“Spirit Week,” some kids mumble. Others bounce out of their seats and scream it.
“Did you hear what I said?” She pauses for a reaction. “If you’re leading Spirit Week, then Merton Middle School expects a little bit of . . .”
“Spirit,” finishes Bailey. “A little woo-hoo action, people!”
“Woot!” students shout.
“Let’s go, Dolphins!” someone hollers. And there’s more whooping and hollering.
Mrs. Grayson’s eyebrows go up as she raises her arms into the air. “So who’s excited about Spirit Week?”
There’s a deafening chorus of “We are!” Feet stomp. Ella and I clap our hands and glance at each other as the classroom trembles with all the whoops and cheers.
Mrs. Grayson throws back her head. A big grin breaks out on her face. “Much better. I was worried. You’re leading the school, so you need to be examples for the rest of Merton. So now the big question is . . . who will win the Spirit Stick this year.” She pauses dramatically. “Will it be sixth, seventh, or eighth grade?”
Kids point to themselves and clap. But the sixth graders go nuts, hopping up and down, waving their arms like a bunch of chickens. They also throw M&M’s into the air and catch them with their mouths.
Auggie gets out his ukulele and starts strumming and singing, “The eighth grade ’cause we are the best. Gonna pass that Spirit Stick test. La la la la!” Some eighth graders dance to the beat.
I roll my eyes at Ella. And she rolls her eyes at me.
Even Bailey turns around and says to the Bees and us, “If they think they’re going to win, they’re sadly mistaken. Because we have”—she pauses as her eyes rest on me, but she says—“you guys.”
Ella smiles. My heart beats extra fast. Because I know that I am the secret weapon of the entire seventh grade. I peer across the room at Auggie. I feel important, like somehow the center of the universe was happening right here in Merton Middle School because of me, Karma Cooper.
Home Sweet Home
When I get home from school, I sling down my backpack so it thuds on the floor. There’s a note from Mom asking me to take the chicken out of the freezer, saying that she’ll be home later than usual since she’s got to pick up Toby from his friend Micah’s house. Dad’s out for a bike ride. Except for Lucky, who’s sleeping in the family room on his dog bed, I’m all alone.
Wait a minute. I am. All. Alone. This means I can search the house for Floyd! Dashing out of the room, I dig through Mom’s dresser. Dad’s dresser. And their closets and the hall closet. I even swipe through the bathroom toiletries.
Nothing.
I paw through the linen closet. For years, Mom used to hide our Hanukkah presents under the quilts.
Nope.
Floyd is locked away somewhere in this house, but I have no idea where. I flop down on the couch and sigh. So close and yet so far away! Suddenly I wonder if my name is some kind of curse. Like everything I’ve ever done wrong is getting back at me.
But no, my name isn’t bad. At least I hope not.
For a moment my eyes rest on a photo of my parents before I was born. And then a few arty portraits of Mom by Dad. My parents gave me my name because Mom getting pregnant with me was such a good thing. She and Dad had been working in San Jose in California for software companies doing sales and marketing. Then one day, Mom found out about this organic farm and yoga retreat in Oregon. If you worked there, you could live for free. So my parents sold everything and moved there. A year later, they had me. They’ve lived in Oregon ever since, but now in the Portland suburbs.
Karma, I guess, means “what comes around goes around,” so that means my phone and hopefully my Snappypic should be coming around soon.
My Stats:
1 corny song sung on a uke by Auggie, or rather Ugh-ie
1 Spirit Stick that the seventh graders need to win
2 parents who still won’t give me a break
0 idea of how many are following my new seventh-grade Spirit Week Snappypic account
Mood: Frustrated—how will I make it through this Spirit Week campaign if I can’t get onto Snappypic whenever I want?
7
TUESDAY, MARCH 6: DAY 3 WITHOUT LIKES
Up and Down
I don’t see Ella at our usual meeting spot this morning, so I decide to dump books into my locker. We have half-size ones, which means you either have the bottom locker, so you’re crouching, or you have the top locker and you’re banging your backpack onto someone’s head.
