Milo shrugged, all innocent-like. And that made Fiona grit her teeth. “Principal Sterling told me after she saw my first weather report on TV that I should start a meteorology club, you know,” she said.
Milo raised his eyebrows. “So why didn’t you?”
That stung. “What? Well . . . but . . . you’re only starting this club because you saw me on TV doing the weather.”
“You’re not the boss of the weather,” said Leila Rad, twirling a strand of her dark hair around her fingertip.
“Yeah,” said the other kids.
“But . . .” said Fiona. Didn’t they see? Milo didn’t care about the weather. The only thing he cared about was making her miserable. Maybe Mom was right, she thought.
“Why would I start a club just because I saw you on TV?” said Milo.
And in front of everybody, Fiona said to him, “Because, Milo. Because I think you like me. I think you like-like me. And that’s why you are so mean.”
Milo’s face got Valentine’s Day red. “You think I like-like you?”
Fiona nodded. She looked at all of the surprised faces around her. Including Milo’s. They started laughing then, and Fiona wondered how she could be so sure of something one minute, and the next minute, what she was so sure of didn’t make any sense at all. “You don’t?”
• • •
In the front seat of the Bingo Bus, Fiona sat quietly, thinking. Why were grown-ups always giving her bad advice? When Fiona had stage fright, Mrs. Miltenberger told her to picture the audience in their underwear when she felt nervous. But when she tested the experiment on Mr. Bland, her giggles got her sent to the principal’s office. Then, just the other day, the Bingo Broads told her to kick Milo with kindness, but that didn’t even get her the job of assistant electrician. And then Fiona’s mom told her that boys only pick on girls they like. Well, that was the whopper of them all.
What’s the point of being a grown-up if they don’t know any more than I do? Fiona wondered. She decided that she would be better off on her own. Just like in the olden days when all those colonials signed the Declaration of Independence. They were tired of getting bad advice from the king of England, and they told him so. Plus, she bet they didn’t have to take baths if they didn’t want to.
After they picked up Max from swim practice and were heading to the American Legion, Fiona knew what she had to do. “I am making a declaration of independence,” she announced. “I am never following another grown-up’s advice as long as I live. From now on, I’m on my own. Independent.”
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Miltenberger from the driver’s seat. “We’ve steered you wrong?”
“That’s right,” said Fiona.
“It’s an uprising,” said Mrs. Lordeau.
“She’s gone indie on us,” said Mrs. Huff.
“Flying the coop,” said Mrs. O’Brien.
“Me too,” declared Max, chewing on a corner of his towel cape. “I’m done with grown-ups.”
“What happened to you?” Fiona asked.
“Coach wants me to learn the breaststroke,” said Max.
Fiona shook her head. A six-year-old’s problems were small potatoes. “What’s wrong with that?”
“I can’t do the breaststroke,” said Max. “I’m no good at it.”
“But you’re the best dolphin on your team,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “Maybe you just need to—”
“Don’t listen to them, Max,” said Fiona. She quickly grabbed his hands and put them over his ears. Then she covered her ears with her hands and kept them there the whole ride home.
• Chapter 6 •
Fiona chewed on her green Thinking Pencil with the fierceness and underbite of a bulldog. She spit out the bits of wood that came from thinking too hard. First there was electrician and now meteorology. What was next? Ballet? Fiona had to admit, Milo doing a pirouette would be hilarious.
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, sitting next to Fiona and Max on the couch, “and this isn’t really advice, so I’m not interfering with your declaration of independence, I don’t think. But if you keep chewing like that, you could break a tooth. Or get a splinter in your tongue.”
Fiona chewed harder. Until her pencil snapped in half. “I’ve got it!” she said, removing the pieces from her mouth. Milo seemed to like being a toe-stepper. Maybe she should be a toe-stepper too. A toe-flattener. “I’m going to start my own club.” It was her second declaration of the day, and it tasted like melted marshmallows on toast.
“Sounds like a bold idea to me,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “Now, does your newly declared independence include dinner? Or are you still counting on grown-ups for that?”
