Odd Girl In

by Jo Whittemore

  “The class is every Tuesday and Thursday, and you start this week,” said Dad. “But it’s not enough to just show up.” He looked at each of us in turn, to make sure he had our full attention. “You have to pass the class. All of you.”

  Seeing the no-nonsense expression on Dad’s face, Nick raised his hand. “I’m not sure—”

  Dad stopped him with a motion. “All of you pass, or all of you fail. Like I said before, you need to learn to work together.”

  “What happens if we fail?” asked Parker.

  Dad sighed and leaned against his desk. “You know, I’m not asking you to do the impossible,” he said. “But if you can’t get your acts together for even a few weeks …”

  Nick, Parker, and I leaned forward anxiously.

  “I’m pulling you from public school and enrolling you at St. Ignatius.”

  The collective gasp from my brothers and me nearly sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

  “But they’re really strict!” I said. “I’ll never get out of the principal’s office.”

  “And I’m starting on the JV football team this year,” said Nick. “That’s big for a freshman. St. Ignasty doesn’t even have a team.”

  Dad didn’t say anything, just waited expectantly for Parker’s complaint.

  “If I have to change schools, I’ll lose Ashley,” he said, shoulders sagging so much that I almost felt sorry for him. Between my two brothers, it was the annoyingly smart one who had the steady girlfriend. And she was alive … and human … and even pretty.

  I turned toward Dad and gave him my most desperate, most pleading pout. “Please don’t make us do this.”

  Dad pressed his fingertips together, a sign he was going into Prof Mode. “To quote the great Lao Tzu, ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ This one,” he nodded at the pamphlet, “is yours.”

  Chapter 2

  On Monday, when Nick and I went down-stairs for breakfast, we found a folded sheet of paper waiting on each of our plates. We looked at Dad, who smiled pleasantly and sipped his coffee.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  I lifted my plate, letting the paper slide off. “You know, in some countries these flat discs are used to hold food.”

  Nick picked up the fallen page. “If we have your paperwork, does that mean the bacon’s in a filing cabinet?”

  “The bacon is on the stove, my hilarious children,” Dad said. “Those are life assessment surveys for Champs.”

  Nick unfolded the paper and I read over his shoulder. It was divided into three sections: Physical, Intellectual, and Social. Under each category were several questions.

  “Why do we have to fill these out?” I asked.

  “So your Champs coach can see where you need improvement,” said Dad. “According to Ms. Success—”

  I glanced up from the paper. “Who?”

  Dad sighed, as if dreading repeating the words. “Ms. Success, your Champs coach.”

  I looked at Nick and the two of us burst out laughing.

  “All right, that’s enough,” said Dad. “Anyway, Ms….” He paused, seeing the gleefully expectant looks on our faces. “That woman says a balanced life has equal strength of body, mind, and spirit.”

  I read over the physical questions. “Is that why she wants to know if we can swim? Or is the class underwater?”

  “Just put ‘yes,’” Dad said, an edge to his voice. “I’m sure it’s important for some reason.”

  Nick chewed on his lip while he scanned the paper. “These intellectual questions are hard.”

  Dad frowned. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Why?” asked Nick. “You know my grades aren’t great.”

  “Yes, but the test you’re holding is your sister’s.”

  “Oh.” Nick grimaced and looked at the paper folded on his own plate. “Darn.”

  “I can help you,” said Parker, sliding into a chair.

  Nick, Dad, and I all looked at him in surprise, not used to seeing Parker until the second it was time to leave the house.

  “You’re down early,” said Dad. “And you still did … whatever to your hair. Very impressive.”

  “What can I say? I have excellent time-management skills,” Parker said with a smug grin, reaching for his own survey.

  Nick leaned toward him and sniffed. “No, you just didn’t shower.”

  Parker blushed but kept his eyes on the page. “I don’t sweat so I don’t need to bathe every day.”

  I gave Dad a disgusted look, and he placed a hand on Parker’s shoulder. “You’re not cutting corners where hygiene is concerned.”

  Parker sighed and got up. “I suppose I’ll go flush the toilet too, then.”

  “Ugh.” I shook my head. “What does Ashley see in him?” It was a fair question since, of my twin brothers, Nick was the cleaner, saner one.

  “Be nice,” said Dad, tweaking my nose. “Or you’re going to get a low score on the social portion of your survey.”

  Looking over the questions, I realized that was going to happen no matter what:

  List all the clubs you belong to.

  List all of your social activities.

  How many kids would consider you their friend?

  How often do you hang out with your friends?

  My answer to those questions was either zero, nothing, never, or none. I was quite possibly the most antisocial twelve-year-old on the planet. And I had dear old Mom to thank for that.

  When I first started kindergarten, she had taught me to be independent and to not get too friendly with anyone. She didn’t want other kids, or “obstacles” as she called them, to distract me from learning. Since I’d spent my playpen years watching Mom cradle a research book instead of me, it wasn’t too much of a change. And if it made her smile that I could finger paint better than anyone, it was worth it.

