He shakes his head. “White people are weird.”
Chapter Three
The Comeback Kid Minus the Comebacks
Rochelle Cordova moved away four weeks ago, and nothing has been the same since. Rochelle was nice, I guess. We weren’t exactly what I would call friends. But she changed my life in two major ways just by existing. First, her family moved out of the house that Dad is now renting, making this whole twinning-parent-freak-show thing possible.
Second, and more importantly, Rochelle was the ice cream in mine and Kiera Bryant’s ice-cream sandwich, which is to say that in class she sat behind Kiera and in front of me. God bless anyone whose last name starts with the letterC, because unless Kiera or I drop dead or we get a new student with aClast name before the end of the school year in just a few weeks, Kiera and I are stuck sittingclose enough to touch until the final bell of seventh grade rings.
Kiera. My ex-best friend. It’d be better if there was one simple reason why we stopped being friends, but it was the kind of thing that happened slowly and then all at once. She started hanging out with a group of girls in the next grade—the kind of girls who even make teachers feel uncool. She’d invite me to tag along with her, but it didn’t take long before both of us figured out that I was way out of my league with her new friends. The more time we spent apart, the more reasons I found to be annoyed by her. But then we’d do something—with just the two of us—like slumber parties at my house or trips to the bowling alley while our dads played for their league, and I’d remember all over again why we were friends. Kiera was actually really funny as long as I wasn’t the butt of the joke. But then the summer after fourth grade created too much space between us, and when we went back to school in August, it was a little too easy for hurt feelings to turn into a distance we couldn’t seem to close up again. Mom says good things are worth fighting for, but sometimes it’s hard to remember why something was good to begin with.
It was like I used to love chicken and dumplings until one day I had it and the chicken wasn’t cooked all the way. I nearly ralphed right there in the middle of Honey’s Diner. I was so grossed out that I haven’t been able to bring myselfto try it again, no matter how good it smells. Blech. Dad says it left a bad taste in my mouth.
So I wasn’t too pleased when, after the weekend Rochelle and her family moved back to San Antonio, I came back to find Mrs. Young had ambushed us by removing Rochelle’s desk and leaving me to stare at the back of Kiera Bryant’s head, her braids gathered into a loose ponytail at the back of her neck. And now even though I can’t see her face, I just know she’s judging me. I can see it in the way her shoulder blades pinch together every time I open my mouth. Nobody new ever moves to Valentine, so the likelihood of our alphabetical dilemma carrying over into eighth grade is high.
I’m not a quiet or shy person. I’m not exactly loud either—okay, maybe atouchdramatic like Oscar says—but something about Kiera makes me quieter than a mouse. Like, I don’t even want to breathe in the wrong direction in case she notices me and decides to remind me that, to her, I’m nothing more than her ex-BFF reject.
“Okay, class, I’m passing out the review for the life science test,” says Mrs. Young, who’s wearing bright-yellow pants and a navy-blue shirt with constellations stitched all over it.
I like Mrs. Young. For a teacher, she’s pretty awesome. She’s kind of round in a way that reminds me of myself if I were actually cool and knew what to do with my hair.She also wears neat-colored lipstick like lavender or blue or orange.
“Don’t forget to check out the bulletin board during morning break. There are some tips and tricks for your research projects.”
I let out a loud groan. Ugh... the research project. I still haven’t figured out who I’m going to pick for my project.
She clears her throat and continues. “And I’ve even added a few things relevant to your summer vacation, including information about the Valentine Community Theater’s summer camp.”
“Will Tabitha be there?” asks Samantha from the front row.
Mrs. Young’s wife, Tabitha, is a firefighter and volunteers at the Valentine Community Theater teaching improvisation classes. They have a lizard named Persephone and a gray cat named Edith. I’ve only met Tabitha once, but I make a habit of trusting fellow cat owners.
Mrs. Young smiles at Samantha. “As much as her schedule will allow her!” And with that she sweeps her long dark-brown ringlets half up with a clip the same way she does every morning when it’s time to get started on class work. “Take one and pass it back. And listen up very carefully: I’m not saying this is exactly what the test will look like, but I am saying that the review and the quizcould be fraternal twins.” She winks dramatically so that no one can miss it.
Dusty Sanders, a short white boy with one uneven front tooth and short red spiky hair, shoots one hand up on the other side of the class, and he doesn’t even wait to be called on. “What does fraternal twins even mean, miss? Is that like a college fraternity but only for twins?”
Mrs. Young smiles at him sweetly, making what my mom calls a bless-your-heart expression. “Bless your heart” is just basically southern foryou’re not so bright, but at least you mean well. “Class, which of y’all can tell us what fraternal twins are?”
Kiera, who is half black and half white with long legs that bump right up against the seat in front of her, raises her hand, her posture perfect, and pulls her hair tie loose, swinging her long braids over her shoulder. Sometimes she seems so pretty and perfect that I feel like I’m watching a movie.
“Yes, Kiera,” says Mrs. Young.
“Fraternal twins are twins but don’t look exactly alike and sometimes they’re boys and girls.”
Mrs. Young snaps her fingers. “Eureka!”
“Ohhhhh,” says Dusty, giving Kiera the thumbs-up. “Thanks.”
“No problem!” she says brightly.
I sigh, but it comes out more like a huff. The worstpart about Kiera is that she’s nice. She’s just not nice to me, which means that what happened between us is more than just “mean girl drama” as my mom calls it. Because even though I hate to admit it, Kiera’s not really a mean girl. In fact, last week she bought lunch for some random fifth grader when their lunch account was at zero.
Kiera shivers and turns around. “Maybe don’t breathe down my neck?” She points to my nose. “I think you’ve got, like, fuzz or a hair in your nose, by the way. Gross.”
Red-hot anger blurs my vision. I’m instantly reminded of the first time I spent the night at Kiera’s house with her new friends, Sarah Beth, Claire, and Kassidy. I had a stuffy nose, and when I fell asleep, I snored so loud that I even woke myself up. I pretended to still be asleep, though, because all four girls including Kiera were sitting up in a circle, laughing hysterically at me and pretending to snore and drool.
I say nothing back to her. I’ve made the mistake of responding too soon when someone says something rude, and I just end up sounding ridiculous with an awful comeback likeShut your butt, Kiera. That definitely didn’t come out as cool as I’d hoped. I always come up with amazing comebacks... ten minutes too late. It’s my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.
When no one’s looking, I brush my finger against my nostrils, careful not to look like I’m picking my nose. Trustme. You don’t want to be the kid who gets caught picking their nose in class. I glance behind me and one row over to where Joseph “Digging for Gold” Russo sits. A black boy with electric-blue glasses that I’ve always thought were super cool, he got caught picking his nose back in third grade, and his life hasn’t been the same since.
