Contents
Chapter One Beware of Swans … and Soccer Players?
Chapter Two Say Cheese—or is that Cheesy?
Chapter Three the True Picture
Chapter Four the Ice (Water) Breaker
Chapter Five a Hot (Dog) Mess
Chapter Six Please Pass the Pepper
Chapter Seven the Official Cut
Chapter Eight He Let Her Eat Cake
Chapter Nine it’s Electric!
Chapter Ten the Kissing Club
Chapter Eleven Romeo and Juliet and the PTA
Chapter Twelve Paper, Scissors, Rock Stars
Chapter Thirteen Judgment Day
Chapter Fourteen Miss Popular
Chapter Fifteen Surprise! No, Make that a Double
Chapter Sixteen One Tough Chick
Chapter Seventeen Don’t Say It!
Chapter Eighteen Birchwood’s Got Talent
Chapter Nineteen the Grand Finale
Acknowledgments
Books by Leslie Margolis
For Lucy,
One Tough Chiquita
Chapter One
Beware of Swans … and Soccer Players?
Saturdays are the best,” I said as I stretched out on our red-and-white-checked picnic blanket, smiling and squinting up at the bright blue sky.
“You said it, sister,” said Rachel.
“I must agree,” said Emma. “The sky is clear. The sun is bright, and I finished all my homework on Friday night.”
“And you’re a master at speaking in verse,” I said. “But we ended that game ten minutes ago.”
Emma made an exaggerated pouty face and wiped an invisible tear from her eye. “Yes, but my brain is stuck so I’m out of luck.”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Rachel seemed to think not, because she whacked her on the back as if she were choking and said, “You’ve got to scream ‘I will not rhyme’ three times.”
“But that is a rhyme,” Emma said. “Does anyone smell lime?”
“Just do it!” Rachel ordered. “At the top of your lungs.”
“I WILL NOT RHYME! I WILL NOT RHYME! I WILL NOT RHYME!” Emma screamed so loudly my ears hurt. Then she smiled and gave us a double thumbs-up.
“Hey, it worked.”
“Told you so.” Rachel laughed. “And how come you can get away with doing totally dorky things like that, Em?”
“It’s a gift,” Emma replied, patting herself on the back with one hand. “I’m geek-tastic, and proud of it.”
As Rachel and I cracked up, I checked out the remains of our lunch. All of the potato chips had disappeared—even the crumbs. The red grapes were long gone, too. As for the cheese popcorn, only a few kernels remained. The nachos and guacamole went first. And the only thing left from our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches was Rachel’s crust. She never eats it. But her scrappy leftovers were nothing I wanted to snack on. I almost didn’t bother looking in the cookie tin, figuring it had to be empty. But wait a second …
I sat up, pushed aside the paper towel lining the bottom, and found one left. Oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie perfection—score!
“Hey, look what I found. Who wants the last cookie?” I asked my friends.
“You take it, Annabelle,” Emma said. “You’re the one who made them.”
“My mom and I ate our weight in cookie dough last night when we were baking,” I said, clutching my stomach as if it still felt queasy. (It didn’t anymore, but I have a good memory.)
“Yum. Cookie dough rocks,” said Rachel. “I find it so much more satisfying than actual baked cookies.”
“Honestly, the only reason I ever make cookies is for the dough,” said Emma.
“Me, too,” I said. “But you know that cliché about having too much of a good thing?”
“Did you have a cookie-dough bellyache?” asked Rachel.
I nodded, wide-eyed. “I ate so much I actually started craving salad, and that never happens. Seriously. I’ve had enough. So who wants it?”
Emma frowned down at the cookie. “It seems rude to take the last one.”
Rachel laughed. “Okay—I totally want it, but now there’s no way anyone can eat the cookie without seeming rude.”
“Maybe we should split it three ways,” I suggested.
Rachel, Emma, and I stared down at the cookie. It was big enough for one of us but way too small to cut into thirds.
I should’ve just eaten the cookie.
Not made such a big deal out of it. But now it’s too late.
Of course, I’m not going to complain that my friends are all too nice. How could I, when I’m super-lucky to count these girls as some of my best friends?
Rachel lives across the street. She’s got dark wavy hair, a few freckles, skinny legs, knobby knees, sharp features, and a sharper personality.
Emma lives farther away, in Canyon Ranch. She’s got straight dark hair that she parts in the middle and big brown eyes. She speaks Spanish—like her parents, who are from Mexico—and French just because she wanted to learn how. Emma reads the dictionary for fun and is teaching herself physics. She’s famous at Birchwood Middle School for being such a brain. No one has ever asked for her autograph or tried to sneak pictures of her with their camera phones or anything, but everyone knows she’s super-smart—even the seventh and eighth graders. We’re all in the sixth grade.
“Maybe we should feed the cookie to the swans,” I suggested.
“Are you kidding?” Rachel asked. “I’m not getting near those things, and you shouldn’t, either. Didn’t you watch that video of swan attacks I forwarded you on YouTube?”
“Those were real?” I asked.
“Swans are vicious creatures,” Emma said. “Last year this lady was picnicking at the park and a swan stole her sandwich, and when she tried to get it back she almost lost her finger.”
