Mr. Chase thumps on his desk to get our attention. “So people, cell phones are not to be seen or heard. And if you’re carrying one, do yourself a favor and put it on silent. And do not pull it out in my presence.” He locks eyes with me. “Got it, Miss Cooper?”
“Got it.”
Why did I forget to give Ella her phone? If I had remembered, this never would have happened. Now he’s onto me.
Weird
During lunch, Ella sits down next to me eating her couscous salad, and I’m crunching on my chicken taco. When I give her the phone back, I don’t tell her about almost getting caught by Mr. Chase.
We’re eating with Bailey and the Bees again. Bailey sits across from me eating a tuna sandwich. She’s flirting with a bunch of cute boys who drift by the table to annoy us. Half the cafeteria keeps on glancing our way. Ella and I can’t stop grinning at each other. After the boys leave, some girls swarm over to say hi to the Bees.
They throw out compliments like “love your shirt.” Or “Did you do something to your hair?” But the crazy thing is, they are also doing it to Ella.
I wink at her.
And she winks back. It’s like we’ve finally arrived at this tropical resort vacation we’ve only just dreamed about and now we’re surfing the biggest and best wave ever.
Then Bailey reminds us about the Spirit Week meeting after school at her house at 4:30 p.m. tomorrow. “Don’t worry,” I say. “There’s no way I’ll forget.”
Then suddenly, Milton P. shuffles over toward the table. He’s holding his shoe box under his left arm, and in his right hand he grips a blue lunch sack. Ella’s mouth falls open. Her breath catches in her throat.
“Oh my gosh,” says Janel as she opens her drink and takes a sip.
Megan taps Bailey on the shoulder. Both of them scrunch their eyebrows in confusion.
I can’t blame them.
My first instinct is to duck. Milton P. is waving at us as he gets closer, like we’re his long-lost sisters.
I don’t want to be mean, so I wave back and so does Ella, but she hisses under her breath, “You told him I thought he was cute!”
“No. Promise.”
“I’m going to kill you, Karma Cooper.”
“I seriously didn’t say a thing!”
The entire caf is looking at him looking at all of us. But then this little thought comes to me. Somehow Milton P. Daniels must have special abilities. He claims to build spaceships. What if he has real powers of some kind? What if he can read minds? And then another thought zaps me. Back in elementary school, both Milton P. and I were teased. Even though we didn’t hang out, we knew we were the same. Outsiders. And not well liked.
As Milton P. steps toward our table, I squint and try to figure out how Ella can see his cuteness. A thick brown belt holds up his too-baggy jeans. The busy checked pattern on his shirt makes me dizzy. But I almost glimpse it for a second, if you take away the shoe box clutched under his arm, his strange robotic shuffle, and his bangs plastered against his forehead. Maybe, possibly.
“I swear I didn’t say anything,” I whisper to Ella. “You have to believe me.”
“Why is he coming toward us, then?”
But he doesn’t stop in front of Ella.
Are You Kidding Me?
Here’s the weird thing. Milton P. Daniels stops in front of me, Karma Cooper.
And he smiles at me with his outer-space eyes while his mouth stretches in a little line, expressionless. And then, as he clutches his shoe box in the middle of the cafeteria, with everyone’s ears turned our way, he says in his robot-y voice, “Karma Cooper, I always knew you’d appreciate red aircraft fuselage curved aft section six by ten bottom with fire logo pattern on both sides.”
“Huh?” I say as everyone stares.
Because it’s Milton P. and he’s talking to me. And nobody has any idea what he just said.
I choke back a laugh. “Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”
“See you later.” Milton P.’s neck pivots down, as if there’s a rod inside of it, as if he’s really made of steel and not flesh. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. Then he tucks his shoe box under his left arm and plods away.
Ella sits next to me, blinking in surprise. As Milton P. marches across the cafeteria, there are snorts of laughter as someone calls out, “What do you got in there, Snollygoster? Someone’s head?”
“His box is from outer space. He’s communicating with his mother ship!” cracks a kid sitting behind me in a hockey shirt. I think it’s Brian Feeker.
