“We need a better name than Team A,” says Layla.
“The boys are Team B?” Emme asks.
“Yeah,” I say, “and we have to beat them. Otherwise they’ll never let us forget it. I bet they’ll pick pizza for the celebration lunch.”
“What’s wrong with pizza?” Natalie asks.
Emme and I both wrinkle our noses. It’s so funny that she hates pizza as much as I do. Maybe even more. “It’s so slithery,” I say.
“And slimy,” Emme says.
“And gross!” I conclude, laughing. Everyone is looking at us like we’re crazy, but who cares? Let them eat pizza on their own time.
“So what should we do to raise money?” Natalie asks.
“We could have a lemonade stand,” Marley says, “on Saturday afternoon, at Southampton Park.”
“Since it’s October,” I say, “how about an apple-cider stand?”
“Perfect!” everyone squeals.
After some more discussion, we decide we’ll use the ten dollars to buy apple cider and paper cups. It may cost more, but we all offer to contribute a little extra. We can paint a sign in the art room, and Natalie’s family has a card table and a big cooler we can use.
Toward the end of lunch, I’m bouncing up and down in my chair. We’re going to make so much money to send to Deer Park! I glance over at the boys. They’re bashing their lunch containers together and falling out of their chairs. The yellow envelope labeled TEAM B is unopened on their table.
“How about Cider Queenz?” Emme asks. “Like, with a z at the end?”
“Love it!” Layla says, high-fiving her. “Everyone agree?”
We all nod. It’s a royal name for a royally awesome team.
Emme smiles, but not her usual super-happy smile. She unscrews the cap off her apple-sauce squeeze.
“If pizza is slithery,” Layla says to me, “what kind of celebration lunch are you thinking about?”
I dip my last triangle of quesadilla in the small container of salsa that I brought. “Mexican? Maybe nachos?”
We all look at Marley. Her pale face is framed by a curtain of long blond hair. “Works for me,” she says, “as long as it’s made in a facility without—”
“We know!” Layla says.
“Maybe you can join us for the lunch?” I ask Emme. “You can be an honorary member of the Cider Queenz.”
“If you win.” Emme zips her lunch box and sets it on her lap. Something’s up. I’ll have to ask her about it on the walk home from school.
“If we win,” I say. “And we will.”
After school, I wait for Emme in our usual spot, but then I remember she has art club on Mondays, so I walk home by myself. Most Mondays, Uncle Peter meets me at our house because my dad and Margo work until six. But when I turn onto Centennial, I see my dad’s bike in the driveway, parked right next to Margo’s car.
I run across the porch and into the side door. I can’t wait to tell them about the fund-raiser. I think I’ll even email Coach Missy and let her know.
“Hi, Hannah,” my dad says. He’s at the kitchen table, sorting through mail.
Margo is leaning against the counter, drinking ginger tea. “We forgot to tell you that we’d be home early today.”
I toss my backpack onto the floor. “We’re going to have the coolest fund-raiser at—”
And then I see it.
It’s stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a green pepper. Right next to my fourth-grade school picture, there’s a small, grainy, black-and-white image of a baby kicking his feet straight up in the air. No, not a baby. An alien with a giant head and spindly legs.
“That’s him,” Margo says. “We just got back from the ultrasound.”
“Him?” I ask. I’m having one of those moments where my legs are weak and I can barely hear my own voice.
“It’s a boy,” my dad says, pointing to the fridge. “That’s your baby brother.”
I run up to my room and slam the door.
Hours later, after I’ve sulked through dinner and slacked through homework and rushed through a two-second shower, I go to bed. But I can’t fall asleep. I try to think about the kids who lost their homes in Deer Park and how lucky I am to be in my own bed. But instead I keep thinking about the big-headed alien baby on our fridge.
I crawl out of bed, slip down to the kitchen, snatch up the picture, and carry it to my room. I slide it into the drawer of my bedside table, far out of sight.
In the morning, Margo and my dad look at me a little funny, but neither of them say a word about the missing picture of the alien baby.
