SmartGirl Internette presents...

During the middle of first period on Tuesday morning, I squirm sleepily in my pajamas, or at least what I call pajamas: sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. I had no idea what to wear, so I just crept out of bed, barely brushed my hair, and ate breakfast. Gramma glanced at me and shook her head. “What trends do teenagers follow these days?” she muttered as she poured me some juice. “Back in my day, it was all about beehives and poodle skirts. My, my, how fashion changes these days.”

I notice Trishelle cupping her hand around her mouth and whispering in some girl’s ear. Trishelle points to me, and they both burst into laughter. Bleaah.

Whatever. It’s not like it matters what I wear, and it’s not like I care. I’ve been put in charge of the egg-collecting and milking, so I have to wake up at about five-thirty in the morning. I never finish my chores, though. Not that I can. Darn that Hillary and Mandy.

I don’t see Bianca at lunch. Instead of eating in the sacred Room, I bring my lunch — yogurt, cheese and crackers, some stew leftovers, and apple juice — and eat on the stairwell. Yes, I feel guilty that I broke my vow of never consuming dairy in a bagazillion years like I promised on the first day of farm work. A girl needs her calcium! Besides, I would rather be alone and eat dairy than face those cold eyes of Macy and company. Of course, Macy somehow manages to put me down in the halls, fueling Nina’s and Trishelle’s whispers and points. Whenever Adam walks by, however, they pretend not to notice me. Wonder why.

The next day, I decide to wear my old school’s uniform. I don’t want to recreate the events of two days ago in the cafeteria. In fact, for the rest of the week, I eat anywhere but the cafeteria: Wednesday near the janitor’s closet, Thursday in the girls’ restroom, and Friday back to the stairwell. I feel like the Lone Stranger. This wouldn’t be happening if Mom and Dad just brought me to Europe.

I definitely choose this over sitting with Bianca in The Room. It just wouldn’t feel right. I mean, can you imagine sitting down and eating with a bunch of people you didn’t know? I can’t. Besides, I don’t want to end up being rejected.

“Miss Lea Cady, hello! You are marked present, yet you are not with us today, Miss Cady!” yells Mrs. Norris, rapping the whiteboard with her knuckles.

“I heard that her parents abandoned her,” I hear one girl, Jennie, mutter. What?

“Psychological trauma must have made her mentally-retarded,” another girl named Laura says, sweetness seeping from her voice. She gives me a sympathetic glance. “Poor girl. I’d help her if I could, but she must be emotionally scarred for life.” She reminds me of Kath, speaking like she just graduated from a psychiatry school or something.

My cheeks are burning. I think I feel skin peeling off my face. “Now that you are with us today, Lea, please answer the daily geography question on the board!” shouts Mrs. Moore. Even when she’s calm she shouts. “What is the capital of the state northeast of Maine?” A smile tugs at her mouth, like, “Ha, got ya, you stupid pre-teen. I am more superior, therefore I STUMPED you!”

I roll my eyes. “Trick question. There isn’t a state northeast of Maine. That would be Canada, the province of New Brunswick to be exact, and its provincial capital is Fredericton. But the capital of Maine is Augusta.” Ha. Call me mentally-retarded now, Laura, even though you mean well. Besides, Geography is my best subject, other than History; I can never fail in that.

Mrs. Norris blinks in surprise. Then she nods. “Yes,” she says and goes on with the lesson, talking about longitude and latitude and such. She asks several questions, and I answer most of them.

“All lines of longitude are great circles, whereas the Equator is the only line of latitude that is a great circle.”

“Little Rock, Arkansas, is approximately 35 degrees north, 92 degrees west.”

“Arkansas is positioned in both the northern and western hemisphere.”

This class is easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

Bianca gives me a thumbs-up from the seat in front of me. Um, okay. Why would she give me a thumbs-up? Adam glances at me but gets back to work. Okay! That totally must mean something. We are probably just one step closer to getting together. You know, once he and Macy break up. Mrs. Norris starts blabbing on and on about something, but I don’t pay much attention. Why does Adam like Macy, anyway? She’s a jerk. I mean, doesn’t he see that? Just a few days ago he saw her being mean to me.

After class, Bianca sidles over to me. “You were on fire in there.”

I roll my eyes, pretending not be glowing inside with pleasure. “That stuff was just review.”

“Well, yeah, but people’s brains are usually fuzzy the first few days of school,” protests Bianca. “It’s like you have a personal secretary in the back of your brain, pulling out memory files or something.” She waves a little. “See ya in P.E.”

“Yeah, see ya.” I smile. Maybe I can sit with Bianca on Monday. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

“Is this thing on?” Principal Helen Hawkins taps the microphone. A squealing sound bounces off the walls, and the students groan. There is a big assembly last period, so we all gather in the auditorium. “Good afternoon, students,” greets the principal, her voice booming. She reminds me of a hawk in the way that her eyes seem to pierce through us, and her nose is curved like a beak. “We have called this meeting to thank a very generous donor to the school’s fund. Please welcome Mr. Rupert Rodgers of Rodgers’ Big Bucks Incorporated, the main headquarters of a large chain of other smaller companies. We are glad to have this successful entrepreneur with us today.” She starts clapping, a sign that we all have to clap, too.

Mr. Rodgers, the same handsome man from the portraits, walks onto center stage. The spotlight is aimed directly at him. He waves and smiles, as if he is posing for the paparazzi. He remains waving and smiling. This continues for at least six minutes until Mr. Rodgers finally says, “Hello, students.” He smiles and waves some more. “I will allow Helen to speak now.” He graciously — if not reluctantly — hands Principal Hawkins the microphone. She struts onto another part of the stage, Mr. Rodgers and the spotlight following closely behind.

“Now, as you all know,” continues Principal Hawkins, lifting an eyebrow at Mr. Rodgers, “Mr. Rodgers has donated quite a large amount of money to Sicamoore Middle School. Because of him, we now have COWs — Computers On Wheels — instead of our old computer lab, food with more nutritional value for our lunch program, an updated media center, and much — ”

“It was all my pleasure, Helen,” pipes up Mr. Rodgers as a camera flashes.

I roll my eyes. This guy is so full of himself.

Principal Hawkins’s smile subtly dims. Then she flashes Mr. Rodgers a full-wattage smile. “Please, Mr. Rodgers,” she says in her I’m-the-boss-so-stop-acting-like-YOU-are tone that all principals possess. “If you don’t mind…” That phrase, after years of hearing it, is code for: you-do-mind-but-since-I’m-in-charge-you-shouldn’t-mind-anyway. There should be a class on Principalese. I would get an “A” in that. Definitely.

Mr. Rodgers adjusts his collar and straightens his posture. “I’m sorry. Please continue, Helen.” A toothy, unnaturally white smirk appears on his face again.

“Well, Mr. Rodgers insisted that we don’t pay him back in any way,” Principal Hawkins goes on then pauses. “But I wasn’t raised that way. So I insisted that we help Mr. Rodgers here with any future project of his. Perhaps we could compose essays of how Mr. Rodgers’ good deeds greatly impacted our school’s education? It’s the least we can do.” A small smile trickles at the corners of her lips, and she begins to clap again.

Halfhearted applause roars throughout the auditorium.

“It’s 3:13,” announces Principal Hawkins. “Please go to your lockers and catch your ride home. Have a nice afternoon.”

We pour out of the large room. I rush up the stairwell to my locker on the second floor, snatching out my textbooks and notebooks. I dash outside and wait for Gramps, bouncing in excitement.

I want to excavate the barn.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, man,” I mutter to myself while I rub my temples with my fingers, staring at all the papers and textbooks spread out in front of me. It’s about five, but I have only been tackling my huge pile of homework for about an hour. Earlier, I milked the cows, fed the animals, and collected the eggs. Still, I think I may be exhausted. Sigh. Doing my homework mentally challenges me, and helping on the farm physically challenges me. How will I explain my severe emotional and physical languor to my physician?

Brrzp! Brrzp! Text from Kath:

 

How was week 1 of skewl? Call me asap

 

I dial her number with my achy fingers, and Kath answers on the first ring. I breathe into the phone and answer her texted question, “Great.” I don’t want to worry her. I mean, I’ve been through so much drama a soap opera on TV would be jealous. I add, “How come you didn’t call earlier?”

Kath replies, “I was on vacation in China, remember? You are so lucky I sent you that e-mail a few weeks ago! I had to work on a rice farm or whatever it is. Like, all the time.” Oh. Right.

“You’re the lucky one,” I say, trying to withdraw the envy in my voice. “I have to work on a farm, too. And, for your information, this is a permanent vacation. So don’t tell me I’m lucky.”

“Well, soh-ree,” grumbles Kath sarcastically. “Besides, this ‘vacation’ of yours is going to last until the end of the year. So, anything interesting in Sicamoore lately? UFOs? Close encounters with the third kind? Anything?”

“No.”

Kath responds just as fast, “Liar. You’re leaving something out.”

“I am not.” The lie comes out smoothly as I jump on my bed. “There weren’t any aliens. Well, except me.”

“Lea,” groans Kath, her voice sounding annoyed and slightly angry. “You know what I mean. And that’s your lying voice. Your voice gets all strained when you lie.”

“I’m not lying,” I protest, trying to loosen my voice.

Kath sighs. “Puh-leeze! I wasn’t diagnosed with idiotitis yesterday. What happened?”

Surrendering, I mutter, “Let’s just say my school’s name should be ‘Jerk Preparatory’.”

“Oh, my gosh!” Kath goes into her I’m-going-to-help-you-no-matter-what mode. Just because her dad’s a psychiatrist doesn’t mean she has to act like she can butt into people’s private, personal business and help them. I love that about her. “Who, what, and when?” she asks, hurling the questions at me like darts.

“Queen Bee Macy and her troupe, teasing, and every day,” I answer promptly.

“So she’s the popular-mean-Sydney type?” guesses Kath. “Trendy clothes, makeup, and lots of followers, right?” Sydney was this really popular, stuck-up girl at my old school.

I nod to myself. “Definitely, and one cute boyfriend.” Oops.

“OH, MY GOSH!” screams Kath.

I laugh. “You sound like Des!”

“She’s rubbing off on me,” answers Kath simply. “I thought this only happened on TV, when a girl and a guy who weren’t thought to be together do end up together! Lea’s got a crush, Lea’s got a crush…” She stops chanting. In the background I hear muffled voices. “Augh! I have to hang up! Lea, bye, I’ll text you later.” She hangs up.

I stare at the blank, glowing cell phone screen. Okay. Better lighten my load of homework if I ever want to see that barn again.

“Where’re you goin’, Lea?” asks my grandmother as I shuffle past the kitchen and reach for the doorknob. The savory smell of stew wafts in the air. It would be really weird, though, if the beef in the stew was from the cows in the barn. What if Cha-Cha is in the stew? I wonder. That’d be great! But then I see Cha-Cha fooling around with a piece of string. Darn. It.

I wiggle in my favorite pair of worn, flared jeans and snuggly magenta sweatshirt. To avoid being bombarded with questions — “What’s with the stains, Lea?” or “What’s with the clothes, dear?” — I changed the minute I got home. “Taking a walk, maybe visit the library,” I reply, yearning to see something besides text from my homework. I found an old, trashy bike in the shed, and I plan to use that to get to the library.

“Don’t ya think you’re spendin’ a lotta time with that librarian?” asks Gramps, striding into the hallway.

“Um, no.” I wrinkle my brow. Ms. Reed is really nice and fun to be around with, unlike my hometown’s librarian, Mrs. Blockins, who is thick, stern, and hates interacting with library members. She even scowls when she scans someone’s library card.

Gramps shrugs. “Okay. I’m just, well… Guess you and your mom have a lot in common.”

Seriously? I mean, she scrapes the sky, and I can barely touch it with the tips of my fingers. She’s talkative; I’m a bit reserved. Gramma calls from the kitchen, laughing, “Oh, yes. That Trudy must have some kind of lure on Stanton folk or somethin’. She’s awfully nice. Guess I can’t blame my Rosie for bein’ her best friend.” Wait. Ms. Reed was — is? — my mom’s best friend? I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. After all, my mom kept a part of my life a secret because of her. Maybe she did it for my own good, knowing well that I’d hate this place.

“Um, okay, well,” I begin to waltz out the door, “see ya.”

“It’s six,” notes Gramps. “Come back by eight for dinner.”

I nod and step outside. Too lazy to grab the old bike, I decide to take a walk instead. I shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt and walk down the driveway and onto the dirt path, drawing in good, clean air. Where I’m headed — don’t know, don’t care. As my feet dig in the dirt, I think about my day. It certainly was…eventful. Ms. Reed. Macy. Bianca. Adam. Ms. Reed. Macy. Bianca. Adam. And this Rupert Rodgers guy. It’s like a never-ending merry-go-round in my head.

Before I know it, the air feels cool and breezy, and the buzzes of gnats and mosquitoes fill my ears. I pull out my phone and check the time: 6:50 p.m. Have I really been walking aimlessly for nearly an hour? The scenery is dusky, and there is a thick, orange line resting between the shadowy blue sky and the green grass. I should head back. I turn around and see what looks like an endless path of dirt framed by American sycamore trees — ugh, I am sick of those trees! I’m never going to get home before eight, unless — unless I cut through the sycamore forest. There aren’t that many trees.

I opt to go through the forest and begin to venture through unruly grass and enormous, imposing trees, which seem to warn: You’re going to regret this. Puh-leeze. Lea Rose Cady fears nothing and no one, especially not a bunch of silly trees, even if they do seem to belong on the set of a horror movie, like Revenge of the Snide Sycamores or something.

Besides, I’m starving; the only thing I’ve eaten all day were some old granola bars I packed when my parents drove me to Sicamoore in their minivan.

I amble through the forest, dead leaves crumbling beneath my feet. My hands stroke the trees’ trunks, which feel rough and jagged, but I like the texture. My feet…are so tired… The sun seems weary, too, as it slowly descends. I stare straight up and past the snide sycamores; a glowing, white sphere unhurriedly ascends in the sky — the moon. Bad sign. Tired… Tired… Breathe, breathe… My cell phone says it’s 7:30. Hmm. Okay, I think I saw that tree when I first took this shortcut … Okay. Okay. Now I feel like Gretel without her breadcrumbs — I’m lost.

I crane my neck, peer over the tips of the cropped, green-yellow locks of the trees, and see a water tower. I vaguely remember passing by a water tower, so I hike there.

Meow, meow.

I spin around and see a gray blur rustling through the forest. Meow, meow. Those meows…sound so familiar. “Cha-Cha? Is that you?” A gray, furry head pops out from the tall grass. Relief washes over me.

Meow, meow. Cha-Cha begins to wander away.

“Hey, Cha-Cha, wait!” I call desperately. I run after her, wading through the shrubby waves. “Cha! Cha!” The gray fur roams farther and farther. “Hey, hey!” The meows grow faint. “HEY, CHA-CHA!” I dash and dodge trees, the shrubs prickling my hands and arms, trying to find Cha-Cha. My gut is telling me to follow her. It’s like the dumb cat has a magnetic pull on me that is irresistible.

Finally, after minutes of trudging — jeez, I need to work out sometime — I catch sight of Cha-Cha grooming herself calmly in the midst of an open, green pasture, as if she didn’t just lead me on a wild goose chase. “My gosh, you rascal,” I growl, “you’re so annoying! You just made me run after you, and… And… And…” I glance at the large building behind her. “And what is this?”