I’m the bottom locker.
Some upper-locker people are cool about being upper locker people.
Some upper-locker people have manners.
But not Auggie Elson, who has the upper locker one over from mine, which is weird. Usually the eighth graders have lockers in a separate section but somehow, for some reason, not Auggie.
It’s part of Merton Middle School’s policy to remind us that life is not fair.
Anyhow, Auggie Elson, of all people, now stands right over me. How did he get there so fast? He might know some secret passageway in the school or maybe he’s actually an elf. His pointy ears jut out like little radar devices.
So right now I’m looking up at his ears and his annoying black-and-white checked scarf dangles into my face. He’s wearing a bright aqua wool beanie. The orange ukulele slung over his shoulder has a sticker on it that reads THIS OBJECT DOES NOT EXIST.
“Is my scarf bothering you?” he asks in a surprisingly polite voice. A surprisingly nice voice for someone who had dubbed me Bad Karma. Auggie swings his scarf so it brushes back and forth against the top of my face on purpose. “Hola, Bad Karma? Are you awake?”
“No, Ugh-ie, and thanks for the scarf in my nose.”
“Kewl,” says Auggie, as if I’m completely serious. As if I actually like a scratchy wool scarf itching my nose. He’s pulling his ukulele off his shoulder. He plucks at the strings for minute and then tucks it under his arm. I want to stand up to my full height and overpower him. But this year, Auggie is almost as tall as me, so it won’t work.
Glancing at his phone, he murmurs, “Niiiiiiiice,” and starts to dance. His hips sway, his shoulders tilt, and his arms pivot back. Which means his ukulele clonks me on the head. “I got three hundred and nine LIKES in five minutes,” he chants.
Three hundred and nine LIKES in five minutes? Really? Really?
Auggie just takes crazy random photos. He doesn’t even care about what other people think. Or what filters are the most popular. He doesn’t use inspiring quotes. He writes silly things such as I like to blow bubbles in my chocolate milk.
I shove a book aside in my locker and put some more away, getting what I need for my first few classes. At least Auggie hasn’t started an eighth-grade Spirit Week Snappypic account. At least not one that I know about.
As I close my locker, Auggie spins on his heels, tilting his head the way my dog does when he’s trying to understand something. “Bye, Karm.”
Karm? Only my closest friends call me Karm. Auggie’s locker may be close to mine, but he is definitely not a friend.
I Hate Flippie!
During break after second period, Ella and I meet up by my locker. I ask her where she was earlier in the morning.
“At the orthodontist.” She points to her mouth. “They went on a tightening rampage. I’m going to be so sore.”
I pull out my flip phone and stare at it. “Flippie is so lame. Can I borrow yours for a second?”
She glances at her watch. We still have a few more minutes before the bell rings. She lowers her voice. “Be careful, okay?” She looks both ways for teachers.
I grab Ella’s arm and we hustle away from the constant flow of students. Lots of them are saying hi. Renee Powell waves at me. She’s an eighth grader who plays traveling soccer. She’s one of the few girls at school who’s taller than me.
“Can you help me get more followers?” Renee asks. “Seriously, we need to talk.”
“Um, oh, sur
e. Maybe later?” I glance down at the time on Ella’s cell. I only have a few minutes now and I need to use my time wisely. I want to check out the seventh-grade Snappypic. Renee obviously has no idea that my account was cut off.
Renee salutes me. “Sure, okay.” And she moves off down the hall to class.
Ella stands guard while I look at the seventh-grade Snappypic.
My fingers quickly scroll through everything. “Love the fonts you picked.”
“Thanks.” Ella smiles in her shy way.
“And the emojis.” Ella put them next to a schedule of events for Spirit Week. “The dancing hot dog is the best.” She posted a little hot dog guy that she drew in Merton colors, blue and gold. “All right!” I say, jumping up and down. “We’re up to one hundred and eight followers!”
“That’s great, Karm.”
“Ha. There’s no way Auggie can catch up.”