“That sounds like an urban myth,” I said.
“A lady loses her finger to a swan at our community lake?” asked Emma, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Sounds more like a suburban myth to me.”
“Except it’s totally true,” said Rachel. “Claire told me. Her mom was in the emergency room when it happened. She took care of the woman. Said she needed ninety-two stitches.”
I looked at my hand. “How can ninety-two stitches even fit on one finger?”
“There are three different layers of skin,” Emma explained. “The epidermis, the dermis, and the subcutaneous. Probably the wound was so deep the lady needed separate stitches for each of the three. It might’ve cut all the way through her skin and muscle to the bone. I wonder if you can stitch through muscle.”
“Blech, enough! We get the picture,” said Rachel.
“Crazy,” I said, eyeing the swans nearby. Two of them swam in circles in the distance, totally preoccupied and ignoring us. I hoped they continued to do so.
“Hey, I keep forgetting to tell you guys,” said Rachel. “I finally figured out what to do for the talent show this spring.”
“Yeah?” I asked, totally curious. Auditions for the school-wide spring talent show happened on Monday. My friends and I had been trying to come up with our acts for days, and I was still stumped.
“What are you going to do?” asked Emma.
“I’m going to ride a unicycle while juggling,” Rachel said proudly.
“That’s amazing!” I said, truly impressed.
Emma coughed. “Um, Rachel,” she said. “That does sound great, but you don’t know how to ride a unicycle.”
“I don’t know how to juggle, either,” Rachel replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn.”
Emma and I cracked up, figuring she was kidding. Except Rachel seemed serious.
I stopped laughing. “W
ait. You’re going to teach yourself to juggle and how to ride a unicycle in four weeks?” I asked.
Rachel frowned and asked, “Yes, why? Is that not ambitious enough? You think I should add something else to my act? Like maybe I could chew gum and blow a giant bubble, too?”
“Except we can’t chew gum at school,” said Emma, ever the practical one.
“Have you memorized the school handbook?” asked Rachel.
“Of course,” Emma replied. “But it’s not like that rule is so obscure. Everyone knows about the gum.”
“Don’t you think they’d make an exception for the talent show?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know if gum chewing could be considered a talent,” said Emma. “Not even combined with all of your other amazing feats.”
Emma grinned at me, and I couldn’t help but giggle. It’s the way she said “amazing feats,” I think.
“Stop making fun,” said Rachel, throwing a handful of popcorn kernels at us. “I’m going to unicycle and I’m going to juggle and it’s going to be awesome!”
“I believe you,” I said, trying and failing to keep from laughing. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never heard someone sound so adamant about unicycling and juggling before.”
“Well, what are you two doing?” Rachel asked.
Emma sat up straighter and grinned. “I’m going to speed-read,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m going to read onstage for five minutes. I’m really good.” Emma tucked her long dark hair behind her ears, bashful because she doesn’t like to brag, even though she often has good stuff to brag about.
Excluding this particular thing, I mean. Not to be rude—I love Emma and speed-reading does sound like a cool talent. There’s just one problem—it’s not exactly something you can show. I didn’t know how to bring up the issue without offending her, but luckily Rachel had no problem doing so. “How are you going to prove it?” she asked.
“People will see me turning pages,” Emma replied matter-of-factly.
“But that doesn’t mean you’ve actually read all the words,” I pointed out. “It just shows you know how to turn pages.”
“What do you mean?” Emma asked.
“She means you could fake it,” Rachel said.
“I would never pretend to speed-read,” said Emma, as if we’d mortally wounded her. “Anyone who knows me knows that.”
“But not everyone is going to know you. There are going to be a gazillion people there,” said Rachel.
“A gazillion is not even a real number,” Emma said, sounding a little haughty now. “It merely represents a large number, usually used for humor or effect.”
“You sound like a dictionary when you say that,” I said.
“Thank you,” Emma replied, totally serious.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t mean it as a compliment.
“Okay, maybe there won’t be a gazillion or even a million,” said Rachel.
“There aren’t a million people in the entire town of Westlake,” Emma pointed out.
“Right, but there will be about three hundred people there, and not all of them are going to know you. And even if they did—no offense—but watching someone read onstage is not exactly, um, entertaining.”
“Are we supposed to entertain, or are we supposed to demonstrate our talents?” asked Emma.
“Well, it is a talent show,” I reasoned. “So probably, ideally, both.”
Emma frowned, thinking about this for a moment. “You may have a point there. So what do you think I should do?”
“How about spelling?” I suggested. “You creamed us in Scrabble last weekend—as usual.”
“I still don’t know how you come up with those words,” said Rachel. “Torrential. Insidious. Bombastic …”
“Quetense,” I teased.
Emma smiled guiltily. Quetense was a word she made up, but everyone was afraid to challenge her on it. No one wanted to lose a turn, and no one wanted to look dumb. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“Hey, babe, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” said Rachel. “You should totally put on a spelling bee. Maybe you can get some other kids in on the act.”
Emma frowned as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “That sounds kind of dull.”
“Then jazz it up,” said Rachel. “Like, how about spelling words backward?”
