by Annie Bryant
“Hey, thanks!” I said.
“Stay out of my way, young lady,” he said, eyes twinkling, “and we will be getting along fine.”
An odd man, but it was a good apple, tart and crisp. I crunched and munched my way down the street. Everything was fine until I felt a piece of peel caught between my front teeth. I checked my teeth in a bakery window. Not pretty. I picked and pulled with my fingernail. Why wouldn’t it come loose? Finally, I pried it out. Just then, something moved behind my reflection. Oh, no! Right behind the glass, a boy my age was smiling! Had he seen the whole ugly operation? Too embarrassing! I turned and ran. It was definitely time to get to school.
Abigail Adams Junior High School looked like it had been built twice—once about a hundred years ago, and then later, when someone tried to make a modern fashion statement on both ends. The old, yellow brick middle part had stone steps, double front doors, lanterns, a steep roof, and a clock tower that belonged in a postcard of “Scenic New England,” just like the trees on Corey Hill. But the two long sides pointing toward the street were just big, ugly, yellow brick rectangles. Right in front of the school was a little old house with a picket fence that looked like it had been plunked down in the schoolyard by mistake.
Trying to blend in, I followed a group of giggling girls toward the rectangle on the right. They looked so old. Two other girls cut in front of me, hugging and shrieking, “OMIGOD! I HAVE THOSE SHOES TOO!” I wondered which door I was supposed to go in.
“Excuse me,” one of the giants said, “you must be lost.” She pointed to a sign: Eighth Grade Entrance.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Do you know where the seventh-grade entrance is?”
“I don’t really remember. That was such a long time ago.” They all laughed. “Just ignore them,” said another. “Seventh-grade orientation is over there.” She pointed to the little house. I turned and hurried toward it. I was already late. I rattled the gate in the picket fence, but the stupid thing wouldn’t open. Odd…Why was I the only one here?
When I looked back at the eighth graders, they were laughing hysterically—at me. I should have guessed. It was a setup.
I heard a gentle voice behind me.
“Good morning. You look as if you could use some help.”
A tall, elegant, silver-haired woman took my arm.
“Isn’t this a wonderful house?” she asked. “The founder of Brookline grew up in this house, and the city moved it years ago to preserve it. But I have a feeling this isn’t quite where you want to be. Are you looking for the seventh-grade entrance?”
I nodded.
“Come with me. We’ll go right up the center stairs of the middle building. The seventh-grade hall is just inside.”
As I looked toward the building, a bell rang and the last of the kids dashed inside.
“Who’s your homeroom teacher?” asked the woman.
I pulled out my letter and showed it to her.
“Oh, Ms. Rodriguez,” she read, smiling. “My granddaughter’s in that class, too. Go through the big double doors and turn left. Then go all the way to the end of the hall. Room 124 is the last classroom on the left.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, already running toward the steps. What a nice grandmother. I wished I had a grandmother like that to drop me off at school.
The long hall was lined with lockers and nearly empty. I could hear first-day welcomes through the doors of the classrooms I sped past. I was late, but except for a red-haired girl brushing her hair, at least I didn’t have to dodge anyone.
I don’t dodge well. In Australia, they put me on defense. I was a good stopper. What’s bad in the hallway can be good on the soccer field.
And suddenly, I was there: Room 124. Was I late on the first day? I stood there for a second to make sure I wasn’t gasping for air. Stay calm, I thought. You can break the cycle of first-day disasters. Just take a breath. I straightened my glasses, squared my shoulders, and got ready to make my entrance.
HOW TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE
I opened the heavy wooden door—which creaked loudly—and tried to sneak in as well as you can when an entire class is looking at you. My bag caught on the doorknob, and I was yanked backward. Some kids giggled, and a short girl in the front row even laughed out loud.
All I wanted to do was get to my seat. All the desks were in four neat rows. Only two were still empty, both dead center, of course.
“Welcome,” said the teacher, walking over.
So much for sneaking to my seat!
“I’m Ms. Rodriguez.”
She reached out her hand. My palms were sweaty as I shook her hand.
