I don’t think I’ve ever worn this coat,” Grandma Dotty said as she put a $3.00 sticker on a purple quilted jacket. “No wonder we have a closet full of clutter!”
“Actually, Grandma, that’s my coat,” I said, plucking the sticker from the sleeve.
“No wonder it’s so small!” Dotty grinned and moved on to a blue-and-gray-striped winter hat. “Oh, this has got to go.”
I was being Super Sister, so I rescued the hat, which was Rafe’s. So far, he’d been pretty helpful with the garage sale. The good news: Most of our belongings had reappeared over the weekend. The bad news: Dotty kept getting confused and putting price tags on them. We had to act fast, or our friends and neighbors would be wearing our clothes and snuggling our stuffed animals. But Dotty was having a ball with the tags—she’d even stuck one on the straw hat she was wearing. So I was trying to rescue only things we really needed, like winter clothes and moldy science projects.
I was—as Dotty says—making orange juice from lemons.
No, literally. I was making orangeade. I’d read on a website that giving away drinks and snacks at a garage sale puts people in a good mood and makes them want to buy stuff.
“Where does this go?” Rafe asked as he lugged a telephone table out onto the lawn.
“Let’s put it toward the front,” I told him. “We can display my old ceramic-cat collection on it.”
“You’re getting rid of that?” Rafe looked surprised. “I always kind of liked it.”
“You did?” Wow, that was a shock. Rafe used to tease me about it constantly.
“Yeah, it made it easy to buy you Christmas presents.” Rafe shrugged. “Oh, well.” I was touched as he hauled the table away.
Is it possible, I thought, that my brother isn’t so bad after all?
“HEY, GEORGIA! I’M HERE TO HELP WITH THE GARAGE SALE!” Beaming, Rhonda grabbed a glass of orangeade. “WOW! THIS IS SO REFRESHING!”
“Um, hey, Rhonda.” I had no idea how she’d even found out about the garage sale. Is she psychic? Or psycho? Or maybe she just reads the newspaper. “Actually, I kind of have to leave in a few minutes.”
Rhonda looked horrified. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”
“Just to the garage. The band is coming over,” I explained. “We need to rehearse.” Emphasis on need.
Rhonda’s eyes bugged out behind her glasses. “BUT THAT’S PERFECT! YOU SHOULD PERFORM!”
I laughed, but Rhonda just kept gazing at me with that happy, hopeful expression.
The band chose that moment to appear.
“Hey, Georgia, what’s up?” Nanci’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, cookies!” She took three.
“They’re homemade,” I said, which made Nanci take two more.
“Look what I found!” Patti said, holding up a ceramic calico cat. “Isn’t it adorable? I need this. I love animals.” She plunked a dollar on the table.
“Are you ready for rehearsal?” Mari asked.
“I WAS JUST TELLING GEORGIA THAT YOU GUYS SHOULD PERFORM RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!” Rhonda screeched. “IT’LL BE LIKE A DRESS REHEARSAL!”
From across the lawn, I heard a noise like an animal dying, and saw Rafe fall to his knees with his hands over his ears. “DON’T DO IT!” he wailed. “YOU STINK!”
Remember a few paragraphs ago? When I thought my brother wasn’t so bad? I was over that now.
“Sure, Rhonda,” I said. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Mari shrugged. “Why not?” she said. There were only three other people at the garage sale, anyway: our nosy neighbor Mr. Stanley, ancient Mrs. Bloomgarden, and her Yorkshire terrier, Wilson. They looked like they could stand to rock out.
We set up our stuff in the garage while Rhonda handed out orangeade and acted as the goodwill ambassador for the band. “YOU WON’T BELIEVE HOW AMAZING THEY ARE!” she told Mrs. Bloomgarden.
“She’s right—you won’t believe it,” Rafe agreed.
I strummed a chord. “One-two-three-four!” I shouted, and the band burst into our first song. I have to say that we were getting better. I didn’t even get my fingers caught in anything. When we finished the song, there was silence.
Until Rafe hopped up onto a table to do his own performance.
The sad part was that Mrs. Bloomgarden actually applauded—for Rafe, not us.