“Did you realize we were supposed to go to a tropical island this February?” I ask as I’m shaking cereal into my bowl. “Remember the Bahamas?”
My dad glances at Margo. She was spooning yogurt into a bowl but she pauses in midair.
“Since we’re not doing that, I’ve been thinking about New York City,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be cool to visit? Like at Christmas?”
I know I’m being bratty, but I wasn’t the one who decided to stick an ultrasound picture to the fridge.
“Plans change,” my dad says, sighing.
The next day, during art class, we get permission to paint the sign. The Cider Queenz crowd around a big table, paintbrushes in hand. We write:
The Cider Queenz of Mr. Bryce’s class present:
Cold Apple Cider*
One Dollar
All proceeds benefit the victims of the flood
in Deer Park, NY
*Made in a facility without nuts
We’re painting rainbow-colored cups at the bottom of the paper when a few boys saunter by.
“An apple-cider stand?” Max asks. He’s Denny’s best buddy. Ick by association.
“Yeah,” says Layla. “At Southampton Park on Saturday afternoon.”
“Yeah, right, you’re queens. Just like I’m a duke.” Denny smirks at our sign. “Isn’t a dollar a little expensive?”
“And what’s up with the nut thing?” Max asks. “Who makes apple cider with nuts?”
“You never know,” Marley says, pulling her long blond hair into a ponytail. “Besides, do you guys have any clue what you’re doing for the fund-raiser?”
Max and Denny snort. As they’re walking away, Denny turns and says, “That’s for us to know and you to find out.”
“Oh, yeah,” Max says.
“More like for YOU to find out!” Layla calls back to them.
The Cider Queenz crack up. And then, before I can stop myself, I shout, “Bow to the queens because it looks like we’re having Mexican food for that party! Mmmmm. I can already taste the guacamole.”
After breakfast on Saturday morning my dad tells me that we’re riding our bikes to swim practice. It’s sunny out and sixty, with a wisp of burning leaves in the air. A perfect day for an apple-cider stand. The Cider Queenz are meeting at Southampton Park at two. Mr. Bryce even said he’d try to come by.
“What about Emme?” I ask as my dad pulls on his stretchy bike shirt. “Aren’t we carpooling to practice?”
“I already talked to her moms and they’re taking her today,” my dad says. “I’d like to get some time with you. Grab your helmet.”
There are paved bike paths that run all the way through Greeley. They’re like little versions of roads with mini traffic signs and stoplights and yellow lines. It’s two miles to the Y. As I’m cycling, I think about how biking is like swimming, the way you get into your own quiet groove. Then again, sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a team-sport person, like how I love volleyball in gym. Layla and Marley have invited me to play volleyball at the Y with them, but I’m always at swim practice so I can never do it.
“Hannah?” my dad says, pulling up next to me.
I ease my bike closer to the curb so there’s room for both of us.
“I thought this might be a good time to talk,” my dad says. “About the baby. About the other day.”
I don’t say a word as I focus on the
road. There’s a YIELD sign up ahead.
My dad clears his throat. “If you don’t want the ultrasound picture on the fridge, we understand. We understand this is hard for you and sometimes you don’t have words for the emotions you’re feeling. We also understand that there’s a lot going on, with Sophie moving and the adoption and a new sibling at the same time.”
I start pedaling harder. I know my dad is saying important stuff. But when I try to make sense of it, it sounds like wah wah waaaaaah. Also, it’s not like I agreed to a deep, meaningful conversation right now.
“No matter what happens,” my dad says, “even when this little boy is born, you will always be our wonderful child, too. We will never forget that.”
I pedal even faster. My heart is pounding and my legs are burning. My dad gets the hint and falls back behind me.
A little before two, Margo drives Emme and me to Southampton Park with our jugs of apple cider. She drops us off at the curb and we make a plan for her to pick us up when the stand is over.
“Are you sure it’s okay I’m coming?” Emme asks as we’re walking up the hill to meet the other Cider Queenz. “It’s not like I’m in Mr. Bryce’s class.”