“I’m Charlotte Ramsey,” I mumbled and slunk down the row.
I sat down as fast as I could. The girl sitting next to me looked more like seventeen than thirteen. I couldn’t help gulping as I sneaked a look at her tight, low-cut jeans and her T-shirt, which showed about three inches of skin every time she moved. Lip gloss, mascara, perfectly streaked hair…she made me feel like I was dressed for fourth grade, not junior high. The blonde girl behind her, who looked like a clone with the same tank top and jeans, coughed meaningfully and flicked her hair. They both sneaked a look at me, caught each other’s eyes, and smirked. They may as well have just said it out loud: “Loser.” Oh well. Now I knew who to avoid at lunch—Mascara Girl and Co.
Suddenly, the door swung open and we all turned to look at…an empty doorway. Just when it was getting spooky, in strolled the red-haired girl I had seen brushing her hair in the hall. She had a laptop case slung over her shoulder. I admired her confidence. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world.
“And you,” said Ms. Rodriguez, “must be Maeve.”
“Yes,” said Maeve as she tossed back her hair. “I’m Maeve Kaplan-Taylor.” She struck a pose that showed off her figure. Were there hormones in the drinking water here? Would it happen to me?
“Good morning, Maeve,” continued Ms. Rodriguez, “that desk is for you.”
“Thank you, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m so pleased to be here.”
“Just have a seat,” said Ms. Rodriguez in a way that wasn’t mean, but you wouldn’t want to mess with.
Maeve worked her way back to the empty desk in front of me like a character in a musical, right before they start singing—sorta swoopy with pauses on her cork-soled platforms. She sat and arranged her hair again, turning to check out the boys around her. Wow, I thought, quite an act. But unlike Mascara Girl next to me, Maeve seemed to be having fun all on her own. I want to find out more about Maeve. But not right now. Ms. Rodriguez was standing at the front of the class, waiting for our attention.
THE “LUNCH” ASSIGNMENT
Our teacher was gorgeous; her shiny black hair, which she held back with a silver clip, hung almost to her waist. Her tan skin made her perfect white teeth stand out when she smiled. She wore a turquoise silk top and silver earrings and a matching necklace. Her black pants swished and her heels clicked as she strolled through the room. She looked smart.
“Welcome to Abigail Adams Junior High,” she said. “You come from eight different elementary schools and many different neighborhoods. One of you even lived on a houseboat in Paris last year!”
Everyone looked around to try to figure out who the resident alien was. I pretended to look around, too. I really didn’t want to stick out. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught Ms. Rodriguez smiling. The boy on my left introduced himself as Robert. He looked harmless, if a bit nerdy. Past him was another boy who looked familiar, but that didn’t make sense. I didn’t know anyone here.
Ms. Rodriguez went on, “The seventh-grade team and I worked hard this summer to blend the elementary school groups. Most of you will know at least one other person in this homeroom.”
At that point, everyone except me seemed to grin or give a thumbs-up to someone. Then it hit me. The boy past Robert was the face behind the bakery window. He had long eyelashes and dark brown eyes that sparkled as he looked right at me. Yikes! Loo
k away. Look anywhere else!
Ms. Rodriguez, catching my eye, said, “Even if you don’t know anyone, by midwinter break you will know the twenty-three other people in this room. And if I’ve done my homework as well as I think I have, some of you will turn out to be close friends.”
I sure hoped she was right. After a move, I could usually hold onto a best friend until maybe March. The rest would be gone within months. It’s always the same—a June goodbye party with lots of hugs and promises to visit and never forget. Then constant e-mails over the summer. Then, week by week, it gets harder. The old friendship fades into the new school year until there is nothing left to talk about. So you just stop talking. The friends I made in Paris would be gone by Christmas, except for Sophie.
Ms. Rodriguez took a breath, probably bracing herself for the reaction she knew she’d get from her next statement.
“I’ve divided you into lunch groups.”
Everyone groaned except me. Actually, that’s not true. I groaned too, but I was faking. For once in my life, I wouldn’t be humiliated on the first day trying to find someone to sit with.