The building is old and scraggly, its wooden bars and paint chipped. Moss and vines cover and swirl around it like streamers. The whitish roof is pointed sharp and high, licking the sky.

It’s…it’s… I think it’s a…

Barn?

A really trashy barn in the middle of a forest — oh, yeah, that seems normal. Actually, it does. I mean, in a town like this, where girls seem to have an issue with people sporting green buttons, cave dwellers give good fashion advice, and cats are totally malicious…who knows?

Cha-Cha, the Evil Malicious Cat, trots inside the barn, like she’s done it countless times before. “No, no, Cha-Cha!” I shout, hurrying after her. “Don’t go in there!” I squeeze through an open crack, avoiding pieces of wood as jagged as a shark’s teeth.

“Mew, mew,” meows Cha-Cha, looking up at me. Oh, God, don’t tell me she’s smiling at me; that goes beyond all logic.

“Go…go…” What — what was that…that sound?

“This…is…bizarre, ” I mutter, slowly swiveling my head around to view the barn. The inside smells musty and mossy, and it is dark, like I slipped into a shadowy abyss. Dead grass and hay are scattered on the ground, and cobwebs linger in every corner.

“Mew, mew,” Cha-Cha seems to agree.

This place is so…amazing. Fascination flows from my fingertips down to my feet. From my chest and up, I feel a warm glow burning. And I don’t know why. It’s as if my body doesn’t know how to react. My brain doesn’t exactly know what to think.

“Mama! They’re coming! ”

“In here, like they told us. ”

My heart pops out from my chest. “Who’s there?” I demand, my eyes darting back and forth.

“Waaah! Waaah! ”

“Shh! ”

I step back and fall into a pile of dead grass. “This isn’t funny!” I shout, on the verge of tears. Is this just me? Is Revenge of the Snide Sycamores really a movie, and is my mind repeating the script?

“Find them! Where are they? Where are those good-for-nothings? ”

SCCCCRAAASH!

I shriek in alarm and flail my arms.

“Meow! Meow!” roars Cha-Cha, anxiously circling my legs and snapping me to attention. “Meow!” She trots out the barn, twisting her head around to see if I’m following.

I slowly let air seep into my lungs and nod. “Y — yeah, okay. I get it, jeez!” Did I just talk to a cat? I look around the barn once more. “This place is just too freaky. We should head home.”

And we do.

 

* * *

 

Cats have really good instincts, apparently. Cha-Cha randomly walked around with me following her, and we arrived home just before eight.

“Did you enjoy your visit to the library, Lea?” asks Gramps around a mouthful of potato.

“Um, no, I didn’t visit the library,” I reply, noting the hint of ice in his voice. What the crap? “I went out for a, um, short walk.” No need for two old people to know that I was far from home.

“And it was pleasurable?” says Gramma, gulping down a glass of water. “Anything interesting?”

I contemplate if I should tell Gramma and Gramps about my discovery. Hmm, their health might be in jeopardy, though. I mean, what if they each have a heart attack? I’ll be the one to blame — can 12-year-old girls be sued? Maybe I’m being illogical. But it is very interesting. What harm could it do?

“Um, naw,” I answer, trying to sound bored. “It was just an ordinary walk. Nothing extraordinary or anything. Especially not anything old or freaky or something! Heh, heh.”

Gramma and Gramps exchange a look.

Cha-Cha looks up at me from the floor, seeming to raise an eyebrow — but she doesn’t have an eyebrow.

Um, did a cat just scold me?

 

 

I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I head to my locker, number 426. Girls point, whisper, and laugh. Guys give each other knowing looks. They all now know about the “fashion-deficient, green-buttoned Yankee Girl” — or “Yankee Idiot”, as Macy prefers to call her. Someone taps my shoulder. I glue a calm smile onto my visage and turn around to face…the guy who spilled his tray on me. “Oh, you,” I say flatly. I turn back around and pull some books out of my gray, metal locker, which I will definitely personalize with some stickers and pictures of my friends. Maybe I’ll look less like a loser that way. So next time Macy walks by me and tries to put me down, I’ll be looking at her like: “Whatev. I have friends waaaaay cooler than you, ya heard?” Maybe I can even snap my fingers and sprinkle in some attitude, like those girls on TV.

“Yeah, me,” he repeats. “So…”

“So what do you want?” I interrupt. Not bothering to wait for an answer, I walk away. That’s what you get, “Addie-poo”.

“Look, I just want to say I’m sorry,” he blurts out, trailing after me.

I stop and face him again. “Aren’t you Macy’s BF?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. He opens his mouth to answer, but I stop him. “Of course you’re sorry. Your evil girlfriend is sorry, too, huh? Yeah, sure, lie to my face. I totally saw you laughing.” I rub my forehead with my free hand. “You know, you totally ruined my chances of making any friends here.” I sniff. “So you and Macy gonna have a celebration-date after this, right? Have fun.” With that, I strut away. I’ve seen enough dramas on TV to know that you should never, never talk with your enemy’s beau.

Someone taps my shoulder again. I whirl around, my face red and my mouth twisted into an angry frown, and roar: “WHAT!”

A nervous, small girl looks up at me. “Um, I was wondering where room 201 is because, um, I’m a sixth-grader and, um, don’t know…and you’re a teacher and you should know…” She fiddles with her fingers. “So, um, where’s room 201, ma’am?” How do I look like a teacher? I’m short. My blouse is inside-out. Not exactly teacher material.

I take in a deep breath and search through my brain, trying to remember where room 201 is. Ah. Room 201: Study Hall, Ms. Turner. I reply as calmly as I possibly can, “Sweetie, I’m no teacher, but go down that hallway and make a right.” The sixth-grade girl nods and scuttles to a small group of girls, talks with them for a few seconds, and they make their way down the hallway together. I feel terrible for the girl — sixth-grade is the toughest year since you’re new to the whole middle-school career. I feel really jealous, too, because she’s got friends. She has no idea how lucky she is. Right now, I’ve got none.

* * *

Fourth period: History/Geography, Mrs. Norris. Fifth period: Art, Ms. Collins. Sixth period: Pre-Algebra, Mrs. Kens. Seventh-period: English, Mr. Quincy. First, how do these classes differ? Well, in History/Geography, people kept tossing notes at the back of my head, several sporting the phrases: “Dumb Yankee!” or “Go back North!” I basically ignored them and pushed the notes off my desk, resulting in an army of scrap paper surrounding my smudged shoes. In Art and in Pre-Algebra everyone ignored me. English…well, simply put: average. Now what do these classes have in common? Well, first, Mr. Jerk was in all of them. And second: every teacher announced their gratitude for Mr. Rodgers donating something. It’s really stupid. And the same, dumb portrait of the same, dumb dude is in every classroom. Those unnaturally white teeth are starting to freak me out, and that caterpillar-mustache feels as if it’s growing and growing each period and, when it can’t grow anymore, will gobble down everyone in the school.

Now it’s my last period: P.E. I see Bianca, Macy, and Trishelle. I never really excelled in P.E. because I’m not very coordinated, but thankfully Mr. Schmidt only hands out our uniforms, assigns us gym lockers, and talks, talks, talks, especially about Rupert Rodgers. Seriously, who is this guy? Still, I don’t have to exercise my butt off or exercise my butt off and embarrass my uncoordinated self in front of Bianca, Macy, and Trishelle.

And Mr. Schmidt is amusing. He speaks like, “A’d lak ta thank Mastar Radgers far gavin’ as tha maney far renavatin’ tha gyam!” Translation: “I’d like to thank Mr. Rodgers for giving us the money for renovating the gym!” Either this guy has a heavy Southern accent or he’s just plain weird.

When P.E. is over and all the students pour out into the hallway, Macy makes a beeline for me. “So, Yankee,” she says with a smile, “I guess we’re in P.E. together.” She wraps her arm around me in a semi-hug. “We’re gonna have lots of fun, I’m sure.”

I almost believe her. Almost. Maybe Macy was hungry, so that’s why she was cranky. Maybe she has that wicked PMS I learned about in Health class last year. Maybe she’s just really moody.

“Won’t we, Trish?” Macy asks Trishelle, who is guzzling down a bottle of water. Hmm. Why is she drinking water when we didn’t even exercise? Maybe she has really dry skin, which seems impossible considering her glowing, smooth face.

“Of course!” shouts Trishelle with a funny little grin, abruptly extending her arms and drenching my skirt in water.

I blink. “Uh,” I mumble, dumbstruck, looking down at the dark, growing spot on my skirt. “Uh.” Great! First my $200 shoes, then my $150 blouse, and now my $100 skirt! These were my most expensive garments in my closet. Not to mention the most damage-attracting! Jeeeeeeez! “Trishelle,” I growl under my breath.

Macy’s eyes widen in mock shock. “Oh, my God, Trish!” she says slowly. “Look at what you’ve doooone! ”

Trishelle pouts, smoothing the front of her shirt. “Look? Yeah, I’m lookin’.” She says in a stage whisper, “But all I see is uuugly. ” She and Macy snicker.

“My God, Macy! Are you really that desperate to get noticed?” demands a voice. Bianca’s voice. She gives me a sympathetic look while at the same time shooting Macy a hard, sharp stare. I’ve gotta hand it to her; that Bianca is talented. She pulls out a tissue from her messenger bag and hands it to me. I pat it on the wet spot and mouth: Thanks. She nods and smiles reassuringly. Maybe Bianca isn’t such a jerk, after all.

“Puh-leeze,” mutters Macy. “It’s not my fault she’s not potty-trained. Seriously! Right, Trish?”

Trishelle shrugs and protests halfheartedly, “It was an accident.” Yeah, right.

“Do you think I’m that stupid?” I argue, thrusting my left hand into my hip. “I mean, you just said that — ”

“Macy!” shouts some guy, sprinting over. Addie-poo, a.k.a. Mr. Jerk, a.k.a. Macy’s boyfriend. Oh, jeez. Oh, God. Can it get any worse?

“Adam!” cries Macy, blinking in surprise. “Hey! What’s up? You know, I think I saw Mrs. Norris actually whispering once. Isn’t that so funny?” She giggles. I guess that is kind of funny, considering that Mrs. Norris has a voice as loud as Desiree’s.

Adam rolls his eyes. “Macy, don’t try to shift the subject. I saw what Trishelle did.” He fires a glare at Trishelle, who looks stunned and mouths: “Accident.” He turns to face me. “Are you okay, Leila?”

I nod, trying to ignore the fact that he totally got my name wrong. I study Adam: his large, hazel eyes are fringed with brown, thick eyelashes. His shiny, brown hair falls just above his eyes, and he’s a few inches taller than me. He’s tall enough that if I wear high heels, I won’t tower above him… And his complexion is really perfect…

Um. Uh. He’s cute.

Wait. What are you thinking, Lea? He’s taken. Besides, it’s not like my parents would let me date, anyway. I would get “distracted from my studies.” If I ever want a Master’s Degree, then I’ll just have to say “buh-bye” to Adam, even though he’s really cute and might be worth it… But wait, this is middle school. Middle school relationships aren’t meant to last. And — and that means that he and Macy might break up! And then he and I can get together… But what would my parents say? Well, I could convince them that middle school relationships can prepare me for a more serious relationship… No. I shake my head. That won’t work.

“Uh, so you’re okay or you’re not?” Adam asks me.

“No, no! I’m fine! Fine as ever!” I paste a large, toothy smile on my face. Almost immediately, I clamp my lips over my teeth. I need to get braces next year, and I just exposed my crooked teeth to The Possible One. Bad move. Before I know it, I blurt out, “I’m good! I’m GREAT! It was an accident, right?” You just got dissed! Bullied! What is wrong with you?

Adam and Bianca give me a confused look. “Seriously?” says Bianca. “You’re just gonna forgive her like that? ” She snaps her fingers across her face.

“It was an accident,” notes Macy, lifting her eyebrows as if to prove a point.

Adam shrugs. “Okay. If you’re okay, Leila, then…okay.” He shuffles out of the gym, shoving his hands in his pockets. Macy and Trishelle run after him, as if they are stuck to him like glue. So, so clingy. Adam will definitely break up with Macy before the end of this month, I’m sure.

“Crap!” shouts Bianca suddenly, who is looking at her cell phone. “My sister’s gonna get so mad at me… I’ve gotta jet, Lea.” She studies me. “So you really are okay?”

I nod and tap my skirt with the damp tissue. “Totally.”

“Hey, wait, what’s your cell number?” she asks me. “You know, just in case another Blitzard comes your way.”

I look at her questioningly. “Blitzards?” I repeat slowly. Taseeyos? Mr. Schmidt and his “a” words? Blitzards? Is there some kind of language here that I need to learn? Like Sicamoorean? I wonder if there’s a course I can take about Sicamoore citizens’ behavior and language and such.

“Macy’s last name is ‘Blitz’,” Bianca explains. “My friends and I call her put-downs ‘Blitzards’.”

I give Bianca the digits as she types them into her phone, and Bianca gives me her number. She swivels around and begins to run up the stairwell but then freezes and gives me a sidelong glance. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that I’m sorry I didn’t sit with you at lunch.” No, I understand. I would have ruined your reputation; you wouldn’t want to be seen with the Yankee Idiot. “I mean,” she continues, “I couldn’t even get to lunch. I have first-period Art, and some dorks had this paint fight…” Bianca shudders. “Not pretty. So I offered to help clean up since Ms. Collins doesn’t have second-period Art. I had to skip lunch.” Her stomach grumbles. “Augh!”

So that’s why! Whoopsies. I smile. “Oh, that’s okay.” Besides, I know the feeling. I’m starving, too. “So I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow?” Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say —

Bianca nods. “Totally.”

Finally. My first friend. Okay, semi-friend, but I’m taking any offers.

“Oh, and nice outfit! You look so mature! And love the bright green button,” adds Bianca enthusiastically. “Quirkiness is key.” She motions to her loopy silver earrings, bright orange scarf, and pink sneakers with rainbow shoelaces. “It’s awesome to dress weirdly. And you’re quirky!” Bianca bolts up the stairs and disappears, screaming, “See ya!”

Um, is that a compliment? Who wants to be quirky? I blush. And Adam totally saw my outfit — and the button! Oh, the minute I get my hands on Cha-Cha… Now that’s not going to be pretty!

When I get the courage to glance inside, the cafeteria is bustling with activity. Girls are chatting away, making faces, or hugging boys. Several boys are tossing a football back and forth, laughing, or giving each other a slap on the back. Each group and clique unfolds itself to me: the jocks and jockettes are gathered in one corner of the cafeteria near the door, laughing and joking; the nerds and dorks are near the front, playing with action figures and seeming to be engrossed in a deep conversation; the brainiacs are near the food, reading books and looking as smart as ever. I smile a little, pleased with the variety of cute boys and cliques, which range from skater dudes to drama queens. And then there’s one group in the far corner of the cafeteria, near very tall, large windows. They are doing the same thing as everyone else — sipping soda, laughing, chatting, and everything else in between — but they look…different. Cool. Their clothes are cool. The way they sit or stand is cool. The boys are cuter, and the girls are prettier and make me more envious. They are cool, and the way people sneak little glances at them and gaze at them jealously makes them cooler. What, well, species are they?

That rare species is the popular crowd. The crowd I want to be a part of in order to be happy here. I take a few more steps into the cafeteria and stand in the very center of it all, hoping to attract some good attention. Instead of the attention I’m craving for, I am rewarded with silence. Everyone freezes, including the girls who were flirting and the boys who were tossing a football. Snapping out of their frozen positions, they dash to their chairs and pretend not to notice me. What the heck…?

