Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar

  “About your detention.”

  “I was going to tell you—” She held up her hand, and I clamped my lips together. “Sorry,” I murmured.

  Mom sat at the foot of my bed and ran her fingers through her blond hair. “Georgia, you know that Rafe made a lot of mistakes at Hills Village,” she began.

  “I’m not like him,” I said quickly.

  “I just don’t want you to go through what he went through.” Mom’s eyes teared up a little, and I felt awful. This is worse than getting yelled at, I realized. I’ve always tried to be the kid Mom doesn’t have to worry about. I would have given anything to trade places with Rafe at that moment. I’d rather have Mom mad at me than have her disappointed in me.

  What kind of world is it when Rafe is reading for fun and I’m making Mom cry by being in detention?

  “I’ll never get detention again,” I promised. “I won’t.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, honey,” Mom said, squeezing my hand.

  I swear, I never meant to break my promise so fast.

  It Ain’t Easy Being Green

  I adjusted the towel on my head and frowned at the outfit I’d just laid out on my bed. Which is safer? I wondered. Jeans or leggings?

  I decided to go with the jeans and a plain red shirt, no logo. Don’t give the Princesses anything to pick on, I thought.

  I pulled on my “safe” outfit and found a pair of plain brown socks. I slipped my feet into a pair of low black boots. Then it was time to dry my hair.

  No braids, I thought. No gel. Just plain. I took the towel off my head.

  “Rafe!” I screamed, practically flying down the stairs and into the kitchen. “That’s it! That’s IT!”

  Rafe cracked up. Mom stepped between us, which was lucky—for Rafe.

  “Oh, green hair!” Grandma Dotty said cheerfully. “Very daring, Georgia! I love punk rock!”

  “Rafe, are you responsible for this?” Mom asked.

  “Absolutely,” Rafe said between snickers.

  “I’m going to shove that cereal spoon up your nose and into your brain!” I screeched at my brother. My wet, scraggly green hair dripped into my eyes.

  “Worth it!” Rafe crowed. “You look like you’ve got seaweed on your head!”

  “Why would you do something like this?” Mom demanded.

  “Georgia knows why,” Rafe snapped. He flashed me an evil, triumphant grin.

  “This is very serious, Rafe,” Mom said.

  A flash of guilt passed across my brother’s face. He doesn’t like disappointing her either. “It’ll wash out…” he said. “After a while.”

  “How long?” I demanded.

  “A week?”

  “Mom!” I screamed.

  “Rafe, I don’t have time to deal with you this morning. But you will be punished for this.” She turned to me and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Georgia, maybe you can wear a hat or something.”

  “How about a paper bag over her head?” Rafe suggested.

  Mom glared at him, and he clamped his mouth shut.

  No hats, I thought grimly. “I’ll just suffer.”

  “Rock the Casbah!” Grandma Dotty shouted.

  I had no idea what that “casbah” thing was about, but somehow I got the message. Mission: Blend In was terminated. I needed to buck up and steel myself for whatever was next.

  Rock on!

  The Princesses’ Hairstyle Rules

  I got a lot of stares the minute I walked through the double doors. Not surprising. Grandma Dotty had been so enthusiastic about the “punk” style I was rocking that I decided I might as well play it up. Before I left the apartment, I’d pulled my hair back with a sparkly barrette.

  I spotted Rhonda at her locker, so I put my face down and steered in the other direction. Not to be mean—I just didn’t feel like answering ten zillion questions about my hair. But with my head down like that, I nearly ran right into someone else.

  “Sorry,” I said as I swerved to avoid slamming into Sam Marks.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Wow!” he said when he realized it was me, which made me blush. “You look like…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Like a leaf… with sparkly dew on it.”

  “Um, thanks.” I hadn’t been expecting a compliment—at least, I thought it was a compliment—and didn’t really know how to handle it. “You look nice too,” I said, which didn’t make any sense at all. He was just wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

  And then I heard the voice I’d been expecting—and dreading.

  “Oh my gawd!” Missy screeched. “She went from Weedwacker to weed!”

