“Can I, um, talk to you?” she says.
“Sure,” Max answers.
They stand there, Max and Milla and Thomas. Max and Milla look at each other. Then they look at Thomas.
“Really?” Thomas says. He spreads his hands to say, Dude, you’re casting me aside for a girl?
“I just need him for a few minutes, and then you can have him back,” Milla says. “Oh. And, um, hi, Thomas.”
Thomas narrows his eyes. “Mmm-hmm. Hellooooo, Milla.”
Milla knows his attitude is just for show. She likes Thomas. He’s a rascal—that’s what her Mom Abigail would call him—but he doesn’t insult people or be mean just for the fun of it like some of the fifth-grade boys.
(Or like some of the fifth-grade girls. Wolf-girls. Witchy girls.)
Shush, Milla tells herself. This is not the time to think about that. There is no reason to think about Modessa when she is with cute, sweet, puffbally Max.
“We could go over by the fence,” Max suggests.
“Yeah, good idea,” she says.
The fence is long and circles the entire playground, so as long as they pick an unoccupied spot, they can have privacy in terms of other kids eavesdropping while still being out in the open, meaning that they won’t get yelled at by a teacher for “going out of sight.”
“Out of sight,” on Rivendell’s playground, means either waaaay down at the far end of the grassy field kids play soccer on, or in the section of the playground reserved for the preschoolers. The preschoolers’ area is off-limits to the older kids, and one reason is because of the various plastic playhouses scattered about. Preschoolers play in the playhouses, whereas older kids have been known to sneak over and hide inside them or behind them.
Milla has heard rumors about things that happened out of sight. One is that several years ago, when Milla was too young to even know the fifth graders, a boy ducked into a bushy area, climbed over the fence, and just … left. He just walked away from the school and didn’t come back. Why? He didn’t like school, some kids said. Others claimed he hit a teacher and said the f-word earlier that day. He knew he was going to be suspended or even expelled, so why stick around?
Milla doesn’t know if that rumor is true. But she knows from experience that strange things can happen out of sight. At the beginning of the year, Milla had a crying spell in the preschoolers’ area, in a pink plastic house with white plastic shutters on the window. Shutters that could be closed, turning the house into a jail.
Modessa was with Milla, and she pretended to comfort Milla, but later Milla figured out that Modessa wanted her to cry and no doubt enjoyed seeing her cry.
You’re with Max, she reminds herself. She wraps her arms around her ribs as she walks beside him. Just stop, okay?
But her conscience doesn’t let her off the hook. You need to help Elena, it tells her.
Fine. I will. Now GO AWAY, she responds. She twitches without meaning to. She’s like a horse twitching off a pesky fly. She hopes Max didn’t notice.
“What do you want to talk about?” Max asks when they reach a vacant stretch of fence.
The wind continues to blow, but she no longer feels bold. She feels depressed because of the Elena thing. She also feels timid now that she and Max are alone. She’s back to being a coward, basically.
She peeks at Max, who’s gazing at her curiously. He has nice eyes. Non-evil eyes. It isn’t his fault she’s all tangled up inside.
“Um … how’s your iPhone?” she asks, for lack of anything better to say. Max’s parents bought him a phone as a replacement for Stewy, his hamster, although an iPhone isn’t a hamster, of course. Even if it was, Stewy was Stewy, and Stewy is gone. Worse, Stewy is gone because of her. Last month, she stepped on Stewy, and it was an accident, but Stewy died anyway. And the worst part? Which is also the best part? Max forgave her. He knew she didn’t mean to do it, and he forgave her, which is possibly the kindest thing anyone has ever done for her.
A hot sting of tears takes her off guard, but she blinks them back. She is here with Max, and Max is kind, and she will not cry.
“My iPhone?” Max says. “It’s awesome. Do you want to see it sometime? I’d bring it to school, but cell phones aren’t allowed.”
Milla nods and takes a steadying breath. “I do want to see it. I would love to see it. But, um, both my moms have iPhones, so I’ve kind of seen them before.”
“Oh,” Max says.
“I bet you’ve got better apps than they do, though.”
Max grins. “I bet I do, too. Do they have X-Plane?”