That was all the encouragement he needed to keep going. We Stink was going to have to work hard to drown out my brother.
“Crank it up,” I told my friends. So we did.
The Aftermath
We Stink finished our fifth and final song, and the crowd went wild. And by wild, I mean that Mr. Stanley finally took off the earmuffs he had been trying on for the past four songs, and Mrs. Bloomgarden managed to coax Wilson out of the file cabinet, where he had been hiding. She sniffed at me as she carried Wilson away, cooing to him, “Don’t worry, poopsie! The big scary noise is all over now.”
But at least a couple of people were clapping. “WE STINK RULES!” Rhonda screeched.
Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a deafening whistle. Yes, that’s right—Sam Marks showed up at my garage sale. I guess Rhonda must have told him about it.
I managed to smile at Sam, but I was feeling kind of seasick. After all, here I was, playing lousy guitar at a garage sale. So humiliating.
Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound of sarcastic applause. I looked around to find out who could be that rude, but I should have been able to guess.
Missy Trillin, standing by a stack of sweaters. Gah! What’s she doing here? My stomach shriveled in fear.
“Wow, I really liked your performance, Georgia,” Missy said with a sneer. “I really liked when it stopped.”
“Who’s that?” Nanci asked as she snuck another cookie from the table.
“Nobody,” I told her. Please go away, I begged silently. But Missy didn’t move, except to pick up my old Christmas sweater between her thumb and index finger and grimace at the reindeer on it.
“She seems to think she’s somebody.” Mari frowned and folded her arms across her chest as she watched Missy pick over my family’s castoff items. I cringed. Missy was acting like she was searching through a Dumpster in a sketchy neighborhood. All of a sudden, my old, well-loved games, books, and clothes looked like embarrassing trash to me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Missy left and came back wearing a diamond-covered hazmat suit to look through everything else.
Don’t look at her, I told myself. Fighting the blush I felt creeping up my neck, I turned to my friends. “Patti, Mari, and Nanci, this is Sam,” I said.
My bandmates said hi, and Sam said, “You guys were great.”
But Missy couldn’t just disappear, of course. She gasped. “Don’t tell me you’re selling this!” She mockingly held up an old, half-bald troll doll. “And only fifty cents?”
I wondered if there was room for me to hide in the file cabinet, now that Wilson had moved on.
“Why is Missy even here?” Sam wanted to know.
“To torture me,” I explained.
Rhonda turned her back on Missy. “ANYONE WANT ORANGEADE?” My bandmates said yes.
“Rhonda’s got a lot of… energy,” Sam said as we watched her pass around the plate of cookies. She let Nanci take only two.
I wasn’t sure what Sam meant by that, so I just said, “She can’t help herself.” I glanced around the tables, where the items were thinning out. A lot of our stuff had already sold. Grandma Dotty was demonstrating how an exercise bike could also be used as a coatrack. Rafe was trying to convince an older couple that they needed an extra toilet.
“What’s up?” Sam asked as I bit my lip. “You look worried.”
“It’s just—well, I’m a little worried about… Mr. Bananas.” I could feel my face redden.
“Stuffed animal?” Sam guessed.
“Yeah. I just don’t want him to get sold.” I shrugged. “Life isn’t the same without a stuffed monkey on your bed, you know?”
Sam smiled. “Yeah.”
br /> “Oh, that’s soooo sweet!” I heard a sugary voice behind me. “Little baby wants her toy monkey back!” Missy rolled her eyes.
I felt my head turn hot down to the tips of my hair. I glanced at Sam. Does he think I’m an idiot? I wondered. It was hard to tell. He was too nice to say so.
Missy looked over at the snack table. “Hey, Georgia, why don’t you get your best friend, Rhonda, to help you look for your dolly?”
“She’s not my best friend,” I muttered. I knew it was awful. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Rhonda was still blissfully handing out orangeade to thirsty bargain hunters. If she’d heard me, she wasn’t showing it.
But Missy had heard every word. She smirked.
And suddenly I wished I could smack that smirk right off her face. Who the heck does Missy think she is, anyway? Rhonda’s worth ten of her. No, a hundred.
