Serena Says

by Tanita S. Davis

  Probably not because I said he had a nice smile, but . . . I can’t stop thinking about what Leilani did. She really figured out how to find . . . a good thing in a kind of annoying thing. Which kind of makes me feel like I should think about her maybe a little more . . . Maybe she’s kind of an awesome person in an annoying package too?

  So, ANYWAY! Does your school do Top-Up Thursdays or something like it? Do you have a kid like Luis in your class? If you were sitting in front of the whiteboard, what would you want someone to write about you? Serena says you can dress up for Halloween but still be yourself.

  That’s my story, and I’m out.

  Also, note to self: no weird laughs or voices in the vlogs.

  18

  A Crack in the Wall

  SINCE NOBODY KNEW WHO I was anyway, after school I changed costumes and put on the one that I wore just about every year. The problem with wearing Mom’s scrubs on a night in October was that, even when it had been nice out during the day, after sundown, in a car with the engine off, the thin, cotton material did nothing to fight the cold. Mom had been inside for a half hour already, and even huddled in her lab coat, my hands were getting too cold to text. I was getting shivers.

  The parking lot of New Vista Behavioral Health Center was mostly deserted, since it was after business hours, but there was a sprinkling of cars in the field of painted lines. Mom had parked right up front in some doctor’s space, so I was under one of the fancy streetlights, which flickered creepily as the wind-tossed branches created shadows.

  We were supposed to be at the mall by now. Trick-or-Treat Street only went on from five to seven thirty, before NewPark became a regular mall again, just one with a bunch of extra security guards wandering around to shoo out the teens who were hanging around while they took down the haunted house. If Mom didn’t hurry up, I wouldn’t get to trick-or-treat at all—it was already six thirty.

  My phone chimed with a text from MAMA MIA.

  Going to be another ten minutes or so. Sorry.

  “Oh, come on!” I moaned, my head falling back against the headrest with an annoyed thump. I wanted candy, but at this rate, I was going to get to hit only one store. I sighed and unlocked my seat belt, zipping up my jacket before stomping out of the car. There was no way I was going to sit out here another minute and freeze in my stupid costume. I typed back with chilly thumbs.

  Waiting in lobby so I don’t freeze/die.

  I got back Mom’s smiley face as I chose the set of heavy glass doors off to the left and tugged my way into the building. New Vista’s administrative offices were warm and quiet, and nowhere near the staff-only areas where patients stayed, and where Mom probably was.

  I breathed out a sigh as heat bathed my cheeks. The banks of fluorescent bulbs above the receptionist’s computers were dim, but light shone behind the closed window of the financial office, illuminating a path through clusters of low tables, benches, and chairs in the L-shaped waiting room. I headed for the elbow of the L, as far away from the cold night air as I could get, and pulled up a cushy seat right beneath the heating register. Bliss. Now it didn’t matter how long Mom took. Mostly. She told us every year we could just get cheap candy the day after Halloween, but THAT was NOT the point.

  I had my feet propped against the wall, trying to successfully match different-colored jewels on my tiny phone screen when the lobby doors opened again. The sound of someone plopping down in one of the leather chairs by the reception desk, and a snap as a tiny lamp came on piqued my curiosity. What sounded like a suitcase opening interested me even more.

  I slipped my phone into my back pocket, bored and nosy enough to fake a need for the water fountain. Once there, I held my toy stethoscope down and slurped noisily, then took the few extra steps necessary to peep around the corner.

  What I saw had me pulling back and silently smacking my own forehead.

  Plugged in to the base of the lobby lamp sat a laptop, on top of a familiar brown briefcase to make it a little higher. He was logging in to the hospital’s guest Wi-Fi page, and he had a box of Red Vines on the table in front of him.

  It was stupid to hide. Blowing out a breath, I stepped out from behind the corner.

  “Harrison?”

  Harrison didn’t even jump. He just sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “Serena.”

  Nope, this was not super awkward at all.

  “Um, what are you doing here?” I blurted, then bit down on my tongue until my eyes watered. Could I sound any more brainless? “I mean, I see your laptop; are you going to watch a movie?”

