Miss Matched (2 page)

Fiona stuck her nose up close and sniffed. “They don't smell bad to me.”

“That's what I keep telling her.”

Fiona took in a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “The worst thing isn't that I didn't get picked
to be electrician. The worst thing is that Milo Bridgewater did. I've waited forever. And he gets picked on his first day!”

“No fair,” said Cleo, pinching Fiona's arm. “But at least I get to be line leader.”

She pinched Cleo's arm back. “Yeah, that's good at least.”

“And Harold gets to be gardener.”

“Yeah.”

“Don't worry, Fiona,” said Cleo, cracking her knuckles, one finger at a time. “I'll make sure Milo doesn't jump the lunch line.”

Fiona half-smiled. Then she spotted an orange minivan in the parking lot. “There's the Bingo Bus. Bye.”

As Fiona got closer to the minivan, she saw Mrs. Miltenberger waving at her from the driver's seat. Mrs. Miltenberger, an honorary grandmother to Fiona and her little brother, Max, was a part-time owner of the Bingo Bus.

As Fiona climbed onto the bus, the other part-time owners in the backseat—Mrs. Lordeau, Mrs. Huff, and Mrs. O'Brien—were talking over top of one another. They called themselves the Bingo Broads. Mostly because they loved playing bingo at the American Legion. They even had matching sweatshirts that said so in sparkles across the chest:
BINGO RULES!

“That's when I decided it was time to get back in the dating game,” Mrs. Lordeau was saying. “And that's how I met my Sandy.”

“Good for you,” said Mrs. O'Brien. “You've got to just get out there and meet people.”

“That's what I keep telling Violet,” said Mrs. Huff. “But does she hear me?”

“Oh, I hear you all right,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. She winked at Fiona in the rearview mirror as Fiona settled into her middle-row seat. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” Fiona said with a shrug.

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. O'Brien. “That doesn't sound good.”

Fiona turned around in her seat to face them.

“No, it doesn't,” added Mrs. Lordeau, cleaning her eyeglasses with her shirtsleeve. “Not good at all.”

“What is it, sugar?” said Mrs. Huff. “Teacher problems? Homework problems?” Then she cleared her throat and said in a low voice, “Boy problems?”

Mrs. Lordeau slid her glasses back on her nose and leaned in close. “You can spill the beans to us, honey.”

“Easy, girls,” called Mrs. Miltenberger from the driver's seat. “Fiona, you don't have to put up with them for long. We've got only a few blocks to go to pick up Max from swim practice and then I'm dropping them all off at the Legion.”

“You just watch the road, Violet,” Mrs. O'Brien answered back, winking at Fiona. “We've got this handled.”

Fiona wasn't used to telling the Bingo Broads her problems. But with her dad at the TV station a lot, where he was the chief meteorologist, and her mom living in California where she worked as an actress on the soap opera
Heartaches and Diamonds
, Fiona was glad to have grown-ups in arm's reach who were interested in hearing her troubles. “Well, I guess kind of boy problems,” she said. “Sort of. I mean, there's one boy. And he's got problems.”

“I knew it,” said Mrs. Huff. “What did I tell you!”

Mrs. O'Brien nudged Mrs. Huff with her shoulder. “You're a genius, Betty. Now let her talk,” she said. “Go on, Fiona.”

Fiona told them about Milo Bridgewater, spiky hair and all, and how he scowled at her for no good reason and that just because he's a new kid from Minnesota, he can do anything he wants. Including being electrician.

Fiona paused to catch her breath and watched the Bingo Broads exchange sideways looks.

“I see,” said Mrs. O'Brien. Mrs. Huff and Mrs. Lordeau nodded and said that they, too, saw.

“What do you see?” asked Fiona.

“Stepping on your toes a bit, is he?” said Mrs. O'Brien.

Fiona looked at her feet.

“This is the case of a boy just trying to fit in,” explained Mrs. Huff.