  Okay, so even though I knew I looked like I was about to start sprouting dandelions, the dig still really hurt, coming from Missy.

  I cringed as the Princesses surrounded me. “Now her hair matches her face—ugly,” Brittany said.

  “I thought her hairstyle was bad before,” Bethany agreed.

  “Cut it out, you guys,” Sam said, which made me squirm even more than the insults did. I didn’t want him to hear this.

  But Missy just ignored him. She pursed her lips. “She’s having a bad hair year.”

  Do they rehearse this stuff at home?

  Then Missy got a really smug little smile on her face. It was a smile I did not like at all. “Not only is her hair ugly,” she said dramatically, “it’s just really limp.”

  The other Princesses cracked up while I fought back tears. My face burned, and my blood boiled like acid through my whole body. I felt like I was going to dissolve.

  “Shut up!” Sam shouted.

  Missy stared at him. I stared at him. I think everyone was staring at him.

  “You think you’re so great, Missy,” Sam went on. “But everyone just hates your guts!”

  Well, it wasn’t quite like that. It was more like this:

  Missy tossed her hair and said, “Oh, did you overhear that, Sam?” she asked. “It must be because your ears are so big.”

  Sam shook his head at her, like she was an annoying piece of toilet paper that kept getting stuck to his shoe, no matter what he did. Then he turned to me. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

  I tried to talk. I really tried. I opened my mouth. I licked my lips. But nothing would come out. Somehow, Sam being nice to me made the Princesses’ meanness worse, and I couldn’t take it. I just couldn’t.

  And so I ran.

  I Wasn’t Crying About My Hair

  I didn’t care about my green hair. Well, okay, I didn’t care about it much.

  It’s the other stuff I couldn’t stand.

  You’re confused—I can tell. Look, there might be one or two things I’ve left out of this book so far. I guess I’ve never mentioned that one of my legs is shorter than the other. I wear a special shoe, which helps, but I still limp a little.

  Get it?

  Pretty hilarious, right?

  And “clip-clop”? That’s the way the Princesses made fun of the sound my feet make when I walk. I’m a little uneven, I guess.

  I actually got the joke the first time they said it. But I guess I didn’t feel like explaining it. You understand, don’t you? It’s not like I’m a liar.

  (What? Rafe never mentioned my shoe either? Well, that’s… interesting.)

  Nobody at my old school even noticed my limp. Well, if they noticed, at least they never really cared. I mean, sometimes, of course, it came up. Like, I always got picked last when we had relay races.

  But that didn’t happen all that often. All in all, I really never thought about it much. Everyone was just used to me, and they accepted me.

  But middle school was totally different. The more I tried to blend in, the more I stood out. It’s like I was some kind of free entertainment that people couldn’t help but stare at. Free freak show! See the Limpy Chick in her natural habitat! Mock her hair! Judge her clothes! Remember her crazy brother?

  So is it a surprise that I was locked in a bathroom stall, crying? (I’m telling you, middle school is all glamo
ur.) I blew my nose on a strip of toilet paper and took a shaky breath.

  I wondered if I could just stay in this stall forever. With wireless Internet access, I might never have to face the world again.

  I’m Being Followed

  ARE YOU OKAY?”

  Rhonda was standing in front of the row of sinks with a roll of toilet paper in her hand when I finally got the will to leave the bathroom stall. What a surprise.

  I heaved a sigh, which came out as a hiccup. I couldn’t decide whether I was happy to see her or annoyed that she’d followed me into the bathroom. Both, I guess.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I took the roll of toilet paper and tore off a half dozen squares. My nose was really runny.

  I checked myself out in the mirror as I splashed water on my face and patted it dry with a scratchy brown paper towel. I looked pretty hideous. Green hair, red and splotchy face… I looked like something out of a Muppets movie.

  Rhonda patted me on the back as I headed toward the door. I appreciated the silent support. Unfortunately, the silence ended the minute we stepped into the hallway.

  “I REALLY LOVE YOUR HAIR! WHAT MADE YOU DECIDE TO DYE IT GREEN?”

