Click Here (to find out how i survived seventh grade) (3 page)

• Why doesn’t Jilly try to switch to my track?

• Why am I afraid to ask her to switch?

• Why do I have to ask questions like that?

Will Erin P. Swift survive MBMS? Stay tuned.

chapter 2

First Day Freakout

I sat in my seat, stomach in knots, praying to the barf gods that I wouldn’t throw up. Especially on my new outfit.

The school bus lurched and moaned as it pulled away from my stop. Three unopened Snickers were tucked in my backpack, and I wondered if I’d ever feel like eating them.

Something sharp poked my thigh and I glanced down. The pin Jilly had given me for good luck stuck through my shorts. I wasn’t wearing it because it had a rolling clasp that I could never seem to keep on. The pin was one of those dual drama masks — the smiling one for comedy, the frowning one for tragedy. Jilly was big into drama. I’d put tape over the tragedy face — only happy times for Erin P. Swift on her first day at Molly Brown Middle School.

My eyes shifted to the empty seat beside me and my stomach flipped again. How could I be sitting on a strange bus, going to a new school, all by myself? I told my mom I needed to stay with Jilly, but she practically laughed in my face, something that isn’t a particularly good quality in a parent, in my opinion. Too bad no one asked my opinion. But I had to admit it felt good to talk to her the night before, even though I was still a little mad at her for not supporting OST (Operation Switch Tracks).

“I’ve never been separated from Jilly,” I told her last night.

My mom opened her arms and I stepped in, not caring that almost-teens shouldn’t hug their parents.

“It’s going to be hard, Erin. I know that. You and Jilly have been inseparable.” She stroked my hair, tucking it behind my ear the way I liked.

“Just thinking about walking into that humongous school and going right while Jilly goes left and not seeing her until the end of the day …” Tears stung my eyes. “Please let me stay home,” I whispered.

My mom squeezed me tight in reply. “Maybe in a few days you can start looking at this as an adventure. New friends, new situations.”

“I don’t want anything new.” I sniffled into her shirt. I wished we could stop time and all go back to Jordan Elementary where I knew everyone and what to do and how to act.

My mom pulled back gently and took my face in her hands. “You can do this, Erin.”

I wished I could believe her.

I turned my eyes away from the bus window, staring at the head of the kid in front of me. He had one of those haircuts where the top half looked like it was cut around a bowl and the bottom part was shaved. Red bumps swelled where the razor had gotten too close near the nape of his neck. Ugh. I was examining somebody’s scalp at close range. What was wrong with me?

As kids got on, the seat next to me stayed empty. Part of me wondered why — I’d put on extra deodorant this morning — and part of me was glad. It was like people knew the spirit of Jilly was sitting there and were respecting it.

Smack.
A rather large butt in faded jeans squashed Jilly’s spirit, settling into the thin green cushion.

“Um,” I murmured.

“What?” The boy narrowed his eyes, daring me to say something. “You can’t save seats, you know. Against the rules.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled, not knowing if there was a rule or not. It didn’t really matter, though, because I didn’t have anyone to save it for anyway.

“Man, are those peds for real?” The boy stared at my feet.

I glared at him before looking down at my high tops. I’d been wearing Chuck Taylors since first grade. They were comfortable and light. And not only that, I could wear a size 8 men’s Chuck, instead of a women’s 10 sneaker. So I stuck with Chuck.

“Well, are they?” The boy’s voice brought me back. I raised a Chuck. “I can step on your face and you can decide for yourself.”

“Oooh,” the boy murmured in mock fear, leaning toward me. “Hey, Eddie! Don’t kiss her! You’ll get foot-and-mouth disease.” The boy — Eddie — looked down at my feet again and grimaced. “I’m out of here,” he said, pushing up from the seat.

I sighed with relief, hardly believing I’d said what I’d said. I had no idea where it had come from but was glad it had. I tapped Jilly’s pin lightly through my shorts and sat up straighter. Maybe it had given me courage. I’d better hang on to it.

When the bus screeched to a stop, Rosie Velarde got on. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid and her bangs made a neat line across her forehead. She was the only twelve-year-old I knew who could wear her hair like that and not look like a little kid. I’d known Rosie since second grade, but we’d never really hung out. Jilly thought she was stuck up, but I didn’t. I was kind of afraid of her, though. She always said what she thought, and I wondered when she was going to say something about me.

Rosie stepped down the aisle, walking by without even looking at me. I slumped against the window, my forehead cooled by the glass. No one sat next to me for the entire ride to school.

Molly Brown Middle School was HUGE. The building was really four connected buildings that formed a big brown-bricked square with a courtyard in the middle. Each of the four buildings held classes of related subjects, which was supposed to be easier to navigate and make students feel “connected.” It made me feel lost and trapped.

The tour we had two weeks ago did not help me find my way around. It was like a labyrinth, with doors and hallways that seemed to go nowhere. Hogwarts without the magic. Or the Forbidden Forest. MBMS had what I would call a Forbidden Hedge, an ugly row of junipers running the length of the front of the building where the buses let us off.

I was in no hurry to face a bunch of strangers, so I stayed in my seat on the bus, untying and retying my shoes, then rearranging the stuff in my backpack until the bus was nearly empty.

“So, where’s Hennessey?”

I looked up to see Rosie Velarde standing next to my seat.

“She has strep.”

“Bummer.” Rosie adjusted her backpack straps over both shoulders and headed down the bus steps and out the door.

Why didn’t she stay when she saw that Jilly wasn’t here? What about being a Good Samaritan? We could have walked off the bus together. Maybe she was on my track. We could have walked to some classes together.

