by Kirsten Rue
The Unofficial Wheeler & Dealer of Halsey School
Tales of the Uncool
Copyright © 2015
Published by Scobre Educational
|Written by Kirsten Rue
Illustrated by Sara Radka
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Scobre Educational
2255 Calle Clara
La Jolla, CA 92037
Scobre Operations & Administration
42982 Osgood Road
Fremont, CA 94539
www.scobre.com
[email protected]
Scobre Educational publications may be purchased for
educational, business, or sales promotional use.
Cover and layout design by Jana Ramsay
Copyedited by Renae Reed
ISBN: 978-1-62920-149-8 (Soft Cover)
ISBN: 978-1-62920-148-1 (Library Bound)
ISBN: 978-1-62920-147-4 (eBook)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Big Plans
Chapter 2 No Reason to Cheer
Chapter 3 Campaign Speech
Chapter 4 Get Out the Vote
Chapter 5 Election Day
Chapter 6 The Cheer Squad
Big Plans
“You know how in movies when someone clears her throat, like ‘Ahem!’ in the quiet courtroom and everyone gets really quiet and pays, like, major attention? Well, I want you to imagine me doing that now.”
“Stella, we ARE paying attention,” Madison complains.
“No. That’s why I’m asking you guys to pretend like I’m clearing my throat. Duh. Way too much chatterboxing happening right now.”
Everybody shuts up. And by “everybody,” I mean all of the Sweets, my hand-picked Halsey School dream team. There’s Madison; there’s Alexa; there’s Avery; there’s Sarah with an “h,” and Sara with no “h.” Oh, and there’s Dana, too, even if she constantly acts like she’d rather be sitting somewhere else. I’m not too sure about her. Maybe she’s not Sweet material after all.
Every Sweet at the table looks different, of course, but also kind of the same. Here are the things we coordinate: hair scrunchies, phone covers, nail polish colors. The most important things are the heart charms, which, like every good idea around here, was mine. If you look at our shoes, you’ll see them. Each one of us wears a sparkly heart charm attached to the laces of our sneakers. It’s kind of a big deal. Trust me.
Today Madison is peeling her string cheese with, um, probably more concentration than you should probably spend on cheese? Avery is trying to act French—it’s like a thing with her. She’s always saying,
“Wee” and “See voo play” and stuff. Obviously it’s not spelled like that, but can you blame me if I crack up a little? I mean, I may be mature for my age, but I’m only eleven. Alexa is here but she’s usually home sick, which is a thing with her. Her mom is WAY gullible (A.K.A. a sucker). Sarah H. and Sara N.H., who actually can’t stand each other, are rolling a bouncy ball across the table. Back and forth and back forth. Dana is being Dana and looks like she’s about to cry.
And then there’s me. Stella Sweet. The leader of them all.
The thing is, sixth grade is almost over, but there are some SERIOUS things us Sweets have to take care of before seventh grade. In order of importance:
1. Plan my birthday party.
2. Choreograph our cheerleader dance for the sixth grade graduation.
3. Choose our color scheme for costumes next year.
4. Make sure we actually DO graduate. Some of us (not naming names . . . Alexa), have barely been to a class all year.
We always sit together at lunch, but today I’ve called a special meeting. With only three weeks to go before the graduation ceremony, time is running out. You wouldn’t exactly know it by how the other Sweets are acting, though. They’re all bored, fidgeting in their seats and staring out the windows.
“I can’t wait to go to the pool this summer,” Avery sighs dreamily.
“I heard that Albert Knickerbocker is going to be a lifeguard there this summer,” adds Sara N.H., even more dreamily. Everybody agrees that Albert is the cutest eighth grader in the whole school. We’ll miss watching him pass by once he moves on to high school. Once he even stood behind me in line for the vending machine! That’s just the sort of thing that happens to me, I guess. Anyway, we’re getting off track here.