“Of course it’s okay!” I pause to shift the jugs in my arms.
“But what if people ask why I’m here?” Emme asks. “Won’t it seem weird?”
“Who would even ask that?”
Emme stares down at the ground. “I don’t know,” she mumbles. “Gina or Alexa.”
I make a face. “Who cares about Gina and Alexa? They’re annoying. They’re probably at home annoying someone else. Besides, you thought of our team name. You have to come.”
“I have to pee,” Emme says quietly. “I’ll meet you at the top of the hill.”
When I get to the grassy clearing, Natalie and her dad are setting up the card table, and this other girl, Brianna, is taping on our sign. I put my cider into the cooler next to the jugs that are already in there. Emme shows up a minute later and we help lay out cups and copies of the article about Deer Park. By two on the dot, we are open for business.
“We look awesome,” Layla declares, offering Emme and me pieces of gum.
I unwrap the gum and pop it in my mouth. “We are awesome.”
Before long, people start buying cider. When a man walking his dog sees the article about the evacuations, he tucks a five-dollar bill into our jar.
“Take that, Team B,” Marley says, giggling.
We sell twenty cups of cider in thirty minutes. We’ve already paid back the ten dollars from our budget and made fifteen dollars more. If we’re here for a few hours, we’re going to make so much money to send to Deer Park!
But then something strange happens. People stop coming to our stand. We wait. We restack the cups. Finally, Layla and I decide to tour Southampton Park to see what’s up. We go down the hill, past the basketball courts, and over toward the playground. And then we see it.
“Oh my …” Layla says.
My mouth drops open. “No. Way.”
There, right at the entrance to the playground, are the boys from Mr. Bryce’s class. They’re gathered around a table with a messy sign taped to the front. On the sign, they’ve scribbled:
The CIDER DUX best APPLE CIDER!
CHEAP! NO NUTS!!!!
No pictures or anything. Even so, their stand is buzzing with customers. The boys are hustling around, handing out cups of cider, acting like it’s the most original idea in the world.
“Cider Dux?” I say to Layla. I can feel my hands curling into fists. “Like ducks?”
“I think they meant dukes except they got it wrong,” Layla says. “They were trying to be cool, like us, the way we have a z at the end. But they should have spelled it D-O-O-X.”
“Dukes, ducks,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe they’re selling apple cider, too! They can’t do that!” I spit my gum into a trash can. “Besides, why do they have so many customers? They’re selling way more than us.”
Before Layla can answer, Denny lifts a megaphone to his mouth. “Cold cider! Only fifty cents! The best deal in Southampton Park! Made without nuts!”
Layla and I push through the crowd until we’re face-to-face with Denny, who is wearing a plastic gold crown.
“Looks like you came up with an original idea,” I snarl.
Layla smacks her hands on her hips. “What exactly is going on here?”
“Yeah, ducks,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Dukes, if you please.” Denny takes off his crown and bows his head. “We’re raking it in.”
“Oh, yeah,” Max says, shaking the glass jar of money. “Big-time bucks.”
A bunch of the guys laugh and nod along with him. This one kid, Micah, flashes us the peace sign.
“But you can’t do this,” I say. I glance at their card table. They’ve pre-poured their apple cider into paper cups, rows and rows of cups filled with cider, just waiting to be sold to our customers! “You stole our idea and you’re charging less.”
A woman with three runny-nosed boys hands Denny a dollar fifty. Denny thanks her and then instructs Max to give her three cups.
“All’s fair in fund-raising,” Denny says. Then he plucks a cup of cider off the table, guzzles it in one sip, and wipes his upper lip. “Looks like the Dukes are picking pizza for the victory lunch. Pizza to eat, pizza to drink, and pizza for dessert. Hail to the Cider Dukes.”
I’ve had it. I’m so angry at Denny, at the Cider Ducks, at boys in general. Even my dad, for trying to have a deep, meaningful conversation on the bike ride this morning. And, of course, I’m mad at the little alien boy for just being.
