by Ronni Arno
He’s asleep.
His head is resting on the window next to him. His mouth is slightly open, and his wool hat is halfway covering his eyes.
“Excuse me,” I whisper.
The giggling girls laugh even harder.
“Excuse me,” I say again.
I can feel the eyes burning me alive. There must be fifty kids on this bus, and they’re all looking right at me. All except this one, who still has his eyes closed.
One of the giggling girls kicks the seat in front of her.
“Brody,” she yells.
But he doesn’t move.
“Brody,” the other giggling girl chimes in, and now they’re both kicking the back of his seat.
“What?” The boy takes his hat off his head and turns around to look at the girls. They both gesture toward me with their heads, at exactly the same time.
“Oh, sorry,” the boy who must be Brody says. He grabs his backpack and puts it on his lap. He rubs his eyes and then looks up at me.
Wow.
Oh, wow.
He has the coolest green eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like the color of that fake moss that comes in the pots of fake plants (which is the only thing we’ve ever had in our apartment since Mom died because Dad stinks at taking care of all living things).
“Have you found a seat yet, Poppy?” The bus driver sounds slightly agitated, and I realize I’ve been standing here for at least a minute. And it’s been at least ten seconds until Brody the Beautiful moved his backpack.
The giggling girls go back to giggling, and I could swear I hear my name as they whisper to each other. I can’t be sure, though. I can’t hear much over the sound of the pounding in my ears.
I sit down next to Brody, who proceeds to lean his head back against the window. He puts his hat back over his eyes and, I assume, goes back to sleep. The entire bus is still looking at me, but nobody says anything. So I do what I’ve always done whenever I rode the bus or subway back home. I stare straight ahead, avoid eye contact with anybody, and wait for the ride to be over.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the school parking lot behind several other buses that look exactly the same as mine. Everyone stands, and this wakes Brody up. He stretches, and one of the giggling girls takes that opportunity to reach across and tickle him under the arm.
“Hey, cut it out.” Brody puts his arm down, and in doing so, whacks me in the head.
This really makes the giggling girls giggle.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” Brody says. And he shoots the girls a nasty look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I rub my head and don’t feel any bumps.
“Really sorry,” he says again, and gives me a small smile. He has superwhite teeth.
“It’s okay,” I say. I look at him for a split second, but look back down at my lap before he notices.
“So.” He stands up and grabs his backpack. “Are you new here?”
“Yeah,” I say. I stand up also. “Just moved in.”
“Oh, into the old Walsh farmhouse?” He’s looking right at me now, and I feel my ears heat up.
“Yep, the Walshes are—were—my grandparents.”
“Cool,” Brody says. Then his lips turn downward. “Oh hey, sorry about your grandpa.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. “Did you, uhhhhh, did you know my grandad?” He probably wouldn’t remember Grandmom, who died when I was only four.
“Sure,” Brody says, as if everyone here knows everyone. “But I hadn’t seen him in a while. My mom told me your grandpa was in a nursing home or something.”
“Yeah, he was.” I slowly put my backpack over my shoulder, careful not to hit Brody with it.
“Well, I’m your neighbor.” He sticks a hand out. “Brody Fuller.”
I shake his hand, and as I do, I feel like I just stuck my finger into an electrical socket. “Poppy Pickler.”
“Wait,” one of the giggling girls says from behind me. “Is your name really . . . Poppy Pickler?”
“Yes,” I turn around smiling, thinking maybe they knew my grandparents too, and maybe they’ve heard of me. But they both crack up uncontrollably and put their giggling heads together in a whisperfest.
I’m so busy wondering what’s so funny that I don’t notice it’s our turn to exit the bus. Brody gestures to me, and I turn around to see that everyone behind us is waiting for me to go.
“Oh, thanks,” I mutter as I shuffle off the bus. I want to ask him where he lives, since he said he’s my neighbor, but I don’t get the chance.
