Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (8 page)

W
hat did I do?

Something. It
had
to be something.

Is it because I took their torture without complaining? Because I ditched the pony backpack? Because I’m the sister of a seriously rebellious HVMS legend who now goes to a totally hip art school?

None of those reasons seemed likely. I only knew one thing: Missy Trillin asked me to have lunch with her and the other Princesses.

There has to be a logical explanation
, I thought, but I couldn’t figure it out. Here’s what happened:

Actually, it was a little more like this:

Ha-ha, ha-ha, Rafe! I’m winning already!

So—okay—maybe they just wanted me to bring them cookies. That was today. Tomorrow, it could be pie. And after a while, I would just be hanging out with them. The fourth Princess, on patrol.

I picked three enormous cookies flecked with M&M’s for Missy and the B’s. The HVMS cafeteria mostly serves reheated mystery meat, but the desserts are good.

Out in the courtyard, I sat down on a bench, wondering why more people don’t eat out there. It was a pretty day, with only a few puffy clouds in a bright blue sky.

“Excuse me?” someone called. It was a cute guy with sandy-blond hair. “Um, hey—” He glanced over his shoulder, then hurried through the cafeteria doors. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“What?” I asked. I turned to look over at the cafeteria windows.

“Oh,” I said. I felt like I’d just swallowed a boot: sick and lumpy.

“Are you okay?” the blond kid asked me. “You look like you just swallowed a boot.”

Suddenly, the cafeteria doors burst open. In a cloud of smoke, Mrs. Stricker—the Hills Village Middle School vice principal—appeared.

And she was heading straight for us.

M
rs. Stricker swooped toward me. For a moment, I was terrified. Then I remembered something: I had cookies.

“Would you like a cookie, Mrs. Stricker?” I asked in my sweetest voice. “It has M&M’s in it.” I picked the fattest one from the plate and held it out.

Mrs. Stricker stopped short. She smiled. “You’re Georgia Khatchadorian, aren’t you?” she asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.

I pointed to him. “This boy has just told me that I’m not supposed to be out in the courtyard. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I apologize for breaking the rule.”

Mrs. Stricker laughed. “Oh, Georgia, don’t be
silly. I just came out here to welcome you to Hills Village Middle School.”

“Whoa,” the blond guy whispered. He stared at me with huge eyes. “Is this, like, some Jedi mind trick thing?”

“It’s the cookie,” I whispered back.

“I’ve seen your permanent record, Georgia,” Mrs. Stricker went on. “And I know you’re a good student. You even won Most Outstanding Effort in third grade. I think you’ve earned the right to eat where you please.”

I had to admit it—I was shocked. Rafe had always made Mrs. Stricker sound like a witch on wheels.

“I notice you have two more cookies there.” Mrs. Stricker nodded at the plate on the bench beside me. “Were you expecting someone else to join you, Georgia?”

“Oh, no,” I lied. “I just… like to give out cookies.” I handed another one to the blond boy.

“Hmm.” Mrs. Stricker squinted at the cafeteria window, where Missy and the B’s were cowering under a table. “I understand what you’re going through, dear,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do, Georgia—
anything
—please just come and see me in my office.” She leaned in close and whispered, “I like to give out cookies too.” And then she winked.

D
id you buy all that? Yeah, probably not. As soon as I came out of that little daydream, I discovered once again—to my horror—that Rafe was right.

Let me just clear up one thing: Mrs. Stricker is
not
as sweet as an M&M cookie. She’s about as sweet as a flaming turd.

Here’s the gist of what really happened:

I was still recovering from my humiliation when Mrs. Stricker blazed out to the courtyard. “You aren’t supposed to be outside!” she screeched.

“Would you like a cookie?” I asked.

“How
dare
you try to bribe a school official!” I was hoping she would hop on her broomstick and
fly away, but instead she snarled, “I know who you are, Rafe Khatchadorian’s SISTER! You’re breaking a rule—AUTOMATIC DETENTION!”

“Excuse me,” the blond boy piped up, “but she didn’t know—”

Mrs. Stricker wheeled on him. “Automatic detention for you too, Blond Kid! Nobody covers for a Khatchadorian on my watch!”