The Friendship Matchmaker Goes Undercover

  Then, when her parents divorced and she had to divide her time between her mom and dad, she withdrew even more. People don’t want to be matched to someone unhappy. To someone the color of a bad weather forecast.

  I was the only one who eventually saw through all that.

  I guess Emily did too, but she didn’t count. She got along with everybody.

  It was selfish of me to ask Tanya to be brave. There was no need to get her involved. After all, I was her best friend because I cared about her.

  The next morning Ms. Pria made us all sit down on the floor because she had a special announcement to make.

  “We have a new boy starting tomorrow,” she said. None of us so much as blinked. It wasn’t exactly juicy news. We had hoped for something along the lines of “summer break will be extended this year” or “free ice cream in the cafeteria.”

  “His name is Maj—, Majur Mat—, Matak.”

  That raised a few eyebrows.

  “What kind of name is that?” somebody cried out.

  “Yeah! Boy or girl? You can’t even tell!”

  “That’s enough,” Ms. Pria snapped. “Majur is a boy. A refugee from Sudan. He’s come from extraordinarily difficult circumstances, and you will all welcome him with open arms and show him respect and compassion. Is that clear?”

  Chris’s arm shot up. The glint in his eye told me Ms. Pria was in for it.

  “Ms. Pria,” Chris said, all wide-eyed and innocent. “Don’t you always say you have to earn respect? Shouldn’t we wait to see what he’s like first?”

  Ms. Pria rolled her eyes. “Very funny, Chris.”

  Chris turned his head to David. “Like maybe see how he takes an upper cut,” Chris muttered with a grin.

  Luckily Ms. Pria didn’t hear. Instead she launched into a lesson about civil war.

  Stephanie spoke up. “How can war be civil? Teachers are always telling us to be civil so how does that make sense? Hey, Ms. Pria? Did Majur arrive by boat? Where does he live? Has he sold his story to any news outlets yet? Is he willing to be interviewed for Potts County Middle School FM Radio?”

  Ms. Pria ignored her (most teachers eventually ended up ignoring Stephanie or they’d be drawn into a debate that never ended) and instead starting yapping away about Majur’s life. If Majur was a movie, and Ms. Pria was directing the movie trailer, I figured less than half the class would have wanted to watch him. She was going for the sob story angle when what most kids in my class really wanted was a feel-good comedy, or a bizarre, twisted tale, or a horror movie. What she should have said was that Majur had a tarantula as a pet, lived in a tree, or flew places on the weekend. Instead she went into teacher mode.

  She told us that Majur would be an ESL student (and then we got the lecture about how there was nothing wrong with that). Then she told us he’d lost his parents in the war (but wouldn’t tell us how or why). Then she told us he was living with his aunt, uncle, and two younger sisters (to which one kid mumbled, “big deal”). And finally she told us that he’d suffered many disruptions and tragedies in his life and that she expected us all to be compassionate and caring and not give him a hard time if he spoke, looked, or acted differently.

  In other words, she was expecting him to be picked on. I’m pretty sure Ms. Pria was a smart lady, but that was pretty much the dumbest thing she’d ever done.

  Ms. Pria was probably hoping to prepare a sympathetic classroom for Majur to walk into. I glanced at Tanya and Emily. They were both listening carefully and slowly nodding their heads. And sure, most of the other kids appeared to be interested . . . kind of.

  Then Ms. Pria did the stupidest thing on the face of this planet. She told us Majur was our age but had only been at school up to fifth grade, and even then his school hadn’t been like our school. So we had to be patient and couldn’t make fun of him for being behind. Some kids broke into giggles, which sent Ms. Pria off the deep end. (Honestly, what did she expect?) A couple of kids got lunchtime detention, and we were all sent back to our desks to do a quiz on water condensation.

  Chapter 4

  “I wonder what Majur’s been through,” Emily said gravely, as we copied out a vocabulary list in Italian later that day. “I don’t know any refugees.”

  Mrs. Pigorni swept down on us. “Girls,” she said sternly, “if you must talk during class then speak in Italian. Otherwise, zip it. Capisco?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Mi scusi?”

