I flinched. How did she—
“Are you for real? This is about a boy? Oh-em-gee,” Fallon squealed. “Our little Rena Jelly Beana’s growing up now!”
“Shut up, Fallon. Mom!” I complained, hoping for rescue. “Make her stop!”
“Rena,” my mother mimicked in perfect imitation. “Words without whining, please; I’ve already got a headache. Fallon, stop baiting your sister,” she added as Fallon batted her eyes and made a big show of closing an imaginary zipper across her mouth.
“It’s not about Harrison like that,” I mumbled, shooting daggers at my sister. “I . . . he . . .”
“Oh, jeez.” Fallon groaned, her vow of silence forgotten. “What did you do now?”
“Shut up! Nothing! I—” The lie stuck, a sharp twinge digging in my throat.
Fallon rolled her eyes. “Would you spit it out? You always get all worked up about whatever, and then it’s nothing. Whatever it is, Serena, Harrison probably hasn’t even noticed.”
“Fallon St. John, that is enough.” Mom’s warning was the kind that meant business.
A fierce ache started up in the corners of my eyes. I pinched my nose to steady myself. Maybe it was nothing. Harrison hadn’t said anything about talking to JC or Leilani. Mr. Van had patted my shoulder and told me that he’d known I’d do a great job.
It wasn’t true, though. I knew exactly what kind of job I’d done.
“It’s . . . nothing,” I said, voice wobbling.
“It doesn’t look like nothing from here, Rena-Bean.” My mother’s hand landed on my back, tapping softly. “Are you sure you don’t need to talk?”
“Yeah.” She would be so disappointed if she knew. I decided to tell my mother one truth, if not all of them. “I just . . . JC said some stuff, and we had an argument. It’s stupid but,” I swallowed the gravel in my throat, “I haven’t heard anything about her birthday party. I’m probably not invited. We’re . . . not really friends anymore.”
The weight of Mom’s hand against my shoulder blades anchored me as I blinked back sudden tears. When JC came back to school, everything was going to be different. I’d not been besties with anyone else for so long; I didn’t know how, or where, to start. Sometimes I wished I were seven again, and all I had to do was go and sit on Mom’s lap, and everything got fixed. But sixth grade wasn’t like second—and there was no lap in the world that would make JC like me as much as she had before.
And that was sad enough to make my heart pinch. A sob erupted from my chest, surprising me.
“Oh, Serena,” Mom sympathized, squeezing my shoulder as I sniffled. “I’m sorry growing up is so hard. Friend stuff can be tricky at this age, but you’ll figure it out. It gets better. I promise, sixth grade is not forever.”
“Truth,” Fallon seconded glumly from her side of the table. “It only feels like it. Getting to seventh takes till eternity. It lasts forever, and then eighth . . .”
Mom made an exasperated noise. “Fallon! I am trying to make your sister feel better, not worse.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but this girl’s got to keep it real,” Fallon argued.
Through the tears, a snorty laugh burst out. At least one thing would never change. The world might be ending, but my sister Fallon was still the same giant pain in the butt.
SERENA|SAYS
What’s up, World? It’s your girl Serena, and I’m . . . yeah. Not great.
Today, I’m telling my own story, so it’s going to get kind of REAL, because I have a LOT going on and I have to practice how I’m going to say it. Basically, school stuff and friend stuff and friends-at-school stuff, you know the drill. But first, a question for my loyal viewers—okay, the IMAGINARY loyal viewers who will be super loyal when I start uploading these someday—if you tell someone a secret that everyone already knows, is it still . . . telling?
You know, people gossip and tell stories to each other all the time. And I always try to, like, use good judgment and think when I tell a story. I ask myself, what if, like, my bestie told one of my secrets? Like, what if she told people that I was afraid of big dogs, or still had to sleep with a night-light, or . . . what if she told everyone I’d wet my bed till I was seven? Even though—probably—nobody cares, people would still laugh, and I would still DIE, right? Because friends don’t tell stories that aren’t ours to tell, right? It’s about . . . keeping your word. Or, really, kind of like keeping the unspoken promises between friends, that you’ve got their back, and they’ve got yours.
So.
Today’s story is . . . about a time I DIDN’T do that.
