Serena Says

by Tanita S. Davis

  My sister brightened. “A new lens! There’s one kit for phones, and you can take super-detailed close-up pictures with one lens or use a fish-eye lens and take panoramas. Cool, huh?”

  “I guess,” I said. Fallon’s camera addiction was well documented. “Is it for yearbook?”

  “Well, kind of.” Fallon shrugged. “It’s mostly for me. I saw this picture of a fruit fly on the internet, and I wanted to see if I could shoot a close-up like that. Mrs. Vejar’s got these little flower flies in a tank, and I want to find out if they’re hairy like the fruit flies or what.”

  Eew. “Um, sounds great,” I said with a weak smile.

  Fallon snorted. “Oh my gosh, Serena, your pants are burning.”

  “What?” I jumped away from the hallway heater—which wasn’t even on—patting down my legs. Then I rolled my eyes. Right. Liar, liar, pants on fire. My sister was so weird. “Whatever, Flea,” I said, and turned toward my room. “Come take my money and get out.”

  “What was it you were looking for, anyway?” Fallon asked again as I dug into my glittery blue metal cashbox for the requested loan.

  “Our stamping kits. Remember that one year when Mom made us make an anniversary card for Bibi and Poppy? And we bought a lot of rubber stamps of flowers and stars and stuff?”

  “Oh yeah! Those are in the top of my closet,” Fallon told me. “I’ll get them.”

  In the kitchen, I pulled out my ingredients, grimacing guiltily at Mom’s fancy cake flour. Despite what I’d said on the vlog I’d uploaded, I wasn’t quite as sure about making salt dough as I’d been earlier—Mom might be really cranky about me wasting food, so I needed to make this quick and get out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, after lining up my ingredients, I discovered one more problem—we didn’t have nearly enough salt for the two cups I needed for salt dough.

  I thumped my head on the table in frustration. “Aaaargh!” I groaned. “Why couldn’t this be easy?” Sighing, I opened my eyes and looked sideways at the box of cornstarch. Absentmindedly, I scanned the small print on its side . . . then I stood up and read the recipe right-side up. “Cornstarch clay?” I now had a Plan B. I only hoped it would work as well as Plan A.

  One cup of cornstarch, plus two cups of the baking soda beneath the bathroom sink, mixed together in a pot with a cup and a drizzle of water, and . . . it looked like thick milk. Was this going to work? Frowning, I put the pot on the stove.

  Stirring the mix over a low flame, I could hear Fallon talking on the phone—again—about her camera lens, and what she was going to do with it. Since she was kind of squealing, I knew she was talking to Sharyn. While Fallon liked bugs, Sharyn was obsessed with taking pictures of buildings. They were well matched as best friends.

  I didn’t get squealy about pictures of buildings or bugs. I didn’t love dance, like Julia and Sunita, or adore video games, like Eliana—or my briefcase, like Harrison, or Modern Divas, or sports, or anything other people in my class did. I wondered if I was too boring. Mr. Baumgartner always said that in history, great people had great passion. I wasn’t passionate about anything, exactly, but I loved doing things like making crafts or being on camera for my vlog. Maybe it was just that the word “passionate” sounded too . . . big, and too emo. Maybe I was just a great person who was going to have great passion without squealing. I could live with that.

  While I hadn’t been paying attention, the white mixture had changed from watery white to a goo that clung to the spoon and pulled away from the sides of the pot. My sister, still on the phone, popped into the kitchen to grab an ice cream sandwich from the freezer. She peered nosily into the pot as she unwrapped it. “Add milk. Mashed potatoes need more liquid than that,” she instructed, then snatched the spoon and blew on it quickly before moving it toward her mouth.

  “No, don’t eat—!”

  “BLAAAAAAAAH!” Fallon gagged and spit out the mouthful of clay into the sink.

  Over the loud sound of her spitting, I giggled. “I told you, it’s not edible! Sorry!” As my sister gargled, I picked up the spoon and rescued the ice cream sandwich from the splashes in the sink.

  “Ugh,” Fallon panted, rinsing her mouth under the sink tap. “No, not you,” she said into the phone, blinking watery eyes as she wiped her mouth with a dish towel, then snatched her ice cream from my hands. “My sister’s trying to kill me with her cooking!”