  “I mean, si,” I said quickly. Mrs. Pigorni was strict but one of my favorite teachers. She smiled brightly and I beamed.

  When she was a safe distance away I leaned close to Emily. “Maybe it’s like being in a country where everybody’s a Chris Martin,” I whispered. (No matter how good I was at school, I could still only talk about the weather, ask for directions, and list food groups in Italian.)

  “If he’s supposed to be in grade five, how’s he going to cope with seventh grade?” Emily whispered back, shaking her head. “That’s really crazy. There’s no way some of the guys will let him fit in.”

  She was right. No matter which way you looked at it Majur was doomed to be teased. And I was guessing he’d be so traumatized and messed up he’d sit and take it. He’d be miserable here. What kind of idiots made these decisions? Oh. Yeah. Our school principal, Mr. Muñoz. Not the sharpest tool in the shed (well, that’s what I heard my dad say after Open School Night last year).

  I was dying to offer my professional help. First Day of School had always been my favorite induction session. A feeling of nostalgia overtook me as I remembered all the kids who’d benefited from a total makeover by me so that they could blend in at school (Emily Wong being the only exception).

  Suddenly I felt really emotional. I lowered my head over my exercise book and pretended to concentrate on my work, when really I was jotting down a list.

  Why Life Is Better Since

  I Quit My FMM Days

  1. Tanya’s my best friend.

  2. I have somebody to tell my secrets to and hang out with at recess and lunch.

  3. I have someone to talk to on the phone and text.

  Who was I kidding? I’d abandoned the needy and desperate all because of my own selfish desire to have friends. Sure, as the school’s FMM, I’d been insensitive to Tanya, and both she and Emily had taught me that you didn’t have to change yourself to make friends.

  But it was a bloodbath out there! Something needed to be done.

  The thing is, Tanya and Emily would never understand.

  I’d always prided myself on being unselfish, but I had to think about the greater good.

  What Tanya and Emily didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  I wasn’t going to lie. I’d made a promise that never again would I be Potts County Middle School’s Official Friendship Matchmaker.

  But I hadn’t promised I wouldn’t be Potts County Middle School’s UnOfficial Friendship Matchmaker.

  It might as well have been Christmas Eve, that’s how excited I was when I went to bed that night. I tossed and turned, willing my mom’s alarm clock to shriek and for her to barge into my room and shake me awake. Except when her alarm eventually did go off I leaped out of bed and woke her up.

  I had a plan. The first two people I would unofficially be helping were Stephanie and Lila. I couldn’t stand watching them drowning in their Total Lonerdom anymore. I was going to hook them up and put them out of their misery. And all that was needed on my part was one simple, short letter:

  Stephanie, if you want to be an awesome radio journalist you’ve got to collect great stories! Lila Bernard is your ticket to fame: eleven years old with a Guinness Book of Records goal. What more could you ask for?! She’ll be a YouTube hit one day and you’ll kick yourself knowing you were so close . . . so why not be the first person in the school—in the world—to follow her through her training? The tears, sweat, and blood. (She was in the nurse’s office with an infected blister on her foot the other day.) I bet your ratings will go up from o
ne listener to the entire school and . . . maybe . . . beyond?

  I’m just saying . . .

  Unofficially perfect!

  When my bus arrived at school I jumped out and ran toward the seventh-grade lockers. I searched for Stephanie’s locker (it wasn’t difficult to find—she had homemade Potts County Middle School FM Radio stickers all over the door) and slipped the note into the side hinge.

  Then I skipped away to the assembly area. This term suddenly promised to be a million times more exciting.

  Chapter 5

  Chris Martin was tormenting Louis during science. Poor Louis had been paired up with Chris because Mr. Doyle had zero classroom control. (He was in his first year of teaching and was one of those I-want-to-be-popular types.) Mr. Doyle must have figured that the only way to distract Chris Martin from bullying him was to offer Chris some live bait. Enter Louis—proud to call himself a science geek.