I was starting to accept that I was going to lose my bet with Rafe. I’d never be popular at HVMS, because I’d never be friends with Missy. And that was just fine with me.
Going Bananas
History was made right here at Hills Village Middle School—right in front of my locker!
I got a Boy Gift. That’s right: A guy gave me a present.
First.
Time.
Ever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hands down, it was the best thing that had happened in the entire pitiful span of my middle school life. I’m bursting with enough happiness that I, Georgia Khatchadorian, could probably spontaneously turn into a cheerleader, right here and now.
The day after the garage sale, I spotted Sam hovering near my homeroom. I waved, and he smiled and said, “I’ve got something for you.” Then he pulled the most awesome present ever out of his backpack.
“Mr. Bananas!” I cried. “You found him!”
Sam grinned and said, “I spotted him as I was leaving. Your grandmother charged me three bucks for him.”
“But the tag says a dollar fifty,” I noticed.
Sam shrugged. “She could tell I really wanted it, so she jacked up the price.”
I hugged my stuffed monkey to my chest. With Mr. Bananas, my room would be mostly back to normal. I had all of the important stuff, anyway. I reached into my backpack. “Let me give you the three dollars.”
“Are you kidding? No way!” Sam’s eyebrows drew together. “I wanted to surprise you.” He looked down at the floor and said, “I hope you like it.”
The walls of my throat swelled—I was so touched, I was practically choking on my own spit. I couldn’t talk, so I just smiled and tried to look grateful.
“So… uh….” Sam shuffled his feet and rattled the change in his right-hand pocket.
I managed to find my voice and said, “What is it?” I was sure he was going to say I had something on my face or I smelled weird.
“Well… there’s this dance coming up….” Sam looked at me.
“Yes?” My voice was a whisper.
“Um, would you like to—you know—dance? At the dance? Together?”
No, just kidding. Of course, I played it cool.
“Okay, then,” Sam said with a smile after I agreed. “Awesome. Well, see you later.”
I stood there for a minute. Was that real? I wondered. Did that just happen? It seemed highly unlikely, but I was still holding Mr. Bananas. That was evidence. I didn’t even care that kids in the hallway were starting to stare at the girl clutching a stuffed monkey. Mr. Bananas could take them any day.
Maybe middle school was starting to look up.
I Find You Offensive, Mini-Miller the Killer
I gently placed Mr. Bananas in my locker and floated toward my class. I was wrapped in a pink, fluffy cloud. Life was a chocolate mountain! Middle school was a bucket of sunshine!
“Hey, Limpy.” Mini-Miller grunted at me. “My brother has a message for Rafe.”
“Is it a fan message?” I asked, feeling my cotton-candy cloud start to melt.
“Nope. It’s a warning.” Mini-Miller leaned so close to me that I could see his nose hairs. “The message is, ‘Watch out, loser. I have friends at Airbrook Arts.’ ” He gave a snort-laugh.
I think I’ve already mentioned that nobody is allowed to pick on Rafe but me. Especially not after he helped me with the garage sale. And especially especially not on the Best Day of My So-Far Middle School Life. “Back off, Mini-Miller,” I snarled.
“What did you call me, Knuckle Toes?” Mini-Miller snapped. “What are you gonna do, limp after me?” He gave my shoulder a shove, and I stumbled backward.
Mini-Miller cracked up, and rage took over my body. I swear I’m not responsible for what happened next.
I froze, watching Mini-Miller hop halfway down the hallway. My first feeling was horror: I can’t believe I did that! My next feeling was excitement: I can’t believe I did that!
But I did! I kicked Mini-Miller in the leg!
Mini-Miller was still howling and hopping, so I stepped around him and started down the hall feeling more stunned and happy than when I’d won the regional spelling bee in fifth grade.
Rhonda hooted. She’d seen the whole thing. She held up her hand for a high five, and I slapped it. “NOW WHO’S LIMPING, MILLER?” she screeched as he hobbled away.
That made me smile.
I guess Rhonda and I are kind of friends.
Weird friends, but friends.