“Don’t you think the audience would rather Emma face forward so they could see her face?” I asked.
“I mean the words will be backward, not Emma,” Rachel explained.
“I was joking,” I said.
“Of course, the real problem with the talent show is that we only get five minutes to perform,” said Rachel. “That’s hardly enough time to do all my tricks.”
“What tricks?” I asked. “You don’t even know how to ride a unicycle yet.”
“Or juggle,” Emma added.
“I know that,” said Rachel. “But I am absolutely positive that I will learn lots of tricks and that five minutes will not give me enough time in which to perform them. Anyway, isn’t everyone supposed to get his or her fifteen minutes of fame?”
“Oh, right. Who said that again?” I asked.
“I did,” Rachel replied. “Just now. Didn’t you hear me?”
Now it was my turn to toss a handful of popcorn kernels at her, which I did happily. “I mean, who said it originally? Some famous artist, right?”
“Yes, Andy Warhol,” said Emma. “He’s the guy who painted thirty-two Campbell’s Soup cans and called it art. He had a lot of stuff to stay about mass media and consumer culture. But I believe that quote refers to people’s entire lives. Meaning they get fifteen minutes for a lifetime. So maybe it’s better to use only five minutes now and save the rest for later.”
“Here’s a scary thought,” said Rachel. “What if you use up all of your fame when you’re in the sixth grade like us? Then what will you have to look forward to?”
“I don’t think the universe doles out such a precise amount of fame to everyone,” said Emma. “Plus, I think there are lots of things more important than fame. It’s really a mixed bag. Ask anyone on a reality TV show.”
“Did you see that Real House wives fight last night?” asked Rachel. “I can’t believe she pushed that lady into a pool.”
“I think it was a fake fight,” said Emma. “No way can grown-ups act that dumb.”
“You have a good point,” I said. “Who wants to be famous for being mean and ridiculous or for wearing super-tight, expensive clothes and having giant boobs or whatever? That seems so sad and stupid.”
“Regular, non-TV people can be famous for embarrassing things, too,” Rachel pointed out. “Remember when Damien farted in class? It’s all anyone could talk about for weeks.”
“Yeah, that was gross. I hope he didn’t waste his fifteen minutes of fame on that,” I said. “Poor guy.” Damien can’t help being kind of dorky. The problem is he’s super-pale and his black hair grows in the shape of a V. People call him Count Damula because they think he looks like Dracula, and that’s not a look any sixth grader wants to sport. Not even if vampires were still trendy.
“If you could be famous for only one thing, what would it be?” asked Rachel.
“Easy,” said Emma. “I’d like to be the first woman president.”
“What if someone beats you to it?” I asked.
“Then I’ll be the second or third woman president. That wouldn’t be too terrible, either. What about you?”
“I haven’t really figured it out yet,” I admitted. “The problem is, I don’t have any talents.”
“Sure you do,” said Rachel.
“What?” I asked.
“Basketball,” she replied.
“That’s only a hobby,” I said. “And I’m good enough, but it’s not like I can shoot free throws on stage.”
“Why don’t you dribble?” asked Rachel.
“Everyone can dribble,” I said. �
��Even five-year-olds.”
“You’ll come up with something,” said Emma. “What if … Uh-oh.”
Right then Emma’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes got way wide. A bunch of older boys were coming our way. There were eight of them, and they were cute, which made all three of us sit up straight and pay attention.
These boys seemed older—not much, just a little. They could’ve been eighth graders, except I didn’t recognize any of them from school. Probably they were freshmen at Birchwood High School, unless they were in middle school like us, but went to the local private school.
Rachel, Emma, and I didn’t say a word. A group of cute older boys would make us nervous anyway, but some of these boys weren’t wearing their shirts—just baggy shorts and tennis shoes and socks. Some were skinny and some were regular. One had a tummy that puffed out over his elastic waistband. And one boy even had wispy dark hair on his chest by his nipples. I looked away, toward the lake, because the sight of chest hair makes me feel weird.
The boys came closer. One of them—the guy with a buzz cut and hair on his chest—held a soccer ball tucked under his arm. “Hey,” he said. “You girls are sitting in the middle of our field. We need to play here. Are you done?”
“They’re totally done,” said the chubby guy. He spoke with authority, like he had our numbers. Not literally. I mean like he knew all about us, which couldn’t have been true. Why did he think we were done?
We hadn’t packed up our picnic.
We were still in the midst of a conversation.
We hadn’t even put our shoes back on.
There was still a cookie in the cookie tin. How could we have been done with our picnic when there was still a cookie left? That’s, like, the rule. Picnics aren’t over until all the desserts are gone.
Okay, maybe it’s not a rule, but it should be.
The guy with the buzz cut said, “Hey, are you going to eat that cookie?” Then he reached down and took it before anyone could answer. We all watched him, totally transfixed as he folded the entire thing into his mouth.
It seemed as if he swallowed it whole without even chewing.
He couldn’t have tasted it that way.
What a waste of a cookie!
Rachel, Emma, and I looked at each other in silence, but I knew we were all thinking the same thing: Who is this guy and why did he think it was okay to eat our last cookie?
One Tough Chick Page 1