“I don’t think so,” Milla says. She has no idea what X-Plane is.
“Do they have More Toast?”
She shakes her head again. “What’s More Toast?”
“An app that lets you make toast. It’s so cool. You can put on pretty much any topping you can think of—butter, jam, sardines. Bacon. Fried chicken.”
Milla wrinkles her nose. “Fried chicken? On toast?”
“And you can burn it if you want. Or not. You take bites by touching it, and it’s got awesome crunching sounds.”
“Cool,” Milla says, although she can’t wrap her head around what makes it so cool, actually.
“You can also get More Pizza, More Cookies, and More Cupcakes. Those are other apps,” he explains.
“More Cupcakes?”
“That one’s kind of for girls,” he says. “You get to pick out the frosting and add sprinkles or chocolate chips or whatever.”
Now that sounds fun. It helps Milla understand the appeal of More Toast. “Can you put fried chicken on as a topping?”
Max laughs. “That would rock.”
“Can you burn them? I hope not. That would be so mean to those poor innocent cupcakes!”
“I don’t have More Cupcakes, just More Toast,” Max admits. “But if I did, I’d burn them. Burning the toast is fun, because it turns black and smoke comes out.”
“You’re so weird.”
He shrugs. “Weird is more fun. Hey, I know—I’ll download More Cupcakes and we can burn them together.”
He leans against the fence. Milla leans against the fence. Her shoulders are this close to his, and Milla’s breath catches. Modessa, Quin, and Elena are a distant memory, at least for now.
She wonders what would happen if she leaned just the teeniest bit to the left, so that her shoulders actually touched Max’s shoulders. But she doesn’t. She’s not sure she’s ready for that.
But then Max smiles his sweet Max-smile, and somehow their shoulders are touching. His skin is warm through his T-shirt, which is black with white letters. DECLARE VARIABLES, NOT WAR, it says. She doesn’t understand what it means, but when has she ever understood what any of his shirts means?
His shirt doesn’t matter. He does.
lunch. Violet isn’t in a chatty mood, so Katie-Rose picks up the slack and chats enough for both of them. Yes, she’s just that awesome.
“So, can I tell you something disturbing?” she asks as they walk into the gym. Sometimes they have PE inside; sometimes they have it outside. It depends on what Coach Wolff wants to do.
“And I’m serious when I say disturbing. I’m not just being dramatic.”
“You, dramatic?” Violet says.
“Ha ha,” Katie-Rose says. “The disturbing thing is that kids are saying they might play Spin the Bottle at Lock-In. Isn’t that gross?”
“I guess,” Violet says. “But you don’t have to play.”
“Hi, Katie-Rose!” Preston bellows, cupping his hands around mouth. “I’m right here, in case you wanted to throw something at me! Are you going to throw something at me?”
“In your dreams!” Katie-Rose calls back. Unless Coach Wolff has them play dodgeball, in which case, heck yeah she’ll throw things at him.
Katie-Rose pulls Violet aside. “Spin the Bottle is a mushy game. We are too young to be mushy, Violet. Milla and Max are especially too young to be mushy. And what if Max has”—she lowers her voice,
but ratchets up its intensity—“armpit studs?”
Violet does a double-take. “I’m sorry. What?”
Coach Wolff blows her whistle. Yes, she really does have a whistle, and boy, does she love blowing it. She blows her whistle and yells, “Students! Gather round!”
Violet meanders toward the milling students. Katie-Rose trots beside her. “Armpit studs. Puberty. All that stuff.”
“Gross, Katie-Rose.”
“I know,” Katie-Rose says. “But …”
She bites her lip, because she hates puberty and is fascinated by puberty in equal measure. No, rewind. She just plain hates it (even if she is fascinated by it). She hates it because it MESSES THINGS UP.
Take, for example, the conversation she had with Milla yesterday. She called Milla after school to make sure Milla had signed up for trapeze lessons, and what did Milla do? She giggled. Nervously.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Katie-Rose said, knowing that nervous giggle far too well. “Are you telling me you didn’t sign up for trapeze lessons?”
From the other end of the line came another nervous giggle. Whenever Milla feared Katie-Rose’s wrath, out that nervous giggle popped.