Oh, no! Not the green button! It’s just a button, people! Please don’t make a big deal out of it! Darn that Cha-Cha… As I scope out the place for where to sit, feeling eyes boring into my skull, my feet drag themselves across the floor. I contemplate on whether to sit at the popular crowd’s table. This action could either be my social murderer or social savior.

Please let it be my social savior, I beg, feeling like a contestant on one of those bachelorette shows who hopes that the man behind the curtains is tall, dark, and handsome. I decide to sit with a bunch of girls in the popular crowd, their magazine-cover-worthy faces sporting makeup. “Uh, hello,” I say to them, nodding my head in greeting. I add, “Nice weather we’re having, hmm?” hoping small talk will loosen up the situation.

One of the girls, a gorgeous brunette, blinks blankly at me. “I’m sorry, but who are you, ma’am?”

“I’m Lea Cady,” I respond in a cool voice. Need to act cool to be cool, you know.

“Oh, Nina, don’t bother with her,” pipes up a familiar-looking girl with smooth, coffee-colored skin. Her black hair curls around her face. “She ain’t who you think she is. Duh.”

“Hey, aren’t you in my Literary Arts?” I ask her. “You’re Trishelle, right?”

Trishelle rolls her eyes. “Duh. Who doesn’t know my name?”

Nina snickers, her icy blue eyes making me shiver. “So, if you’re not a teacher, what the heck are you doing at our table? Scratch that. What are you doing at the cool table? You’re not cool, and you’re — like — diseasin’ us with your crappy personality.” To herself she mutters, “I totally embarrassed myself by callin’ a brick ‘ma’am’.”

“Excuse me?” I gape at the two girls. The two, very mean girls. Wait…they thought I was a teacher? Do I look like a teacher? “Lea, don’t you think you look like you’re goin’ to court?” Gramma asked me earlier. Huh, I guess cave dwellers can give good fashion advice after all. I mentally compose a note to myself: Accept advice from cave dwellers.

Trishelle giggles. “Oh! Slammed!” She stares at me. “But seriously, you better leave. Your ugly face is disturbin’. Duh.” Nina pats her friend’s back in appreciation. Trishelle beams, like making people feel bad about them makes her feel good.

I open my mouth and allow words to spill out, but none tumble from my lips. Rolling my eyes around, I notice we have an audience.

“Well, well, well,” sniggers a voice leaking with amusement. I turn around to face a pretty redhead wearing jeans and a cute halter-top. She sets her tray — which contains salad, water, and yogurt — down on the table and swings her pin-straight hair over her shoulder. “You’re new, ain’t ya?” An even, white grin flickers on her pale, flawless face that not a pimple or a freckle would dare touch.

“Um, um, yes,” I reply warily, not sure what to make of this girl. “I’m from Michigan.”

All the sweet — if there was any sweet — drains from the girl’s face. A sour smirk pulls at the corners of her lips. “Could tell by your accent. Oh, look, girls,” she snorts. “A Yankee has come down to Sicamoore. Ain’t that cute?”

Trishelle’s face scrunches up. “Ew, smell that, Macy?” After leaning in close to me and taking in a good whiff, she snaps backward, chokes, and pretends to throw up. “Blech! Is that what all Yanks smell like? I almost died.” Trishelle stands up and cups her hands around her mouth, announcing, “Ya hear that, Sicamoore? Lea Cady stinks like poop! Duh.”

The whole lunch table shakes with laughter. Obviously, the girls other than Macy, Trishelle, and Nina are following wannabes — their makeup looks smudged and has “amateur” written all over it. Of course, I’m no makeup expert, but it still shows. Red leaks into my pale cheeks. “But I showered this morning!” I retort. This is, of course, false. I didn’t technically shower, but close enough, right?

“Oh, looky here!” exclaims Nina, following suit. She plucks my collar with her thumb and index finger. Her voice scales higher and higher, her amused eyes crinkling. “The Yankee knows how to dress! If that ain’t the most amazin’ thing I’ve ever seen, what is?”

“What an interestin’ Yankee,” giggles Trishelle. “But it’s pretty stupid that she’s tryin’ to pose as a teacher.” It was unintentional!

“Yankee Girl!” the jocks chant mockingly. “Yankee Girl!”

I brush a tear away with the back of my hand. Is this really happening? Am I in a nightmare?

Macy, flipping her hair, sighs. “Those jocks are so immature,” she mutters under her breath. “Yankee Girl — psssh. More like Yankee Idiot.” She grins. “But seriously…Lira, is it?”

“It’s Lea,” I whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks. In my head I keep thinking, Jerks, jerks, jerks. I want to leave, but my legs are stiff, as if I’m frozen in a block of ice. Melt, ice! Melt!

“Lee-yuck,” enunciates Macy, thrusting her right fist into her hip. She raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow at me and smirks. “This is how I treat Yanks who are dumb enough to sit at my table in my seat.” She bends down to my level and is so close I think her long eyelashes are brushing against mine. Ick. “So are ya gonna be a dumb Yankee or a dumber Yankee?” Jerks, jerks, jerks. I raise my hand to pull her hair, but then I think this through. Pull her hair? Really? Am I in kindergarten? No!

“Yeah, after all, Yankees can be nothin’ but dumb,” pipes up Nina. Jerks, jerks, jerks.

Macy shoots up and growls, “Shut up, Nina! You totally ruined my threat scene!” Jeez. A drama queen? Macy fixes her cold, dark green-eyed stare on me and scowls. “So what’s your decision, fashion-deficient, green-buttoned Yankee?” So the button was part of the problem! Augh! Jerks, jerks, jerks.

I silently snatch my tote bag and, before I can jump out of my — er, Macy’s — seat, Nina pushes me off. A plastic tray hits me hard on the chest, spaghetti and grape soda smearing my blouse. “Oh, my God,” a boy’s voice says. “Oh, my God, I…” The cafeteria erupts with laughter and interrupts the boy as I scramble to my feet and search for tables to sit at, but my tears blur my vision. Jerks, jerks, jerks.

Macy coos, “Oh, Addie-poo, I’m so glad you’re my boyfriend! Thanks for addin’ to the drama, Addie-poo! We’re totally gonna have a celebration-rendezvous after this!” Macy runs over to a boy and wraps him in a hug. Do I see him, her, and everyone else laughing? Laughing at me? Shouldn’t the lunch aids or lunch ladies be doing something about this? Jerks! Jerks! Jerks!

“You suck, Yankee Girl!” Pardon?

“Get outta here!” Excuse me?

I scurry out of the sacred Room, sobbing and gasping in air, my tote bag banging against my thighs. Why is this school so mean? Mom promised me friends and that I’d have a good time, but currently I am the laughingstock and mocking target of the whole school! Then I remember something. “Lunch’s next for me. See ya there?” That’s what Bianca said. But where was she? She could have stuck up for me, but I didn’t see her! Was she laughing along with everyone else? What a…meanie! I wanted to be her friend but not anymore. The halls are empty with abandoned pencils and scrap paper rolling on the shiny floor, but I find a safe sanctuary where I can take refuge: the Girls’ Restroom.

I run inside a stall, lock it, and sit on the toilet seat cover. Is something in the water here? Why are the people here so cruel and heartless? Maybe some food will make me feel better. I rummage around in my tote bag, looking for my lunch, but then it strikes me like a baseball pitched to a batter. Oh, Lea, why did you have to be such an idiot? I forgot to get my lunch in the fridge. I’ve been embarrassed, humiliated, and now I’m starving. I skipped breakfast and now lunch. I didn’t even bring any money! The tears flow. My collar gets wet. My bawls are so loud I can hear them echoing in the empty restroom. “God, what are you trying to tell me?” I murmur to myself, shakily tilting my head back to look at the ceiling.

Brrzp! Brrzp! Something in my tote vibrates. I rifle through and see that my cell phone is glowing. It says I have a new text message:

 

Hope ur smiling! We r! <3 ily x 100000… ~*~> Kath <~*~

 

Attached to the text is a picture of three smiling girls’ heads. I recognize them instantly. The one with large, brown eyes and brown hair pulled into two, thick braids: Josephine. The one with dark blue eyes and short, blond hair: Desiree. And the one in the center, with thin, almond eyes and long black hair: Kath. I text back:

 

Am now. I luv u guys! --Lea

 

I step out of the stall and glance at my reflection in the mirror. Locks of hair made damp from my tears stick to the side of my face, my once-tidy bun looks sloppy, and there are stains on my white blouse. I pull off my blouse, blot it, turn it inside out, and slip it back on. The stains are barely noticeable — out of sight, out of mind, right? I study my face, which is as red as a tomato, and my eyes look swollen.

Kath, Josie, and Des would say I look beautiful. I think so, too — well, at least beautiful enough. I mean, so what if I was totally burned out there? So what? Well, the chances of you being popular are slim, a glum voice adds in the back of my head. Okay, yes, there’s that. But what else? The chances of you finding friends are slim. Sure, okay! But that’s it, right? The chances of you surviving Sicamoore Middle School are slim. Oh, shut up! I, Lea Rose Cady, fear nothing and no one! I, Lea, have no fears! Me + total mortification = never!

When third period is over and the halls are lively once more, I run into Bianca.

“Hey, what’s up?” she says with a large smile. “Sorry I didn’t sit with you at lunch ’cause, you know, you…”

I push past her without a word; I don’t want to waste my time with lowlifes like her.

“Um, okay,” she calls after me. “See you later!”

I’d rather see you never, Bianca. Never.

Brrrng!

“Heellooo,” greets a large, wide man with a brown buzz cut and dark fuzz peeking from underneath his nose as I step into the Science lab. Each person is in his or her seat, looking me up and down. Hmm. This school is large for such a small town. “And yooou are…?”

“Lea Cady,” I reply. When he gives me a quizzical look, I add, “I’m a new student.” What is it with these looks everyone has been giving me? Is it the green button? The people at this school seriously overreact.

The man raises a furry eyebrow that resembles a stretched-out tarantula. “Indeeed,” he says, his words stretched like a rubber band. “I’m Mr. Moootts. I didn’t see you at the TASIO several weeks baaack.”

“Pardon?” The “taseeyo”? What the heck is that?

Mr. Motts sighs. “The Teacher-And-Stuuudent Introduuuction Orientation.” TASIO. Odd. He clears his throat. “Nooow, I would liiike to introduce you tooo the rest of the class. I have seen theeem at the TASIO, even the neeew students.” Jeez, this guy is mean. “Class, this is Miss Leila Caaarey.” Excuse me? Miss Leila Carey?

“Excuse me, but — ” I pipe up.

“Excuuuuse you, indeeeed!” harrumphs Mr. Motts. “I am speaking, and interruuuuptions are intoleraaable, Miss Carey.”

“But my name — ”

“Troublemaker, aaare you? Nooot in my class!” rumbles Mr. Motts, narrowing his eyes. Troublemaker? Me? I was like a teacher’s pet at my old school, even though my grades weren’t sensational or anything. He stabs the air with a dry-erase marker. “Find a seat, Miss Caaarey, and knooow that I have myyy eye on youuu.”

“Yes, sir.” My hands are clammy as I walk around without direction and sit down, placing my binder, notebook, and pencil case on the smooth, new-looking stainless steel lab table. In fact, everything in this room looks new, from the glossy whiteboards to the new laptops in one corner of the classroom. Weird, especially since this town is 200 years old. I glance at the thin girl who is sitting next to me, who gives me a small grin. Her dark hair is stylishly messy, her pink sundress goes well with her creamy, caramel skin, and she is doodling in a notebook. Be brave, Lea. You’ve seen girls do this on TV all the time. Maybe I’ll make a friend. I scribble in the corner of my notebook:

What’s this guy’s problem???

I push the notebook towards the girl. She doesn’t look up, but scrawls something on my notebook. In seconds she shoves it with her elbow as she flips her hair. Surprised that she replied so quickly, I read the green-glitter-gel message:

My cousin said he’s rough around the edges. Supposedly, he’s cool. You’re not “Leila Carey”, are you?? What’s your name?

I’m Lea. And you are…?

Bianca. :) :) Nice to meet you. Quit the notes. Mr. Mott’s coming this way.

She’s right. Mr. Motts is reading the class syllabus off of a clipboard and drifts to our lab table. His voice rises as he says, “…And trouble will nooot be aaabided in my class…” Blah, blah, blah…

Ugh, when will this torture end? The teacher is very strict and has a drawl in his voice, which makes his class sound boring. He burrs on and on about the class rules, which are posted on the wall, how you must always treat someone with dignity and respect, and blah, blah, blah… “Oh, yeees!” he exclaims suddenly. “I would like to thank Mr. Ruuupert Roodgers of Roodgers’ Big Bucks Incooorporated for his geeenerous donaaation to the school’s Science fuuund. Thanks to him, we have new laaab tables and equiiipment.” That would explain the tables. Mr. Motts gestures to a large portrait of a handsome man baring his unnaturally white teeth and twining the tip of his mustache around his finger. His furry, dark mustache looks like a black caterpillar hiding beneath his nose.

Brrrng!

Finally! I can escape from this boring class. “Lunch is next for me. See ya there?” Bianca asks, smiling.

“Oh, yeah! Uh, totally!” I stammer. I add coolly, “I mean, sure, whatev.” She talked to me! She offered me a seat at her table! Well, she implied that she would save me a seat at her table or something, so that counts. I give her a small wave as I collect my books and my tote bag. Students flood into the halls, making it almost impossible to reach my third period: lunch. Apparently, no one in these halls other than Bianca has third period lunch since most of the people are streaming in the opposite direction I am headed. It’s hard to move against the flow; I get bonked on the head by a backpack and someone steps on my shoe, leaving a scuffmark on the toe. My very expensive shoe has been smudged! I will not stand for this!

“Hey, you! Stop!” I shout above the noise and squeaks of shoes. “The guy in the orange sneakers!”

A small, scruffy boy freezes. I walk up to him. A boy turns to face me. It’s obvious he is a sixth-grader because his cheeks look pudgy and only very few pimples rest on his face. That, and the marker on his forehead reads: “SIXTH-GRADERS RULE!” His friend stands next to him, looking up at me. “Ye — yes?” stammers the scruffy sixth-grader, cowering in apprehension.

“You left a mark on my $200 shoes,” I answer, tightening the grip on my tote. “Next time, be more careful, all right? You’re not supposed to run in the halls, anyway! Okay?” I admit I’m being a little over-the-edge, but my shoes are $200 for Pete’s sake! My parents will kill me if they find out what happened to my shoes.

Scruffy Boy’s head shifts up and down. “Y — yes, muh…ma’am. Won’t happen again.”

“Good.” I whirl around and march down the hall, but not before I hear this:

“Dude, you are so lucky… My sister told me about her… She’s the one…super-strict…”

Huh. Awkward. My eyes briefly rest on my copy of the school map, even though I already memorized it the minute I got my hands on it. Hmm. Right now I’m on the second floor, and The Room is on the first. First, I should take a right, then left, then straight…before I know it, I’m there. The two, large doors concealing The Room seems to give off a golden glow. I stare in awe, the events of today erasing from my memory. The Room has that effect on people and is very sacred, for it determines my fate at Sicamoore Middle School.

The Room is the cafeteria.

If I mess up this first lunch, I will permanently be stuck with the title “Dorkess Lea Cady” or so immature nickname a bunch of dumb boys will come up with. I push open the two doors and stick one foot inside, ready to confront my destiny.

I have no idea what to wear.