“Guys, this is important. Focus. We really need to figure out this uniform stuff. And we have to practice. In terms of my birthday . . . I’m open to a lot of things.”
“Well,” Madison says thoughtfully, “Avery and I have already had our birthdays at the paint-your-own-pottery place. So you can’t do that.”
“Um, and as if I wanted to get all dirty with paint anyway. It has to be bigger. Better.”
“Okay . . .” Madison says with a small frown. “Um, what about a pool party then?”
“Still too cold. Plus, none of the good swimsuits are on sale yet. I was thinking a sparkly one. Gold and pink or something like that.”
“What about a Paris party?” Avery pipes in. “I already have napkins that have Eiffel Towers on them. My mom gave them to me.”
I roll my eyes and tip my chair back, balancing my whole weight just on my toes. I mean, I’m glad to have Madison and Avery around because they’re the main two Sweets I count on for planning and stuff. Still, I feel like I’ve heard all of these ideas before.
I need something even MORE inspiring. Part of the pressure of everyone knowing who I am is that everything I do has gotta be “Go Big or Go Home.” That’s one of my older brother’s sayings. He’s saying it constantly. I know he doesn’t realize that he’s basically describing my social life whenever he says it, but it’s true.
I guess you could say I have everything I want: being the most popular girl in school; having the other Sweets to make my every plan a reality; knowing that no other sixth grader at Halsey (and most of the seventh graders) will bother me. Still, I kind of feel like Ariel in “The Little Mermaid” when she sings, “I want more.” I mean in her case that didn’t really end well because her dad came and destroyed her weirdo collection of knickknacks with his firestick or whatever, but you know what I mean. I already know I could be a singer or some other famous person, because duh. But even that’s not enough. I’m ready for the next big thing.
The first bell rings, which means lunch is over.
“Guys! We barely got anything accomplished.”
“Stella, it’s the end of the school year,” Sarah H. says guiltily. “We’re tired.” She rolls her bouncy ball over to me. I roll it back.
“Fine, guys, just leave me to do it all on my own!” Sometimes I purposely act extra, extra dramatic to get the other girls’ attention.
“We won’t, we won’t!” Avery and Madison chime in, but I’m not so sure. Three weeks! It’s coming up fast. How can I come up with the best cheerleader dance AND birthday party of the whole entire year? I need a personal assistant or something.
No Reason to Cheer
After school, all of us meet in an empty classroom with our cheer coach, Ms. Arple. If we could go back in time and Ms. Arple wasn’t Ms. Arple yet, but another sixth grade girl, I don’t think she would have been a Sweet. Not that I want to sound mean, exactly, but she NEVER wears lipgloss or nail polish. Sh
e keeps her brown hair combed down straight. She has FRECKLES. And, she’s always bothering us about school and reminding us about the extra credit science homework we could be doing.
That’s another thing: She’s a science teacher. I mean, I would get it if she taught a different subject, but why would you want to touch dead frogs all day and then jump around and cheer? The two just don’t fit, in my personal opinion. But, I will give Ms. Arple credit. She knows good songs and she stops the other Sweets from messing around too much in practice. Plus, she once told us that her high school was, like, a national cheer champion or something. I totally can’t picture it, but maybe her hair turned brown or something when she got old. I hope that doesn’t happen to me.
Today, she interrupts our stretch routine and tells us that she has an announcement to make.
“Girls,” Ms. Arple says with a sigh. “I have some disappointing news.”
“If it’s about our new costumes,” I quickly jump in, “our moms already said we could buy costumes so the school doesn’t have to or anything.”
“No, it’s not about costumes, Stella,” she says, shaking her head sadly, “though, wait, why would you need to buy new costumes?” I’m about to speak up again to explain, but Ms. Arple says, “Zip!” and holds up her hand in a Quiet Coyote symbol. Quiet Coyote means you touch your two middle fingers to your thumb: That’s the coyote with his mouth closed. The pinkie and pointer rise up like ears. Ms. Arple, who is kind of a nerd, made that up to mean that we have to be quiet and listen whenever she makes the sign. All of the Sweets go silent.