[pause]
So I told someone something I thought was interesting—but it was a secret someone else had told me, so it totally wasn’t my secret to tell. At all. And I knew that.
Sometimes, you just KNOW that someone is telling you something that they haven’t told everyone—and you know that person is taking a huge chance and trusting you, even if they haven’t said it’s a secret. This person trusted me, and . . . I wish I hadn’t tried so hard to say something interesting that I said something stupid.
I think I feel the worst about the other person.
It’s so stupid. He’s loud, and he always leans on me and bangs into me with that briefcase. AND when I got my hair relaxed in fourth grade for pictures, and Mom curled it under, he said my hair looked like a mushroom, and he called me Toadstool all day. He’s not even nice! We’re not even friends, but I . . . I don’t want him to think . . .
He just looked so . . . balled up when he was talking to me. Like when your stomach hurts, you know, and you hunch over? That’s how he looked. I—
[looks off to the side of screen]
Oh, retch.
That’s my phone. I still don’t know what to say! And now, I’m out of time.
[looks off to the side of the screen, reaches forward to turn off camera]
15
Sorry Is the Hardest Word
“AND SHE TOLD YOU everybody knows?” Harrison’s voice through the phone is quiet.
“Right.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and clutched the phone tighter to my ear. The flat rectangle of the receiver suddenly fit awkwardly in my hand. “Um, so, I just wanted to say—”
“They probably do. Know, I mean,” Harrison said, slowly, like he was mulling it over. “Still, it was kind of a lame thing to do. If I’d wanted everyone to talk about how my brother was at New Vista, I would have told them, so thanks for that. I wouldn’t have told you, except . . . I wanted to. But you freaked out and all, so I didn’t.”
“Wait, what? I didn’t freak. I—”
“I just mean, you obviously didn’t want to know. You changed the subject,” Harrison continued, his voice tight. “That’s—whatever, I guess. It isn’t catching, just for the record.”
“What? What isn’t? What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Just because Lance has mental problems doesn’t mean you’re going to catch them from me. I’m just saying.”
Even through the phone, the tired anger in his voice made me embarrassed and ashamed. I couldn’t find words fast enough to tell him he was wrong. “Harrison, that’s—I never—”
“So, anyway,” Harrison said loudly, clearly the one changing the subject now, “I talked to Leilani about an idea she had for a new Senate award. She wants people to vote for a person they know has had a hard time but has stayed positive. She wants to award them a Brigid Ogan Buoyancy Award. And maybe a medal with a balloon on it or something, because they’re ‘staying up,’ which is kind of silly, but whatever.”
I bit my lip. That wasn’t the whole reason for the award, and I knew it.
Harrison sighed. “It wouldn’t hurt, you know, saying that stuff sometimes is hard.”
“I know stuff is sometimes hard,” I said, “but that’s part of what I’m trying to tell you. Leilani and JC only thought up the award so they could give an award to you. I thought you’d care!”
“Senators
aren’t eligible,” Harrison said impatiently. “We’re never eligible for awards from programs we organize, you should know that. So do we do it, or what? Do you still have a problem with it? To me, it doesn’t have anything to do with substance abuse, but if we move it to WinterFest, when we give out class awards, that’s fine with me.”
“I—no. Fine. Okay. Whatever.” I was done fighting.
“Fine. I’ll figure it out with Lani.”
Not again. I scowled. “Harrison, I’m on this subcommittee too. Do you want me to—”
“No,” Harrison said loudly. “I don’t need you.”
“Fine.” I sighed, feeling bruised. “I’m sorry, Harrison. And . . . I’m sorry about your brother, okay? . . . Harrison? Hello?”
You can look at a phone’s screen and tell when a call drops, but my phone is Mom’s old one, so it only shows the caller’s name and number and a tiny counter, counting up the minutes of the call. When I took it from my ear, it held only Harrison’s name and number, and nothing more.
He was gone and hadn’t even said goodbye.
After a brief knock, the door to my room burst open.
I recognized my sister’s pushy entrance. If Mom had knocked and I hadn’t answered, she would have left me alone, but Fallon leaned over me where I lay curled under my covers and poked my shoulder.
