Read Reel Life Starring Us Online
Authors: Lisa Greenwald
Reel Life Starring Us
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Greenwald, Lisa.
Reel life starring us / Lisa Greenwald.
p. cm.
Summary: Dina is used to being popular but starting a new school in eighth grade is difficult, especially where cliques rule, and although working with “queen bee” Chelsea on a video project should help, Chelsea is hiding huge family problems that could mean trouble for both girls.
ISBN: 978-1-4197-0026-2
[1. PopularityâFiction. 2. Middle schoolsâFiction. 3. SchoolsâFiction.
4. Video recordingâFiction. 5. SecretsâFiction. 6. Family lifeâNew York
(State)âLong IslandâFiction. 7. Moving, HouseholdâFiction. 8. Long Island
(N.Y.)âFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G85199Ree 2011
[Fic]âdc23
2011015079
Text copyright © 2011 Lisa Greenwald
Book design by Chad W. Beckerman
Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No
portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without written permission from the publisher.
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Video tip: Use an L-cutâintroduce a scene with an audio cue
a second or two before the scene actually starts.
I'm standing in the second-floor bathroom
, shaking crunched-up potato chips from the bottom of my backpack into the garbage can.
Anywhere else potato chips are considered goodâdelicious, even.
Here it doesn't seem to be that way.
This whole starting-a-new-school thing would be easier if I had a T-shirt that stated the truth, or a removable tattoo on my forehead, or something, just so people would know: I was cool at my old school. Really, I was. Yeah, it was a private school with fifty kids in the grade. Everyone was artsy in his or her own way. And it wasn't very cliquey. But I was cool. People liked me.
Shouldn't it be automatic that if I was
someone
there, I'd be
someone
here, too?
“Chipped already?” the girl at the sink asks me. “On your first day?”
“So it's, like, a thing?” I ask her. She looks at me, confused. “Being chipped, I mean?”
“What do you mean it's âlike, a thing'?” she asks, shaking her hands dry.
“I don't get it. I almost thought it was an accident that all these chips landed in my backpack.” I pick the last few remaining chip crumbs out of the zipper.
“Nope. You were chipped. Someone saw you and decided that you were a good target.” She takes one last look in the mirror and smoothes out the sides of her hair. “Good luck.”
See, if I had the shirt, I wouldn't have been chipped. It would be known. If you were cool in your old school, you're cool in your new school, too.
I leave the bathroom and go to gym. I'm waiting in the bleachers, looking around to see if I can find the culpritâthe person who chipped me.
Does anyone have a smug look on her face? Is anyone glaring at me?
So far, no. No one even notices me.
It's hard to concentrate on this because everyone's sneakers
are making that annoying rubbing sound against the floor. Ms. Berger, the gym teacher, blows her whistle every other second, which is way more often than she needs to.
We're playing badminton, not basketball. I don't know why anyone needs a whistle for badminton. I haven't even played yet. I've been sitting in the bleachers this whole time.
And that's when I notice her. Three rows below me. She's probably not the one who chipped me. She has too many other things going on to do that. She's the one who's surrounded by her best friends, the one who's happy and confident. The one who just loves school.
That's where I should be sitting. With her. Chelsea Stern.
Her friends have a cheer for her. “Go, Sea-Sea! Go, Stern! Go-go, Sea-Sea Stern!”
They keep saying it. It's catchy. I almost join in, just because that's what happens when I hear something over and over again. It'll echo in my head for the rest of the day.
I turn my attention back to the gym floor. I've never seen anyone take badminton as seriously as everyone does here. To be honest, the only badminton games I've ever seen were in the backyards of Sheffield, where I used to live. The nets drooped; we hit the birdie only every tenth shot or so. People usually got bored of the game after about five minutes.
But here badminton is a real sport.
“Dina Gross, you're up!” Ms. Berger calls, looking all around for me. The way this gym class is structured, only eight people actually participate at any given time. It doesn't seem like people really build up a sweat.