halls of Chavez Middle.
I stopped and Jordan practically screeched to a stop beside me. Was she making fun of me and my hair? I’d have to cut ties with her now before she commented on my vintage Urban Surf T-shirt or managed to find something wrong with my jeans.
“Listen, Jordan, I’m not exactly sure why we’re talking about Prismacolor names or my hair, but if there’s something I can help you with at Chavez, let me know,” I said.
“Ladies! Welcome!” Mr. Ogata came out in the hall. “Your presence is requested inside my fascinating class,” he said. “We have a lot to go over today.”
Jordan followed me into Mr. Ogata’s room. Just my luck. Jordan Walsh was in social studies with me, too. And that meant she was an honors student.
I copied our homework assignment from the board, but I didn’t hear a word Mr. Ogata said for fifty-five minutes. All my brain cells were fired up and fuming, but also swirling and muddled. How could someone I didn’t even know act so weird around me? I tried to look like I was paying attention to Mr. Ogata, but I doubt I was very convincing.
Finally, social studies was over. But my time with Jordan Walsh wasn’t. It dawned on me that if she was in social studies with me, she’d also be in honors language arts. Jordan got up to leave.
“Not so fast,” Mr. Ogata said as he came over to her. “I’ll try not to be hurt that you’re so eager to leave me. But this is a two-hour honors block. Check your schedule, Ms. Walsh, and if it says ‘Honors Language Arts,’ then you’re staying here with the rest of these inquiring minds.” Jordan made a show of pulling out her schedule and looking it over, then she gave a big sigh and settled back into her seat.
“You all have five minutes to talk softly, stretch, do some yoga or mental gymnastics,” Mr. Ogata said. “And then I’ll be introducing you to the wonderful Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.”
I used my five minutes to draw a retro note to Lily. I wasn’t sure if the sports car, the glammed-up image of Mimi Hansen, and the doodles of Jordan in my first three classes of the day would mean much to Lily at this point, but it was fun to draw.
Jordan stayed in her seat across the aisle from me, but she left my mind within minutes of Mr. Ogata telling us about the world of a young girl named Mary Wollstonecraft, who, by the age of twenty, had written and published one of the most famous novels of all time. We had only thirty minutes left to start reading that novel, Frankenstein. I could barely stop when the bell rang for lunch.
I shoved my books into my locker, pulled out my sketch pad, and headed to the lunchroom. I got a bean burrito, carrots, and chocolate milk from the lunch line. I get free hot lunch, thanks to Mom’s low-wage job. I’ve read in some books that getting hot lunch is a sure sign that you’re poor. It’s not that way at Chavez Middle School at all. You get to pick from three main things every day—like pizza, burritos, taquitos—and usually one of the choices is decent. You “pay” by punching in your secret code. No one knows whether you used a hundred-dollar bill, your dad’s American Express card, or a free pass to pay for your food.
Even all the TC girls (The Clique girls) buy hot lunch. It’s too much of a hassle to bring a lunch. Chavez Middle is a “model environmental school.” If you bring your lunch, every container you bring has to be reusable. No brown bags that get tossed into the garbage. No Ziploc bags unless you plan to reuse them. And let’s face it: We sixth graders don’t have time to wash out our Ziploc bags. That would take away from the wonderful social lives we enjoy.
Yeah, right.
I sat on a stoop on the side stairs with my sketch pad. I needed to get Jordan Walsh and Mimi Hansen out of my head. So I put them on paper again.
By the time the bell rang for sixth period, Jordan had turned into Medusa. I must say, snakes growing out of her scalp looked eerily natural on her. I added it to my other pictograph note to Lily and added, “Guess who is in three of my classes?” and then folded the note into tight triangles until it was less than one inch big. On my way to sixth-period Japanese, I slipped my retro paper note through one of the slots in Lily’s locker.
CHAPTER 9
“YO, HANNAH! Wait up!” Lily called to me.
I slowed a little but kept walking. “Hey, Lily.”
“Why are you in such a hurry to get to the bus?” she panted.
“Just keep walking. I’m trying to avoid someone. I’ll tell you later,” I mumbled. “But keep talking and walking. Like we’re having a fascinating conversation.”
Lily did some loud fake laughter. “Oh, that is too funny! What did she do next?” That’s my best friend. A born actress. I could count on her to switch into character at a split second’s notice.
“Did you have to make it a her?” I grumbled. “I just hope she’s not around.”
Lily had no idea who or what I was talking about. But she didn’t miss a beat. “You mean you saw your cousin and her boyfriend right in the middle …”
That got some looks from the kids around us. We were moving like a pack out to the bus lines.
“Okay, okay. Good job. You saved my face.” I laughed back to Lily.
“Yeah, well, no problem. But when we get on the bus, you’re telling all.”
Getting on the bus is part of my daily charade of being Hannah Jade West, the middle-class girl who lives with her mother in their comfortable two-bedroom home in Seattle’s Maple Leaf neighborhood.
In the winter, Mom wanted me home by 5:00 or 5:30 because it got dark so early. That meant getting off the school bus, picking up the mail at our old address, and heading back on Metro to wherever we were house-sitting. But now that it’s almost summer, it stays light until eight o’clock or later at night. I could hang out with Lily until dinner and still make it the seven miles back downtown with plenty of daylight left.
Lily and I had planned to put on our sleuthing hats during the bus ride home, but first I needed help figuring out why Jordan had acted so strange to me.
“Do you think she got kicked out of her old school?” Lily asked.
“That seems pretty extreme,” I
said, mulling this over. “But it’s definitely weird that she’d switch schools so close to the end of the school year.”
“I’d throw a fit if my parents tried to get me to move to a new school right now,” Lily said.
“Maybe she needed a clean start.”
“She needs a code name,” Lily said. “Got one?”
“Haven’t thought of one yet,” I said. “Let’s see …” Lily and I have code names for practically everybody we ever need to talk about. That way we can talk freely—usually—about people. The trick is to find codes that aren’t too predictable, but not so complicated that we can’t remember them ourselves.
“JW or IJW for Icky Jordan Walsh.” Lily started brainstorming.
“No obvious initials. I’d bet a hundred dollars that her friends call her ‘J-Dub,’” I said. “That is, if she has any friends.”
“Oh! I have it! Mini Mimi!” Lily started singing “me me me” scales, like an opera singer warming up. I joined in with “Mini me me me, Mini me me me” until we both collapsed in giggles.
“I. Have. An. Idea.” Lily gasped, trying to stop laughing. “How about NJ, for Nasty Jordan? We don’t actually know that she’s nasty, but we’ve got some early indicators.”
“Enj?” I tried sounding it out instead of using the initials. “Enj,” I said again.
“Perfect! Easy to remember. Rolls right off my tongue.”
We got off the bus on Northeast Eightieth Street and Eighth Avenue. Jamie, the bus driver, winked at me. Uh-oh. Did that wink mean Jamie knew I was just pretending to live up in Maple Leaf?