It’s 7:30. School starts at 8:15 a.m.—and I have nothing to wear! Okay, that is an exaggeration. I do have things to wear. But what? What? I take a few steps back and examine the contents of my two closets. Maybe I could wear the navy pleated skirt with the yellow blouse… No. Perhaps the khaki dress I got for my birthday a few months back… No. Oh, things were so much easier at my elite, all-girls private school that I attended for the past few years. My wardrobe A.M.A.—Ante Move to Arkansas—mainly consisted of a boring uniform of black or navy blazers and suits, besides some splashes of color like jeans and tees. Now that I am attending a public school, Mom and I “went wild”—as she would call it—on a shopping spree as we tried to get more color into my wardrobe.

Aha! I know the perfect thing to wear: a white silk, puff-sleeved blouse with a pretty collar and embroidery, a charcoal gray pencil skirt, and black pointed-toe shoes with a low heel. Accessories: turquoise earrings and bangles. Ooh, it will match so perfectly with the stone gray leather tote bag Mom bought for me. My outfit is not too casual and not too proper. At least, I hope so.

I neatly place my outfit on my made bed, peel off my clothes, grab a small plastic bucket, and jump into the bathtub. See, the trick to a quick bath is to fill the small plastic bucket and dump it on you like a regular shower would do. Sort of. Because of my nervousness today, I lather my hair, rinse, and repeat. Then conditioner. When done, I wrap towels around my body and my hair and step into my bedroom, ready to be the belle of the halls…

Oh, no. Where’s my blouse? It was right here on my bed, and now it’s GONE!

“Little Lea?” shouts Gramps from downstairs. “Sorry to sound rude, but please hurry up!”

I begged Gramps yesterday to drive me to school. Just for the first few days, so my nervousness will wear away by the end of the week. “Almost done!” Liar. I scope the closets, underneath my bed, my desk, and even the wastebasket. So far, nada. Oh, it’s 7:40!

Meow. Meow. Grr! I know those meows! I follow the source of the meowing, which leads me inside the bathroom and in my hamper. I lift the lid, uncovering Cha-Cha with my blouse. “You little rascal, snatching away my blouse like it’s nothing!” I growl as I snatch my beloved blouse. “What are you doing in here, anyway?” Cha-Cha climbs out of the hamper, scampering out of my room. Good riddance. I examine my blouse to see if there is any damage.

AHH! OH, NO! There’s a button missing! That little rat! Or cat. Or whatever! There has to be some stray buttons somewhere around here! Luckily, I find one under the bed, and even a sewing kit! I snatch a needle, white thread, and scissors. Okay, first you put thread through the little holes…

“Little Lea!” calls Gramps. “It’s 7:49!”

“Okay!” I shout back. “Hurrying!” Okay, so sew through the holes of the button…and a few extra times just in case…and done! I pull the blouse over my head, shimmy into the skirt, slip on stockings, and put on my shoes. In the full-length mirror in the bathroom, I examine my reflection, starting from bottom to top. Not too bad… Ahh! Oh, no! I was focusing so much on the time that I didn’t realize the button was bright green! No, no, no! I snip the button off with scissors and search for a white button. No luck. I sew the green button back on.

“Lea, it’s already 8:01! The school’s fifteen minutes away, and you haven’t even eaten breakfast!”

I run down the stairs while brushing my unruly chestnut curls and scraping them into a bun. Breakfast is set on the table—orange juice, cheese sandwich, and apple slices—but I decide to skip breakfast. “Lea, darlin’! Don’t waste,” rambles Gramma, sounding like she’s lecturing like she has to and not because she wants to. “It’s sinful, yessir, the Lord won’t be pleased.”

“I’m going to be late,” I tell her. “Bye!”

“All right,” says Gramma, surrendering. “Your lunch is in the fridge. Very special meal for you, yep, noodle soup with eggs, rice, a slice of chocolate cake… Your mother would love that meal when she was your age…”

There’s a fridge here? No wonder the juice was always cold! But where is it? “Where’s the fridge?” I query.

Gramma gives me her are-you-serious look. “You never knew? In there.” She points to a door to the right of the sink.

So that wasn’t a coat closet? I jog towards the door and open it, unveiling a room that contains an old, yellowish-white refrigerator, a small stove oven, and a large window. Oh, finally, something modern-ish!

“Lea! 8:06!”

I rush out of the fridge-closet, out the front door, and into the driveway where Gramps is waiting for me in his jalopy. “Lea, wait!” Gramma runs after me. “Don’t you think those clothes are a little, well… Don’t you think you look like you’re goin’ to court? Why don’t you go change?”

Ugh, like I’m going to take fashion advice from a cave dweller, especially one who is wearing a tattered T-shirt and a stained paisley skirt. “No, Gramma, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I know what’s in.” The day is perfect: a slight breeze, grass as green as my button, the sky as vast as the open prairie, and the sun shining proudly. I step into the car and give Gramma a wave. Off to school!

 

*          *          *

Sicamoore Middle School is…wow. It’s so…wow. I clutch my tote bag and survey the school campus. The tan building bricks gleam in the bright daylight, kids are streaming out of the doors of yellow buses, and tall American sycamore trees sway in the breeze.

“Good luck, Little Lea!” cries Gramps, sticking his head out the window. Toot, toot, toot! He speeds away after one last wave. We made it here just in time, even though Gramps had to put the pedal to the metal. It’s 8:15 sharp. The school is probably laid-back on the first day since there is a line of buses still loaded with kids.

A shiver of anxiety and enchantment ripples through my body. I take one brave step after another through the large doors of the school, nervous about the fate that waits for me inside those walls.

Eyes. I feel the movement of eyes follow my every footstep. Well, whatever. Lea Rose Cady fears nothing and nobody! “Eek!” I screech at the top of my lungs. A large spider dangles right in front of my face, seeming to stare me down with those eight, evil eyes. A group of smirking girls stares at me, probably thinking: Is that girl for real? Oh, my gosh! They must think I am so stupid because of my green button! I escape the hallway to avoid further staring and smirking.

I think I already know my status on the Social Scale: dork.

 

*          *          *

First period: Literary Arts.

“Class, I would like to introduce the newest girl to our school,” announces perky Mrs. Neal. She places her hands on my shoulders and flashes me a smile as yellow as a stoplight but as warm as her heart. Her smile looks odd, like it’s masking something.

The twenty boys and girls whisper to one another. I laugh nervously. “Uh, so—like—what’s up, everybody? Is—like—the first day of school—like—exciting or what?” Could I be more of an idiot? When no one says anything, I play with my collar and whisper, “Um, I’m Cady Lea, uh, I mean Lea Cady. Hi, everyone.” Silence. Oh, my God, it must be my green button! Dang, you, Cha-Cha! “Um, are the classes always this small?”

Some dude replies, “Like your brain? No, just first period Literary Arts!” Mrs. Neal shoots the boy a sharp stare.

Um, you mean like your brain, Mr. I’m-way-cool?

“And where are you from, Lea?” asks Mrs. Neal, throwing me a lifesaver.

“M—Michigan…” I croak. I add quickly, “My parents are on a business trip to Europe, so they let me stay with my grandparents, Roselyn and Henry Stanton.” Please find this interesting.

“So—like—they—like—abandoned you?” shouts a voice from the back, imitating my stammering. An undulation of laughter waves throughout the classroom.

Mrs. Neal frowns. “Class, please. This behavior has zero-tolerance.” She points to an empty seat and smiles at me. “Sit next to Sunnie McCheer over there, Lea.”

Staring at my feet and clutching my binder to my chest, I briskly walk to the seat. Looking up, I face a tall, tough-looking girl. She has short, cropped black hair, earrings and black stubs are pierced into her ears, and her face is smeared with black eye shadow, heavy black mascara, and black lipstick.  Printed in white, block letters on her black T-shirt are the words: I AM A POCKETFUL OF SUNSHINE. “Why you starin’ at me?” she growls. “You got a lot of attitude, Lay.”
                "It's, um, it's Lea."

“Whatever!”

Sinking in my seat, I stare at Sunnie’s shirt. Can you spell I-R-O-N-I-C?

Juleye 1863

I have ben getting closer to Rebecca Toughman these last few days..  Maybe she’s fakig her liking of me.  Rebecca may be one of the prettyest girls I’ve ever seen and the nicest.  She’s teh nicest girl on the whole Toughman plantation.  I wonder what Mrs. Toughman will think of her and me being friends.  Maybe, as Dug said, she wil get a “whuppin’”.!   Maybe I’ll get whipped.

This summer is the best summer in a long time.  I have a frend.  Sissy’s surprisinglee staying healthy, despite the little food they give us.  If only Papa could see me now, me being sweet on one of my masters children.  Papa would probablee whup me good with his own two hands! 

I set down my feather pen, pleased with how better at writin’ I’m gettin’. Not that I have nothin’ else to say, but that I don’t want to waste the ink Rebecca had graciously given me. I remember it clearly — it was a few days ago:

“What’s that, Sam?” asked Rebecca, pointin’ to my dictionary in my hands. We were both sittin’ on a bale of hay, swingin’ our legs back and forth. It was dark, and we were gazin’ at the stars.

I squirmed uncomfortably. “Oh, this thing? Just some stupid book.” I forced a laugh.

Rebecca stared at me, wide-eyed. “You like to read.” It wasn’t a question.

“I read whenever I can.”

Then Rebecca smiled her pretty, toothy smile and nodded her head. I took that as a: “Me too.” “You like to learn?” she asked.

“I suppose.”

We just sat there for a while, sayin’ no words, until she broke the silence. “Sam, how would you like it if I teach you?”

I gaped at her in disbelief. “Teach me? Teach me what?”

“Oh, everythin’!” she replied excitedly. “Or, at least everythin’ ’bout writin’ and readin’. Ohh, I’ve always wanted to be a teacher! If my nurse plan doesn’t work out, that is.”

I shook my head. “Don’t suppose that’d be the wisest idea. Master Tuffman won’t approve.”

“Oh, posh!” giggled Rebecca. “Is that what you’re worried ’bout?”

I remained silent. I knew about slaves back at Master Thompson’s. They were eager to learn, and one slave, John, would teach other slaves how to read and write. Then Master Thompson found out. Don’t suppose John, nor the exposed slaves, were punished lightly.

Rebecca suddenly turned serious. “So that is what you’re worried ’bout. Well, don’t worry. I’ll take care of everythin’. Here.” She pushed something round into my hand.

“What is it?” I couldn’t see so well in the dark.

“Ink. I always keep an extra bottle in my pocket.” She grinned. “First lesson: write a composition using as many words as you can in that book of yours. Subject: Why I’m so great. Okay?”

“Yes.” I smiled in appreciation. “Thanks so much, Rebecca.”

She laughed. “How many times have you said that already?”

I laughed, too. “Only twice!”

Waaah!

I jump, startled, as I’m yanked out of my thoughts. Waaah! Waaah! Sissy. “Shh, shh,” I say to my sister, who’s tossin’ and turnin’. I lie next to her and her straw bed, which is near the gentle fire. Pattin’ her back soothingly, I sing softly, hopin’ my sister’s favorite song will lull her to sleep, “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to take me home…” Sissy sleepily blinks her eyes. “Swing low, sweet chario-o-ot…comin’ for to ta-a-ake me-e-e ho-o-o-ome…” A smile appears on Sissy’s face before she closes her eyes and sleeps soundly. I glance over at Mama, who is breathing slowly. She’s asleep, too.

It’s time to visit Rebecca again.

* * *

“This is a good composition, Sam,” says Rebecca. “And, you know, I was funnin’ ’bout your composition havin’ to be about why I’m so great. I’m not so great, after all.”

“Well…” But you are great, Rebecca. “How can you even read with no lamp?”

“I can just feel that it’s good.” She smiles playfully. “That’s what makes me so great.” We share a laugh, and everything is silent. The stars are twinkling brightly. Rebecca leans back and faces me, tilting her head down so that her hair falls over her shoulder. She murmurs, “Sam, I like your face.”

My face suddenly turns warm, partially out of pleasure and embarrassment. “You — you do?” Why, I am bein’ sweet on my master’s daughter. Or rather, my master’s daughter is bein’ sweet on me!

Rebecca nods. “Mm-hmm. You remind me of my father.”

I almost choke, not knowing whether to be pleased or horrified. “I remind you of Master Tuffman?” My arch-enemy?

She stares at me, her mouth wide open. “I — you — what? You think Uncle Barry is my father?”

“Um…isn’t he?”

“No!” answers Rebecca, her voice risin’. “Why do you think I disapprove of his ways? I was brought up differently!”

“Oh.” What is she doin’ with Mr. Tuffman? “Why are you livin’ with Master Tuffman, then?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Somethin’ wrong?” I prod.

“N — no,” she stutters shakily. “Just th — that…” I feel something lie on my shoulder and smell Rebecca’s hair. She’s shaking, and my sleeve becomes damp.

“Um… Rebecca?” A little-bitty part of me hopes that somethin’ is wrong, so Rebecca keeps confidin’ in me and leanin’ on my shoulder. “Somethin’ is wrong.”

“Yes,” she sobs. “I just… I miss my mother and father.”

“Why? What happened to ’em?”

Apparently, it takes Rebecca a lot of strength to say this one word: “Died.”

Unlike other times, the silence ain’t so pleasant. The air feels thick and tense, like somebody is squeezin’ the whole state of Louisiana. The stars look dull, as if the light has been drained out of them. “How?” I ask, mostly to keep the conversation goin’, maybe comfort Rebecca.

“Fu — fu — father served as a colonel,” replies Rebecca between hushed sobs, “and Ma —ma — mother a nurse. I suppose all the heat and disease — not to mention the battlefield — spread to them, and they both…you know. So my brothers enrolled, hopin’ to make ’em proud; although, I never expected my brothers to be on different sides.” She takes in a shaky breath. “Then Aunt Agnes, my father’s sister, graciously took me in. Uncle Barry… Well, let’s just say he could live without me and my ‘nonsense’.” A small smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Aunt Agnes is the only Tuffman I can stand ’cause she’s neutral, too.”

“Really?” I can’t stand any of ’em, but I’ve never met this Agnes. “How come I’ve never seen her?”

Rebecca waves her hand. “Oh, she’s in the kitchen most of the time. When Uncle Barry isn’t around, she likes to smuggle some food to the helpers. She’s such an angel, that aunt of mine, although she would definitely disapprove of me bein’ a nurse.” She adds this last part ominously, “She doesn’t want me to take ill, like my parents.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be a nurse if you’d take ill,” I tell her.

Rebecca smiles her angel smile again. “I’ll be careful,” she promises. She rolls off the bale of hay and onto the ground, lyin’ on her belly. I roll down next to her. “Sam, your first test: What’s your Papa like?”

And I go into a very long, detailed explanation about Papa: his strength, his courage, his kindness… All the traits of my papa that I hope — and wish — I have. At the mention of each trait, a small tear forms in the corners of my eyes, but I don’t want to break down in front of Rebecca. That’d be un-manly and un-Papa of me. Papa never cried, at least not in front of people.

Oh, how I miss Papa.

As Rebecca and I talk, I make up somethin’ in my mind. Soon, Papa, I’m gonna leave this plantation, no matter how much I risk, the danger, or if I’ll get killed — all so I can search for you.

“Faster, mule! Faster!” The sound of a whip and evil giggles crackle in the air.

I heave. The bars of wood feel rough, and stray splinters creep their way into my skin. The Louisiana heat gives me a headache. “You’re all too heavy,” I mutter. The kids, who are piled in the small cart, are all very pudgy and lazy.