The giggling girls are whispering to Brody as we climb down the bus steps, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. By the time I get off the bus and onto the sidewalk, they’re all strolling into the building, laughing with one another.
As I stand there by myself, the reality of this move slaps me in the face. I am all alone, at a brand-new school, in the middle of nowhere, with absolutely no friends.
I take a deep breath and follow the crowd into my new life.
I stop by the principal’s office per Dad’s orders. The secretary asks me to take a seat in the waiting area across from her desk. There are four chairs there, and one of them is occupied by a girl with a black bandanna on her head.
The secretary pushes the glasses up onto her nose and holds up a sheet of paper. She squints her eyes as she reads. “Poppy Pickler?”
I stand up. “Go ahead in, hon.” She motions to the door on my right.
“What?” Bandanna Girl jumps out of her chair. “I was here first.”
“Relax.” The secretary looks down at her computer as she talks. “It will be your turn soon enough.”
Bandanna Girl slumps back in her chair, and I scurry into the principal’s office before she can tackle me.
“Ahhhhhh, Ms. Pickler.” The principal motions for me to sit down in the seat across from his. “Welcome to East Valley Middle School. I’m Mr. Russo.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Mr. Russo is dressed in black jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a silver skinny tie, which matches his silver hair perfectly. I wonder if he planned it that way.
“So you’re new here?” He flips through a folder with my name on it.
“Yep, we just moved to the area.”
“Great, great,” he says, still reading what looks like my grades from last year. “It looks like we’ve got you set up in all of your classes. You’ll just need to pick an elective.”
“Okay.” I nod.
“Let’s see.” Mr. Russo picks another folder off his desk. “This semester’s electives for seventh grade are chorus, Line Dancing, or Intro to Agriculture.”
“Ummmm,” I mutter. “I can’t sing, and I have no idea what the other two electives are.”
Mr. Russo chuckles. “You city kids. You’re missing out! Line Dancing is a lot of fun. The class learns choreographed dances that are performed in a line.”
I cringe as I picture myself bumping into the other students, who are decked out in their finest cowboy boots, as they all turn left and I turn right. “What’s Intro to Agriculture?”
“That class will teach you about plants and—”
“Plants?” I remember the roses in Mom’s letter. I’m sure this is the class I’m supposed to take. “I’ll take that one.”
“Don’t you want to hear more about it?” Mr. Russo raises his eyebrows. “It’s one of the more intense electives.”
“That’s the one I’d like.”
“Okay, then.” Mr. Russo marks something on the paper. “Intro to Agriculture it is. Be sure to hold on to your schedule for a while. We have A and B weeks here, so it can get a little confusing.”
Just as Mr. Russo hands me my final schedule, there’s a knock on the door. A blond girl peeks her head in, and I recognize her as one of the giggling girls behind me on the bus.
“Ahhhh, Ms. Woodruff.” Mr. Russo stands up. “You’re right on time.”
“Hello, Principal Russo,” Giggling Girl says, and she extends her
hand to shake his.
Who shakes the principal’s hand?
“Kathryn Woodruff, this is Poppy Pickler,” Mr. Russo says.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Poppy.” Giggling Girl, whose name is apparently Kathryn, extends her hand to me.
I reach out and take it, and she shakes it so hard I think my arm might dislocate from my shoulder.
“Nice to meet you too.” I wonder if I should say anything about the fact that she sat behind me on the bus this morning, but decide against it.
“Kathryn is going to be your tour guide this week,” Mr. Russo says. “She’ll show you around, introduce you to the other students, and make sure you get to all of your classes on time.”
“That’s great.” I give Kathryn a slight smile. “Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” Kathryn practically bounces up and down. “I’m so happy to welcome you to EVMS!”
My smile gets wider. Kathryn’s enthusiasm pours off her, and some of it must land on me, because I’m suddenly feeling genuinely excited to be here. Not only will I have my mom watching over me, but I’ll have new friends, too.
Mr. Russo glances at the clock. “You girls had better get going. Homeroom starts in five minutes.”