Maybe Jilly was right. Maybe Rosie Velarde was stuck up.

By the time I was actually off the bus and into the building, I was convinced Rosie was the most stuck-up girl in the entire universe. Right now she was probably in the hall somewhere, laughing an evil villain-like laugh as she imagined me wandering the halls alone, a neon LOSER flashing over my head.

I stumbled upon my homeroom just after the last bell rang, freezing in the doorway as twenty-five faces, all on time, stared at me. Rosie’s was one of them. But she was smiling a Good Samaritan kind of smile, and I felt a little better.

My eyes skimmed over the freshly painted walls; the posters of Harriet Tubman, Sally Ride, Benjamin Franklin, and Cesar Chavez; the rows of bookshelves under the windows; and the two computers in the back corner. Seeing the backs of the monitors comforted me.

“You must be Miss Swift,” the teacher said.

“You must be Ms. Archer.”

“She’s very swift,” a boy in the second row said. A few kids chuckled. He was way cute but didn’t look snotty or stuck up like most good-looking guys, which meant I would forgive the “swift” joke I’d heard a zillion times. His bangs were long and fell over one eye, and his nose had a few freckles sprinkled over it. The eye I could see was dark brown and looked right into mine. That kind of freaked me out. Most boys I knew never looked at you head-on; they always looked over your shoulder, as if they were really talking to someone behind you.

He sat next to Rosie Velarde, who smiled when Cute Boy nudged her. No fair. Did she know this guy?

Before I could continue my cuteness inventory, the teacher told me to sit down. I plopped down in the only available seat, which happened to be in the front row because no one in their right mind would want to sit in the front row, especially on the first day of school when you want to scope out your fellow inmates. I snuck a peek to my left and right. Oh, no. Not only was I in the dreaded front row, which was bad enough, but I was next to my favorite person in the whole world (not): Serena Worthington, aka Serena Worthlessness, or my personal favorite, Serena Poopendena. I couldn’t even feel sorry for her for having a bad romance-novel name because she was such a snot. Her hair was perfectly combed and curled, hairspray holding it in place.
Blech
. I couldn’t believe that there were two other tracks that Serena could have been on and she was on my track, in my homeroom. And Jilly wasn’t. I wondered if we would get to vote someone out of home-room. I knew who I’d pick.

I scrunched my nose and crossed my eyes at Serena.

“You look uglier than usual when you do that thing with your face,” Serena whispered loudly.

I did the mature thing. I stuck out my tongue.

“Nice,” she said.

I pulled my tongue back in, angry at myself for letting her get to me. I decided right then and there that nothing, absolutely NOTHING, was going to get to me this first day at MBMS.

And Nothing’s name was Serena Worthington.

chapter 3

Erin Swift, Puppet

My day began to crumble between fifth and sixth periods. I, the Crumblee, was leaving a stall in the girls’ bathroom when I saw Serena, the Crumbler, at the sink, primping.

“How are you ever going to get by without Geppetto?” Serena said, reapplying her lip gloss and smacking her lips at herself in the mirror.

I should have ignored her, should have washed and waxed and left quickly. But no. I had to respond.

“What?” I stood behind her, hands on hips, Jilly’s pin jabbing away at the funny little twinge I got when she said “Geppetto.”

“
You
know,” Serena said, turning to face me. She rubbed her lips together, smearing the lip gloss and sending a waft of berry my way. “Jillian is Geppetto, the master puppeteer, and you’re Pinocchio.” She leaned toward me. “The puppet.”

Wham!
A fist slammed into her face. It took me a second to realize it was mine. My throbbing knuckles set off the fire alarm. No wait, that wasn’t the alarm; it was Serena’s wailing, echoing and reverberating in the bathroom like a siren.

“Molly Brown Middle School does not tolerate violence of any kind,” said Mrs. Josephine Porter, principal of MBMS.

I swallowed, wondering if I needed a lawyer but afraid to ask. My eyes darted around the room. Behind her desk, Mrs. Porter had a large
Sound of Music
poster and several puppets — hand puppets, marionettes, finger puppets — on racks in a corner. Having just been called one a few minutes before, I wasn’t thrilled to see them all over her office.

“I see you’ve noticed my puppet collection,” Mrs. Porter said, her voice softening. “They’re such fun, aren’t they?”

If she knew my pain, she couldn’t possibly have asked that question. I said nothing.

“I’d like to hear you speak,” said Mrs. Porter.

I had a sudden urge to bark. But I’d probably lose points for that. I held it back and managed a squeaky “yes” in response.

“I like puppets. Especially marionettes.” Mrs. Porter sighed deeply, putting her chin in her hands.

Of all the principals on the planet, I had to get one who had a thing for puppets.

“Um, Mrs. Porter?” I asked. “What’s going to happen to me?” She straightened up and cleared her throat. “Well, that has yet to be decided. You are off on the wrong foot, Miss Swift, and I hope this is not indicative of what we can expect for the remainder of the term.”

I almost pointed out that there wasn’t a right foot with me, only a big one, but I didn’t. “No, ma’am,” I said. I looked at my hand. At first I thought I saw blood. Then I realized it was Serena’s lip gloss. I rubbed it off. “Where’s Serena?”

“Miss Worthington is being looked at by the school nurse.”

I felt a pang of guilt. What if I broke her nose? Then I really would need a lawyer.

Mrs. Porter didn’t say any more about Serena but proceeded to ask questions. The conversation was so strange, I wondered if perhaps I’d made it up. But my parents talked about it later, so I knew it had really happened. Here it is, word for crazy word.