  “Nobody asked you to eat it,” I said, but Fallon had huffed away down the hall.

  I dumped the hot clay on the cutting board and got out a rolling pin. When it had cooled a bit, the cornstarch blend, warm and silky-smooth, felt way better than Bibi’s salt dough, which left my hands crusty and dry. Now all I needed was for it to make good, strong birds.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered.

  The clay rolled out easily into a thin sheet, and I hesitated over my choice of rubber stamps and cookie cutters. One of them was a chicken or a duck, but another one could maybe be an owl . . . which reminded me of Lani and JC’s magnets. I wondered how JC felt. The last time I’d called the hospital, Mrs. Gerardo told me Lani was there. Maybe they were working on their project too. Or planning JC’s birthday party. Maybe they’d decided not to invite me . . .

  “Knock it off,” I muttered, resisting the weight of the sad feelings. “Think of something else.”

  For 6A’s bird baskets, Eliana was making chicken empanadas scalloped in the shape of wings—well, mostly her mom was, but Eli was helping. I wondered what Harrison would do, make little briefcases with wings? I cracked a tiny grin.

  An hour later, and my mood was much better. I’d had to make the ornaments thicker than I expected—I couldn’t get the thinner rolled ornaments off the cutting board. When I’d gotten bored with one shape, I’d gently pulled on the cheap metal cutters to make some a little larger, so I had fat birds and smaller birds with slightly different tails. For a few, I’d used ink on my stamp pad, and I hoped the colors wouldn’t fade too much as the ornaments dried.

  “So you made soaps?” Fallon, still nosy, but wary now, peeked into the room. “Out of potatoes?”

  “I told you—it’s not potatoes and it’s not soap. It’s cornstarch clay.”

  “I didn’t know cornstarch made clay.” Fallon peered over my shoulder. “Oh, pretty!”

  When I hadn’t left the ornaments white, I’d stamped with a design made with a dark-blue ink to make a nice wintry blue and white, instead of Christmas red and green. Even without their berets, my French hens were looking fancy.

  “How did you make the ribbon holes?” Fallon asked, eyeing the neat circles.

  “I wiggled around a piece of spaghetti,” I said. “Toothpicks were too small. I’m going to hot glue hairbands to some of them after I sand them and seal them—people can use them for napkin rings or for regular hairbands.”

  “French hen hairbands!” Fallon asked. “That is so random. I want one!”

  I looked proudly at my birds. They needed to dry overnight—or oven bake for an hour watched closely—but I was done for now. Mom would be home soon, and it was time to clean up the kitchen, plus I was starving.

  “This is much cooler than a birdbath,” Fallon said, trailing a finger over a pattern of shooting stars that made wings and feathers on one bird. “NO ONE is going to top this, Serena.”

  I shrugged, my smile a little shy. “Fal, I copied it from Artistly. Tons of people have already made them.”

  “I know, but I mean nobody at Brigid Ogan, and none exactly like these,” Fallon insisted. She gently punched my shoulder. “This is cool. I like.”

  “Even though I tried to kill you?” I teased.

  “You tried,” Fallon said, her eyes narrow in mock warning. “But I’m on to you now. Don’t cook. Just keep making chicken hairbands.”

  The warm feeling Fallon’s words gave me stayed as I put things away. When I heard Mom’s key in the door, the feeling lit up brighter as Fallon called, “Mom! Hey, Mom, come here! Look what Serena made!”

  I co
uldn’t help the smile on my face. I felt like I could have thought up another fifty cool projects without even breaking a sweat.

  SERENA|SAYS

  FAL’S FOTOGRAPHY

  184 subscribers

  HIGHLIGHTED POST: Fal in Focus 1 week ago

  Welcome to the Community tab for Fal’s Fotography! Did you see my sister’s vlog, Serena Says? Thank you for watching! Check out these pics of Serena’s finished DIY project! I like the blue-and-white bands the best.

  What would you like to see next in her DIY series? Don’t forget to subscribe and stay tuned for more from both of us! —Fal

  Laura Scheingart, 2 days ago

  Aww, cute! Your sister is good at this.

  Ally Leonard, 2 days ago

  LOVE THE CHICKENS

  VantheMan, 3 days ago

  Nice camera presence, Serena. Some good progress!