There’s a burst of laughter. But Milton P. doesn’t react. My throat feels dry. I can’t help feeling badly. I stare outside the window, where a steady rain beats down.
Milton P. plods across the cafeteria as if his legs don’t have joints, then sits down to eat his lunch.
“Um, people, what was that about?” asks Bailey, pressing her lips together.
I shrug. “No clue.”
And it’s true.
I don’t have a clue.
And I don’t want to know.
My Stats:
No new followers on the seventh-grade Spirit Week page
602 followers on Auggie’s eighth-grade Spirit Week page—argh!
1 warning by Mr. Chase—but not a detention! YAY!
1 mysterious utterance by Milton P. Daniels. No idea why he decided to speak to me after all this time.
Mood: Baffled and hopeful that Milton P. lunchroom encounter is an isolated incident
10
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7: DAY 4 WITHOUT LIKES
Wag More
After I get home from Hebrew tutoring, I fling my backpack and soccer bag into the front hallway. Lucky noses into me and I scratch him behind his ears. His tail swishes back and forth.
Dad pokes his head into the hall. “How was Hebrew?”
“Fine.” I rub under Lucky’s chin.
“Hey, Lucky, you’re such a cutie,” says Dad. “Yes, you are. You’re so cute.”
Lucky’s golden-brown tail swishes faster. It looks like a flame. I could take such a cool photo. I’d get so many LIKES with that. People love dog shots. “I want to take a photo so badly, but I can’t.”
Dad puts his arm on my shoulder. “Look, I’m not giving you back your phone, but I have idea.” He strolls over to the cabinet in the den. “I got this five years ago.” He pulls out a digital camera. “It’s just sitting here gathering dust. It’s a good one. Why don’t you use it?”
I peer at the camera. I have no idea how to work it. There are so many buttons. “Maybe,” I say.
“Yay! Karma’s home!” Suddenly Toby is pounding halfway down the stairs. “Want to see what I built?”
Closing my eyes, I think about the science lab report I have to write up and the social studies questions and math I have to do, even though I’m beat from doing all of that Hebrew. Oh, and I have to do a summary of a short story for language arts. Summaries are so stupid. I mean, it’s a short story. That’s why it’s short, so you can read it quickly. I always, always have Floyd next to me when I do my homework.
Ugh.
I glance up as Toby thumps partway down the stairs. “Want to see what I made?” he asks again.
“Can you answer your brother?” Dad strolls all the way into the hallway, sits on the bench beside the shoe basket, and scoops out his loafers.
“Can’t. I’ve got homework in four subjects. Oh yeah, and studying for Hebrew too.”
I pull out my folder with my Hebrew in it. It’s Shemot, the first book of Exodus. That’s the part I’m going to read and discuss for my bat mitzvah. It’s when Moses flees Egypt and goes to Midian. He’s in trouble and has to leave everything behind. He basically says he’s a stranger in a strange land. No friends. No family. No more prince of Egypt. My eyes gaze at the Hebrew letters. I know how to pronounce them, but I don’t know what more I could say about Moses in front of hundreds of people.
Sometimes I feel that, in general, I know how to say things but I have
no idea what anything means.
Feeling Peace
After dinner Mom has a work meeting, so Dad bikes with Toby and me to Salt & Straw, our favorite ice cream shop, which has really awesome and wild flavors. I get strawberry with cilantro lime cheesecake. Toby picks sea salt ice cream with a caramel ribbon, and Dad chooses goat cheese marionberry habenero. We’re sitting down at a little wooden table and Dad takes a photo of us holding our cones. He starts to send it to Mom when his phone rings.
“It’s your mother.” Dad glances down at the screen. “How do I not lose what I have and answer the call?”
Toby leans across the table. “I’ll show you.” He grabs the phone and starts talking to Mom.
Dad throws up his hands, laughing. “Okay, guess I’m officially clueless. My second grader knows more than me.”
I nudge Dad with my elbow. “Toby does know more.”
Suddenly Dad gets a sly look on his face. “So tell me about this boy.”