Kathryn puts her hand on my arm. “You’re going to love Mrs. Simmons, our homeroom teacher. She is so awesome.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “Are you in all of my classes?”
“Can I see your schedule?” Kathryn tilts her head and holds out her hand. I give her the paper Mr. Russo just gave me. Her eyes scan the page, and she flashes me a smile so bright I actually have to look away for a minute. It’s like there’s a candle behind her front teeth. “This is amazing! We have the exact same schedule.”
My shoulders must drop three inches. I’m instantly relieved to know that I’ll have a friendly face in all of my classes.
“Come on.” Kathryn links her arm through mine. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know about EVMS.”
Kathryn and I walk arm in arm out of Mr. Russo’s office. Bandanna Girl glares at us as we saunter past. I ignore her.
“So,” I say just as the office door closes and we’re out in the hallway. “What do I need to know about EVMS?”
“One very important thing.” Kathryn pulls her arm out of mine and looks straight at me, her eyes turning from delightful to deadly. “Stay away from Brody Fuller. Or you’ll wish you never left that stuck-up city of yours.”
CHAPTER
4
SHE TURNS ON HER HEELS, and my brain is too stunned to get the message to my feet that I’m supposed to follow her.
Kathryn looks over her shoulder. “Well,” she huffs. “Are you coming?”
I adjust my backpack and weave through the sea of unfamiliar faces until I’m directly behind her, her blond ponytail swishing in my face.
She stops to talk with a few other girls, who all huddle around her like she’s the star quarterback about to make the winning play. I stand on the outside of the huddle, alone. Kathryn doesn’t introduce me to anyone. She just talks and laughs like I’m not even there. Finally, someone notices.
“Hi,” a girl with dark curly hair says. “Can I help you find something? You look lost.”
But before I can answer, Kathryn chimes in. “Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s nobody.”
The girl with dark curly hair shrugs, and they all go back into their huddle.
She’s nobody.
I squeeze my eyes shut so no tears leak out.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
I remind myself that I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to be close to Mom. I have to remind myself a few times, and when I’m satisfied that I actually believe it, I open my eyes. Kathryn is walking again, and I step up my pace so I can follow her.
She turns into a classroom, which is already packed with students. Some are talking in bunches at their desks; some are flinging crumpled-up paper balls at each other. Kathryn goes directly to a group of four girls—I recognize the other giggling girl from the bus—and another huddle forms. They’re whispering, and all four girls turn to look at me at the same time. I’m just standing in the doorway, holding tightly on to my backpack, mostly because I realize I have no idea what to do with my hands. What do my hands normally do? I suddenly can’t remember.
A teacher walks in and puts a huge cup of steaming coffee on her desk. Before I know it, Kathryn’s at my side, her arm once again linked in mine.
“Mrs. Simmons,” Kathryn calls as she walks me over to the teacher. “This is Poppy Pickler, our new student.” Kathryn is beaming at me as if I’m a gold medal she won at the Fake Friendship Olympics.
“Oh, Poppy!” Mrs. Simmons clasps her hands together. “Welcome! We’ve been expecting you.”
“Thank you,” I mumble. My brain is still reeling from dealing with the multiple personalities of Kathryn.
“Mr. Russo has asked me to show Poppy around.” Kathryn flashes me a smile.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Simmons says. “She couldn’t ask for a better host.”
“And I couldn’t ask for a better new friend,” Kathryn says.
Excuse me?
“Class, can I have your attention, please?” Mrs. Simmons claps her hands three times. “I’d like to introduce our new student to you. This is Poppy.”
I stare out at the faces, all smiles except for the four girls Kathryn was talking to earlier. They just whisper to each other, stopping long enough to give me the death stare.
“Poppy is lucky enough to have Kathryn as her tour guide,” Mrs. Simmons continues. “But I expect all of you to pitch in and make her feel welcome.”
The class nods in unison.
“Okay, class, take your seats,” Mrs. Simmons says.