“Yah, mule! Yah!” screeches the oldest of the children in the cart, a 7-year-old named Doug. “Move your butt!” When I rest for just one second, Doug slashes me with his whip. It’s a smaller whip, and I’m guessin’ it was made especially for him because it doesn’t hurt as much as a regular whip does. But it still hurts. I wince in pain, but Doug slashes away at my back. And now I listen and move, pullin’ the cart forward and tryin’ to ignore the pain.

“This ain’t fun!” mutters one of the children, a 6-year-old girl named Martha.

“Yeah! Ain’t fun at all!” agrees Martha’s twin sister, Patty.

“Fatter!” cries the youngest named George. Guess he meant to say, “Faster!”

I try to pull the cart a little faster. I can’t give the most thrillin’ ride, but I’m tryin’ my best. George, who seems pleased enough, claps his hands and laughs as drool drips from his mouth.

Martha orders, “Sound like a real mule! Go ‘hee-haw’!”

Doug scoffs, “That’s stupid. Pam ain’t no mule. ’Xcept in looks and personality, ’course.”

I retort, surprised at my darin’, “It ain’t ‘Pam’, Doug. It’s Sam.”

Doug glares at me. “You sassin’ me, Sammy boy? And what’d I tell you to address me as?” He cracks his miniature whip.

“I’m sorry, Duke Tuffman,” I reply, grittin’ my teeth.

Doug folds his arms across his chest. “You didn’t hee-haw!” Each word he spits is filled with rage, as if not hee-hawin’ is a very sinful action and I am a stupid slave. What should I do? Act like a fool and hee-haw, or be wise and hee-haw? Ain’t many options to choose from.

“Hee-haw!” I pull the cart faster, gasping in long, large breaths. Pullin’ the cart in circles is difficult. “Hee-haw!”

The children whoop. I almost wish I could be out in the field workin’ right next to Mama, even though she has to work from five in the mornin’ to eight in the evenin’ with barely any breaks in between. Her work ranges from pickin’ produce to darnin’ socks. The Tuffmans never waste time and make sure their slaves are always busy, busy, busy. Ever since Mama, Sissy, and I arrived here a few months back, the Tuffmans made sure we were busy right away. They apparently don’t care what the slaves are doin’ as long as they’re doin’ somethin’. Like me. I’m entertainin’ little kids. After awhile, I stop, too tired to continue. Thankfully, the kids are laughin’ too hard to tell me to keep on goin’.

“Look at them fools,” remarks Ana, the 9-year-old of the Tuffman children who tries to act like an adult, her head bent towards her friend. Ana’s sittin’ on a bale of hay, playin’ with her corn shuck doll. She continues, “They’re actin’ foolish, aren’t they, Kirsten?”

“Very,” agrees Kirsten. “It’s irrational.” I mentally recall a definition from my dictionary — Irrational: utterly unreasonable.

“Yes,” says Rebecca, the sweet 11-year-old of the Tuffman children, shakin’ her head. “If your pa’s gonna have slaves, he might as well give practical chores and their fair share!” Ah, Rebecca, with her curls…

“Mule!”

Her pretty smile…her compassion…

“Mule!”

How she thinks we slaves should have our fair share…

“MULE!” Something slashes against my back. Once. Twice. An acute pain surges through my body. I feel warm blood trickle down my back, mixing with dirt and sweat.

“Aughh! ” Dirt squeezes between my fingers as I fall on my knees, wincing in pain.

Children’s laughter stabs in the air. “That’s what you get for tryin’ my patience, boy!” growls Doug.

“Doug!” says a voice oozing with anger. A soft, smooth pair of hands grabs my arm and helps me stand up. I struggle and finally manage to stand, but I’m not shaking ’cause I’m injured. ’Cause it’s Rebecca who’s helpin’ me. “Why are you treatin’ the helper like that — when he’s helpin’ you?”

Everyone, even George, laughs at Rebecca. “Helpin’ the slaves!” mumbles Ana. “Callin’ ’em ‘helpers’! Ridiculous.”

“Very,” agrees Kirsten. “It’s irrational.”

Doug shakes his head in disapproval. “Savin’ slaves! You earn a whuppin’!”

Rebecca stares at her brothers and sisters. “Well! Helpers are human beings, too.” She flashes me a sympathetic look, leading me away. “I’m sorry for my siblings’ behavior.”

I nervously lick my lips that are as dry as the droughty dirt beneath my feet. “Nothin’ to be sorry ’bout, ma’am.”

Rebecca studies me as she lets me rest near a water pump. “You look like a smart boy. You and I know there’re lots of things to be sorry about,” she says sadly. She pulls out a handkerchief and uses it as a rag, wipin’ my wounds. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Sam.”

She smiles as she tenderly dabs my back. “Rebecca.” Not like I don’t already know that.

“Thanks so much.” I sigh in content. The damp rag feels cool against my back.

“Feel free to have a drink,” offers Rebecca. I cup my hands, and Rebecca pumps some water into them. She laughs to herself. “My goodness, I feel like Clara Barton.” Her eyes sparkle, which makes her look even prettier than usual.

“Clara Barton?” I repeat, confused. “Dunno ’bout her.”

Suddenly, Rebecca’s face turns grave. “She’s my idol. Promise not to tell.”

“Won’t tell a soul.” I really won’t. Is this Clara Barton a spy or somethin’?

Rebecca giggles, erasing her solemnity. “If she heard me, she’d call me disloyal,” she murmurs to herself. Who is “she”? Clara Barton? “Miss Barton’s a nurse for the Yanks. She’s the angel of the battlefield.”

“That’s right,” I pipe up. “I almost forgot about the war.”

She leans in and whispers, “Soon, I’m gonna be a nurse, no matter what. The War Between the States has to end!” Rebecca leans back and closes her eyes. “I just want my older brothers back. One’s a Yankee, and one’s a Johnny Reb, as the Yanks call ’em.”

I look at her quizzically. “So you’re…?” I couldn’t stand if she was a Reb and wanted slavery.

“Neutral,” answers Rebecca promptly, tugging at her braids. “I’d just rather be a nurse for the Union, though. Feels like it’s my duty, y’know?”

“Yeah,” I agree, swallowing around a lump in my throat, “like with my Mama and babe sister. Papa told me to watch over ’em right before he was sold. I swore to him that I would. That’s why I’m here with ya right now.” Did I really just say that? To Rebecca?

She simply nods her head. “That’s so…brave.” Me? Brave? Well, I suppose I’m brave, but…

“Mule!”

Hesitantly, I stand up. “I better go.”

Rebecca frowns and grabs my hand. “No, you don’t have to. Let me reason with them first.”

“Mule!"

Sadly, I shake my head. “Nah, they wouldn’t listen to ya.”

Rebecca seems to agree. “Well, yes, I suppose they do disapprove of me. But…” She gazes at me miserably. “Sam, stay.”

“Mule! Get your butt over here! ”

I turn around and jog toward the children. Rebecca trails after me. “Meet me at nightfall, then,” she speaks softly. “By the barn. I want to talk to you again.”

Rebecca wants to see me again? I try to stay nonchalant. “Okay.” When I have to entertain the evil children again, they can’t peel the smile off my face. It stays pasted there for the whole day.

 

My grandparents decided that I don’t need to do the daily chores as often as they do. They suggested that I can help in the afternoon, when they insist, or if I feel like it. I’m guessing that they sensed my extreme fatigue.

It’s Saturday, late in the morning. My grandparents take a break on the weekends, except they still collect eggs, milk the cows, and feed the animals. We’re all in the living room: Gramma is studying a Bible, Gramps is examining a newspaper, and I’m curled up on the couch reading a book: Lord of the Sunrise by Willis Bolding. My thoughts drift to my laptop. “Hey, Gramma, does anyone here have Internet connection?”

My grandmother replies, “Internet? I’m not sure what that is, but maybe the library has it. It’s only a couple of miles away.” This is followed by a pleasant silence, besides the turning of pages. There is small chitchat between Gramma and Gramps.

I’m dying to know something. Before I know it, this tumbles out of my mouth, “Gramma? Gramps? Why didn’t my mother mention the farm to me before? I mean, I never knew there was a farm here before I came!” I don’t know why I want to know this. I just want to know everything.

My question is returned by stony silence. Finally, Gramps answers, “She didn’t? Well, a family moved here from the North a long time ago… Rosie became best friends with the family’s sweet daughter. They spent every minute together. I don’t think I ever saw ’em apart. But, uh, then again, we rarely saw ’em. They were always spendin’ time together at the northern girl’s house.”

Gramma picks up, “Our Roseanne probably got so sick of the South that she wanted an adventure. The minute she graduated high school, she enrolled in a university up north. She barely visited.” Gramma chokes up a little. She runs her finger under her eye like she’s wiping away a tear.

So Mom wanted to leave her Southern life behind and try not to remember any of it? She kept almost half of my life away from me? That’s harsh, even though I probably would have done the same thing. I mean, this place, well, sucks. I miss Michigan, with my friends, my modern home, and no Hillary, Mandy, or Cha-Cha! The rest of the late morning is stiffly silent. So is lunch. Will the silence ever be broken?

 

* * *

 

Gramps offers to take me to the library. I accept, hoping that there is Internet connection at the library, and we drive downtown. Surprisingly, the library looks somewhat modern: red bricks, “Sicamoore Public Library” in white letters embossed on the front, and even a beautiful flower garden around the walkway to the library. And, of course, American sycamore trees encircle the building. I think sycamore trees are popular here. “Wow, this place looks great,” I remark. Not as modern as the library in my hometown up in Michigan, but old-modern in a way that is good enough for me.

Gramps nods. “Mm-hmm. They’ve had incredible donors in the past few years, I believe.”

We prance inside, which has the same musty scent as the farmhouse, but it is still comfortable, and the place is filled ceiling to carpet with books. The librarian, Ms. Trudy Reed, is thin, pretty, and all smiles. Her blond hair is tied back into a ponytail, and her gray eyes twinkle. Ms. Reed is standing behind a desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stanton,” says the librarian, eyeing me. She grins. “I see that you’ve got a visitor.”

Gramps nods. “She’s family. Her name’s — ”

I hold out my hand and say quickly, “Hi, I’m Lea.” I hate it when somebody else introduces me. It’s not like I’m disabled, mute, or deaf; I am well capable of doing things for myself.

Ms. Reed meets my hand with a firm shake. “Hello, Lea. So you’re a Northerner?” Um, is that a bad thing? She must have seen the surprised look on my face because she adds, “Like yours truly?”

My head bobs up and down. “Yeah, I’m from Michigan.”

“Oh, Michigan!” gushes Ms. Reed. “My best friend’s up there. I visited her once. Michigan is such a loooovely state!” Here comes the homesickness. Ms. Reed goes on, “I’ll just leave you and your grandpa to your business. I’ll be right here if you need me.” She taps her desk with her long fingernails.

My grandfather and I split up. I seat myself at a rectangular, wooden table, turning on my laptop. There is an Internet connection — thank God — so I decide to check my e-mail. My Inbox appears on the screen. There are several new messages. I click on one from my friend, Josephine Montez:

---
From: josemz00@zapphoo.com
To: lea.rose409@quacklekack.com
Subject: no subject

Hola! How r u?! I havnt seen u in a while. Hows the South so far? Plz tll me u r havin a good tme bcuz I wll NOT take "no" 4 an answer. If u say no I swer I will trak u down and hang u by ur toes. LOL jk! Things r sooo boring. I wish I were south wit u. Txt me! I MISS UR TXTS!

Luuuuuv, Josephine
---

Ahh. Josephine is my best friend in Michigan. Actually, she is one of my three best and only friends — besides family friends. I miss Josie and her humor. I click on the next e-mail. This time, it’s from my other BFF, Desiree Rubin.

---
From: desireerubi@snappow.com
To: lea.rose409@quacklekack.com
Subject:OHEMGEE

OHEMGEE LEA, where've u been?! Josie, Kath, and I miss u TONS!!!!!!!! My b-day's pretty soon!! :( I can't believe u won't be able to come!!!! :( :( :'( It won't be fun without u! It's my bat mitzvah! My Sweet 13!! LOL!!! :) COME BACK SOON,LEA!G2G!
...Desiree<
---

Miss you, too, Des. Even though you shout in my ear all the time, I miss you. And that’s right — Desiree is Jewish. She was so excited about her bat mitzvah last year and so excited that her best friends would be there, but I can’t go. Another e-mail is from my last, and longest, best friend, Kath Li:

---
From: kath.dragon203@konkast.net
To: lea.rose409@quacklekack.com
Subject: Missing You :'( :'(

Miss you! It's like a little piece of my heart went with you when you left Michigan!!! :( :( I can't write any more; e-mail me back! Or IM! Or send me smoke signals!!

<3 ILY x 100!!! ~*~>Kath<~*~
---

I miss you, too, Kath, who has been my BFF since kindergarten, and Josephine and Desiree. My eyes stare blankly at the screen until I realize I have one unread message left. The minute I realize it’s from my parents, I click on the e-mail and read only the message:

Dear Lea,

We miss you dearly. It’s 11:00 p.m., and we are on a train heading for Maine, where we will board on a plane and begin our journey to Europe. We know you have been at your grandparents’ for a small amount of time, but we hope you are enjoying Sicamoore. If you need anything for school, contact us, and we’ll see to it. We wish you a happy rest of the summer. Behave at your grandparents’, and send pictures!

Please reply to this e-mail as soon as you can, and know that you are always in our thoughts and on our minds. We can’t imagine what fun you’re having at your grandparents’!

Love,
Mom and Dad
---

My chest feels tight, and I realize that Mom and Dad are always in my thoughts and on my mind, too. I can’t cry. Seriously. All my tears have been drained. A mix of emotions is churning inside my stomach: homesickness, sadness, and confusion. All I can do is close my laptop and rest my head on the table. I’m not having fun. I’m not. They have no idea.

 

After I manage to collect all the eggs, which takes about an hour, Gramma leads me inside the barn to show me how to milk a cow. Gramps is already in there milking. He greets us with a wave of his hand. “Aren’t there machines to do that?” I ask Gramma.

My grandmother gazes at me as if gibberish is tumbling out of my mouth. “Machines?” she repeats. “Out of the question. We’ve got hands, haven’t we?”

Duh. Of course.

“Careful,” Gramma warns. “We usually milk the cows earlier than this, and cows like routine, so they may be uppity.” They milk the cows earlier than 7:30 a.m? Gramma sits at a stool near a white cow splattered with black spots, rests her head on the cow’s flank, and washes the udder with a clean cloth and warm water. After placing a pail under what looks a long, stringy pacifier — Gramma says it’s a teat — she firmly grips the teat in the palm of her hand and squeezes out the milk with her fingers. The milk makes a tap-tap-tap sound as it streams into the pail. “Your turn,” she tells me. “Thankfully, Mandy’s pretty calm.” She names the cows, too? Not weird at all.

I push my glasses up my nose and repeat what Gramma did: I rest my head on the cow’s flank, grab hold of the teat, and try to wring out some milk. Gramma says she’ll start milking the other cows. Mandy is a bit restless but doesn’t bother me much. I am surprisingly able to milk Mandy, and the bucket is almost full! Yay!

“MEE-YOWW!” Uh, what was that loud noise? It was so loud I can’t hear myself think.

“MOOOOOOO!” moos Mandy, rapidly rocking back and forth.

I panic. “Whoa, whoa, easy girl,” I say. I turn to face Gramma. “Gramma! Do something!”