  Chris had a huge range of tormenting tactics (which is precisely why my CMAS—Chris Martin Avoidance Strategies—seminar was so popular with the seventh-grade population), but today he was trying out something new: meowing and purring at Louis and generally acting like a cat.

  In a trembling voice Louis said: “Ah . . . Chris . . . can you please pass me the Bunsen burner?”

  Chris, who was standing close to Louis, fogging up Louis’s glasses, smiled and then said: “Meowwwwwwwwww!”

  Louis blinked hard. “Uh, please, Chris. We need to keep the temperature consistent.”

  Chris was unmoved and meowed again. And again. And again. And then hissed and pretended to lick his paws.

  The more Chris carried on acting like a feral cat, the more tortured Louis looked. You had to hand it to Chris—he could really go into character. If he used his evil for good, he’d ace drama class.

  Hoping to be rescued, Louis’s eyes darted across to Mr. Doyle, but he was too busy singing the periodic table as a rap song to notice.

  “Tanya, look over there at Louis,” I whispered.

  She glanced up. “What’s Chris up to?” She took a second look. “He’s so scary,” she said with a shudder. “Glad that’s not me paired with him.”

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” I said.

  “Shouldn’t we do something about what?” Emily interrupted as she joined us with some tripods from the supply closet.

  “About Chris tormenting Louis over—”

  Suddenly the door swung open and Mr. Muñoz, the principal, walked in followed by a really, really tall, skinny boy.

  Majur was a giant compared to most of us—even taller than Chris. Majur’s black hair was tied up in a ponytail of thin braids. Mr. Muñoz went into the usual welcome-your-new-classmate lecture. Majur stood beside him with an expressionless face and stared at the back wall. Ms. Pria had told us not to expect Majur before lunch, because he’d be in ESL for the morning, but I still couldn’t believe our first introduction to Majur would be during a class run by Mr. I’m-so-cool Doyle.

  Sure enough, as soon as Mr. Muñoz left, Mr. Doyle clapped his hands together and said, “Hey, man, welcome. In about ten minutes I’m going to show the class a really awesome experiment. Making an explosion! Oh. I didn’t mean . . . you’re okay with that? I mean, after all you must have seen . . . you don’t need to . . . How about you sit here and read this handout on photosynthesis?”

  Oh boy. I felt sorry for Mr. Doyle. He looked mortified.

  Majur shrugged and sat down, stretching out his long legs and placing the handout in his lap. He looked down at it and then tossed it aside, more interested in surveying the room.

  I noticed Chris approach Majur, dragging Louis by the sleeve behind him. But Stephanie got to Majur first.

  “So you’ve moved here from another country?” Stephanie asked cheerfully. “Africa?”

  Chris groaned. “You’re such an idiot, Stephanie!” he cried, taking a step toward Majur. “Africa’s a continent.”

  Stephanie looked sheepish and was, miraculously, at a loss for words. “I knew that,” she mumbled.

  Majur blinked and then grinned.

  “It’s okay,” he said, his accent heavy. “I thought you all eating Big Macs all day.”

  “Really?” Stephanie said, taking out her notebook.

  “No,” he shot back, grinning again.

  “So have you ever used a gun before?” Chris asked eagerly. “You know, coming from the war and stuff?”

  Majur stared at Chris. “Yes. I like the gun when my cousins annoying me.”

  “Wow!” Chris cried.

  Majur smirked, and Chris realized he’d been outsmarted. He wasn’t backing down, though.

  “But you must have seen some seriously crazy stuff,” he pressed. “Like in the movies. Machetes and guns and stuff?”

  Majur looked blankly at Chris. Then he suddenly stood up and walked to the back of the classroom to examine the preserved frogs in the display cabinet.

  I glanced at Chris.

  There was anger in his eyes.

  One thing I prided myself on was my eavesdropping skills. I had an uncanny ability to hear snatches of teachers’ gossip, and it only took me a couple of days of strategically sitting or standing quietly beside teachers to learn quite a bit about Majur. I immediately started to take notes as part of my plan to profile him and find him a friend—something all new kids need help with.