I go into Ella’s Snappypic. “Ella, if you want more followers, you really need to comment more on people’s stuff,” I say. “And you need to post things that look exciting. Or something cute. Or a photo where it looks like you’re having the best time in the world.”
“Okay,” she says, but not very enthusiastically. She’s heard all of this from me before. I LIKE a couple of super funny collages and I scroll through to Auggie’s latest photo. It’s not good. It’s fuzzy. It’s a close-up of his eyebrow. “Really? Everyone LIKES this?”
Ella freezes. “Put away my phone. There’s a teacher.” She points with her chin. “Coming right toward us.”
I push the phone into my pocket.
“She didn’t see. The halls are too crowded,” I say as some girl’s backpack practically bonks into my chin.
Ella glances at her watch again. “Karma, the bell’s going to ring. You better give me back my phone.”
“’Kay. Just one more thing.”
“It’s always one more thing,” snaps Ella as she grabs her phone back. She hurries away.
Wow. Why is she suddenly all cranky?
For Real?
It’s finally lunchtime. I’m standing just inside the cafeteria and I’m hearing a high-pitched squeal. “I-L-Y!”
It’s Janel. She’s waving over at Bailey to come sit down at the end of the table with her.
ILY stands for “I love you,” and we use it all the time on Snappypic. I mean, most of my followers did. And then I hear “I-L-Y” again over the din of other kids’ voices, and it’s Bailey. She’s nodding right at me, her neat, chin-length hair bobbing. I nod back at her.
I’ve been ILYed plenty of times online for my photos on Snappypic, but in the middle of the Merton Middle School cafeteria by Bailey Jenners as I stand next to the spork, napkin, and fixins bar?
Nope, never.
“Get over here,” says Bailey. “Remember, you’re eating with us.”
“Coming,” I call out, smiling.
“So cool,” Ella whispers under her breath.
The next thing I know, Ella and I are sitting with Bailey and the Bees. We’re sitting by the Quik Cart, with its leopard spotty bananas and red apples that taste like Styrofoam. It’s officially a lunchtime meeting of the chairs to plan Spirit Week.
Ella keeps bouncing in her chair and I send her a “keep calm” look. But of course I’m squishing my toes and clamping my teeth to keep from whooping out loud. Soon we all settle down and chat about this TV show and how crazy Mr. Derby the gym teacher is and how someone should fix the intercom.
“It’s crazy. Not only is Spirit Week coming up, but this year the seventh grade is in charge of the dance,” says Bailey. “But luckily, I have the best chairs ever for that.” She nods at Janel and Megan. “So how’s the snack situation for the dance going, people?”
“Excellent.” Megan scoots in her chair as a couple boys squeeze past. “I posted on Google Docs a chart where PTA members can sign up to bring snacks.”
“Fantastic,” says Bailey, crunching on a cracker.
Megan smiles and pats her already-perfect ponytail. “And I’ve recruited fifteen girls to help put up the decorations in the gym. Yesterday I ordered the black paper to put up on the walls. Decorations are so handled. Except for the art part. That’s Ella’s job. Making the moons and stars. Stuff like that.”
Ella takes a sip of her chocolate milk and grins at Megan.
“How’s publicity going, Karma?” asks Bailey as she opens her salad tray.
I glance over at Ella. “Great. I made a Snappypic seventh-grade account. Ella designed it to look really cool. She put emojis next to everything. You know, like Crazy Hair Day and the hot dog–eating contest.”
“I want to see,” says Bailey. She hides her phone in her lap, hops onto our page, and takes a bite of chicken salad. Megan and Janel lean in too. “Love, love, love the crazy pink hair you put next to Crazy Hair Day,” says Bailey. “I totally want a pink beehive for Crazy Hair Day.”
“I want to have alien hair,” says Janel, “and put little wires in my hair so they look like antennae.”
“Oh my gosh. We already have one hundred and eight followers!” says Bailey, looking at the seventh-grade page. “Karma, you’re the best. Seriously.” The girls at the next table turn to glance over at us.
“I still don’t completely get how we’re going to win and get the Spirit Stick thingy,” says Megan.