“Grown-ups are still good for food,” said Fiona. “And I’m starved.”
“Yeah, same for me,” said Max.
“Well,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, “it’s in the oven, and I’ve got to get ready for my date.”
“Your what?” said Fiona.
“Let’s not make a big deal out of it,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.
“Who’s your date?” Fiona asked.
Max pulled his goggles off his head. “Yeah, who?”
Mrs. Miltenberger straightened a stack of magazines on the coffee table. “I don’t know. The Broads fixed me up with him.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know why in tarnation I ever agreed to this.” She shook her head and waved her hands. “Anyway, since your father is working at the station tonight, I’ve arranged for a babysitter—sorry, I mean watcher—for you.”
When she was in second grade, Fiona decided that she did not like the word “babysitter” when it had anything to do with her. After all, she no longer considered herself to be a baby, and she did not ever wish to be sat. Instead, Fiona thought “watcher” was a more acceptable word. The watcher could watch Fiona and Max and play games with them, and while watching over them, make sure they did not get kidnapped by gypsies or turn on scary movies that you think you want to watch but afterward wish you hadn’t.
“Not Mrs. Huff again,” said Fiona. Mrs. Huff was crazy about horror movies. But she was too much of a scaredy cat to watch them by herself, and she liked to cling to Fiona and Max.
“Not after the Zombie Revenge VII incident,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “I’ve promised your father that Mrs. Huff will not be sitting—er, watching—you ever again.”
The doorbell rang just then, before Fiona could ask the name of the new watcher. She got to the door two seconds behind Max.
He swung open the door. “There’s a girl I don’t know standing here!”
A teenager, a cool-looking one with high-top sneakers, hooped earrings, and a chained wallet stood in the open doorway. “You’re not supposed to open the door until you know who it is,” Fiona reminded Max.
“Fine,” said Max, shutting the door. Then he yelled into it. “Who is it?”
“Max!” yelled Fiona.
“It’s Loretta Gormley,” said the teenager through the door.
“It’s Betty Wormly!” said Max. He opened the door, made a face at Fiona, and went back to the couch.
“Loretta, don’t mind him,” said Mrs. Miltenberger from behind Fiona. She shot Max a disapproving look. “Come in, come in. These are your charges for tonight—Fiona and Max.”
Max cleared his throat and scowled at Mrs. Miltenberger. “Okay, right. Sorry, I mean, Captain Seahorse.”
Loretta Gormley took off her jean jacket and sank into the couch. She smiled at Fiona. Fiona was already smiling. A real, true-to-life teenager was going to be her watcher.
“Want to play Squidman?” Max asked Fiona.
“No.”
“You never play with me anymore,” said Max.
“I do too.”
“Do not,” he said louder.
“Do too. Infinity.” Fiona glared at him. Max huffed and crawled under the coffee table.
Fiona sat down beside Loretta on the couch. “What grade are you in?”
“Eleventh.”
�
��Cool,” said Fiona.
“Yeah.” Loretta took her cell phone out of her corduroy purse and looked at it.
“I’m in fourth grade.”
“Cool,” said Loretta Gormley, pulling up her feet onto the couch so she was sitting like a pretzel.
“Yeah.” This was going great.
“Are you in any clubs?” Fiona asked Loretta, making her legs into a pretzel.
“I’m in the Hospitality League,” she said. “We volunteer at nursing homes. And I’m a Knitwit. We knit scarves and hats for the homeless. And S.M.U.G.S.”
“What’s that?”
“Students Majorly United for a Greener School,” said Loretta. “I’m totally all about helping people, you know? Making the world a better place.”
“Cool,” said Fiona.
“Yeah.” Loretta looked at her phone again and sighed.
“I’m starting my own club,” said Fiona.
“Cool.”
“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” asked Fiona.
“When somebody tells you he’s going to call you, he should call. Not that I’m, like, all about sitting around and waiting for him, but it’s common courtesy, you know? I mean, if I say I’m like going to do something, I do it. Am I right?”