  But then she left a few years later, and I was stuck with zero social skills around kids who had already built friendships with one another. So it wasn’t that kids hated me or that I hated them; we’d just never spent time together. And after Mom, I didn’t really want to bond with anyone. Especially not with other girls.

  I filled out the physical and intellectual portions of the survey and left the social part blank until I got to school. Once there, I sat in the courtyard, wondering who my friends were and what I could list for a club or social activity.

  I’d been in detention once with a few other kids, but that probably didn’t count as a club. And going on field trips probably didn’t count as a social activity, even if I did let Emily Gold sit with me on the bus and listened to her constant babbling.

  Emily Gold. Now there was somebody who would have done even worse than me on the social portion of the survey. Like Parker, she was smart; and like Nick, she was athletic. She was the class princess who could ace anything while wearing a beauty pageant smile and a gold ribbon in her perfect ponytail. Naturally, almost everyone hated her.

  But not to her face of course.

  The bell rang and I headed for PE, tucking my survey into my pocket. Emily was already in the girls’ locker room when I got there, smiling at her reflection in a bathroom mirror.

  “Hello, Alexis,” she said, catching my eye.

  I’d given up long ago on getting her to call me Alex. She refused to believe I could use a boy’s name and not automatically sprout a beard.

  “Hi, Em,” I said with a smile.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s Emily.”

  “It’s Alex,” I said, pointing to myself.

  Emily turned from the mirror to face the real me. “I like Alexis better.”

  “Than Emily? Me too.” I smiled again to show I was joking, but she just rolled her eyes.

  “Are you going to Chloe’s slumber party this weekend? I mean …” She glanced around nervously. “You did get invited, didn’t you?”

  Since I wasn’t in a particular clique, I was seen as a safe bet for most social invites, but Emily wasn’t w
rong to ask. I’d turned down every girlie event since the start of the school year.

  “Yes, I got invited,” I said, opening my locker. “But I’m not going. The invitation mentioned nail polish and pillow fights. I’m pretty sure there’s going to be giggling, too.”

  Emily frowned. “You do realize that’s what normal girls our age do?”

  “What’s normal?” I shrugged and changed into my gym clothes. “I’m just not into that kind of thing. I’d rather shoot spitballs at the ceiling.”

  Emily wrinkled her nose. “Classy.”

  “Hey, I use fancy cocktail napkins,” I told her. “And they’re recycled, so I’m being eco-friendly.”

  “Whatever,” said Emily. “I really think you should go to the party. You don’t socialize enough, and that can be unhealthy.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Well, thank you for your professional opinion, doctor.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “You know, since you’re giving out advice, maybe you can answer something else.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed Emily’s face, but she stood a little taller. “Of course, Alexis. What is it?”

  Glancing around, I pointed at a spot on my wrist. “Does this mole look like a chocolate chip to you?”

  “Ugh!” Emily straightened and stalked away.

  “Because I thought it was at first,” I said, following her onto the gym floor, “but it really hurt when I bit it.”

  That at least got her to stop talking. We joined the line for badminton, our sport of the month, if it could be called a sport. Only two people in our class were any good at it: Emily, of course, and Chloe Stroupe.

  Chloe was the ultracompetitive type, the girl who joined any and every team that had a chance of winning a trophy. She even dressed like a boy once to score extra medals at a track meet. Normally she was a nice person, but if someone stood between her and glory, they wound up facedown with her sneaker marks on their back.

  I was up first against Chloe, so I grabbed my favorite racket out of the bin. I could tell it was mine because one side was warped from where I’d banged it against the gym floor every time I missed the birdie. I might not have been good at badminton, but I didn’t like to lose either. My mom had always stressed how important it was to be the best at whatever I did. She probably would have made a great Champs coach.

  The gym teacher blew her whistle, and I walked to one side of the net while Chloe readied herself on the other. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see Emily twirling a shiny, dent-less racket that she’d brought from home.

  “Keep your eye on the birdie,” she said. “Every time you serve, you stare at your racket like you’ve never seen one before.”

  A couple of people in line snickered while I tried very hard for something less than a frown.

  “Okay,” I told Emily. “Thanks for the tip.”

  She smiled and walked off, ponytail bobbing behind her.

  When I went for my first serve, I completely forgot her advice, and watched the racket as I hit the birdie straight into the net.

  “Fault!” shouted Chloe. She was the wonderful kind of person who made a big deal out of every point she won and every fault made by her opponent.

  “Keep your eyes on the birdie!” Emily yelled from her place in line. “Be the racket.”

  If I had been, I would have swatted her into the net, too. Instead, I took a deep breath and picked up the birdie, tossing it to Chloe. Her serve cleared the net, and this time I kept my eye on the birdie. The minute it headed for my side of the net, I jumped up and slammed it back.

  A few girls in line cheered.

  “Fault!” shouted Chloe.

  “What?!” I paused in the middle of a thank-you wave to the crowd. “That was not a fault. I hit it!”

  “You’re not allowed to reach over the other team’s net!” called an annoying and all-too-familiar voice from the sidelines. “Next time you should—”

  I threw down my racket (adding another dent to the collection) and stormed toward Emily. She at least had the common sense to stop talking and hide behind the teacher.