“I just had a very . . . informative meeting with Assistant Principal McCloud,” she begins. “There are some budget cuts this year and activities where less than ten students are participating won’t be continued next year.”
I look around at everyone. Me, Madison, Alexa, Avery, Sarah H., Sara No H., Dana. That’s only seven. But I remind myself that no school in its right mind— not even a bizarre school like Halsey—would cancel cheerleading and sports. That would only leave very uncool activities like band and choir and whatever the
Doomsday Geeks are always doing in the computer room. I don’t know why Ms. Arple had to start off on such a gloomy note to ruin the practice for everyone, but maybe that’s just her style. I breathe a sigh of relief. I mean, we’re obviously safe, right?
Ms. Arple continues. “I’m sorry to say, girls, but that includes the Sweet Squad.”
The other girls start making noises of disbelief. I jet my arm up straight in the air, but Ms. Arple shakes her head. “Hang on a second Stella, there’s more.” There’s MORE?! “I’ve also been informed that the faculty would like to shorten the sixth grade graduation program this year. They wanted to shake things up, so they decided to have a Computer Club demonstration instead of a dance performance this year.” My hand is still raised stick straight in the air, just waiting for Ms. Arple to call on me, but I have to admit, it wilts a little bit when she drops that bomb. I mean, WHAT?! The Computer Club, taking OUR spot—the spot we’ve always had—at a school assembly. This is so—so . . . just . . . NOT COOL.
Right next to me, Madison begins to cry. Sara N.H. and Sarah H.’s jaws are on the floor. Even Dana looks upset. No more waiting for Ms. Arple to call on me. No offense, Quiet Coyote, but it’s my turn now.
“Ms. Arple! This is a travestory, um, or whatever. No, but seriously! It’s not fair! The cheer team always performs at sixth grade graduation! They did even at my brother’s graduation five years ago!”
“Well, the cheer team was a lot bigger then,” Ms. Arple says calmly, sitting on one of the desks. “In the last year, only one new student has joined the team.” She nods towards Dana, who is looking down at her shoes. One of her Sweet heart charms is torn in half. Ugh. Typical.
“Well, not just anyone can be on the team,” I argue back, tossing my hair. “If it wasn’t special to be on it, then nobody would look up to us. We would be no better than any of other kids.”
“There’s no ‘better than,’“Ms. Arple points out.
She’s always saying things like that—the same kind of sayings that are on posters in the lunchroom. They’re supposed to, I dunno, inspire us to reach our dreams, but what about MY dream? My dream is to have an exclusive Sweet Squad where I get to choose every girl who’s on the team. Not that other girls couldn’t join the team . . . technically . . . but that doesn’t really go along with my dream, does it? We’re supposed to have new costumes and perform at school assemblies. That dream is getting destroyed in this scenario!
“This just can’t be possible! Ms. Arple, didn’t you tell them about us? About how good we are and how we never miss practice? I mean, if they just KNEW, if they could just see us, I’m sure they would change their minds!”
“Of course I did,” she answers me. “Believe me, I’m just as disappointed as you. I wanted to see us compete against Jefferson School next year. Unfortunately, it’s not a decision that was left in the teachers’ hands.”
“Well, then maybe I can talk to Assistant Principal McCloud personally! Maybe my mom can come talk to him! Please, Ms. Arple, please?!?!”
She shakes her head again. “I’m really sorry, girls. We’ve tried everything we can think of. It’s not just the cheer squad. Lots of other clubs have been cut, too. Maybe half way through next year . . . if more than ten students are interested in joining . . .”
“But that’ll already be too late!” I argue. “By that time sixth grade graduation will already be over!”
The other girls are all behind me, sitting down on the carpet. They’re sniffling and saying things like, “I’ll really miss cheer squad.” Uh-uh. Not good enough. I turn around, putting my hands on my hips.