The Princesses
WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Rhonda squealed the next morning as she thrust a neon-green flyer at me. It was covered in clip art of guitars and sunglasses and music notes and said “WE STINK ROCKS OUT! Come check out the BATTLE OF THE BANDS at the HVMS dance. BE READY FOR AWESOME!”
I could just hear the parts in capital letters screeching at me in Rhonda’s voice.
“Um,” I said. What do I think?
I thought she was nuts.
I thought I didn’t want people to watch me humiliate myself.
“The neon green is hurting my eyes” was all I could manage to say.
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO THANK ME!” Rhonda said, crushing me in a hug. “I JUST WANT EVERYONE TO COME SEE HOW GREAT WE ARE!”
“We?” I repeated. I didn’t like the sound of that.
“OUI, OUI!” Rhonda pulled out a roll of tape and stuck up one of the flyers. “IT’S SO COOL WHEN YOU SPEAK FRENCH!”
Uh, that wasn’t French, Rhonda.
“What’s that?”
The sharp voice behind me made me jump. When I turned, I saw Missy and her coven of witches. All three of them were scowling at the flyer. They had appeared instantly, like flies attracted to the scent of poo.
Rhonda stood against the wall, as if she had just been caught in a criminal act. I froze too.
We were in for an all-out ballistic attack. Run, Rhonda! Run!
But we both just stood there, as if our feet were stapled to the floor.
Missy walked right up to the flyer and ripped it off the wall. Then she gave Rhonda a look that could melt rock. “Why are you putting up posters for the dance?”
For a moment, Rhonda was too shocked to speak. Missy had never spoken to her directly before. “BECAUSE MY BAND IS GOING TO BE THERE.” Rhonda looked at me for backup.
“Your band?” Brittany echoed, gaping at Rhonda. “What instrument do you play—cowbell?”
Rhonda blushed. “WELL, I SING, BUT—”
“Please!” Missy cried. “You sing? I can feel my ears bleeding already.”
“She’s part howler monkey!” Brittany added.
Rhonda hung her head. Now was my chance to tell Missy and the B’s exactly what I thought of them.
So, what did I do?
Georgia’s Last Stand
I wanted to help Rhonda… but I also wanted to turn invisible and escape the Wrath of the Princesses. She was trapped in their evil web of insults, and it looked like they were moving in for the kill.
Get away now, I told myself, while you still can! I moved, but my feet went the wrong way. Instead of going b
ackward, they went forward. And before I knew what I was doing, I heard myself say, “Shut your lipstick holes! Rhonda’s singing with the band, and she rocks!”
The hall went dead silent. Missy’s gaze made me feel like a bug that had been pinned to a board with its wings still moving. Everyone was watching us. Rhonda’s eyes were so wide that I thought they might fall out of her head and roll around on the floor.
Finally, Missy laughed. Brittany and Bethany laughed too, playing follow the leader, as usual. “Rhonda isn’t even your friend,” Missy announced. “Remember? You told me so yourself.” Then she looked over at Rhonda with a smile, like she’d won.
Rhonda looked at me. “Georgia wouldn’t say that,” she said, but she didn’t sound sure. For the first time ever, she spoke in lowercase letters.
“I—” I tried to speak, but all I could do was make a strangled little squeak.
Rhonda blinked, as if a bug had flown into her face. Her eyebrows pulled together, and then her chin started to quiver. People in the hallway had stopped and were staring. Things were getting quiet, in a bad-quiet kind of way.
Missy let out a loud “Ha!” and walked away, the Princesses trailing after her. I felt the students who lined the hall look away from us. But Rhonda couldn’t tear her gaze from mine. I knew what she wanted to hear—that I’d never said that. That it wasn’t true.
But I had said it.
PS: I just can’t draw any of this. It’s too hideous.
Please, just look away, like everyone else did.
Rhonda Runs
Rhonda stared at me with those huge, damp eyes, and I felt part of myself dissolve like Kool-Aid mix in water. I’ve always thought that I was a good person. At least, mostly good. But as Rhonda stood there looking at me, TRAITOR written across her face, I started to think I’d never been good at all.
Then she took off like a bullet.