  “No,” Harrison said, then shrugged and added, “Mom and Dad are with Lance. My brother?” His brows raised, as if I needed reminding.

  “Yeah, I remember your brother’s here. I’m waiting for my mom,” I offered.

  “Yep.” Harrison fiddled with his laptop again.

  “So I guess you’re not going out tonight,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “Nope.”

  From his one-word answers, I knew Harrison didn’t want to talk; slime molds could probably tell that, and Mrs. Vejar told us they don’t actually have brains. But part of me felt like being annoying. He shouldn’t still be acting weird with me. I’d apologized, hadn’t I?

  I crossed the room and dropped into the upholstered chair next to Harrison.

  “Did you finish making your virus flash cards yet?” I asked. “I can quiz you.”

  “I’m not doing flash cards,” Harrison said, scrolling through a website.

  I leaned forward to see what he was reading. It was so boring that I couldn’t help myself. “Jeez, Harrison, are you reading the newspaper? See, this is why no one ever calls you Harry.”

  Now that I’d said them out loud, the words didn’t sound as good as they had in my head. Mr. Howard would have called them a non sequitur. That sounded fancy, but it just meant it made zero sense.

  It didn’t impress Harrison, either, who glared. “Serena, what do you want?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I didn’t know why I was bugging him. What did I actually want?

  I didn’t really know Harrison, but he was part of . . . life, at school. Like the walls and the bulletin boards and the desks. Without Harrison insulting me, I felt . . . a space, like a chair out of place, one I kept tripping over, and stubbing my toe. Why wouldn’t he forgive me? He was only mad because he said I was treating him like he had a disease. How could anyone catch mental health issues from just talking about his brother? Was that a thing?

  All I wanted was for him to stop treating me like I was the disease. For everything to go back to the way it was.

  “I want to know about your brother,” I blurted. “And you. And your family, and stuff.”

  “JC wants to know, or you?” Harrison asked, his mouth tightening.

  I swallowed. I kind of deserved that. “You don’t have to say anything. You just . . . can. If you want to.”

  Harrison shrugged, his eyes on his computer screen.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. Should I apologize again? Should I leave Harrison alone? I tried to think of what Fallon would say if she was here. I couldn’t think of anything.

  My phone vibrating in my back pocket had me jumping up in relief. I flipped open my phone to see a new message.

  On my way.

  Excellent. If we hurried, I’d still have twenty minutes to collect my haul.

  I took two steps toward the door and stopped.

  “Um, Harrison?” My mouth was weirdly dry.

  Harrison nodded to my phone. “Yeah, I know. That’s your mom. Bye.”

  “Um, wait. We’re going to Trick-or-Treat Street. Do you want to ask your mom and dad if you can go? My mom can drop you off back here, no problem.”

  Harrison’s eyebrows rumpled as he frowned. He looked confused, then suspicious. “No. Thank you.”

  My throat pinched. He was still treating me like a disease, but at least I’d tried. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “Hey, H
obbit?” Harrison said as I pushed on the heavy glass.

  The old nickname expanded my lungs with a rush of hope. I half-turned toward Harrison, tense with cautious optimism. “What?”

  “Nobody will believe a Hobbit is a doctor, you know. You’re just too short.”

  “Shut up, you giant boy mutant,” I scoffed, but I couldn’t keep from grinning.

  19

  Minding Our Beeswax

  WORKING IN GROUPS AT school is the WORST. Someone always messes around, and someone else always only wants everyone to use their ideas. A couple of busy bees always end up doing most of the work, and even then, we still don’t always get an A. In social studies, Mr. Baumgartner, who loves groups, always chooses them himself, which today means I have Eliana in my group—yay!—and Mateo and Ally, who are fine; Cameron, who is kind of a slacker; and . . . Leilani.

  Oof.

  Even the handful of Fresca candies Eliana stuck in my pocket when my desk was next to hers didn’t make things better, though that candy is my favorite. Leilani Camacho—everywhere I look, every time I turn around. There. She. Is.

  After we all moved our desks, Mr. B handed each group a pack of worksheets. “Fifteen minutes to come up with a project and rough out your first five steps to making it happen, people,” he called.