  I snorted. “It was my brother’s idea.” It was funny how people—except the Princesses—seemed to like the green hair. Maybe Rafe wasn’t so crazy after all.

  “ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP IT GREEN?” Rhonda asked. “YOU REALLY SHOULD! IT’S AWESOME FOR A ROCK STAR! OR MAYBE YOU’LL TRY A FEW DIFFERENT COLORS? DO YOU THINK YOU MIGHT GO FOR PURPLE?”

  It was kind of amazing how quickly Rhonda could think of new questions. She didn’t even need answers.

  “IT’S SO GREAT THAT YOU AREN’T AFRAID TO HAVE GREEN HAIR,” Rhonda gushed. “YOU AND I ARE A LOT ALIKE—WE’RE NOT AFRAID TO BE DIFFERENT, RIGHT, GEORGIA?”

  Rhonda was talking at an even higher volume than usual, and a few people stared as we made our way down the hall. “I’m not trying to be different,” I snapped.

  “YOU’RE JUST BEING YOURSELF!” Rhonda crowed. “WE ARE WHO WE ARE!”

  “Rhonda! We’re not alike, okay?” I snarled in a tone I usually save for Rafe. “So can you please just stop following me around?”

  Rhonda froze up. Her eyes filled with tears.

  I am the worst person ever, I thought. Yelling at Rhonda is like yelling at a puppy that just can’t help itself. “I’m sorry, Rhonda—I’m just…”

  Her face brightened. “YOU’RE JUST HAVING A BAD DAY!”

  “Yeah,” I told her. “I am. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “IT’S OKAY,” Rhonda said. “IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME ONCE? I ACCIDENTALLY STUFFED MY SKIRT INTO MY UNDERPANTS AND…”

  She kept talking all the way down the hall.

  Like I said, she just can’t help herself.

  Stop, Book Thief!

  A miracle!

  I sat in homeroom for fifteen minutes, and NOTHING horrible happened.

  Mr. Grank didn’t even mention my hair, which made me wonder if he’s color-blind. It would definitely explain some of his outfits.

  Then the bell rang for first period. It was about time for something horrible to happen, right? I was three steps from the door when Mini-Miller swiped my book right out from under my arm.

  “That’s what you get for walking so slow, Peg Leg.” He grinned his dumb grin at me.

  “Do you even read?”

  Mini-Miller shrugged his enormous shoulders. “No.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “So, what are you going to do with a copy of The Book Thief?”

  Mini-Miller snorted. “Duh,” he said. “Sell it on eBay.”

  Great. Mini-Miller will probably be the next Internet millionaire, thanks to me.

  I sighed and watched Mini-Miller lope down the hallway. I couldn’t believe my copy of The Book Thief was stolen by a real book thief. Could this day get any worse?

  Yes, it could!

  Because just at the moment Mini-Miller turned the corner, Mrs. Stricker swooped past him going in the other direction—toward me.

  The minute she saw my hair, her face lit up. I could tell I’d just made her day. Not in a good way.

  “Green hair, Rafe Khatchadorian’s SISTER?!” she screeched. “That’s a violation of our dress code! I’ll see you in detention!”

  And she took off down the hallway, gleefully passing out a stack of brand-new HVMS Code of Conduct booklets.

  My Six Favorite Books This Year (So Far)

  Who wants to give the first oral book report?”

  Before the question was out of Mr. Mahoney’s mouth, my hand shot into the air. Teachers are always impressed when you show enthusiasm—and I wanted to prove that I was no Rafe Khatchadorian! Mrs. Stricker might have just accused me of a genetic relationship, but none of my real teachers had called me Rafe in more than a week. By the time I finished my oral report, that name would be wiped from everyone’s memory—permanently.

  “Does anyone else wish to go first?” Mr. Mahoney asked. “Anyone?”

  I left my hand in the air and looked around. Nobody else was moving.

  Mr. Mahoney let out a huge sigh. “All right, Ms. Khatchadorian,” he said. “You may proceed.”

  I carried my stack of books (minus one) to the front of the room and cleared my throat. “I know we’re only supposed to give a report on one book,” I said with a smile, “but I couldn’t decide which was my favorite, so I narrowed it down to my top six….”