  ElianaBanana, 6 days ago

  SUPER cute, Ree! Me likey.

  SlideshowSharyn, 7 days ago

  Nice job, chick.

  24

  Like a Boss

  “CAMERON JONES, MY OFFICE, please.”

  “Oh no,” Ally whispered, looking up from her outline. “There goes our A.”

  After the loud burst of laughter from the computer corner, Ms. Pettinelli’s usually sunny face was stern and serious. Our whole group watched as Mr. Van followed Cam and the librarian into the small room and tilted the blinds for privacy.

  “Dang it, Cameron,” I muttered. Mr. Van stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, keeping a stern eye on the rest of the class while taking part in Cameron’s meeting. This was the third time Ms. Pettinelli had said something to Cameron today, and now that Mr. Van was involved, Cam was in twice as much trouble.

  “I wish we could kick him out of our group,” Lani grumped. “It’s not fair that we’re all working so hard and he’s not doing anything.”

  “Cameron’s working,” Mateo immediately defended his friend.

  “Sure, he just . . . took a side-trip from getting his colored pencils?” I shook my head as Mateo shrugged. “Come on, Mateo. Even you told him he was going to get in trouble.”

  “Man.” Eliana sighed. “I wish we could do something.”

  “About Cameron?” Ally gave Eliana a frown.

  “No, silly, about our grade.” Eliana giggled, then looked toward Ms. Pettinelli’s office. “I mean, it’s not fair that Cameron can ruin the grade for the whole group. Not that he’s going to,” Eliana added, because she’s a super-nice person. “I just don’t think anyone should have that power.”

  “I know,” I agreed glumly. Lani nodded.

  “Can’t you go talk to Ms. Pettinelli?” Mateo asked. “Teachers always like girls.”

  I scowled. “That’s sexist discrimination. Teachers like people—boys and girls—who do their work. Since that’s what you’ve been doing, why don’t you talk to her?”

  “Well, you are our group leader,” Lani pointed out, sounding way too reasonable.

  Dang. I looked around the circle. Ally looked hopeful. Mateo looked demanding. Lani looked . . . like she always did, like she was waiting for me to do something interesting so she could watch. Eliana leaned back in her wheelchair and grinned. She knew I didn’t want to go.

  That little grin got on my nerves. “Fine.” I pushed back my chair. “Okay. I’ll talk to Ms. Pettinelli. But . . . don’t expect anything, people. They already made up the rules and wrote them down and made copies for all of sixth grade. They’re not gonna change them just for me.”

  “They might.” Ally was an optimist.

  “They’d better,” Mateo said with a serious frown.

  Gripping my mechanical pencil in my fist, I . . . turned around and looked longingly back at the safety of my group. Ally and Mateo were looking at their work, but Lani was watching, still looking interested. Eliana smirked, and I stuck out my tongue. Reluctantly, I dragged myself to the dragon’s lair . . . Ms. Pettinelli’s office.

  I hesitated as I came to the door. Mr. Van had his back to me. Should I say “knock, knock,” or should I wait for them to get done with Cameron? Would Mr. Van be mad I was asking about my grades? Sometimes he got tired of people asking for things like extra credit and stuff. He could be tricky.

  I cleared my throat, and Mr. Van turned. Cameron looked up, then at the floor. He didn’t look happy.

  “Um, Mr. Van?” my voice cracked.

  Mr. Van put on a pleasant expression. “What can I help you with, Serena?”

  I curled my toes in my shoes. “Is now a good time to talk to you about working in groups?” I asked.

  Mr. Van sighed. “Cameron, go back to your seat, please. I’ll talk with you later.” Mr. Van turned back to me and lowered his voice. “Serena, if you’re here to ask if I’ll put Cameron in someone else’s group, I’ve told everyone already, the groups are going to stay as—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I interrupted, then winced. “Sorry,” I added quickly. The easiest way to annoy Mom was interrupting.

  Mr. Van raised his eyebrows. “What did you want to say about groups, then?” he asked.

  “Can I talk to you and Ms. Pettinelli at the same time?” I asked, looking into the office.

  Ms. Pettinelli waved me in. “What’s going on, Serena?” she asked, her usual warm smile back where it belonged.