Gramma walks over and lays her hands on Mandy’s back. “Mandy, calm down.”

“MEE-YOWW!” Something furry brushes against my legs. Then I feel something sharp scratch my ankle. Oww!

Mandy, alarmed, sways left to right and trots away, shouting, “MOOOOOO!”

The other cows seem to take her lead. They begin to pound their hooves on the ground and moo like mad. A fuzzy, gray blur rushes here and there, so quickly I can’t make out what the blur is. The blur knocks over some buckets as it dashes hither and thither.

Everything happens so fast I barely know what is going on. One minute I’m dry and standing, and the next minute I’m knocked down to the ground, drenched in dairy. My eyes open. Total darkness. I lick my lips. Milk. After pulling my head out of the bucket, Gramma gasps, “Oh, my. Mandy, bad girl! Lea, I… Are you…?” Gramma bites her lip. She’s smothering a giggle. It’s obvious. But I can’t blame her — I probably do look like a mess: drops of milk like dew reposing on strands of my hair, milk blurring my glasses, and my shirt totally soaked. I must look hilarious.

“Oh, Little Lea…” laughs Gramps, who is standing next to me. “Why, you look like — ”

“Mee-yow! Mee-yow!” A gray cat pops out from behind several buckets. It jumps and runs around in circles. “Mee-yow! Mee-yow!”

“Oh, bad, Cha-Cha!” exclaims Gramma, but she is giggling. “You spooked the life out of the cows!” She scoops up Cha-Cha and nuzzles her head. Cha-Cha wriggles in Gramma’s grasp. “What am I going to do with you, Miss Feisty Feline?” She frowns at Cha-Cha, but then her face lights up. Gramma pulls a sliver of wood out of Cha-Cha’s paw. “So that’s what was botherin’ you! A splinter!” She turns to face me and laughs. “Well, what can you do? Go on and finish milkin’, Lea.”

Ugh. Rude. I milked the dumb cow for nothing. The teats were all bumpy and soft — which is gross — and it felt even weirder to squeeze them. Milking cows isn’t as easy as one would think. My back and neck are aching from remaining in a motionless position for so long, and my hands and wrists feel sore. And now I’m shivering. “I don’t think I’ll ever drink milk for the rest of my life,” I grumble. “Or indulge any kind of dairy, for that matter.”

Wait a minute. That Cha-Cha is the same cat that I saw when my folks drove me down here yesterday. How did she get here, in Sicamoore, when she was all the way out there, in the highway? Maybe I saw a different cat — maybe not. Well, one thing’s for sure: that cat’s a beast.

* * *

“I think we best be eating lunch,” announces Gramma several hours later. Hey, there are many cows, and, as I said before, milking is no easy task, especially since the cows are restless and never stand still. “C’mon inside, Lea, and I’ll fix us up some tomato-and-cheese sandwiches. Yum.”

Tomato and cheese? Is she kidding me? Did she not hear me grumble earlier?

Lunch goes by fast. I reluctantly chew on my tomato sandwich — I tossed the cheese in the trash when my grandparents weren’t looking. When Gramps offers me a glass of freshly squeezed milk, I decline. Breaking my vow of never consuming dairy will never happen in a bagazillion years — and that’s not even a number!

* * *

Turns out that Gramma and Gramps harvest corn, as well — and they have a large garden behind their house. Oh, and guess what? They didn’t have any machines to harvest the corn, either. We had to pick them by hand. Gramps told me that they only had an acre of cornstalks, but an acre is pretty darn big. Their “garden” — which I expected to be a flower garden — consisted of tomatoes, carrots, green beans, eggplant, okra, onions, potatoes, and squash. We only picked the ripest vegetables, and tomorrow Gramma and Gramps intend to finish up — with my help.

My wrists feel stiff, my hands feel tender, and I’ve lost the feeling in my legs. When Gramma announces we will stop for the day, I limp into the farmhouse, up the stairs, and into my room. My body, too frail to do anything else, collapses on my bed. It’s only about four in the afternoon, but the minute my head hits my pillow, I fall asleep.

“Lea!” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Wake up!”

I wake. A door is ajar, so some light sprinkles into the room. A shadowy figure is standing at my side. My eyes settle on the glowing green numbers of the digital clock: 6:00 a.m. I yawn and close my eyes again. “Good night, Gramma,” I say, emphasizing on the word “night”. After all, six in the morning is practically night!

“Lea, mornin’ isn’t for nappin’,” points out my grandmother, poking my arm, “so wake up.”

No wonder Mom was so eager to leave this place. This isn’t Sicamoore, Arkansas — it’s Crazy Land! I hope the next bus that comes around drops me off at Sane City. “But why do I have to wake up at 6 a.m.?” I complain as I put on my glasses.

Gramma stares at me like I have an extra head. A grin twitches at the corners of her mouth. “6 a.m.? Did you change the time when you came here?” Oh. So what time is it? 8 a.m.? 10 a.m.? “It’s 5 a.m., silly-silly.” WHAT?! “Change, Lea. Breakfast’s almost ready.” She flounces out.

Why do I have to change, exactly? I reluctantly replace my pajamas with jeans and a T-shirt, toss my hair into a ponytail, and throw sneakers on my feet. The sweet aroma of food and coffee invades my nostrils. Mmm! I float out of my room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

“Eat!” Gramma sets plates and coffee mugs on the table. In front of me are steaming pancakes, golden toast, and sunny-side-up eggs, which are set in a delicious-looking face. For a smile is a curved trail of syrup and berries. Two mugs are filled with coffee, but the other contains hot chocolate. A warm temperature lingers in the kitchen. I see that there’s a fire in the fireplace — Gramma must have used an actual fire to cook something! I didn’t even know that was possible in this age and century, besides roasting marshmallows. I sit next to Gramps and scarf down the food in less than 10 minutes. My grandparents eventually finish, too.

“Time to get to work!” exclaims Gramps enthusiastically.

I almost choke. “W — work?” I repeat. “What do you mean ‘work’?”

Gramps blinks slowly at me. “Why, work on the farm, of course.” He checks his wristwatch. “It’s 5:30. We’re gettin' behind. We’ve gotta milk cows, collect eggs, and I’m pretty sure the tomatoes are ripe…” Gramps heads out the door, still listing what we need to complete.

I gotta do what? “Gramma, you’ve hired people to do the work, right?” I ask. I don’t know much about farms, after all. I really hope they hired people. That would be so much easier.

Gramma laughs, amused. “Of course we’ve hired people, Lea.” Thank God. “But we do most of the work.” Dang. “We better get movin’ ’cause we’re one of the only farms in town, so a lot of people depend on us.”

I sigh, staring into my mug, and watch white streaks circle around like whirlpools. This “working” thing is not going to be pretty.

***

Gramma gives me a tour of the farm while Gramps gets started on the “daily chores.” Daily? Not good. “That’s the chicken coop,” she informs me, pointing to a blue miniature house. She fans her face with her hand. “Whew. It isn’t good to leave eggs in this heat. Better collect the eggs now.” Gramma grabs a sack of chicken feed, scoops a handful, and showers the ground with it. The hens waddle outside and begin to peck at the feed. “Put the eggs in that basket, Lea,” instructs Gramma, “while the hens are distracted. And don’t forget to wear the leather glove.”

A leather glove is sitting next to a large, wire basket, but I don’t put it on. It’s all dirty. I snatch the basket in a corner of the coop and begin to gather eggs into the basket. Everything is well until I see a hen lounging in her nest. I try to shoo her away, but she gathers herself with a huff of pride, like, “No one can tell me what to do, sistah.” Jeez. Hen has some attitude. “Hey, Gramma, what do I do about this one?” I ask my grandmother, pointing to the resting hen.

“Oh, that’s Hillary,” grumbles Gramma without even turning to face me. Gramma names the chickens? Lovely. “She’s stubborn and lazy. It’s impossible to reach under her, so just pick her up. She doesn’t bite.”

Uncertainly, I secure my hands on Hillary and lift her up. Flailing her wings in fear, she pokes and pinches my skin with her beak. “Ow! Gramma, you said she didn’t bite!” I look at Gramma accusingly.

Gramma turns around and squints at me, flashing me a look that says 'I can’t believe you’re my granddaughter. ' “Didn’t you wear the glove? It protects you!” How was I supposed to know that? “Besides, chickens don’t bite, Lea. They peck.”

Duh.

Gramma and Gramps help me haul my many large suitcases and moving boxes upstairs to the guestroom. Several of my suitcases lean against another door. There are two doors in the room? Huh. That’s weird, like the rest of this place. "Why are there two doors?" I ask curiously.

"Why, that’s because this used to be two rooms," replies Gramps as if the answer is obvious.

My grandparents leave me alone once all my stuff is in the room, and I observe my living quarters. It’s long and narrow. The floor is hardwood but musty-looking, and there are two closets. Between a pair of enormous windows are a half-moon wooden desk and a timber shelf nailed into the wall. The room has the same yellow wallpaper as the kitchen. Not bad. I even have my own bathroom here. But then I see it, and I’m shocked.

In another corner of the room, parallel to the windows, is a bed. A twin-size bed. It’s like my queen-size bed back at home cut in half. Now I have half the wiggle room. How am I supposed to sleep in such a tiny bed? Did Gramma and Gramps think one of the Seven Dwarfs would be coming to stay with them for a year instead of a 12-year-old girl? Yeah, as if.

I walk into the yellow bathroom, wondering if yellow is a trend around here, the checkered linoleum feeling smooth yet tingly under my bare feet. There is an old-fashioned bathtub but no shower. Didn’t see that coming. After stomping out of the bathroom, my face set in a frown, I kneel down on the bedroom floor. I tear open boxes, unzip my suitcases, and begin to haphazardly shove my clothes onto hangers and into the closets. I’ve been here for less than two hours, but I already hate this place.

 

* * *

 

It’s dinnertime, and I silently chew on steamed vegetables. My facial expression remains emotionless, and my mouth is set in a grim line. I feel like my parents. The meal is awkward, slow, and mute, and I don’t just mean the slow chewing of food and the sluggish gulping of liquids. Oh, sure, there is an occasional "so, do you like this place?" type of question thrown at me, but I counter it with a silent stare and concentrate on chewing on something when there isn’t anything in my mouth in order to avoid the conversation. Thankfully, my grandparents don’t push it.

When I’m finished eating, I mumble, "Thanks for dinner. I’ll be up in my room."

"Lea, you sure you don’t want dessert? C’mon, I made apple pie," coaxes Gramma. How did she make a pie when there’s no oven here to bake it? Hmm.

I shake my head. "No thanks." Ew. Pie. Mom would refuse it immediately because pie is "full of fat and calories". At least we both agree on that one thing. Actually, I have never tried pie, but why should I if it is fatty and caloric? As I leave the kitchen, I feel the eyes of my grandparents follow my every move as my feet take me up the stairs.

"Is somethin’ wrong with her?" I hear Gramps whisper. Old people whisper loudly — they should seriously consider toning their voices down if they need to speak about something privately.

"Oh, Henry!" scolds Gramma. "Leave the poor girl alone. Her situation’s bad enough." Old people pity me. Perfect. Just perfect.

Once in my room, my eyes draw themselves to my laptop jutting out from under my pillow. My laptop seems to beckon to my hands, which inch closer to the computer, push the "On" button, and begin to fly across the keyboard. After clicking on the Internet icon, this is what appears on the screen:

--Page Load Error--
Address Not Found
Cannot find server
The browser failed to find the host server for the provided address
Possible problems:
§ Misspelled domain (e.g. "ww.quacklekack.com" instead of "www.quacklekack.com")
§ Address does not exist
§ No Internet connection
Reload page and try again.

 

I refresh the page in hopes that www.quacklekack.com will appear, but the same thing pops up. What’s wrong? Is this laptop defected? There is a large, red "X" marked on the Wireless Internet Connection icon in the bottom right corner of the screen. No Internet connection? Dang.

Despite the fact that I know there is no Internet connection, I keep on trying. We’re supposed to persevere in everything we do, aren’t we? At least, that’s what all adults say. My pre-school teacher would always encourage us and say: "Don’t give up!" whenever someone wanted to call it quits on Duck, Duck, Goose.

When nothing seems to work, my eyeballs glue themselves to the screen, gazing at the glowing laptop. I do nothing but breathe. If nothing is done, the Laptop Fixer Fairy might stroll along and, with a magical touch of her wand — poof! — fix my computer. Besides, staring is an unusual talent of mine, and so is patience.

I glance at the digital clock I brought with me: 11:45 p.m. I feel winded, and there is a dejected pang in the pit of my stomach. A good rest will cheer me up. I peel off my clothing and replace them with a pair of pajamas. After switching off the lights, I jump into bed, letting my body submerge into the mushy mattress.

Staring into the obscurity of night, I clasp my arms on the back of my head and remain motionless. Breathe in. Breathe out. Deep breathing helps you sleep faster, right? In. Out. In. Out. Once my body is worn out from breathing deeply, I decide to count sheep, which is stupid. I don’t see how counting sheep can help anyone sleep, but what the heck? Closing my eyes and rolling over on my side, a visualization of leaping sheep pops into my head. One sheep. Two sheep. Three sheep. This is stupid. Four sheep. Five…

The calm cricking of crickets and the subdued scraping of tree-branches against the farmhouse seeps into my eardrum, and my eyes burst open. The window is open, and a light breeze kisses my cheeks. Darn you, stupid sounds and cool breeze; I was about to fall asleep. Hmm, maybe the sound of nature will calm my nerves. My eyes seal closed again, and hopefully they’ll stay that way for at least seven more hours. But they don’t.

Even though Gramma and Gramps’ room is just down the hall, I feel lonely and isolated. I pull the quilt blanket over my head. My pillow suddenly feels damp, and I know why.

I’m crying.

I’m crying, and I can’t hold back. I’ve been keeping my tears captive all day, but I couldn’t keep them prisoner forever. Tears roll from my eyes down to my pillow, and my cheek gets wet. My back trembles as I take in shaky breaths and clutch Petunia, my stuffed pig.

I miss my parents. I miss them so much.

Hours later, Dad pulls the minivan into a long, winding driveway that doesn’t even look like a driveway at all. It just looks like a bunch of dirt clumped together and smoothed out. As I step out of the minivan, I survey the scenery. Our shiny, silver minivan looks brand-new compared to my grandparents’ old jalopy. Several clucks, moos, and oinks catch my curiosity, and they pull me closer toward them. I follow the noises, and I see chickens waddling around, cows chewing on cud, and pigs rolling around in the mud — all of this happening behind wooden bars and underneath a brownish wooden roof. Is this supposed to be a farm?

I raise my eyebrow in slight bewilderment. Gramma and Gramps have a farm? I never knew that. That’s sort of interesting.

Not.

“Ah, I remember this farm,” remarks a voice behind me.

I swivel around. “Mom? You knew about this farm?”

Mom nods and speaks, “Oh, yes. I grew up here.” She sounds disgruntled, as if she wants to barf at the sight of the farm.

What’s up with her? Not that I don’t understand — I completely understand. My parents are the type of people who think computers and caffeine are the only necessities for a good life. My parents’ whole life is office work. Mom prefers jobs that are actually in this time-period and require skills far more advanced than milking cows or whatever farm people do. I know this because she mumbles in her sleep. When she was growing up here, Mom must have seen this farm as a total waste of her time and was probably very eager to leave. Besides, Mom never mentioned the farm, so she probably thought it was worthless.