“Milla! For the love of Cheese Puffs, why?!”
“Oh, Katie-Rose,” Milla said.
“Don’t you ‘Oh, Katie-Rose’ me,” Katie-Rose said. “You have to sign up! Violet’s going to, and Yasaman, and so it’ll be all four of us. It’ll be awesome!”
“Yaz signed up for trapeze lessons?” Milla asked.
Katie-Rose opened her mouth, then shut it. She decided to skip over that question, since she hadn’t quite gotten around to telling Yasaman the happy news about how Katie-Rose filled out the sign-up sheet for her. “It’s going to be awesome,” she said instead. “Get a form tomorrow and turn it in, promise?”
“Katie-Rose …” Milla said, and despite being separated by entire streets and neighborhoods, Katie-Rose could envision Milla’s expression perfectly. She’d be scrunching her face into a cute-but-apologetic grimace, the ever-ready counterpart to her nervous giggle. “Um, we’re kind of too old for trapeze lessons, aren’t we?”
“No!” Katie-Rose retorted. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. That is so not an acceptable answer.” Arguments flew out rapid-fire. “Why would we be too old? Are we too old for swinging? No. Are we too old for gymnastics? No. And trapeze lessons are, like, a mix of both of those things. Plus, if fifth graders were too old to take trapeze lessons, why would Josie come to Rivendell and say, ‘Hey, all you cool fifth graders! Want to take trapeze lessons?’”
“Katie-Rose—”
“She wouldn’t, that’s why. And what about circus performers, huh? They’re not kids. They’re grown-ups, which means they’re way older than we are. Are you saying circus performers are too old to be trapeze artists?”
There was silence on Milla’s end of the line. Katie-Rose suddenly felt very loud, even though she was no longer speaking. She also had second thoughts about her use of the word stupid. Telling Milla that her reason for not signing up was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard might not have been the best—or nicest—strategy for persuading her friend to change her mind.
“Milla?” she said.
Milla, when she replied, didn’t sound angry, which was good. She did sound sure of herself, however, and even a little tender, as though she didn’t want to burst Katie-Rose’s bubble. Which was bad.
“It’s just, I don’t want to be in the circus,” Milla said.
After that, Katie-Rose got off quick, her cheeks burning. Instead of calling Yaz, as she’d planned, she went to her room and pulled out her dog-eared copy of Your Growing Body. It lives under her bed, and every so often she rereads certain sections, hoping to magically understand the business of growing up. Her FFFs seem to grasp the rules instinctively, which leaves Katie-Rose feeling … well … stupid.
It also makes her feel naked. Not literally, as if she is prancing down the street completely nude, waving her arms over her head and singing, “La la la!” More like when someone’s bathing suit bottom rides up and everyone can see her tan line. Brown skin below, codfish skin above. Or like a flipped-over roly-poly, waving its spindly legs frantically, yet failing to right itself and scurry off to catch its buddies. That kind of naked.
Katie-Rose brushes a stray hair out of her eyes. She wants to explain her fears to Violet, but she senses she lost her at “armpit studs.” To tell the truth, she might have made up that term, but if she did, it was an accident.
She did not make up the term “breast buds,” though. According to Your Growing Body, she herself will sprout “breast buds” one day, a prospect she finds unlikely. Last night she pulled her PJ top away from her body and peered through the neck hole. Not a bud was blooming.
Katie-Rose tugs on Violet’s sleeve, and Violet glances down at her. For the record? Violet is tall and stunning and sports an impressive set of breast buds.
“I just think we need to be careful about not growing up too fast,” Katie-Rose says. “Don’t you?”
“Katie-Rose, please,” Violet says, sounding weary.
Coach Wolff blows her whistle again, long and hard. “So here’s what we’re going to do!” she yells. “Form a circle! Are you forming a circle?!”
“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Katie-Rose whispers, though she does. “We only get to be kids once, and we shouldn’t waste it. So do you think I should tell Ms. Westerfeld about the Spin the Bottle rumor?”
“No, because what if other kids do want to play?” Violet says.
“But they shouldn’t be allowed!”