  A buzz rose as students read the project instructions. Across from me, Cameron thumped his head on his desk, brown hair flopping across his eyes. “Aw, man!”

  I kept my complaint silent, but as I paged through the assignment, I agreed. We’d been studying ancient civilizations since school started, and the clay tablets and cuneiform were okay, but we’d recently moved from Mesopotamia to ancient Egypt’s Nile Crescent—and Mr. B was obsessed. He was way too hyped about floods, pharaohs, and mummies. Aside from our other worksheets and vocabulary pages, the Egypt project was worth 25 percent of our semester grade. Our projects were also going to be on display in the school library the night of WinterFest—now only FOUR. WEEKS. AWAY. I rubbed my arms, pretty sure the buzz I felt was panic, and not excitement.

  “This doesn’t look that bad,” Ally said after a moment. “We just have to pick one project out of six. Listen, there’s ‘create a game show; write and perform a play or skit; create a topical map of ancient Egypt, compare to a topical map of Egypt today; write and illustrate a children’s book; make an illustrated timeline on a three-panel display board’—Ew, no,” Ally interjected, then continued, “‘create a TV spot or news report, interviewing a relevant person; compose a song and create a music video; make a shoebox museum with at least two dioramas.’ We have two due dates before the final one. That’s not bad at all.”

  “Oh, sure, it’s just one project, but we also have to make notes on how we do our research, and how much time we’re in the library, and write up what we used for our projects, and why we chose them—plus do all our other homework. This blows,” Mateo griped.

  “At least we get to work on it during class. I have piano recital this weekend, so if anyone wants to get together, it’s going to have to wait,” Eliana volunteered.

  “Do you see the grading stuff? We’re not just graded by Mr. B. We’re also getting a pass/fail from Ms. Pettinelli for research skills in the library, and letter grades from Mr. Howard for language arts or from Mrs. Vejar for science!” I scowled.

  “Ooh! Where do you see that?” Eliana sounded happier than she should have. “Hey! We get to present our projects to third graders! So cool! That’s way better than just parents.”

  Better? I was ready to argue Eliana’s point of view when Leilani confidently tossed the silky tassel of her ponytail over her shoulder. “Guys. I know how we can do the game show.”

  “Who says we’re doing a game show?” I argued, then bit my lip. While I wanted to film the news report and the interview, maybe not everyone did. What if everyone else wanted a game show? “I mean, whatever, if you want to do one, but I don’t watch game shows,” I added.

  “Game shows are kind of meh,” Ally agreed, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “I think we should vote on what we do.”

  “Yeah,” Cameron chimed in. “I wanted to make a mummy. Wouldn’t that be cool, if we did a map, and had the mummy running across the—”

  “No. No mummies.” Eliana shook her head, speaking loudly over Cameron’s complaints. “Mummies are basic. We need something more interesting.”

  “Like what?” Lani challenged. “My brothers can help me program us a cool game in Scratch on my laptop, and—”

  “But your brothers aren’t in our group,” Mateo pointed out. “Read, right there on the first page. Mr. B says, ‘no outside help from family or friends.’ And, anyway, what are the rest of us supposed to do while your brothers are making the game?”

  “Exactly. So let’s vote. That way, each of us gets a job, and gets to do it without anyone interrupting or showing up and taking over,” I said too loudly. As our ex–class ambassador, job-stealing was still kind of a sore point for me.

  “Nobody’s going to take over,” Eliana the Peacemaker said, giving me a warning look. “We should probably find something we can all work on together. Right, Lani?”

  “Fine, but it would have been cool.” Lani sounded sulky.

  “We could do a play,” Ally suggested. “We could wear eyeliner and black wigs and—”

  “Hold up. What are Mateo and I supposed to wear in this play?” Cameron demanded.

  “I’m not wearing a stupid diaper, a skirt, or a dress,” Mateo announced.

  “Um . . . well . . . ,” Ally said, flipping through her social studies book.

  Lani scowled. “It’s a loincloth, not a diaper. And that’s not what Egyptians wore. Look at the pharaohs. They—”

  “Still not doing it,” Mateo said, arms crossed. “Let’s just write a book and call it a day.”