“So you visit the animals but not your grandparents?” chuckles a voice behind Mom and me.

I twist my body around to face a stumpy woman with her long, silver hair pulled into a messy bun, a sanguine smile pasted on her wrinkly visage, and a terry cloth robe wrapped around her body. Why is she wearing a robe in the middle of the afternoon? The woman walks up to me and binds me in a bear hug. “Lea, long time, no see!” greets my grandmother in her Southern accent that is as thick as honey.

Hmm. If Mom grew up in Arkansas, where’s her Southern accent? “Hi, Gramma,” I reply.

Gramma steps back. A glint of temptation in her eyes and a proud twitch in her smile shows her longing to pinch my cheek. Why do all grandparents enjoy pinching their grandchildren’s cheeks? It’s a crime if you ask me. “And, Roseanne, darlin’,” continues Gramma, looking up at my tall mother. “Haven’t seen you in a while, either. Where’ve you been?”

“Oh… I’ve…been busy,” stutters Mom, looking guilty. She should be guilty. “Busy” isn’t a place, after all.

An uncomfortable silence drapes over us like an itchy blanket. By the sweat trickling down my mother’s cheek, I can tell Mom doesn’t want to blurt out anything that’ll hurt Gramma’s feelings. And by the nervous fiddling of my grandmother’s thumbs, I can tell Gramma doesn’t want to ask: “How come you haven’t been visiting lately?” or “How come I haven’t been hearing from you?” She doesn’t want to press Mom like she’s under an iron and make her feel hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable.

Other than the animals’ cries, it’s quiet until Dad bellows, “Honey! Could you help me unload the minivan?”

A wave of relief washes over Mom and erases the nervousness of her face. She excuses herself to help Dad and asks me to come along since it’s my stuff, anyway. Gramma says she’ll fix up some lemonade for us. In this torridity, I could go for a glass of lemonade.

 

* * *

 

I examine the wooden farmhouse. Large American sycamore trees surround it. The decrepit roof looks as if it will crumble any minute now. There is a splash of cobblestone on the siding, but most of the wood is draped in moss. It looks somewhat inviting. Mom, Dad, and I stumble into the 200-year-old farmhouse, according to Gramma, and lug my baby blue suitcases and moving boxes inside.

Gramma leads us into the kitchen and begins to pour us glasses of lemonade, setting one on the round, wooden table for me. The torn, yellow wallpaper is peeling off the wall. I don’t know if the wallpaper is yellow because it was purchased that way or yellow because it is aged. Probably the latter since everything else in the room screams “Old!” — the wood-planked floors (in a kitchen?), a rusty fireplace with pots and kettles hanging on hooks around it, the lack of stainless-steel appliances… The list never ends.

Hey, wait a minute. There are no appliances, except for a sink. No fridge? No oven? Are my grandparents aware that it is the 21st century? I knew Gramma and Gramps lived in the B.C. — oh, excuse me, B.C.E. — years! I bet they practice cave-painting as a form of entertainment.

“Oh, if it isn’t Roseanne, Jack, and my Little Lea!” exclaims a tan, wrinkly man seated at the kitchen table. I walk up to him. He’s wearing an old, button-down shirt and patched-up denim overalls. A thin crown of silver hair surrounds his almost-bald head, and a huge smile makes most of his crinkly face.

“Hey, Gramps,” I say but not in a very warm tone. It’s not like I want to be here.

Gramps jumps out of his chair and embraces me, and I try to wiggle out. “Hey there, pumpkin,” he welcomes me enthusiastically. “Welcome to Stanton Manor.” Manor? I hardly call this a home. He lets me go and walks over to my mom, dad, and grandmother, who are drinking lemonade and chatting negligently, as if they’re putting together a polite conversation just for show.

I seat myself in a musty-looking chair. A sweet smell wafts from the bowl of fruit in the center of the table, so I tenderly pluck a grape from the bowl and toss it in my mouth. Yum. This house may be ancient and somewhat malodorous (like an old-people smell), but the fruit is fresh, fragrant, and plump.

“So, enjoyin’ Arkansas so far, Jack?” chuckles Gramps. “I know Sicamoore is a small town, but you should visit again sometime.”

Dad laughs shakily and replies with forced fervor, “Oh, yes. Of course!” His fake cheer manifests his hatred of this place. I bet Gramps notices this, but he’s probably pretending that Dad’s cheer is authentic.

While my grandparents and parents converse, I study them and toss more grapes into my mouth. My mother and father look like they haven’t even left the office. My towering parents are both wearing black blazers and suits. I think it’s ridiculous to dress up for a 15-hour drive, but my parents strongly believe in the expression “Dress for success”.

Speaking of my parents’ demeanor, it’s hard to believe that my mother actually came from Gramma and Gramps. My grandparents are both short, almost my size, so I guess that’s why I’m petite. The only similarity between my mother and grandparents is that Mom has Gramps’ blazing blue eyes and Gramma’s long neck. Unlike Gramma’s long, wavy hair, Mom’s hair is coiffed in an auburn curly crown around her head. And what’s really weird — and the most notable difference — is the difference between my mom’s and my grandparents’ personalities. Mom is serious and wound-up whereas my grandparents are playful and full of life. I thought the young people were supposed to have high spirits and vivaciousness.

Is something wrong with my family? Are they really Martians or something?

“Lea.” Someone is calling my name, but I’m too lost in thought to answer.

“Lea… Lea!”

The exasperation seeping out of my mother’s voice snaps me to attention. “Yes, Mom?” I reply, surprised to see my smiling parents seated around the wooden table. Gramma and Gramps pretend to busy themselves by putting dishes in the cupboard. Seated on the table is something wrapped in blue gift-wrap with a dark blue ribbon poised on top. My hand draws itself toward the gift, and I carefully tear it open. I reveal a shiny machine, and I run my hand across its smooth surface. I curl my fingers around the edges and lift it off the table — not too heavy. The best part is that it’s my favorite color: baby blue.

“Do you like it, honey?” inquires Dad.

“Like it? Are you kidding?” I stand up and briefly wrap my arms around my parents, trying to hold back tears, and not just because of their thoughtful gift. I stare at my present. “I love it!”

“What is it, exactly?” asks Gramma, curiously peering over my shoulder.

I gape at Gramma, but then I close my mouth. She lives in the B.C.E. years. I forgot. “It’s a laptop computer,” I explain. “Very high-tech.” I turn to face my parents. “Why did you buy me one?”

Dad’s face crumples up, and I can tell he’s trying to hold back tears. “I don’t know. But you can only keep this laptop on one condition: e-mail us often as you can.”

Gramps asks, “E-male? Who’s this Mr. E? Thomas Edison, I suppose?”

A small smile forms on Mom’s lips. I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. Then she glances up at me, and her smile disappears. She twines one of my wavy curls around her finger, her eyes looking moist. “We don’t want to make this any harder on you,” she tells me as she stands up, hesitates, and lightly pecks the top of my head, “so we’re leaving as soon as we can.”

My parents scurry out the door.

Gramma and Gramps stand at my side and place their old, rough hands on my shoulders. My parents just left, but I already miss them. My chest feels tight, like someone is tugging on it, and tears sting at the back of my eyes. I grit my teeth, trying to be strong, but my whole body feels limp like spaghetti. Why did my parents have to leave?

“Wake up!” exclaims a tired, vexed voice.

My eyes burst open, but my eyelids droop down when sunlight penetrates through the windows of the minivan. I pull my eyeglasses out of my pocket and slip them on. I read the car clock: 9:00 a.m. “Ugh,” I grumble, squinting so the early morning light cannot blind me. I see baby blue suitcases of all sizes piled on seats and on the carpeted floor of the minivan. “Dang it. I thought this was all a dream.”

My father glances up in the rearview mirror from the driver’s seat, the reflection of his chocolate brown eyes meeting my green eyes. He shrieks, “Lea, wake up!” and gulps down some coffee from a paper coffee cup while he continues to steer. “Augh! Cold coffee!”

“Jeez! My eyes are sort of open right now,” I mutter. The minivan jerks and jolts as it speeds over the bumpy dirt path. I jump slightly in my seat.

“Jack, I’m READING, so quit SHOUTING!” shrieks my mother from the seat next to my father’s. Mom doesn’t like to be disturbed when she has her “sustained silent reading”, also known as S.S.R., which is the only time she has “peace of mind”. S.S.R. is so elementary school. She should try yoga.

“Cold coffee!” shouts Dad.

“Mom, are you really making me do this?” I ask my mother with a groan. I don’t ask my father, who loathes being spoken to when he is sleep-deprived. I can tell he needs sleep because 1) there are dark circles just beneath his eyes, and 2) he’s shouting. Dad gets super-cranky when he is robbed of his sleep. He treasures his sleep like it’s a precious jewel.

Mom raises one manicured finger, giving me the family sign for “just one second, sister.” Oh, my God, she didn’t even turn around! She flips through her hardcover copy of “An Expository of the Economy for Eggheads” and reads a few more sentences before finally twisting her head around and giving me a quick glance. “Hmm, Lea, dear? What was that you were saying?” She eyes the page she was on. “Please don’t disturb me… Oh, interesting! It says here… Mmm!” Her eyes scan the book with interest.

“Are you really making me do this?” I repeat, sinking down in the car seat, knowing what will happen next. She will mutter something and continue reading her stupid book.

Mom mumbles an inaudible answer then continues reading.

I roll my eyes. So predictable.

I sigh and glance out the window. Tall, green grass and crops sway in the gentle, late-August morning breeze. A wisp of gray stands against the dandelion-splashed green. Leaning my face into the window, I squish my nose against the glass to scope out that tuft of gray.

“Don’t squish your nose against the glass, sweetie; it leaves marks,” my mother reminds me from the front seat even though her eyes are glued to the page she is reading. Honestly, sometimes it seems as if she has eyes in the back of her head. I lean my head back a little, just far enough that my nose isn’t touching the window.

My dad shouts, “Bleck!” He’s drinking coffee and driving. Isn’t that illegal?

“Jack!” screeches my mom in horror from the front. “You spilled coffee all over my book!”

My father presses his foot against the brake and shouts, “SORRY!” He’s still a bit cranky. My parents continue fussing, apologizing, and recoiling in horror because of the fact that Mom’s ruined book was from the library. I stare out the window.

Suddenly, a gray cat pops out of the grass and crops, and I wave to it. “Hello,” I mouth. Instead of a sign of amiability, the cat hunches its back and raises its fur into spikes. By the way its fangs are exposed and its eyes are narrowed, I can tell that it is hissing as well. It crawls back and disappears into the undulating sea of green and drops of yellow.

Well.

Not a good sign. I can tell that this trip is probably one of the worst ideas my parents ever had.

We’re on our way to my grandparents’ place. My mom and dad are going on a stupid business trip to Europe, and their brilliant idea is to leave me with Gramma and Gramps, who live all the way in northern Arkansas, around the border of Missouri. Haven’t they thought of me at all?

“Honey, of course we thought of you!” assured my mom the day they informed me of their plans, which was only a few weeks ago.

My dad echoed, “Yes, we considered you. Of course!”

At the time, we were cuddled together on a cozy couch in the den. It was about 3 p.m. and a Saturday. Although it was brighter outside than those neon lights on “Open” or “Closed” signs that are perched in store windows, there was a fire lit in the fireplace. My dad stood up and closed the curtains, but there was still some daylight peeking through. The mild, twinkling glow and the faint smell of smoke from the fiery embers comforted me — they always do. My parents know that, so I guess that’s why they arranged for flames to flicker in that fireplace.

“B — ” I had stammered. No sensible or perceptible words would come to my lips. “But Gramma and Gramps? Really? Why? Can’t you leave me with a nanny? Or better yet, can’t you bring me, too?”

My dad sighed, looking pleadingly at my mom, “Roseanne, you explain.”

Mom placed her hand on my shoulder and pulled my body closer to hers. “Lea Rose, honey, it really isn’t that hard to understand, is it? We’re going to Europe, sweetie. I mean, I know my parents are far away…”

“All the way in Arkansas!” I cried in despair. “And, last time I checked, we live in Michigan!”

“Oh, Lea, be reasonable, please,” my father interrupted. “That’s not so far. And they actually live around southern Missouri, if it makes you feel any better.”

I retorted grouchily, “No, it does not make me feel any better, thank you very much.”

Mom went on without missing a beat, “But we can’t bring you all the way to Europe. What about your studies? Lea, we can’t leave you with a nanny for a year.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“You’ll need real love and comfort,” my mother shot back. “My parents can give you that. I promise you’ll have new friends and experiences in Arkansas. And besides, if we bring you, you won’t be able to understand anyone in Europe.”

“But I’ll have a new experience in Europe,” I pointed out. “And, come on, lots of people in Europe are bilingual!”

Smiling ruefully, Mom tenderly stroked my long, chestnut-colored hair. I swatted her hand away. “We’re saving Europe for summer vacation next year,” she informed me in a tame tone.

I leaned back into the couch, letting my body sink into the soft cushions. “How long am I staying there again?” I asked, looking on the bright side. A week or two wouldn’t be so bad. My parents had been on business trips lasting a month and left me with a nanny, and that wasn’t so terrible. How horrible could a month with the grandparents be? After all, the nanny was very crabby. Gramma and Gramps would be much less difficult, I supposed.

“A year.”

“A… A year?” I repeated uneasily. Is it possible that my parents are mentally insane, to leave me with my grandparents for a whole year? “You…uh… You’re joking, right?” I forced a chortle out my throat. “Ha! Funny. For a second there, I thought you were serious.” My eyes bounced around, then locked in shock on my parent’s austere visages, their lips twin, grim lines.

Dad raised a thick, hairy eyebrow. “What? We are serious, Lea Rose.”

“Darling,” added my mother solemnly, “why would we, as you suggest, ‘joke’?”

She was right. The dim light was still bright enough for me to see the grave countenances on their faces, and their tone was serious. I was — excuse me — I will be staying with Gramma and Gramps. No question about it.

Unexpectedly, my face turned blotchy red and scrunched up, and it began to squeeze out tears like a sponge or towel being twisted. I drew my knees close to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, burying my face into my knees and shaking my head. “No. No.”

“Oh, Lea,” murmured my father, gently patting my quivering back, “it’s only a year.”

“B — but… I’ve never been away from you for a whole year!” I mumbled between sobs. “Does that mean I have to go to school there? I actually have to live there? Without any of my friends?” Not that I have many friends. “Oh, God, please no! Mom! Dad!” I flung an imploring pout at my mother and father, hoping it would soften and convince them.

They countered my pout with an impassive, emotionless expression.

I went on, trying to throw at them every lame excuse I could come up with. “I don’t like Arkansas! I don’t want to leave!” I felt like I was a toddler throwing a tantrum, but I had no choice. “I mean, Gramma and Gramps practically live in the B.C. years!” It’s true. Gramma and Gramps live in some dumb, old town that is so small it’s not even on the map — at least I don’t think so. There are many old buildings, some even 200 years old! I bet they don’t even know what a telephone is.

“Actually, ‘B.C.E.’ or ‘Before Common Era’ is much more accurate, sweetie,” my mother gently corrected me. “You don’t want to be inaccurate, do you? So say it with me: Gramma and Gramps live in the B.C.E. years.”

Mom seemed to agree with me on Gramma and Gramps’ lifestyle — either that, or she just wanted me to get used to using the C.E. method. She still, however, didn’t give in and say: “Oh, fine, you can come with us to Europe!”