  “Emily … shut … up-puh!” I said, turning the last word into a two-syllable one.

  Now that she could see I wasn’t going to stuff her racket down her throat, her know-it-all expression returned. “Your game needs work. I was trying—”

  “This is PE!” I told her with an incredulous stare. “I’m not joining the Olympic team, and I don’t need your help, Miss Know-It-All!”

  Emily’s lower lip quivered for a second, but she crossed her arms and stayed quiet.

  “Alex,” said the gym teacher, “let’s unleash that anger on the birdie, okay?”

  “Serve,” I told Chloe, walking back across the court.

  She then proceeded to beat me fifteen to ten. Her celebration move, playing her leg like an air guitar, was a fun reminder of my failure. But since it was the best I’d done so far, I dropped my racket in the bin without a word … until I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.

  “Emily, I swear—” I spun to face her and took a step back when I realized it was someone else.

  “You have to come to my party,” said Chloe.

  I squinted at her, confused. “Uh …”

  She pushed her white blonde hair over her shoulder and glanced around before stepping closer. “Look, my mom made me invite Emily. Nobody likes her, but nobody will stand up to her if she gets annoying … except you.”

  “Why not?” I asked, looking past Chloe. “I’ll bet if you yank Emily’s ponytail, she’ll go right down.”

  Chloe shook her head. “She’s not a physical threat, but she’s in good with all the teachers and her stepmom runs the PTA.” She widened her eyes in fright. “All she has to do is say the word, and your schedule gets switched like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Any classes you have with your friends, gone.”

  I snorted. “First of all, I don’t have any friends to worry about. Second of all, Emily is not that powerful.”

  “You know who else thought that?” Chloe’s voice switched to a harsh whisper. “Dana Charles.”

  Dana was a year older than us and had mysteriously dropped out after the first week of school.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Uh-huh. So you’d rather I get kicked out than you?”

  Chloe shook her head. “You’re not in any danger. Emily likes you for some strange reason.”

  “Thanks,” I said flatly.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “Please, Alex. I’m begging you! I’ll do whatever you want!”

  I could overhear Emily complaining about the non-regulation birdies we used, and I was all set with a “no,” but then I realized something.

  Emily had, unfortunately, been right about my nonexistent social circle. It was bound to come up in Champs and might keep me from passing the class … unless I added a few friendly outings.

  “All right.” I fixed Chloe with a steady gaze and spoke slowly. “I will help you on two conditions.”

  Chloe’s eyes lit up, but she nodded seriously.

  “Condition one,” I held up a finger. “I don’t have to sing alone or in a group to any musical number. And that includes lip-synching into a hairbrush.”

  She nodded. “I’ll count you out of the dance routine too.”

  I didn’t bother asking if she was serious. “Condition two: You provide me with earplugs, a laser pointer, a blank CD, and twenty dollars.”

  A flicker of confusion crossed Chloe’s face. “Why?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ve dealt with Emily’s kind before.”

  “Um, okay. Is that it?”

  “Yep.” I held out my hand so we could shake on it. “I’ll see you in my polar bear pajamas.”

  Chloe grinned and squeezed my hand, hopping up and down. She giggled excitedly and sprinted away. When class ended, I managed to make it two steps into the locker room before Emily popped up directly in my path.

  “Geez!” I jumped back. “S
houldn’t you be wearing a ninja costume when you do that?”

  Emily closed the gap between us. “That was really mean what you said earlier.”

  “What, calling you Miss Know-It-All?” I pushed past her and opened my locker. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, but you were kind of being a pain.”

  She shrugged. “It’s okay. Since we’re friends, I forgive you.”

  Fantastic. I now had one person who considered me a friend for my Champs survey. Not that the feeling was mutual. “Uh, thanks,” I said, slipping into a bathroom stall to change. Normally, I wasn’t so modest, but it was a chance to escape Emily.

  Or so I thought.

  Her feet appeared on the tile just outside my stall.

  “We get graded on how we do out there, you know,” she said from the other side of the door.

  “I’m doing great,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

  “A ‘B’ is average,” she corrected me.

  With my shirt around my neck, I opened the stall door. “How do you know my grade?”

  “I have access to everyone’s grades,” Emily said mysteriously. “If you want to do better, I can teach you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m all set.” I closed the door.

  “Think about it,” she said. “We’ll talk more tonight.”

  “Sorry,” I said, slipping on my jeans. “I have plans.”

  “I know.” She made a scoffing sound. “They’re with me and my stepmom.”

  I froze, one foot suspended in the air with an unlaced sneaker. “What?”

  “You’re in Champs, right?” asked Emily. “My stepmom teaches the class.”

  I sighed and sank down onto the toilet. “Of course she does.”

  “And I’m her assistant.” Emily almost sounded proud. “It’s the first year she’s trusted me with so much responsibility.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “You know what helps an upset stomach?” she asked. “If—”

  I leaned back and flushed the toilet to drown her out. Maybe being a student at St. Ignatius wouldn’t be so terrible.

  Chapter 3

  If there was one thing I hated more than a poodle in a dress, it was me in a dress. But Dad insisted we look our best for the Champs evaluation.