Copyright
Copyright © 2001 by Julie Anne Peters
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
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First eBook Edition: February 2010
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-07209-0
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
To my sister Susan,
for believing in me
Chapter 1
“Wow,” Max said.
“Wow,” I said.
“W-wow,” Prairie said.
“I know.” Lydia beamed. “It’s awesome.”
I’m not easily awed, but in this instance Lydia was right. Everyone else had used a shoebox, the way Mrs. Jonas, our homeroom teacher, had suggested. But Lydia had converted an empty corrugated case of Bounty paper towels into the biggest, coolest, most authentic-looking diorama ever constructed by a sixth grader. On this or any other planet.
“It’s an exact replica of the Declaration Chamber in Independence Hall,” Lydia said. “See, I even have a picture of the reconstruction.” She held up the report accompanying the diorama.
“How long did that take you?” Max asked.
“Three weeks and two days,” Lydia answered. “I had to hot-glue all the furniture together and paint it. I bought the miniature chandelier, but I cut out the curtains myself. And I hand-drew all fifty-six of the Founding Fathers. See, here’s John Hancock with his quill pen, signing the Declaration of Independence.”
A snort sounded behind us. “You sure that’s not his sister, Jane? He looks like a girl.” Ashley Krupps wedged her fleshy mass between Max and me. It felt like Jabba the Hutt coming through. “In fact, they all look like girls.”
Lydia curled a lip at Ashley. “The Founding Fathers were not girls, you twit. Everyone had long hair back then.” Lydia rolled her eyes at us.
Really. I rolled mine back. She’d answered my question, though.
“All right, everyone, let’s get settled,” Mrs. Jonas called from her desk. The crowd gathered around Lydia’s diorama dispersed, but the four of us, the Snob Squad, lingered for a last look. “It’s s-so cool,” Prairie told Lydia.
Lydia smiled. “Thanks. I really want it to be picked as our class project in social studies. You know, for the PTA’s open house? My mom’s running for president next year.”
Which didn’t surprise me. Lydia’s mom was very involved in Lydia’s life. She had to be—she was a child psychologist.
On the way back to our desks, I heard Ashley lean across the aisle and say to her groupie, Melanie Mason, “She cheated. I bet her mommy helped her. No way she made that herself.”
Unfortunately, Lydia was right behind me. “I did too make it myself!” she shrieked.
Everyone within earshot was immediately hearing impaired.
“Lydia, sit down,” Mrs. Jonas snapped. “Will everyone just sit down and be quiet so I can take the lunch count? I have a splitting headache.” Mrs. Jonas covered her forehead with her hand. She had more headaches than any teacher I’d ever known. Maybe because this was her first year teaching. Someone should’ve warned her.
“Raise your hands again for hot lunch,” Mrs. Jonas said. As I twisted around to ask Prairie what kind of pig slop was on the menu today, I saw Hugh Torkerson blow her a kiss. Oh, brother. How corny. Unless, of course, Kevin Rooney was inclined. Speaking of my true love….
Our eyes met. My stomach flip-flopped. Hard to believe Kevin was actually my sort-of boyfriend. We hadn’t progressed as far in our relationship as Prairie and Hugh. No kiss-blowing. Not even hand-holding, but he had taken me to the sixth-grade spring fling and there were definitely vibes between us. Sizzling vibes.
Lydia raised her hand. “Mrs. Jonas?”
Uh-oh, I thought. When Lydia affected her whiny voice, we all knew what was coming.
“Ashley is wearing a hat, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Lydia lowered her hand.
Mrs. Jonas sighed. “Ashley?”
“Oh, come on, Mrs. Jonas. It’s two weeks till school’s out. Can’t we have a little bit of freedom?”
Mrs. Jonas said, “It’s not my rule. It’s the school’s.”
Ashley cocked her head. “My father won’t care. Ask him.”
Nobody needed to ask. Everybody knew that the rules didn’t apply to Ashley Krupps, the principal’s prima donna daughter. Mrs. Jonas pushed herself up from her desk chair like it hurt to move. “Take out your daily oral language,” she said wearily.
“You wouldn’t let any of us wear hats.” Lydia’s voice rose. “Last time Max wore her Pennzoil cap, you confiscated it and wrote her up.”
All eyes zoomed in on Max. She spit a sunflower seed shell into her desk and looked bored.
Lydia went on, “Why do you always let Ashley get away with murder?”
A rhetorical question, if ever I heard one. Just to goad Lydia, Ashley reached inside her desk and pulled out a half-empty Bonus Pak of Cinn*A*Burst gum. She handed a stick to Melanie and unwrapped one for herself.
“Mrs. Jonas!” Lydia screeched, pointing.
I sent her a silent plea: Just drop it, Lydia. Life isn’t fair. So what else is new?
“Now they’re chewing gum again. It’s not just Ashley. Melanie gets special treatment, too.”
“Oh, and you don’t?” Ashley exploded. “Who gets extra recess time for cleaning the boards and tidying up the art cabinet? Who gets to be the room monitor like every day? Who gets extra credit for sucking up to every teacher in this school?”