“A boy?”
“Yes, I’ve heard you talking about him.”
“What boy? What are you talking about?”
“On the phone with Ella. I’ve heard you many times. Discussing a crush.”
“Do you mean Auggie? Puh-lease. Because he’s more like my archenemy.”
Dad shakes his head. “Nope. His name start with an F.” He snaps his fingers. “Floyd. That’s it. When I picked you up from school, I overheard you say how much you like him, and miss him, and . . .”
Then my brother and I start laughing so hard we practically hyperventilate.
Dad shrugs. “What? I know I’m clueless, but you’ve got to tell me what’s so funny.”
“Floyd is Karma’s phone,” says Toby, who’s clutching his stomach because he’s laughing so hard.
My Stats:
? followers on the seventh-grade Spirit Week page. Don’t know cause I can’t check.
? followers on Auggie’s eighth-grade Spirit Week page. Ditto.
1 awesome ice cream cone devoured
1 almost-boyfriend named Floyd
Mood: Kind of silly
11
THURSDAY, MARCH 8: DAY 5 UNLIKED
Retainer Kind of Day
Naturally, I pass by Auggie Elson in the corridor right next to the bulletin board with the “How to Help a Choking Victim” poster.
Auggie sings my name. “Hey, Karma Karma Karma. How’s the canned food drive coming?”
I reply, “Good,” only I just mouth the word because I don’t want Auggie to stop and actually talk to me when I still have my retainer in my mouth. I forgot to take it out before I went to school. I only have to wear my retainer at night. I need to spit it out ASAP!
Wait a minute. It’s weird to care what I look like since it’s Auggie. But still, other people might see. I whip around to face the wall, yank out my retainer, and stuff it into the front pocket of my backpack.
“Nice retainer!” calls out Auggie as he struts down the hall backward. My face is blow-dryer hot now.
In my mind, I text, I wish I had a hoodie on right now so I could block Auggie from view.
If I had my Snappypic, I’d make sure to make a sarcastic comment on one of his photo bombs. But I don’t. I have a slimy retainer in my backpack.
Why
The last bell rings and Ella and I file out of the library. Mr. Schlesinger, our science teacher, brought our class there to do research for our reports on cell development. We reach the double doors of the cafeteria in two minutes.
“Should we go in?” asks Ella. She glances at a clock on the wall. “It’s so early.”
I shrug. “Let’s do it.” We’ve never gone immediately from third period before. Normally we’d go to our lockers, but they’re way across school. The minute we go through the double doors, I know it’s a mistake. Less than a dozen kids mill around inside. Most of the round tables sit empty, and there’s only one person on the hot lunch line. Bailey and the Bees are not yet at their table by the Quick Cart. Of course nobody—nobody—at Merton will sit at that spot. Even though there’s not a RESERVED sign there, there might as well be.
“Should we sit down at their table?” asks Ella, as we stand alone near the front entrance.
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“But it’d be weird. Right?” She peeps at the table.
“No, we’ve been eating with them for a while.” I try to sound convincing. So we sit at Bailey’s table.
Some boys call out to their friends by the entrance and I turn to look. Bailey and the Bees are strolling in now.
They’re here.
I nudge Ella’s side. “It’s them.”
She stares ahead with huge eyes, like Lucky does when he’s caught with people food in his mouth.
“Don’t stare,” I hiss.
“I’m not. I’m checking out my nail polish.”
“Yeah right.” The Bees are all dressed in skinny jeans, bright tops, and cute flats. Megan has her honey-blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, while Bailey and Janel wear their hair down.
Bailey waves at us as she nears the table. “Sorry we’re late,” she says. And that’s it. Not “What are you doing sitting here?” This is my reality. Remember it. Like a snapshot.
The Table of Tables
We go to sit down with Bailey and the Bees, and I’m smiling so big. They sit at a round table with six seats. “Ella, I like that color top,” says Janel. “Lemon-yellow looks awesome on you.”
Bailey glances at my homemade gluten-free pizza. “Wow, does your mom have a cooking show? What’s on your pizza?”