“Yeah, only I’m not sure it’s your decision, just like it wasn’t your decision to sign me up for trapeze lessons.” She frowns. “You thought I’d want to take trapeze lessons? Starting the week my mom came home?”
Katie-Rose’s heart sinks. “So, um … you don’t?”
“Uh, no. I called the girl who’s teaching the class—”
“Her name’s Josie.”
“And asked her to take me off the list. But seriously, Katie-Rose. You can’t control everything.” She sighs. “Now hush, or Coach Wolff’s going to yell at us.”
Katie-Rose drops her gaze. She feels stupid again, just like she did after getting off the phone with Milla. She also thinks Violet is hardly one to talk. Maybe Katie-Rose does have control issues, but Violet does, too, especially when it comes to her mom. Like when she told Katie-Rose, Milla, and Yaz they couldn’t come over yesterday even though they were two seconds from her house. What was that about? Does Violet plan on protecting her mom from the outside world forever?
Katie-Rose is immediately ashamed of herself. She knows her problems are nothing compared to Violet’s.
Still. Why would Violet need to protect her mom from her friends?
“Katie-Rose!” Coach Wolff blares, making her flinch. “Are you aiding in the circle formation?”
“No, she’s aiding in the malformed amoeba formation,” Preston answers. In case anyone missed the put-down, he adds, “And she’s the malformed amoeba.”
Blah blah blah, sooooo clever, Katie-Rose thinks. She would throw another plum at Preston’s big fat head if she could, and that’s another reason not to grow up, since grown-ups aren’t supposed to be plum throwers. Whatever.
“Be part of the solution! Not the problem!” Coach Wolff hollers. She blasts her whistle, and Katie-Rose wants to plug her ears. Instead, she takes a step forward and joins the dumb circle. She does a quick survey of her classmates and scowls. Almost everyone, it seems, is further along than she is.
Becca’s parents have let her try champagne, which she says is delicious. Chance claims to have seventeen girlfriends, all in different states. Medusa—ugh, Modessa—wears actual lipstick and could easily pass for a seventh grader, despite her ridiculous attire. She’s paired a pink corduroy mini skirt with a white T-shirt pulled tight and knotted at the back. The shirt reads Evil Chick #1 … and guess who’s wearing a shirt that
says Evil Chick #3?
Yep, that would be Elena. Good ol’ Elena, only not good anymore. Katie-Rose’s jaw falls open as she takes a closer look. For the love of pickles, is Elena wearing lipstick, too?
A thought niggles in Katie-Rose’s brain. It’s slippery, and she can’t quite catch hold of it, especially since Coach Wolff is still issuing team bonding commandments. But it has to do with Elena, and the lipstick, and the fact that up until this week, Katie-Rose, Yasaman, and Elena were the only fifth graders who didn’t wear bras. Even Natalia wears a bra, whereas Katie-Rose neither owns a bra nor wants to own one. She doesn’t even want to want one.
Can the same be said for Elena? Or are those bra straps beneath her ridiculous shirt? Elena is deliberately not looking at Katie-Rose, which is fortunate. If she was, she’d think Katie-Rose was a pervert for sure.
But Katie-Rose has seen the horror, and it is pink. Pink! The barest hint of two pink bra straps beneath Elena’s white shirt, and Katie-Rose is so disgusted she shifts her gaze. Is that all it is, then? Is Elena, unlike Katie-Rose, foolish enough to want the pass-for-a-seventh-grader sophistication Modessa dangles before her like candy?
Katie-Rose would choose actual candy any day. Reese’s Pieces always hit the spot. She’s also, of late, developed a taste for Bit-O-Honeys. They’re not chocolate, but they’re chewy and long-lasting and lodge themselves deep in the cracks of her teeth, providing tongue-prodding entertainment for an entire class if Katie-Rose plays it right.
“So I take it everyone understands, then!” Coach Wolff bellows. “The bonding game I’ve chosen will bring you closer to your classmates, and why is that important? Because bonding turns individuals into a team! Got it?”
Violet rubs the spot between her eyebrows with one finger. Becca halfway raises her hand, then lowers it, probably remembering that Coach Wolff doesn’t like questions, is terrible at answers, and occasionally spits on you if she addresses you directly.
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