Mrs. Jonas whirled. Her face was scarlet. Between clenched teeth, she said, “I’ll see both of you at lunchtime. Now shut up and open your DOL.”
I shrank in my seat. Mrs. Jonas yelled a lot, but she’d never said, “Shut up.” Hooboy. By the end of the school year everyone was always a little testy. Except the teachers. We counted on them to keep us from killing each other.
Poor Mrs. Jonas. She looked like she was ready to barf. If she did, I hoped the chunks would fly as far as Ashley’s fat face.
We all hated Ashley Krupps. Any self-respecting person would. But Ashley wasn’t the most unpopular person at Montrose Middle School. That honor was shared by the four of us, the Snob Squad: Max, Prairie, Lydia, and me, Jenny Solano. We weren’t really snobs; just thrived on the notoriety. You could say we
had Ashley Krupps to thank for our friendship, since it was our mutual loathing of her that had brought us together.
You’d never hear Lydia thank Ashley—for anything. Following her meeting with Mrs. Jonas, Lydia stormed into the cafeteria and slammed her lunch tray on the table. She jammed in beside me on the bench and snarled, “I despise her. I detest her. I spit on her slimy guts.”
Prairie, Max, and I exchanged cautious glances. Since I was the leader of the Snob Squad, it was my duty to ask, “So, what happened?”
“What do you think happened?!” Lydia screeched, puncturing my eardrum. “The same thing that always happens. Somebody else gets in trouble for something Ashley did. In this case, me.” Lydia ripped open a carton of milk. She took a swig from the wedge, swallowed, and set the carton down so hard milk sloshed out. “Mrs. Jonas is the worst teacher in the world,” she said. “Do you know after she ragged on Ashley and me for being disruptive, she actually let Ashley stay in the room to eat her lunch? We never get to eat in the room.”
Out the cafeteria door, I saw Mrs. Jonas at the drinking fountain, knocking down a handful of aspirin. “Two more weeks, Lyd.” I patted her sharp shoulder blade. “Just two more weeks.”
“Of total living hell,” she muttered.
“What other kind is there?” Max said.
We all looked at her. Max was a person of few words, but when she spoke, it was profound.
“Let’s change the subject,” I said. “This is giving me indigestion.”
As if on cue, Kevin Rooney wandered by. “Hey, Jen,” he said.
The lunch meat in my stomach congealed. “Hey,” I said back. A brilliant conversationalist I’m not.
“You want to go shoot some hoops?” He bounced a basketball at his side. Down up, down up. It was making me queasy.
“No, that’s okay,” I told him. “You go ahead.” It wouldn’t further our relationship to have my one true love repulsed by my B.O., not to mention my fat arms flapping in the breeze.
He did a little pout. “See ya, then.” He smiled. That crooked half-smile that was so adorable.
“Oh, man. You shoulda gone,” Max chided me after Kevin left. “The guys never ask us to play.”
“They never ask you to play,” Lydia countered. “Why?” She answered her own question, “Because you beat the crap out of them.”
Max grinned. “So true. Hey, did I tell you guys I might try out for the Junior All-Stars basketball league this summer?”
All eyes focused on Max. She rarely volunteered information about herself, which was probably a good thing. Saved us from being accomplices in her illicit activities.
Lydia said, “I didn’t know we had a girls’ all-star league.”
Max bit into her hamburger and garbled, “Who said it was girls?”
We gaped. At least, I did. Don’t ask me why. Max was an awesome athlete. Unlike the rest of us, who were safer on the sidelines.
“That’s really smart, Max.” Lydia’s eyes gleamed. “My mom’s always telling me I should play more sports if I want to meet boys.”
I blinked at her. “Is that why she’s making you take ballet?”
“No.” Lydia clucked her tongue. “She says ballet will improve my coordination. So that one day I can play sports.” She shoveled a spoonful of gray corn into her mouth.
“You’ll m-make it for sure,” Prairie said to Max.
Max’s eyes dropped. “I said I might try out. It’s pretty expensive. You have to buy your own uniform and equipment. I’d need better shoes, like Nike Air Zooms or Flightposites.”
The only shoes I’d ever seen Max wear were her scruffy army boots. Even now, when everyone else was wearing sandals. But I guess army boots were fitting when you marched to a different drummer.
After lunch we wandered out to the common area. It was such a warm sunny day, I just wanted to kick off my sandals and lie in the grass all afternoon. Unfortunately, our jail term wasn’t up yet. The playground gestapo marshaled us back to our holding cell, which in this case was one of four stuffy temporary trailers. All the sixth graders had been relegated to temps during renovation of the C wing.
I’d just laid my head on the desk to catch my usual afternoon snooze during math when a squeal like a siren split every atom in the air. “Someone sabotaged my diorama!” Lydia screeched.
Everyone scrambled to the windows where the dioramas were set up on a display table. Sure enough, all the desks and chairs inside the Declaration Chamber had been rearranged to resemble our classroom. Most of Lydia’s Popsicle-stick people were standing on their heads or stuck together against the walls like they were kissing. Someone had raided the game closet and added pieces to the scene from Clue and Monopoly and Life and chess. There were cars and weapons and hotels and pawns performing unnatural acts in the aisles.