“Hey. I know you’re awake,” she said, turning up my night-light.
I rolled onto my side to face her. “What?”
I’d tried to cry myself to sleep, but I’d felt stupid, and the few tears that escaped and burned down my cheeks did nothing to remove the barbed-wire-wrapped boulder that seemed to be sitting where I used to have a heart and a stomach. After curling up around the pain for a while, I’d rolled onto my back to look at the little sliver of sky I could see through my bedroom window. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Harrison just . . . hung up. Not mean or dramatic or anything, just . . . gone.
“Are you okay? Mom kind of ran out on you,” Fallon said.
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the half-truth I’d told my mother, and my relief when she’d had to go. “I’m good. I know Mom has to work; I didn’t need to talk to her.”
Fallon gestured at herself. “Why would you talk to Mom when you have me? I mean, I’ve got experience, beauty, and brains right here.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, goody,” I said, watching as my sister settled herself cross-legged on the floor. “Eighth-grade Oprah’s in the house.”
Fallon grinned. “I know, right? But I’m even better, because I’m not, like, old.” She straightened. “Okay, so, what’s up with JC and Harrison?”
I gnawed my lip. “Well, it’s kind of a long story,” I stalled. “It’s not important. Just . . . she wasn’t in a good mood. I shouldn’t have tried to talk to her.”
Fallon nodded. “Okay . . . so, basically, you and JC aren’t tight anymore. Got it.”
I winced, and Fallon tilted her head curiously. “What?” she asked. “That’s what it sounds like. Why is that such a huge deal?”
“It’s not, I guess,” I admitted. “I just didn’t think JC and I wouldn’t ever be friends.”
Fallon wrinkled her face sympathetically. “It happens, though. Remember I used to hang out with Erin Wallace in sixth? And we did everything together?”
I drew up the covers around my shoulders. “Sort of.”
“And then, in seventh, we didn’t. No real reason, we just . . . changed it up. Now she hangs out with Laura Scheingart. We’re still friends, but . . . you know. I got into doing photography club, and Erin played soccer.”
I hadn’t joined a sport or a club, though. JC had gotten a new kidney—and 6A had gotten a new class ambassador. It wasn’t at all the same.
“Do you think it’s . . .” I hesitated. “Well, Leilani’s Hawaiian, and JC’s Filipino. Do you think JC likes Leilani more than me because I’m not Pacific Islander?”
Fallon widened her eyes. “Really, Serena? Really?”
I scowled. “Don’t judge! I’m just saying!”
“How do you explain you two being best friends when you were in Ms. Daquila’s class in fourth grade?” Fallon asked. “She’s Filipino, and you and JC were always complaining about how strict she was, and how she always wrote your names on the board for talking. And wasn’t Sylvia Finley’s little sister, Sami, in your class too? Their family’s from Fiji, right? That’s an island in the Pacific. Was she besties with JC too?”
“Okay, okay,” I exclaimed. When I said the words out loud, they did sound stupid—and insecure, which was exactly how I felt. I sighed. “Do you think it’s because I’m younger? Or because of this?” I gestured to my flat front. “I mean, JC already has fancy underwear, and she has to wear a bra. Not like me.”
“Serena.” Fallon groaned. “Be real. Nobody controls how fast their body grows. And if that is why JC is being weird, isn’t she too dumb to want to be friends with?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I sighed, gloomy again. “I just wish I knew what I did.”
Fallon made an exasperated noise. “Who says you did anything? Who says JC did? Dude, this is just”—she gestured helplessly—“school. I swear, there’s nothing wrong with you, this is just how it goes for everyone. People change up and hang with someone else and that’s what happens. Don’t take it personally. Just . . . go out and be social, be fun. And boom, you’ll find someone else to hang with. You won’t even be thinking about JC—you’ll be too busy having other friends. I promise, that’s how it goes.”
“I guess,” I said, not able to imagine how it could be true. All the girls in 6A already had people to hang out with, and I didn’t like the cliquey girls in 6B. I guessed I could make friends with one of the seventh graders, but what would we have in common, really?