Fiona nodded. Their conversation had somehow gone off the road and into the woods, leaving her lost. Teenagers were so mysterious.
“Anyway, do you want to know what kind of club I’m starting?” asked Fiona.
“Sure,” said Loretta.
“It’s called the Society for Not-so-Ordinary Weather,” said Fiona. “S.N.O.W.”
“A meteorology club?” said Loretta.
“Yep.”
• Chapter 7 •
Late into the night, Fiona worked on her club poster. She loaded it with sparkles and glitter and giant paper snowflakes.
Once the poster was done, Fiona designed a snowsuit. She turned her Enchanted Forest T-shirt inside out and then wrote “S.N.O.W.” in glitter paint across the front. She painted over the blue stripe on her white sneakers and dug out her white cargo pants.
• • •
Fiona taped her poster to the wall of Mr. Bland’s classroom, right beside Milo’s. Then she handed out paper snowflakes. Each one had “Let it S.N.O.W.!” written on it in silver glitter ink. “Take one and pass it on,” she said.
“What is this supposed to be?” asked Milo.
“It’s a snowflake,” answered Fiona.
“Duh,” said Milo. “I meant, what are they for?”
Fiona ignored him and then raised her hand.
“Yes, Fiona?” said Mr. Bland.
“Can I make an announcement?”
“That depends,” said Mr. Bland.
“It has to do with school,” said Fiona. “I promise.”
Mr. Bland nodded and Fiona went to the front of the classroom. “You are all invited to the first meeting of the Society for Not-so-Ordinary Weather after school today.” She pointed to her shirt. “I’m president.”
“But Milo’s club is meeting today,” said Harold.
“Yeah, we can’t have two meteorology clubs,” said Milo.
Mr. Bland cleared his throat. “Milo makes a good point, Fiona. You know, you could combine your clubs and be co-presidents.”
“No way,” said Fiona and Milo at the same time. Fiona looked from Milo to Mr. Bland. “My club isn’t a meteorology club, exactly,” she said. “It’s a club to predict snow days.” She waited for a big ta-da reaction, but it didn’t come.
“Well,” said Mr. Bland, “we’ll have to sort this out later.”
“Can I still have my meeting today after school?” asked Fiona.
“But that’s the same time as my club meeting,” said Milo.
Mr. Bland waved his hands in the air. “For today only, you can both have your club meetings. I think this classroom is big enough to share. And we’ll sort out the business of two weather clubs another time. Now, let’s get going with fractions.”
• • •
Fiona and Cleo stopped kids in the hallway, the cafeteria, and on the playground and reminded them about that day’s S.N.O.W. meeting.
“I already told Milo I would join his club,” most of them said.
“Well, what did you go and do a thing like that for?” asked Fiona. Nobody had a very good answer.
By the end of the school day, Fiona was afraid nobody except for Cleo and Harold would want to join her club. It would be just like gym class where nobody picked her first for kickball: Fiona Finkelstein, odd girl out.
When the last bell rang, Fiona sat at her desk with her head propped in her hands. Cleo hopped up on Fiona’s desk and started cracking her knuckles. They both watched as Milo pulled things—lots of things—out of a box and spread them out on the reading table. She didn’t want him to catch her staring and think she was interested, but she did see a thermometer, a barometer, and some kind of wooden stick.
Fiona looked at her empty desk. She didn’t have things in a box. She didn’t have a box.
Kids started to trickle in through the door, and like magnets, they were pulled to Milo’s table. Even Harold was being sucked in. Some people had magnetic appeal, Fiona knew, but she had never seen it in action before. She thought magnetic appeal had been along the lines of things like hearts of gold and green thumbs—just things people said, but weren’t exactly real. But now she wasn’t so sure.
“Harold,” said Fiona, “the S.N.O.W. meeting is over here.”
“Milo’s got one of those Canadian weather sticks that tells you what the weather is going to be like,” said Harold.