Lydia retrieved John Hancock, who was hanging from the clock tower by a rubber band. Her teeth clenched. She gathered up a bunch of the other stick people and thrust them out for viewing. “Look,” she said. “Mustaches on all the Founding Fathers.” She licked her finger and tried to wash one off. “In permanent ink.” Lydia’s eyes filled with tears.
Mrs. Jonas squeezed through the crowd. She lifted Lydia’s limp wrist and examined John Hancock. Whirling on us, she asked, “Who did this?”
As if in slow motion, we all pivoted ninety degrees. To face Ashley, who was bent over the book rack, heaving with laughter.
Mrs. Jonas snatched John Hancock out of Lydia’s hand. “To the office,” she ordered. “Both of you.”
At the trailer door, Mrs. Jonas paused. “Jenny,” she said, pointing, “you’re in charge.”
I jumped. Me? In charge?
As the door slammed behind them, I cleared my throat. “Uh, okay everyone. Listen up.” About a billion eyeballs bounced off my body. Which made it swell in size.
I could play this two ways. Be responsible. Be popular. Some choice. “Free time,” I announced.
While everyone trashed the classroom, Prairie, Max, and I tried to unsabotage Lydia’s diorama. Except for the mustaches on the girls—er, Founding Fathers—we managed to put most of the Chamber back together.
“Here they come,” Kevin whispered urgently from his lookout position at the door.
“Sit down and shut up!” I hollered.
The door flew open and Lydia stomped in, followed by Mrs. Jonas and Ashley. Lydia splat into her desk, fuming. It wouldn’t have surprised me if her seat burst into flames. The smirk on Ashley’s face spoke volumes.
A whole bottle of aspirin wasn’t going to help Mrs. Jonas now, the way she looked. Luckily, the final bell rang. “Class dismissed.” She waved feebly. “Oh, Lydia,” she called as Lydia charged for the door. “If you want to come in tomorrow before school to work on your diorama, I’ll be here.” Under her breath, Mrs. Jonas muttered, “If I’m not in Bellevue by then.”
Lydia paused at the exit. In measured steps, she walked over to the window display. She picked up her diorama and lifted it over her head. Then she threw it across the room and said, “That’s what you can do with your stupid diorama.”
Chapter 2
Dear Food Diary,
For lunch I ate an Oscar Mayer turkey bologna sandwich, which tastes nothing like turkey or bologna. I even ate the crust on both slices of light Wonder bread. I’m still wondering how they can get away with calling that bread. The Libby’s fruit cup is for people without teeth, so for dessert I finished off Prairie’s brownie. Everyone else had hot lunch: hamburgers and fries and corn and brownies.
How did I feel? Cheated.
It actually made me feel better to write it down. Ashley and I had one thing in common: We were fat. The difference between us was that I cared. I was trying to do something about my weight.
Still, keeping a food diary was the dumbest idea in the world. How was writing down everything I ate, when I ate it, why I ate it, and how I felt afterward going to help me lose twenty pounds in two weeks? Unless I got writer’s cramp and they had
to amputate my arm.
“Vanessa, Jenny, hurry up,” Mom yelled down the hallway. “Your father has dinner ready and we have to leave.”
I shoved my food diary under my pillow and rolled off the bed. The sound of muffled clarinet music wafted under my sister’s bedroom door. I pounded as I passed. Don’t ask me why. When Vanessa was lost in her music, the world could end in a flash flood and she’d be like, “Hey, don’t get my instrument wet.”
“Is Vanessa coming?” Mom asked, hurriedly pouring milk into our glasses at the kitchen table.
“What do you think?” I cupped my ear.
“Vanessa!” Mom shouted. She pleaded hopelessly at Dad with her eyes. He sighed and took off his apron before tromping down the hall. Our nightly ritual.
Mom transferred dinner from the oven to the table. Dad had done himself proud. Corn dogs and onion rings. Fried food heaven.
As I was reaching for the longest, thickest corn dog, Mom clenched my wrist and said, “I made you something special.” She set a plate in front of me with a scoop of cottage cheese on it, topped by half a canned pear. Sticking out either side of the scoop were two sesame seed breadsticks.
“Think of it as Chinese gourmet.” Mom smiled. “And these are the chopsticks.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was where she could stick her chops.
Dad returned with Vanessa in tow and we all took our places. Vanessa eyed my dinner and drooled. A ninety-nine point nine percent DNA match would not prove to me that Vanessa and I were related. She was tall and skinny and talented, while I was… Well, just picture the opposite. We did share one behavior trait: We both had addictive personalities. Vanessa was borderline anorexic and addicted to the clarinet. I was a junk food junkie and addicted to Kevin Rooney.
“Jenny, did you remember to write down everything you ate today?” Mom smiled as she squeezed a glob of ketchup onto her plate.
I glowered in response.
Van began to scrape the cornmeal off her corn dog and said, “How about the Ding Dongs you have hidden in your drawer?”
I picked up a breadstick and broke it in half, indicating the technique I would later use on her scrawny neck.
A Snitch in the Snob Squad Page 1