Fallon and I sat in silence for a moment before my sister rolled to her feet. “Well, I’m going to bed. I just wanted to say whatever you do, don’t sit around and feel sorry for yourself, Ree. If JC’s not your friend anymore, whatever. Find someone else. Hang out with Harrison. You can have guy friends, you know,” she added at my surprised look. “They don’t have cooties.”
“Duh,” I muttered, but my face was hot. Imaginary germs or not, I knew that Harrison Ballard was the last person at Brigid Ogan who would be willing to be my friend after this week. Ugh, just ugh. Sometimes that was all there was to say.
16
Rockstar Regrets
“WHOSE IDEA WAS THE mascot?” I leaned toward Eliana from my perch on the bottom step of the bleachers.
Eliana cupped a hand around her ear, and I repeated myself over the thunder of stomping feet, clapping, and the loud bassline echoing through the gymnasium. When she finally heard me, a grin lit up Eliana’s face. “Mrs. Henry’s idea,” she yelled back.
I should have known. Mrs. Henry was like the dorkiest kindergartner about stuff like all-school pep rallies. Even now, she was standing next to our guests from the city and the Home/School Alliance doing a peppy old-lady dance as the eighth-grade Spirit Squad, in teal, white, and gray uniforms, strutted their stuff.
The whole school stood or sat on bleachers around the edges of the gym while in the middle of the large room, a strip of kind of red—well, kind of burgundy, really—carpet led to a makeshift stage with a podium and microphone. In the middle of the floor, the Spirit Squad led a chant of “You! Me! We! Drug-free!” while doing a complicated dance routine that involved a lot of turns, kicks, and sharp arm choreography. As they finished their cheer—“Let’s (clap) be smart! (clap, clap) Don’t ever start!” (clap clap)—our mascot ran across and did a series of handsprings, while the cheer squad moved into their final stunt, this one a three-tiered pyramid with shoulder sits.
Brigid Ogan’s mascot was the Brigid Banshee, so someone on cheer squad had to practice dancing and leaping in the weird gray ninja suit, white face paint, and a gray hooded cape. Banshees are supposed to wail when someone is going to die. Maybe a group wailing thing made sense at football games,
but it seemed a little off when we did it for the Red Ribbon Rally, although they could have made up a cheer about not doing drugs or the banshee would wail for you . . . Anyway, we all cheered as the squad waved their metallic teal poms and bounced off to the sidelines.
Mrs. Henry, in a spiffy red pantsuit with wide lapels, moved her totally embarrassing dance to the microphone as the music wrapped up. “Another round of applause for the spirit and enthusiasm of the Spirit Squad and the Brigid Banshee! Thank you all! And now, it’s time to hear from our judges. Mr. Walsh, come on down!”
The “unbiased” panel of judges included a mix of faculty and local volunteers, like Mr. Walsh, who was a big-fake-smile-and-handshake politician running for school board or something. Mr. Walsh moved through the door awards, smiling and shaking hands with each of the winners. Third place went to Mrs. Lansing’s first-period eighth graders for their three little pigs inspired door (brick wrapping paper and “Don’t Huff! Don’t Puff! Stay Away from That Stuff!” on a sign with some really ugly pigs). Second prize went to us in Mr. Van’s room 6A, which was pretty surprising, since we’d just wrapped the door in toilet paper to make a big mummy with a sign that said, “Don’t get wrapped up in drugs.” It was pretty generic, but Hyung made some good spooky yellow eyes peeping out between strips of toilet paper, and Madison had added phrases like “Pugs Not Drugs” and “Cupcakes Not Coke” to the tissue in graffiti writing, so we all clapped for ourselves and for them.
The grand prize went to 8C’s homeroom class, of course. Everybody knew they’d win. 8C’s door had little manga-looking heads of Luke and Leia and the Star Wars alien, Admiral Ackbar, pointing at a syringe and a bottle of pills orbiting a round black space station with the warning, “It’s a trap!” in huge letters. It was both cute and kind of funny.
Each winning class got a ribbon for their door, a box of snacks for their homeroom, a picture in the yearbook, and bragging rights, until next year.
After Mr. Walsh finished shaking hands and grinning, Mrs. Henry leaned toward the mic again. “And now, the Red Ribbon subcommittee will come on down and present the next award!”
Serena Says Page 7