“Sliced olives and morel mushrooms,” I say as I dig in.
Ella opens her chicken salad sandwich. “Her mom makes her all this creative stuff. It’s supercrazy.”
We start talking about the weirdest food our mothers have packed for us. The mention of weird things leads to us talking about Milton P. Daniels. Today his shoe box is wrapped in silver duct tape, the shiny kind that gleams under the lights.
As I shift in my chair to glance over at Milton P., he catches my eye. His hands thwack onto the roof of the taco fixing bar. “Karma, remember, your storage drawers need to be opaque!” he calls out. “Or else they are useless.”
“Okaaaaay.” My face burns as his eyes laser in on me. I pivot back around.
Everyone giggles, covering their mouths.
Bailey cocks her head to the side and presses her lips together like she’s going to button them. “Now that was different.” Megan nods in agreement, and Ella nervously looks down at her ink-stained art hands.
“Yeah, tell me about it.” I shake my carton of milk. “I seriously have no idea what that was about.”
“Pure Milton P.” Janel stirs her yogurt. “He arrived here from his own planet.”
“Just what is in that shoe box thingy, anyway?” asks Megan.
“Bones,” says Janel. “Of his pet guinea pig or something.”
“I’m thinking dozens of chocolate bars,” says Bailey. “He is on the hefty side.”
“Maybe a secret transmitter,” says Ella. “Since he’s a spy.” We all laugh.
Swirling her milk carton, Bailey squints at Milton P. as if she’s trying to figure something out. “I don’t get why Milton P. talks to you.”
“Or what he means when he does,” says Janel.
“Me either.” I pull a pear out of my lunch bag. Okay, that’s not true. But I just can’t say. Ella gives me a worried look. We both know why Milton P. might feel bonded to me.
In fourth grade, Milton P. sat by himself next to the globe of the world. I sat by myself next to the sink in the back of the room.
We were both outcasts.
But I just can’t say that to Bailey and the Bees. They didn’t really know the old me. Bailey knew me, of course, but she doesn’t seem to remember. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
In my mind, I text, Why does Milton P. bother with me now all of a sudden? I don’t get it. But I’m not sure I want to find out.<
br />
Free
I’m at home in my room getting ready to bike to the historical society. I need to go in twenty minutes. A photocopy of my Torah portion sits on the corner of my desk. That’s the part I’m going to read from the Hebrew Bible. I still have no idea what I’m going to say about it for my drosh, which is a teaching lesson you have to give during your bat mitzvah about your Torah portion. I guess I’m supposed to be philosophical or something.
I can be a philosopher. I text in my mind, I am bored. Because I am.
Yeah, I’m actually listening to the heater. I didn’t realize how much noise a heater makes—a rushing sound, like wind that is constant and regular and then slows down as if it’s a little tired, like it needs a break, just like me.
And without thinking, I finally look at my Torah portion. I’m surprised how easily the words slip off my tongue, almost as if I’ve been storing them there and they’ve been waiting to be free.
My Stats:
3 Bees who seem to be friends
1 kid who may be from outer space who doesn’t stop talking to me
1 Torah portion that maybe I actually know
1 community service volunteer job where I need to show someone with orange lips that I’m mature!
Mood: Kind of looking forward to proving the person with orange lips wrong!
12
THURSDAY, MARCH 8: DAY 5 UNLIKED
The Hysterical Society
So I’m at the historical society. I have my notebook and the pen I swiped from my dad’s desk. I’m even wearing a skirt. Before I left, Toby kept on telling me I looked too serious for the Hysterical Society and cracked himself up. This time I ride my bike there, which was probably not the best idea in a skirt.
When I buzz myself into the large bottom floor, the little balloon is gone. Officially deflated, I guess. Neda sits at her desk, working on the computer. She glances up, and for a moment she looks almost surprised to see me, her lips dropping down into her trout pucker, but then her head pops back to her screen. I get the feeling that she’s really not that busy but likes to look busy. Mom says I do that too when she wants me to do a chore.
Queen of Likes Page 6