“You’ll recognize our class’s tables in the cafeteria,” Ms. Rodriguez continued. “They’re the ones with the red-checked tablecloths and place cards.”
Somebody whispered, “An Italian restaurant…maybe we’ll get pizza.”
A tall, confident girl with gold hoop earrings raised her hand and stood up. “Yes, Katani,” said Ms. Rodriguez.
Impressive—she already knew our names.
“Do any other classes have assigned seating?”
“I doubt it, Katani,” said Ms. Rodriguez. “But they probably don’t have tablecloths either. One of my rules is never to look sideways at what other people are doing but instead, do what I feel is right. I believe in treating you at school the way I’d treat you as guests in my home. This is your first day of seventh grade, and I want it to be special. I’ve thought carefully about the seating arrangement and your lunch partners. After you’ve eaten together about eight weeks, you’ll have a writing assignment to do about each other. Then, you may move to free seating.”
Katani flounced into her chair. She did not look happy.
THE WHISPERERS
The rest of the morning was spent going over class schedules, notebook requirements, and homework guide-lines. All three grades at Abigail Adams Junior High get a room for meetings and stuff. The seventh grade room is the smallest, since we’re the bottom of the heap. It’s really more of an oversized closet, with a couple of blue sagging couches, right across from the first row of lockers. But I got the feeling that not just anybody could hang out on those couches. Those two stuck-up girls from homeroom were holding court there, with a couple of other girls hanging on every word they said.
I found my locker, #117, right away. It was a little squishy getting in there, but great to have my very own locker! I organized my notebooks and books on the top shelf. Maeve, the redhead, was right next to me, and the guy from the bakery was on my left. I tried not to look at him, because I was embarrassed about that morning’s “teeth in the window” incident. I just hurried to get done.
“So Nick,” said Mascara Girl’s friend, “I’m not so sure Avery will make it as a goalie. She’s too short.”
So that was his name…Nick.
“What you do in Summer League counts less than fall season, Anna,” he answered. “You only got a win off Avery in a sudden death shoot-out. I bet YOU couldn’t stop a penalty kick.”
“Sticking up for her, huh? Is there something we need to know, Nick?”
“Hey, she’s the U-12 premier team goalie. I don’t need to stick up for her, Anna,” Nick answered with a disgusted look on his face.
I was glad to know that mean, blonde Anna was no friend of Nick’s, and I guess not Avery’s either. Who was Avery? I went back to class.
CAFETERIA NEGOTIATION 101
When the lunch bell rang, I followed the flow of kids to the cafeteria. It took me a while to figure out the food lines. I’d never been in a cafeteria with so many choices: Deli, Hot, Salad Bar? Not the salad bar. Mascara Girl and Anna were there whispering and pointing at everyone who walked by. I had to admit, they were good-looking, or the twin outfit thing would never have worked.
I headed for the hot lunch line and copied the moves of the kids in front of me. “French toast sticks?” yelled a woman wearing plastic gloves. I’d never seen anything close to the funny yellow things she was serving. I must have paused too long, because she snagged the plate on my tray and shoveled a pile of them onto it. Then she dumped sticky brown syrup over them. It was kind of scary, but I didn’t know how to escape now.
“Hey, don’t forget this!” It was Nick. He handed me silverware wrapped in a napkin.
“Follow me. Our class is way over there.”
“Er, thanks,” I mumbled.
This was some kind of test, wasn’t it? Meet a nice kid in the new school on day one, but before you can even talk to him, you must carry a fully loaded, sticky tray across a crowded room. Wild kids waving, high-fiving, pulling chairs, sticking out feet—so many feet. Please, I prayed, let my first-day-of-school curse be broken. I held the tray tight and charged after Nick. He wove through the tables and kids like a superhero in a video game. I followed as close as I could.
Nick put down his tray at the first of six tables with Ms. Rodriguez’s tablecloths and place cards. “You’re right there,” he said, pointing to the next table.
I made it. I made it in one piece. I passed the test!