“Listen to me!” I shout. “We are the bosses of Halsey School and we are NOT giving up!”
It takes a lot to cheer up the cheer squad after Ms. Arple’s bummer announcement. You’d think with a name like “cheer squad,” that would be no problem, but it’s hard to get the other girls to see it my way. After we finish our routine (possibly one of our last EVER) and while we’re waiting at the front of the school for our rides home, I try to work my magic. Mostly, that consists of reminding the other Sweets that we are the most popular girls in school and that, really, the school needs us.
Sara N.H. smooths back her hair and clips in a purple barrette. “If they need us so much, why are they kicking us out?” she asks.
I have to admit, I’m kinda stumped myself. “Look, who’s Ms. Arple anyway? She’s one of the young teachers. We need someone with power—real power—to talk to the school and get them to change their minds.”
“More powerful than Ms. Arple? I dunno. . . . She has taught here for a long time.” Avery sounds doubtful. She picks at her nails.
“I have so much work to make up anyway,” says Alexa softly. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t cheer for the rest of the year.”
I stomp my foot. “Alexa. It’s not our problem that you’re always gone from school!”
“Okay . . . geez, Stella,” Alexa says, throwing her hands up and stepping back.
“Well, isn’t Assistant Principal McCloud just the assistant principal?” asks Madison. “I mean, he has someone above him.”
Avery goes white as a saltine. “You don’t mean . . . the Principal, do you?” The other girls’ eyes widen.
“Well, I was just suggesting . . .” Madison mutters.
“Nobody even sees her,” Sarah H. says. “They say if you get called to her office, you’re not just in trouble—you might get kicked out of Halsey!”
I roll my eyes at all this melodramatic nonsense. I mean, I’m Stella Sweet. I can boss a teacher; I can boss the other kids; I actually don’t think there’s anyone I can’t boss. Bring it on! That’s what I say. (That’s another one of my brother’s sports sayings, BTW.) “Guys, I think my idea is perfect,” I say, with the most confident smile I can muster. “I think I—we—need to talk to the principal.”
“Um . . .
I thought that was my idea. . . .” I hear Madison whisper under her breath.
Just then Dana’s mom drives up to the curb and rolls down the window. “Dana, I’m late to pick up Dad! We gotta go,” she hollers from the driver’s seat. “Hi girls! Get a move on, Danes!” Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of those huge great Dane dogs, but if I were Dana, I would NOT want my mom calling me “Danes” in front of what can only be described as very cool girls. With a shrug, Dana hops into the front seat and they speed away.
I gather the remaining girls in a semi-circle around me. “You guys. I need you to think really, really, really hard. How do I get in front of the principal?”
“Do you remember the end of last year?” Sara N.H. asks. “Last year when Albert Knickerbocker got elected president of the eighth grade class?”
“Um, I guess?”
“Well . . . it wasn’t Assistant Principal McCloud or one of the other teachers who announced the winner and did that ceremony thing in the auditorium.” “I guess not . . .”
“It was . . .” Sara N.H. pauses to make it extra dramatic, “. . . Principal Presley.”
“You’re right!” Now it all rings a bell. I remember sitting in the assembly as a lowly fifth grader, mostly feeling bored. The band geeks played their horns or whatever and then they announced the winners of the Student Council election for every grade. We were all supposed to clap and cheer for every winner, but I mainly clapped for Albert Knickerbocker. For one thing, I actually recognized him. The other winners weren’t exactly cool. They were more like school nerds.
Still, the more I think about it, there’s nothing written in the rule books that says a totally different kind of student can’t be the seventh grade class president next year. She’s elected by other students, right? You, like, vote and stuff. In fact, wouldn’t someone who already has influence and power be the perfect kind of person to run? Someone who everybody already knows . . . someone who can get all the votes she needs? Someone with a whole team of girls who can help her get the votes?
In case you haven’t figured it out already, I’m talking about myself here.