  “You have only five books,” Mr. Mahoney pointed out.

  “One of them was stolen,” I explained. “The Book Thief.”

  Mr. Mahoney frowned. “Is that a joke? Are you trying to be funny, Ms. Khatchadorian?”

  “Um, no. Unfortunately.” This wasn’t going well. I decided to switch gears. “I’d like to start my report by reciting a poem that’s in The Outsiders. It’s by Robert Frost.” I knelt down and stuck out my arms to look like flower petals. “ ‘Nature’s first green is gold,’ ” I quoted. “ ‘Her hardest hue to’—”

  Mr. Mahoney interrupted me. “Did you dye your hair green for this presentation? To go with that poem?”

  “Um, yes?” I heard a few snickers, but I didn’t mind. I’d rather have people think I dyed my hair to get an A in English than have people think I was the victim of a prank. Or think I did it to be cool. Because it definitely wasn’t cool.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Mr. Mahoney said. “Sit down.”

  “What?” I blinked in surprise. Does he mean my report is so amazing I don’t even need to finish?

  “You Khatchadorians think you can turn everything into a big joke,” Mr. Mahoney growled. He scribbled in his notebook. “Your grade is a D.”

  For a moment I couldn’t move. D. He gave me a D. I’d never gotten below a B+ in my entire life!

  “Please sit down, Ms. Khatchadorian,” he repeated.

  “But you haven’t even heard my report,” I said.

  “Sit. Down.”

  I didn’t have much choice. So I took my books and sat down.

  I’d tried to erase Rafe’s name from everyone’s memory, but I’d only managed to carve it deeper in stone. Somehow, I was able to keep from crying. That was the only thing that went right that morning.

  The Truth About Jeanne Galletta

  After school Mrs. Stricker sent me to the cafeteria for detention, where Mr. Adell, the janitor, was waiting with a bucket full of bacteria and a sponge.

  “You’re supposed to wipe down the tables,” he said, handing me the sponge.

  “What’s in there?” I asked, looking at the bucket.

  “Water and disinfectant,” Mr. Adell said.

  That wasn’t what it smelled like, but I had to take his word for it. I started in on the tables. They were even grosser than the desks had been. Did you know that ketchup can get stuck to a table like glue? Did you realize that a spilled smoothie turns into an oozy jelly? Or that chocolate milk will become a solid if left out all day? Neithe
r did I!

  How very educational.

  What could be worse than spending time with bacteria?

  Having Missy Trillin watch me spend time with bacteria. She and her sidekicks sat huddled in one corner of the lunchroom, planning the school dance. They were listening to an eighth grader lay out the plans for decorations and refreshments. When I heard Missy say the older girl’s name, I stopped in my tracks.

  When Rafe was at HVMS, he had an imaginary friend. Of course, I am talking about none other than Jeanne Galletta. Oh, she’s real, all right—and she was sitting with Missy at that very moment. But I don’t think she and Rafe were really friends. I know for sure that Rafe would’ve liked to be better friends with Jeanne. He was always saying that Jeanne was so sweet and kind and smart and hardworking and well dressed (like he would know). I figured I’d spot Jeanne on my very first day at HVMS, floating down from the ceiling with white robes fluttering around her, strumming a harp and showing off her glowing halo.

  But it turns out that Jeanne must just be a regular eighth grader, because I never would’ve picked her out of a lineup.

  Jeanne just sat there, talking to the Princesses like they were normal people. Maybe they’re her friends, I thought as I cleaned a table in the far corner. Missy said something, and the others—even Jeanne—laughed. Are they giggling about me? I wondered. Even perfect Jeanne Galletta is picking on me now.

  I went to find Mr. Adell. “I’m finished,” I told him, holding out the bucket.

  “Did you clean that one?” he asked, pointing to the table where the Princesses sat. I could feel their glares from across the room.

  My stomach did a flip, then tied itself into a knot. “No.”

  He shrugged. “Then you’re not done.”

  I gulped. This detention is cruel and unusual punishment, I thought as I dragged myself over to the Princesses.