  “A children’s book,” Eliana corrected him. “If you write a book, it has to be good for, like, eight year olds.”

  “That’s easy,” Ally said. “We just tell them what’s in our social studies book.”

  “And they’ll be so bored they’ll die yawning,” Cameron griped. “Can’t I please draw one mummy?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Cameron, fine! Draw all the mummies! Do an entire chapter on mummies and those gross whatever jars . . . and you can draw it unraveling, so you can write about how and why they mummified people.”

  “Cool,” Cameron said, looking pleased. “Canopic jars!”

  “Yeah, that’s cool. But what am I doing?” Mateo demanded.

  “Uh—” I glanced at Ally and Eliana. Weren’t they going to say something? But no, they seemed to be waiting for . . . me. I swallowed. “Uh, you’re always rapping, Mateo, so maybe you can take everyone’s facts, and kind of, um, give them flow? Make them rhyme?” At his widening eyes, I added, “Not, like, all the way, you don’t have to make a perfect rap for all of them, that’s a lot of work, but just . . . make them sound less lame?”

  I turned back to the group. “And, um, maybe we should all have, like, three facts, so our book is, like, eighteen pages long, plus the front and back cover, so it’s twenty pages? So then it’s even numbers, and it’ll work better.”

  “That makes sense,” Ally said, writing quickly. “So each of us researches and writes up our facts, like one fact per page? And Cameron is illustrating them?”

  “Hey, not all of them,” Cameron protested. “You can draw too, Ally.”

  “You’re a good artist,” I agreed, and Ally ducked her head, beaming. “Eliana, you could be in charge of the actual bookmaking—you know, choose paper and connect the pages and all of that stuff.” I smiled at Eliana. She smiled back but cupped her left hand around her right hand. With her right hand, she pointed at Lani.

  Oh yeah. Her.

  “And, um, Lani,” I swallowed as Lani raised a brow expectantly. What did she like to do? What was she good at? I didn’t know. Lani wasn’t my business.

  “Lani, you’re the printer, I think?” My voice cr
acked. “You can type up the project description, and run spell-check, and maybe help fact-check everybody’s pages so they’re perfect? And you know how Ms. Pettinelli likes everybody to cite sources . . . I’ll help with that, and I’ll work on the cover design, and we’ll put it all together.”

  “Cool. We’ll do it together,” Eliana said. “The cover and the typing and the book, right? My dad has a laminator. We can get wallpaper samples and make an actual cover.”

  I shrugged. “Sounds good. I mean, if Lani wants to . . .”

  “Well, okay,” Lani said reluctantly. “I’m a pretty good typist, and I could figure out a laminator . . . I think. Fine with me, I guess.”

  I exhaled. “Okay, good. Is that everybody?”

  “So you’re group leader,” Ally asked, writing something down on her paper.

  “Um . . . ?” I looked as Ally pointed at the board. Across the whiteboard, Mr. B had scrawled: Group leader’s name. Project Name. Individual steps 1–5 for your group project.

  I looked around the circle at my classmates. I wasn’t a leader. That was something Lani would be good at, or what JC or people like Erik or Sunita did. I was just . . . a regular worker bee in the group, just getting organized . . . right? What would a group leader do? Or was I the one who decided that? If I didn’t decide, was I not taking an opportunity to raise my voice, like Mrs. Henry said? “Um,” I cleared my throat and made a lightning-quick decision. “I’ll be group leader, if everyone wants.”

  “Good, ’cause I already wrote you down. In pen,” Mateo added, leaning over his paper.

  Around me, everyone was writing.

  “Seven minutes,” Mr. B called.

  “The first step is to choose our facts,” I said thoughtfully.

  “I need to research,” Eliana muttered around the end of her pencil.

  “Step two,” I suggested.

  Ally looked up. “Good idea,” she said. “The library next.”

  Around the circle, heads nodded, eyes focused. I took a deep breath. I had no idea what to do next. I’d never been a group leader, not when JC had been around to be funnier and louder and more confident than everyone. Could I really do this?