Kathryn unlinks her arm with mine, and bops over to her desk. I’m standing in the front of the classroom, still clutching my backpack.
“I believe there’s an empty seat right there, Poppy.” Mrs. Simmons points to a desk in the third row. “You’re welcome to it.”
I slide into the chair and put my backpack on the floor next to me. Just like on the bus this morning, I stare straight ahead. Which is why I don’t see a boy running down the aisle and past my desk. He trips over my backpack and winds up sprawled facedown on the floor.
“Thomas, are you okay?” Mrs. Simmons comes running over, her heels click-clacking on the linoleum floor.
“What the—” Thomas jumps to his feet. “What’s that backpack doing in the middle of the aisle?”
My ears are burning, and I’m sure my face won’t be far behind. “I’m so sorry.” I kick the backpack underneath my desk. “I—I—I didn’t know where to put it, and—”
“Didn’t they give you a locker, Poppy?” Mrs. Simmons and Thomas are both looking down at me.
“I, uhhhh, I don’t know.” I’m not the kind of person who’s usually at a loss for words, but with all these unfamiliar faces staring at me, my mouth is forgetting how to operate.
“Oh my goodness!” Kathryn stands up from her chair a few rows over and bounces to my desk. “I did give you your locker number and combination, didn’t I?”
The fabulous four giggle.
“I don’t think so,” I mutter.
“Really?” Kathryn purses her lips. “I’m almost positive I did.”
Before I could tell her that I’m positive she didn’t, Mrs. Simmons pipes in. “Be sure to do that again after homeroom, Kathryn. Poppy has a lot to take in, so she might need some reminders.”
“Of course, Mrs. Simmons.” Kathryn nods her head, and her ponytail does a little dance behind her. “I hope you’re okay, Thomas.”
Thomas looks at her and grins. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Kathryn touches him on the elbow, and Thomas’s face turns bright red.
“All’s well that ends well,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Now please get to your desks for roll call.”
I’m so angry about Kathr
yn’s locker lie that I’m surprised to hear my name from the desk next to mine.
“Hey, Poppy.”
I turn, and find Brody Fuller and his moss-green eyes sitting there. Right next to me.
“Hi, Brody.” I smile, and then remember Kathryn’s threat. I glance back at her, and sure enough, she’s zapping me with her laser-beam eyes.
I pull my schedule out of my backpack and pretend to study it.
“What do you have next?” Brody whispers.
“Science.” I say it so quietly that I barely hear it. I don’t need any more trouble from Kathryn.
“Cool,” Brody says. “Me too.”
I smile, but I don’t turn my head to look at him. I can feel Kathryn’s eyes burning holes into the back of my skull.
Mrs. Simmons calls each name alphabetically. Everyone’s present, until she gets to the Fs.
“Britt Fuller?” Mrs. Simmons glances up from her attendance sheet. “Brody, is your sister in today?” All eyes turn to Brody.
Brody shrugs. “I have no idea. I took the bus this morning, but she wasn’t on it.”
Mrs. Simmons lets out a loud sigh. “Do you know if she’s sick?”
“I’m not sure what’s wrong with her,” Brody says under his breath.
“Pardon?” Mrs. Simmons says.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Brody answers.
“Okay, then, I’ll mark her absent for now.” Mrs. Simmons continues with the roll call. Just as she’s finishing up, someone swings open the classroom door so hard that it slams into the wall with a thud. I snap my head up to look, as does everyone else in the class.
It’s Bandanna Girl. And she looks mad.
“Ahhhh, Miss Fuller. So nice of you to join us.”
Miss Fuller? Is Bandanna Girl Brody Fuller’s sister? I take a good look at her. It’s hard to see beyond the bandanna, ripped jeans with chains coming out of the pocket, and black Doc Martens, but when I really study her face, I can see it. Their hair is the same cocoa color of brown, and although the bandanna practically covers her eyes, I can see that they’re the same awesome color as her brother’s.