I reach behind Denny, grab a cup of apple cider, and splash it at his shirt. Brown liquid spreads out across his chest. As Denny stands there, shocked, Layla lets out a huge squeal.
“The Cider Queenz rule!” she says. Then she picks up another cup of cider and chucks it at Denny. This time it hits the front of his shorts.
Max and the other guys look at Denny, wet with cider, and start laughing like crazy.
“Looks like someone’s had an accident,” Micah snorts, pointing to Denny’s soaked shorts.
“Way to back me up,” Denny snaps. He reaches over and dumps a cup of cider right on top of Micah’s head.
“What the—” Micah blinks as he pushes his damp hair out of his face.
The people who’d been waiting in line for cider quickly grab their bags and scooters and hurry away. I hear someone say they’re going to go find the adults in charge. A man wearing a backward baseball cap says, “You all should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Micah reaches for a cup of cider and throws it at Denny, and with that it’s an all-out cider war. It’s not even girls versus boys. I’m throwing cider at Denny and Denny is throwing cider at Layla and me, and Max and Micah pour cider on another boy’s head. But then Layla aims for Max and by mistake sprays cider all over my arm.
“I’m so sorry!” she shrieks.
But I barely hear her. Because I can see Denny gathering several cups together on the table.
“No way,” I hiss to him.
Some parents are hurrying over. I have to act fast if I want to clear the entire table. I mean, really finish this thing. I reach out my arm—but when Denny sees what I’m about to do, he grabs my wrist.
“Hey!” he says. “You can’t do that! This is all the cider we’ve got!”
His hands are so wet that I easily wriggle out of his grasp. “All’s fair in fund-raising!” I say, tipping the paper cups like dominos. By this point, empty cups are scattered everywhere and cider is dripping all over the pavement.
But then everyone gets quiet. Mr. Bryce is walking toward us, frowning. My knees go weak. I pull back my arms, but I mistakenly knock over two more cups. One splashes my leg and the other falls on Denny’s sneakers.
“The fund-raiser is canceled,” Mr. Bryce says sternly. “Clean up immediately.”
At the exact same time, Denny an
d I say, “But—”
“We’ll discuss it on Monday,” Mr. Bryce says. Then he shakes his head, turns around, and gets into a huddle with several of the parents.
I kick at a cup under my foot. I am soaked with cider. I reek of cider. I am never drinking cider again for the rest of my life. And it’s all the boys’ fault.
I didn’t think Hannah would want to come to Landon’s Organic Apple Orchard with us on the first Thursday in November. Swim practice is canceled today but Hannah and apples aren’t the best of friends. It’s been two weeks since the Queenz-versus-Dux fight and she still won’t drink cider. I don’t blame her. When she and Layla came back up the hill, dripping with cider, and told us what had happened, we were stunned. We hovered around, hugging Hannah and Layla, wiping them off with paper towels and trying to get them to stop crying. Marley kept saying how shocked she was, like what if someone in the crowd had been allergic to cider and then got doused with it? I felt so bad for Hannah, but in a way it was nice to be part of a class where the girls get along and stick up for each other. Which is basically the opposite of my class.
This afternoon Landon’s is having an apple festival. They’re giving away free cider and donuts, and Mom J and I are planning to pick a ton of apples. When we first moved up here I rolled my eyes at Mom J’s apple-picking passion, but I’ve found that it’s fun to climb ladders and pull apples from stems and make pies and stew applesauce. I love the way the house smells like cinnamon even the next day.
Mom J invited Hannah and Margo to join us. They were excited about it even though Hannah made sure to say that she’d for sure skip the cider. Margo told Mom J that they hadn’t been apple-picking this entire year, which is funny because we’re so dorky about our first fall in the Northeast that we’ve gone picking five times. I guess it’s the same as how we lived in Florida my whole life and never went to Disney World (for real!).
As Mom J is driving down Centennial, she glances into the backseat at Hannah. “Speaking of apples, I heard you had some drama with cider at that fund-raiser,” she says with a smile.