  I thought fast. Mr. Van didn’t want to move anyone around in groups, and he didn’t like it when we complained. So, without complaining, and without asking for anything for myself, what could I do about Cameron? Was this one of Mrs. Henry’s opportunities to stand up and speak out? I stood a little straighter.

  “I’m here as student advocate for Cameron Jones,” I began.

  Ms. Pettinelli’s brown eyes went wide. “Really!” she said. She looked at Mr. Van. “Is this something that you do in 6A?”

  “Uh, no,” Mr. Van said, looking startled. “Tell us what you mean, Serena.”

  Last night, Mom had been on the phone with one of the patient advocates at New Vista, working out something a patient needed. Patient advocates helped patients get what they needed. A student advocate could do the same thing.

  “Cameron needs help, and since he’s in our group, my group, um, asked me to help him,” I said, feeling my way forward. “We want him to get a good grade on our group project—and we want a good grade, too, so I want to ask you for, um, an extra project, just for Cameron.”

  Mr. Van looked confused. “What?”

  “I’ll help him with it,” I said quickly. “He’s my responsibility.”

  “Wait, wait, wait just a minute here,” Ms. Pettinelli said, holding up a hand. “Cameron Jones is not your responsibility, Serena. Everyone makes choices to stay on task—your choices are your only responsibility.”

  “Well, I just thought, because I’m his group leader . . .” I turned toward Mr. Van. “I was hoping you could give him an extra assignment so he could make up the points he lost by getting in trouble. Maybe he could earn our group those points back?”

  “Ah.” Ms. Pettinelli made a little face and sat back in her chair. “I understand now.”

  Mr. Van sighed. “Um, thank you, Serena. Why don’t you go back to your seat now, and I’ll, uh, get back to you on this advocate thing, all right?”

  I hesitated. “You won’t forget?”

  Mr. Van smiled so big that wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his greenish-brown eyes. “Nope. I’ll remember this all day, Serena St. John.”

  “Um, okay,” I said, giving Mr. Van a worried look. That didn’t sound too good.

  “Well?” Mateo asked in a low voice as I slid back in my seat.

  I shot a glance over my shoulder. Mr. Van was walking around one side of the room, while Ms. Pettinelli stood in the doorway to her office, watching everyone work.

  “Not now,” I whispered. “Everyone get busy.”

  Five heads bent over their papers and five pencils and pens moved.

  Mr. Van paused by our table.
“Looking good over here. Serena, may I have a word?”

  I gulped.

  “I have another assignment!” Cameron bleated. “Why’d you ask him for that?”

  “He can earn the group our lost points back? YES!” Lani high-fived Ally, looking gleeful.

  “I’m going to help you,” I reminded Cameron, who looked like he’d been hit with a stick.

  “We’re all going to help you,” Eliana said loyally. “We’re your group, Cam. We just want our A.”

  “I knew you’d talk him into it,” Mateo said.

  “You did?” I blurted. “I didn’t!”

  “I can’t believe I have another assignment,” Cameron groaned pitifully. “My life bites.”

  “It’s your own fault,” Lani reminded him. “You messed around all day.”

  “What does he have to do?” Eliana asked.

  “He has to design a giant Egyptology Exhibit poster for the third graders,” I explained. “Ms. Pettinelli will display it on WinterFest night with the rest of our Egypt projects.”

  “What? That’s all? That’s easy,” Cameron said, relief coloring his voice. “I can do that.”

  “I know you can do that,” I told him, exasperated. “That’s why I asked Mr. Van if you could. Just don’t screw up after this, okay? Mr. Van said this is your one chance.”

  “I won’t screw up, boss,” said Cameron eagerly. He dug in his bag and produced a metal box of graphite pencils and pulled out a fresh pad of drawing paper. “I’m starting now.”

  “I can’t believe you,” Eliana marveled as the three-minute bell rang and Mr. Van shooed us out and to our next class. “You got Mr. Van to agree, and Cameron actually worked and didn’t talk for, like, ten minutes straight. You’re like Super Group Leader, or, wait—you’re the Teacher Whisperer. I don’t even know how you DID that.”

  I gave Eliana a smug smile. “Well, I am the group leader,” I said, but I was mostly joking. As strict as Mr. Van is, everyone knows there’s no such thing as a Teacher Whisperer, but whatever. I did a little happy dance down the hall anyway.