  By Wednesday, Majur’s profile was coming along nicely and looked something like this:

  Profile—Majur

  1. He is from Darfur, which is in Sudan. There’d been a civil war there. I’m not sure what it was all about, but he and his family had to leave Sudan.

  2. He lived in a refugee camp in Chad for two years before coming to America.

  3. He speaks English but with a heavy accent. Sometimes it is hard to understand him and you have to ask him to repeat himself. On lunch duty Ms. Pria had told Mr. Stirelli she had to concentrate when Majur spoke to her, and she hoped that she didn’t make this obvious in front of the rest of the class.

  4. He does ESL (that’s help to learn to speak English) a couple of times a week.

  5. Majur is Christian. There was a Sudanese refugee kid in grade six who was Muslim. Ms. Pria had wondered if putting them together in an ESL class would be a problem but Ms. Clarity, the school counselor, told her it wouldn’t be.

  6. He lives in a small apartment with other refugees.

  7. His parents are dead.

  I started working on a profile match analysis using the complicated data input spreadsheet I’d developed in my spare time over the holidays. As I was calculating Majur’s compatability score, Tanya sent me a text message:

  I can’t sleep. Are you awake?

  I was about to reply but then changed my mind. I had so much to do. Plus, there were so many messages on my online FMM account that desperately needed my attention. A pang of guilt went through me as I ignored my phone. I didn’t have to speak to Tanya every night. I’d see her at school tomorrow.

  Chapter 6

  I had to drag myself out of bed the next morning. I’d been off-line for so long that the backlog had taken me past midnight to get through. Then, once I’d finally put my head on the pillow, I started thinking about Majur and who his potential friend match could be.

  At morning assembly Tanya said, “What happened to you last night? I messaged you. We were going to work out what we’re doing on the Roald Dahl project.”

  “I fell asleep early,” I said lamely.

  Okay, so midnight wasn’t “early,” meaning I’d just lied to my best friend. But, hey, there were people out there who needed me. Missing one night on the phone was a small sacrifice to make.

  “Okay. Well, I called Emily and we were thinking that we’d do a book trailer for The Witches. Emily’s mom has a program on her computer. We just need to take photos and collect pictures and write up some slides. Isn’t that exciting!”

  “You called Emily?” I tried to control my voice.

  “Yeah. So what do you t
hink?” She flashed me a cheesy grin. “ We think it’s a great idea. And the best part will be the music. We’ll have all the pictures and stuff timed with the songs.”

  I was upset that she’d called Emily. And I knew I was overreacting, but that’s how things happen. First it’s a phone call. Next it’s speed dial on the cell phone. And then it’s a sleepover.

  But of course, I knew a thing or two about dignity, so I gave her my most winning smile. “Fantastic,” I said, the word managing to push itself past the lump in my throat.

  There was a loud commotion in the seventh-grade locker area. Tanya and I followed the noise to see what was going on. Chris was standing with a group of guys laughing and pointing at Majur, who was picking himself up from the floor.

  “What is the problem?” Majur said in a tight voice.

  Chris giggled. “It was an accident.”

  “What happened?” I asked Jemma, who was standing near us in the crowd.

  “Chris was walking and smacked himself into Majur. Majur lost his balance and fell.”

  “Loser,” Tanya muttered angrily.

  “It was not an accident,” Majur told Chris, chin jutting out defiantly.

  Chris threw his hands in the air and shrugged, still laughing. “I didn’t see you there.” Then it looked like an idea occurred to him and his grin broadened. “Don’t wear dark clothes! That way people can see you better in the hallway.” Chris turned to the other guys. “Ha! Get it?”

  The veins in Majur’s neck looked like they were going to pop. But he didn’t answer. I was about to say something. I couldn’t believe Chris could make such a horrible racist comment. Standing up to Chris when he was bullying somebody had never been a problem for me. I opened my mouth, but Tanya grabbed my arm and pulled me away.

  “What did you do that for?” I said angrily.

  “I don’t think it’s going to help if you stick up for Majur,” Tanya said to me. “Chris will call him a wimp. It’ll make things worse for him.”