“Cool,” said Cleo as she slid off Fiona’s desk toward Milo.
“Hey,” said Fiona, giving her a look.
“Well, they are,” said Cleo. “I saw them on TV. They point toward the sky when the weather is nice and they point to the ground when it’s not.”
She was losing Harold and Cleo. Apparently, she did not have even one ounce of magnetic appeal. Any chance of having her own meteorology club was disappearing before her eyes. And what’s worse, Milo Bridgewater was taking it from her.
“There’s another club over here,” Fiona shouted at everyone on the other side of the room. She twirled and jumped and then dropped to the floor.
“Is she okay?” asked Milo.
“She’s a snowflake,” said Cleo.
Fiona jumped to her feet and curtsied.
“Your club is just about snow days?” said Milo.
Fiona nodded. “That’s right.”
“What does your club do when winter’s over?”
“What do you mean?” said Fiona.
“When there are no more snow days to predict because it’s springtime,” he said.
Oh. Fiona hadn’t thought that far ahead.
• Chapter 8 •
Fiona trailed behind the grocery cart at Foodland while Mrs. Miltenberger fought with Max over a bag of Choco P. Nutters. Fiona stayed out of it. She knew better than to get involved in a battle with Max in the candy aisle, and besides, she had some battles of her own to figure out.
Like her war with Milo Bridgewater. Fiona wasn’t giving up. She wasn’t that kind of girl. And she wasn’t giving in, either. Milo was right about one thing. It didn’t make sense to have a club just about snow days. Not when winter was almost over anyway. She would just have to start another club. But what kind of club exactly?
Besides ballet, Fiona didn’t know what she was good at. She liked giving weather reports okay, because it made her feel like sprinkles on plain ice cream: something special. But now that Milo was Mr. Weather Boy, she felt like a corner of mold on a slice of cheese: gross and green. And ordinary. What she really wanted, she knew, was to be extraordinary at something.
By the time they got to the end of the aisle and were turning the corner toward the canned vegetables, the bag of Choco P. Nutters was in the cart next to Max. “Okay, mister,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, shaking a finger at Max. “For every jun
k thing your sticky fingers grab off the shelves, I’m putting in two very large amounts of vegetables for your dinner.” Then she grabbed two cans off the shelf, giant-size ones, and handed them to Fiona. “These ought to do it.” And she grinned as she said the word: “Succotash.”
Max pulled his cape over his head.
“I don’t have to eat this, do I?” asked Fiona. She could barely hold the cans with both hands, they were so heavy with bad-tasting vegetables.
“Nope,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “They’re both for Max.”
Before they even got past the canned peas, Max gave up. “Here,” he said, holding out the bag to Mrs. Miltenberger.
“Wise decision,” she said. “Fiona, you can put those back.”
“What is succotash, anyway?” Fiona asked.
“Lima beans and corn.”
“Huh?” said Fiona. “Lima beans and corn are already vegetables on their own. When you eat them together, why are they called something else?”
“I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “I guess they like each other’s company.” Mrs. Miltenberger’s cell phone rang just then and Max hummed along to “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly” while she dug through her pocketbook to find it. She pulled it out, looked at it and said, “Uck, the Broads.” Then she dumped the phone back into her bag and pushed the cart onward.
“Why aren’t you talking to them?” Fiona asked.
“It’s going to be quite a while before I forgive them for last night’s fix-up,” she said. “A mix-up is more like it. It was quite possibly—and I’m not exaggerating here—the worst date on record.”
“Did he have food stuck in his mustache?” asked Fiona. That’s what always seemed to happen in bad dates on TV.
“Unfortunately nothing as interesting as that,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “Let’s just say that the best part of the whole evening was when he nodded off at the restaurant and I paid the bill.”
“Yikes.”
“You’re telling me,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, picking up a can of asparagus. “But don’t you worry, I’ve learned my lesson. Despite their claims to the contrary, the Broads are no matchmakers. Too bad.” She sighed. “Max, hold on, we’re turning a corner.”
Miss Matched Page 3