“Thank you,” I said with a wave. Syrup from my mystery meal must have gotten on my hand and napkin. All I know is that it looked like I was waving a white flag of surrender. I tried to shake it off. No luck. Nick pretended not to notice, but he was holding back a smile.
My lunch table was not so polite. The short kid who had laughed at my bag getting stuck on the classroom doorknob giggled as I approached. She was getting on my nerves.
Katani, the queen of confidence, rolled her eyes.
Maeve pulled me into my chair. “Welcome, Dorothy,” she said loud enough for all to hear.
“Dorothy?” I said. “Who’s that?”
“From The Wizard of Oz, of course.”
Did she think I was from Oz? Did I seem that weird?
Then she lowered her voice.
“You’re blocking my view of the cutest boy in the school.”
Maeve nodded toward Nick.
Katani looked at the mess on my plate and shook her head. In her tiger-striped top, gold chain necklace, and big hoop earrings, she looked like a supermodel. Next to her, I felt like a fashion loser.
I tried to wipe the syrup off my hands. It was like super glue. As I rubbed my napkin to shreds, my bracelets clattered. I caught Katani staring. Had I worn too many? I pulled down my sweatshirt to cover them. Argh! Now my sweatshirt was sticky.
“So…You are zee one from Paris, am I right?” asked Maeve.
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“No one else carries their stuff in a stylin’ bag like that,” Maeve said. “Besides, you turned ten shades of red when Ms. Rodriguez said ‘houseboat.’”
“Oh,” I said, blushing again, wishing I could’ve been more brilliant than “Oh.”
Of course, I didn’t realize everyone here carried backpacks. Just another sign I was not fitting in. Oh well, at least she liked my French flea market bag.
The small girl inhaled a yogurt she must have brought from home, and then began waving frantically at Ms. Rodriguez, who dashed to our table.
“When do we go out for recess?” asked the girl.
“My heavens, Avery! Is that all you need? I thought someone was choking! There is no recess in junior high.”
Avery scowled.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have gym twice a week,” said Ms. Rodriguez with a smile as she turned away.
“That stinks,” said Avery. She slumped in her chair and shot a rubber band off her braces.
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br /> “Hey—anyone see American Idol last night?” asked Maeve.
“Oh I did,” chimed in Katani. “What’s up with that blonde singer’s dress?”
Smile. Pretend to look interested even though you have no idea what they’re talking about. I peeked at my hands under the table, scraping the last bit of napkin off my fingernails.
That’s when I saw my zipper was open. Wide open. What underwear did I have on? Please not the ones with the days of the week from Aunt Alice. That would be even worse than the purple pig underwear incident in Port Douglas. If I had flashed the entire seventh grade now, Avery would definitely be laughing. My sweatshirt must have covered my fly. Whew!
Don’t look down, I thought. Act as if nothing’s happened.
Slo-o-o-o-wly, I found my zipper and ever so carefully, zipped up my pants. Fine. Everything was going to be fine. Inhale. Exhale. Just fine.
“Who do you want to win, Charlotte?” Maeve asked.
“Huh?” I said.
“You know…American Idol?”
If there’s one topic I dread, it’s American movies, music, and television. Even though I’ve visited my cousins in Columbus every summer, I am always behind. So, I never know what they’re talking about. There’s always a new movie or rap star or strange TV game show, and I’m forever struggling to catch up. With a whole year ahead of me, there might be hope, but right now, all I wanted to do was change the subject. Luckily, the bell rang.
“I don’t want to be late twice in one day,” I said, jumping up.
As I hurried from the table, so did the tablecloth. In that moment it seemed as if time had stopped. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Avery ducking, Katani backing away, and Maeve not yet getting it. In the air between us hung a terrible, awesome constellation of trays, French toast sticks, dishes, salad, place cards, cups, cartons, milk, and utensils.
The moment faded, and then, everything came crashing down.
“Eeeeew!!!” screamed Katani as a milk carton flew into her lap and syrup splattered her top.
“Coooooool, yeah!” clapped Avery, swatting back a bowl, as trays and utensils smashed to the floor.