“Who cares about that crap?” I murmured, but my parents didn’t hear that. My whole body was shaking, and tears were flowing down my cheeks like a river flows into the sea. This was like being told that you are moving to a new town — only worse!

“Lea…” my parents said in unison in a last attempt to console me. There was a hint of the infamous please-stop-crying-or-we’ll-MAKE-you-stop-crying tone.

I needed some alone time. I pushed their hugs and condolences away with a forced grateful grin on my face. I muttered politely, “Excuse me. I’ll be up in my room.” I left the den and flounced up the stairs with fake cheerfulness, although my back was stiff, trying to hold back tears. When I arrived in the comfort of my own room — the pleasantness of baby blue walls, the warmth of the dark cherry hardwood floors, the multicolored rugs spread around, beanbag chairs in one corner, a messy desk in another, a collection of books and stuffed animals on a shelf, and a large Queen-size bed in the center — I leapt onto my bed and shouted into a soft pillow: “My life sucks!”

It has been 3 weeks since that day, but I’m still in shock. Even rubber couldn’t insulate the shock — not to mention the complete and total sadness — that my parents inflicted on me. I am so eager to get to Gramma and Gramps’.

Not.

“It’s gonna be all right, Sam,” Mama assures me. “Ain’t nobody gonna take my family away from me.”

Small tears form in the corners of my eyes. But they took Papa away.

Cries and whimpers swirl around Mama, Sissy, and me. Other mothers mourn, and children sob. Slave owners’ clamors enter my ears, and I can hear chains clinkin’ and clankin’ against each other and bein’ pulled. Dust irritates my eyes and nose. I clutch onto Mama’s rag-of-a-dress, blanketed in grime, dust, and dirt. The metal, rusty chains feel heavy around my ankles -- heavy and cold.

“Well, look at ’em here,” says a rough voice.

I brush the dirt and dust out of my eyes and stare at the figure towerin’ high above me. His head is tipped up as if he is superior, and he is built lean and tough. There are small buds of hair poppin’ from his chin. He probably just shaved.

The man swipes off his hat and messes with his mop of brown hair. “I’ll take this one,” he informs another man who has a greedy glint in his eyes. He glares hard into Mama’s eyes. “You better be a hard worker, or I’ll whip ya.” He laughs bitterly as if he enjoys whippin’ slaves.

Mama glares back, but she remains silent. I admire my mama for that. Although I know she’d like to spit some sense into Tough Man, she just keeps it bottled up.

“C’mon,” growls Greedy Man, tugging on Mama’s arm. She places her hand protectively on my shoulder as if she is hesitant and wary around this man, and I look down at my scabby, dirty feet. My own hand finds its way to Sissy, my baby sister, layin’ in Mama’s arms. I stroke her dark-chocolate cheek.

Tough Man thrusts a finger into Greedy Man’s chest, slightly pushin’ him back. Greedy Man stumbles as Tough Man commands, “Stop right there!”

Greedy Man, confused, asks, “What’d I do wrong, Mr. Tuffman?”

Mr. Tuffman barks, leanin’ in close to him, “You tryin’ to cheat me out of my money? I only want the woman, fool!” He seizes the chains around Mama and tugs on them with one hand, as if to specify which woman he wants. Mama grimaces. In Mr. Tuffman’s belt is a whip, and his hand is poised above it, as if he is about to draw it out and strike Greedy Man.

Wide-eyed, Greedy Man apologizes, “Oh, no intentions of doin’ that, Mr. Barry Tuffman, sir, none at all. Alrighty, if you want the woman, that’ll be 800, Mr. Tuffman, sir.”

Mr. Tuffman pushes some paper money into Greedy Man’s hand, and Greedy Man tucks it away in a pocket. Greedy Man snatches Sissy out of Mama’s arms, drops her in my arms, and begins to lug Mama away. I screech, “Mama!” tryin’ to run up to her, but the chains are so heavy. Tears are already streamin’ down my cheeks. Sissy seems to also know what is happenin’, for she is kickin’ and screamin’.

Mama jerks her arm away from Greedy Man. “Don’t take me away from my Sam and Sissy!” she shrieks. Flailin’ her arms, she tries to reach for Sissy and me, but Mr. Tuffman pulls her back and interrupts.

Mr. Tuffman roars, his veins lookin’ as if they are about to burst, “Shut up, woman!” He yanks out a whip and gashes the air, a cracklin’ sound echoin’ in my ears. “Or would you prefer a visit from my whip?” Fear wipes all over Mama’s face, and she quiets.

Mama? Afraid? A voice in the back of my head keeps shoutin’: “Nobody scares your mama! Nobody!” Though the heaviness of the chains keeps my feet glued to the earth, I place Sissy down on the ground and scuttle up to Mr. Tuffman, my face fumin’ with fury, and my fists fling themselves at his arms and chest. Sissy seems to know what I’m doin’, for she crawls up to Mr. Tuffman and chucks her own little clenched fists at his shoes. Mama keeps a stony, blank expression on her face. “Don’t take my mama away, please, Mr. Tuffman, sir!” I hurl my hands at him, too, although I’m not sure if Mr. Tuffman will do what I ask if I keep hurtin’ him, so I freeze. Sissy stops, too.

Mr. Tuffman tilts his body closer to mine and stares at me through narrow slits. His head is bent down to my level, and he speaks in a firm voice with a hint of amusement. “You messin’ with ol’ Barry Tuffman, boy?” The stench of alcohol lingers in his warm breath, and the odor of tobacco drifts from his clothes. I try not to breathe as he continues. “Who do ya think ya are? What’s your name?” Mr. Tuffman shoots the questions at me like bullets.

“Sam Thompson, sir.” I straighten my back and look past Mr. Tuffman’s eyes. There’s fear in my eyes, but I don’t want him to see that.

“Your age?” Bang.

“I’m 11, sir.”

“Your previous master?” Bang.

“Randy Thompson, sir.”

Mr. Tuffman smirks, a snicker sneakin’ out his mouth. “Ha! I knew ol’ Thompson back in the day. He’s weak.” He raises an eyebrow, and I can tell he’s tryin’ to pin down the horror in my eyes. “Does that mean you’re weak, too? I do wonder.”

It’s a challenge. He’s challengin’ me. Mama senses it’s a challenge, as well, for her eyes are as round as saucers, and her lips are pressed together in a slim line. Sissy stares up at me from the ground, her lower lip tremblin’.

I look Mr. Tuffman straight in the eye. “I ain’t weak. I’m strong.” The words tumble out of my lips before my brain has anythin’ to say about it. I tip my head in the direction of Mama. “But my mama… Now she’s the weak one, sir. Frail and feeble she is, sir.”

Mr. Tuffman looks interested -- well, “interested” meanin’ “amused”.

I go on, my knees feelin’ like puddin’, “So when you take my mama, you take me, too.”

Greedy Man hasn’t said much these last few minutes. In fact, he’s just watchin’ me and Mr. Tuffman. He leans forward in anticipation, waitin’ for payment. I think he doesn’t really care what happens as long as he gets money.

“And my Sissy,” I add. Sissy looks happy at the mention of her name. “You take me, my sister, and my mama.”

Mr. Tuffman takes a few steps back as if he is disgusted.

Tears are floodin’ in Mama’s eyes. She’s so proud.

Mr. Tuffman snarls, “Oh, and you’ll do what I say. Get me some coffee and bread while you’re at it, boy.” He looks at me expectantly. I’m surprised, but I don’t exactly know what coffee is, so I stand still. Mr. Tuffman laughs. “See? I don’t want to waste good-earned money on good-for-nothin’ scumbags like yourself. Your mouth’s spittin’ out nonsense that your butt can’t cash. Or rather, your mouth’s spittin’ nonsense that MY butt can’t cash. Slaves are expensive these days ’cause of that stupid war. I ain’t made of money, fool.” Mr. Tuffman slashes the air with his whip again, so that the tip of his whip is close to my chest. I flinch a little. I’ve only been lashed twice in my whole life, so I’m not used to a whip yet. “So shut up.”

“I’ll work hard, sir,” I promise, even though if I had to choose between death and workin’ for Mr. Tuffman, I’d choose death.

Greedy Man butts in nervously, eyein’ the whip, “I’ll lower the price especially for you, Mr. Tuffman.” He looks as if he’s tryin’ to get on Mr. Tuffman’s good side, probably because he’s afraid of that whip. Spineless man he is. “Only 1,200 dollars is good enough for me.”

Mr. Tuffman throws back his head and laughs harshly, obviously entertained. “Okay, boy,” he manages to growl between guffaws. “I’ll buy you and your stupid sister along with your frail, feeble mama, but you better keep your end of the bargain.” This time, he leans in so close the tips of our noses are almost touchin’. “Sam, is it? Let me warn you, Sammy boy, that I expect a lot from my slaves. And I ain’t talkin’ trash, even though I’m talkin’ to trash.” He chuckles at his own joke while Greedy Man nervously glances at me, then Mr. Tuffman.

Abruptly, I nod, but in my head I think, I ain’t trash. I’m more than that. Slaves are people, too. We ain’t trash. We got all sorts of talents. Back at Master Thompson’s, we slaves would sing throatily and beautifully. And at least we’re built strong, hardworking, and energetic, unlike our lazy masters and overseers, who just command us and crack their whips all day. I smirk a little, wonderin’ if Mr. Tuffman is lazy and stuffs himself with food all day -- after all, he looks chubby. I wonder how he can even manage to lift that whip if he’s so lazy.

Mr. Tuffman pushes more money into Greedy Man’s claws. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Mr. Tuffman,” says Greedy Man with a nod of his head, droolin’ over the money in his hands. He slips the money into his pocket and ties a thick, musty rope around Mama’s and my wrists for good measure.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Mr. Tuffman smiles like he’s the cat who ate the canary. He tugs on the ropes and chains and leads us to a cart-thing. Tipping his head in the direction of the cart-thing, he says, “Get in the wagon. I’m feelin’ generous today.”

I sweep Sissy off the ground and place her in Mama’s grasp. Mama pecks the top of Sissy’s head and rocks her gently. I climb into the large wagon. Mama trails after me. She murmurs, “Lord, be with us all.” We sit among loads of food, cloth, writing slates, and some jars of molasses, which are bound together with ropes.

“I swear, if you eat the food,” calls Mr. Tuffman from somewhere in the front of the wagon, “you ain’t gonna eat another thing for the rest of your lives.” Suddenly, the wagon lurches forward, and the sound of horses’ hooves batterin’ against the dirt road ricochets across the distance.

As the wagon lunges and leaps, my hand draws itself to a secret pocket in my ripped, ragged trousers. Inside rests a small, handmade pocket dictionary a slave from my previous master had given to me. That slave was Papa.

“Son, the master threw this out,” Papa told me, “so I ain’t committin’ no crime. This is for you. Learn to read ’n’ write, ’n’ you can get you ’n’ your Mama outta here.” Sissy wasn’t born yet. Ever since that day — which was the day Papa was sold -- I’ve been studyin’ that handwritten dictionary day and night, and I have been learnin’ all sorts of new words. I’m careful to keep my knowledge hidden, though.

“Protect your Mama, son,” my father whispered in my ear the day Master Thompson was about to bring him to town to sell. “Make sure nothin’ happens to my Sugar Puddin’. And make sure nothin’ happens to my Brave Little Soldier.”

“I promise.” I felt proud to make that promise. I hadn’t made such a solemn promise before that life-changin’ moment. “But Papa, where’re ya goin’?” I asked him curiously. I was 8 at the time.

Papa chuckled. “Don’t worry ’bout your ol’ man, Sammy. I’ll be fine. And I promise that I’ll see you soon.”

It’s been 3 years now. I haven’t seen Papa ever since I was 8. And he promised he’d see me soon, but he hasn’t seen me soon. I don’t know if he’s fine. And one question is makin’ my heart beat faster and my chest tie into a knot: Where is he?

Tears roll down my cheeks. Mama is snorin’ softly in a corner of the wagon, cuddlin’ Sissy. It’s already late afternoon, maybe early evenin’, for the sun is shinin’ its last few rays of daylight. I pull out my dictionary and turn the pages until I get to the last few, which are blank. I snatch a few stray berries and smash them for ink — Mr. Tuffman said nothin’ about smashin’ the food -- and I take the feather pen that came with the dictionary, dip it in the berry juice, and write carefully, trying to imitate the style of the handwritten words in the dictionary: “Sold today to mean Toughman. Now in wagon. Almost night. Missin’ Papa.” I pause. I turn to the “D” section of the book. In the dim glow, I squint, tryin’ to make out the words. “Desolate,” I read to myself quietly. “A feeling of being abandoned by hope; forlorn, hopeless, depressed.”

Ain’t that the truth. The sun lets out its last beam before it shuts off completely, takin’ hope along with it. I slip my dictionary back into my secret pocket and close my eyes, rememberin’ Papa’s words and my solemn oath. Suddenly, it seems as if somethin’ is bein’ born, something bein’ created. My heart feels uplifted at the mention of Papa, my promise, and his promise. It feels like…somethin’ is bein’ born because of Papa and our promises. Or maybe it already was born, and now it’s growin’ into somethin’ else. Is it hope?

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a little hope. But a little of somethin’ can go a long way ’round.

Hello!

My name is Camille, and I felt that I should introduce myself before I expose you to my writing, which I hope you will enjoy! Since I’m introducing myself because I’d feel closer to you guys, why don’t you comment and introduce yourselves to me? It’d be cool to meet the readers!

I am a writer and a reader, and I spend at least half my day writing or reading. Whenever I’m inspired, I jot down things in my writing journal. I’m currently 12 and a native of the Prairie State! I will be entering 7th grade next semester (gulp; they say it’s the hardest year!). I have an adorable Lhasa Cross/Maltese named Koby, who is as small as a bunny and only about 3 months old! I am also a proud Filipina! The Filipino culture is so amazing, and so are the millions of other cultures around the world that I’d LOVE to learn about! An interesting thing about the Filipino culture is Simbang Gabi, which means Evening Mass, and it’s a big celebration. We go to church late at night, and we party the rest of the night away!

My favorite color is aquamarine, which is also my birthstone. I love aquamarine because it reminds me of the ocean. The ocean is like a bunch of jumbled-up emotions, almost like my life but not exactly, because I don’t think my life is very wet — I don’t live near any lake, ocean, or anything! The ocean can be calm and soothing at times, but also tall, torrential, and tumultuous! I am a Pisces, which means I’m emotional, intuitive, and grounded.

My favorite author of all time is the one and only…Beverly Cleary! I adore her writing because the situations her characters are in are so unrealistic yet realistic and lovable at the same time! I also enjoyed reading her love stories, especially “Fifteen”, which is about a 15-year-old girl who doesn’t know how to act around boys. I know you’re probably wondering: “What? Not J.K. Rowling or Stephanie Meyer?! Are you from this planet?” Sorry, guys, but I’m not all that into fantasy. I’m more into fiction, historical fiction, and autobiographies! Also, I used to read the American Girl books — my favorite was Molly McIntire — and my best friend and I would write stories similar to the series. I know, so embarrassing… :-) Those memories sparked an idea of writing a story like the one you’re about to read!

I would love to thank all my friends, family, SmartGirl, you guys, and my teachers for everything you’ve done, especially one teacher in particular: Mr. P! Thanks for supporting me and my writing, Mr. P! BTW, if there are ANY historical errors or if there are any corrections needed, please comment and inform me. I would really appreciate it! Also, every product, store, city, school, etc. mentioned in here are fictional, and there were no intentions of copying anything.

Thank you and enjoy!