Bailey sighs. “It’s a numbers thing. We get points for each competition. Like which grade wins the hot dog–eating contest, or which grade has the most students who participate in Twin Day or wear school colors.”
“There is someone seriously counting how many kids dress up with crazy hair and in blue and orange?” asks Ella.
Bailey fingers the scarf around her neck. “Of course. It’s not arbitrary. The advisory teachers keep a tally and turn the numbers into Mrs. Grayson, who gives it to the principal.” Bailey tucks her hair behind her ears. “Thanks to Karma, I think we’re going to win, people!”
Ella looks down at the table.
“And Ella,” I add, feeling bad that everyone always forgets about her.
Snollygoster
As one of the custodians rumbles past, pushing his mop and broom cart to clean up a spill, Milton P. sets his shoe box down next to his sandwich. He’s eating at a table with some kids everyone call the Aliens because they are so weird.
“There goes Snollygoster,” says Megan. That was Auggie’s nickname for Milton P. back in second grade, and it stuck like gum.
“That’s mean, you guys,” says Janel. “Remember, his dad died last spring. It can’t be easy.”
“That’s so sad.” Megan glances over at Milton P.’s table. “But c’mon, a shoe box?”
I sneak a look at him. “Yeah, that’s a little weird.” But as I say this I have this impulse. I’d love to photograph his shoe box and post this caption: Anything could be inside.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, Megan leans into the group so her long, blond ponytail touches the table. For a moment, I worry for her. She doesn’t look like the kind of person who would like crumbs in her hair. “In advisory, Mr. Jones made us go around the room and say stuff about ourselves. And then Milton P. said he’s inventing a LEGO spaceship with levers and said it had some hyper something or other so it could transport cargo into the tenth dimension.”
“Whoa, freaky,” says Bailey.
“I think it’s kind of cool,” says Ella.
“Seriously?” Bailey nods over at Milton P., with his bangs plastered against his forehead, his semidarkened glasses, and his apple-red cheeks.
“No,” Ella quickly says. “I was joking.” But I have a feeling she isn’t telling the truth.
The Truth
Later, during fifth period, when Ella and I sit together in French, I want to ask her about Milton P.
“S’il vous plaît, la classe, conjugate the verb of being,” says Madame Pessereau, pointing to the whiteboard where it says Être, which means “to be.” She’s wearing one of her many French pins, an Eiffel To
wer, and beaming at us as if we can’t wait to conjugate the verb of being. I bet Madame does it just for fun on the weekends.
I pull out my notebook and look at Ella. “So were you serious about Milton P. being cool?” I whisper.
“No,” she says, but her face is pinkish. “Snollygoster? No way.”
“Oh my gosh, you were serious, weren’t you?”
She whispers into my ear. “He’s not cool. He’s extremely weird.”
“Like he was programmed somewhere by an evil genius who wanted to play a joke?”
“Exactly. But he’s, you know . . . still kinda, sorta cute.”
“Because of his outer space eyes? And lashes a girl would kill for?”
“Yeah, but it’s not just that. He’s intriguing in a spylike way,” she says, her voice even lower. “But don’t you dare tell anyone I said that.” She flicks her gaze over at Bailey, who sits in the front row, conjugating away. “She and Janel and the rest of them would think that was so weird.” The tips of Ella’s ears blush.
“Wow, if only Milton P. knew.”
Her eyes grow big. “Don’t you dare, Karma Cooper!”
Madame Pessereau gives me a stern look, so I start copying what’s on the board.
“No worries,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “Because I don’t think that Milton P. knows what girls are yet, even if he does know the secrets of the universe.” Then I wink at her.
Sun streams in from the window and sort of winks too. Like the sun agrees.
Ella smiles and lets out a little sigh, and I think about what it feels like when you don’t want people to know something about you. I’m glad that Ella feels as if she can trust me with secrets right here, in the middle of French class, conjugating being.
Polling
Hurrying to math, I ask Ella, “Can I see your phone?”
She bites her lip. “We’re in the middle of the hall.”
Queen of Likes Page 4