“What you need to do,” said Mrs. Lordeau, “is kick him with kindness. The sweeter you are, the sweeter he'll be.”

“Gross. No way,” declared Fiona. The kicking part wouldn't be a problem, but the kindness was not going to happen.

“She's right-o,” added Mrs. O'Brien. “It's called the art of flattery. You can attract more flies with sugar than you can with vinegar.”

“But I don't—” began Fiona, shaking her head.

Mrs. Huff interrupted. “It's honey, not sugar.”

“What is?” asked Mrs. O'Brien.

“You said that you can attract more flies with sugar. But the saying goes, ‘You can attract more flies with
honey
.' Honey. Not sugar.”

“But . . .” Fiona tried again.

“You're both wrong,” said Mrs. Lordeau. “It's bees. Not flies. ‘You can attract more
bees
with honey.' ”

“Why on earth would you want to attract bees?” said Mrs. O'Brien.

“Well, who wants a bunch of flies?” answered Mrs. Lordeau.

Fiona's brain felt like melted Velveeta. “I don't want to attract flies or bees,” she said, louder than she should have. “I just wanted to be the one to plug in the TV, not Milo.”

“I still say, kick him with kindness,” said Mrs. Huff, pulling at the mole hair under her chin.

“I don't see how that would work,” said Fiona.

“I've got an idea,” said Mrs. O'Brien. “Let's try it on Max. What do you say, girls?”

• • •

When they got to the YMCA, Max
was waiting on the front steps. Fiona watched him from the window of the bus as he adjusted his goggles and hopped down the steps on the heels of his orange flippers. The towel that was tied around his neck like a cape swung to the side. Captain Seahorse.

He opened the door of the bus and announced, “Superhero on board, ladies!” He climbed in beside Fiona, who was still shaking her head.

“Afternoon, Captain,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

“Afternoon,” he said. He grabbed the door handle with both hands and pulled on it to slide the door closed. But the door didn't budge.

“I've been meaning to grease that door,” said Mrs. Huff. “It's been sticking something awful.”

Fiona leaned over to help. “I can do it!” shouted Max, pushing her away.

Fiona looked at the Broads, who were nodding
and encouraging her with their eyes. She went over what they had told her in her head, and wasn't sure she could do it. In her head, the words were so sugary they made her lips pucker. But somehow, she forced them out. “Captain Seahorse,” she said, swallowing hard, “your superhero muscles are probably tired from all of that swimming. I can help you.” She swallowed again. “If you want.”

The Bingo Broads nodded and smiled in approval.

Fiona felt sick. She truly almost gagged.

For a long moment, Max stared at her through his goggles. Then he said, “What's wrong with you? Why are you being so nice?” Which Fiona thought was a rude thing to say because, of all the big sisters she knew, she considered herself to be a pretty nice one. After all, she didn't tattle on him every day and only once in a while broke his crayons on purpose.

But then Max did something unexpected. He let go of the door handle and sat back in his seat. Fiona couldn't believe she had gotten her way. Without a fight or anything. She smiled to herself as she leaned over him and pulled the door closed.

C
alling all snow
angels,” said Dad, knocking on the door to the dressing room at WORD-TV news station.

“Here I am,” Fiona answered, opening the door. She pulled out her tutu as she followed him down the hallway and into his office. Fiona had been known as the station's snow angel ever since she gave her first weather report during one of Ordinary's biggest snowstorms. And now she reported on the weather a couple times a week.

Dad sat down at his desk and looked at the computer screen.

“Any snow on the way?” Fiona asked. She tugged at her costume's skirt to get it facing the right way and then started untwisting her shoulder straps. The tutu seemed to get smaller every time she put it on.

“Not this week, Dancing Bean,” he said. He rolled over to her on his desk chair, which Fiona and Max named Turner, and helped her untwist.

“Is it ever going to snow again?” Fiona asked. She looked over at the computer screens on her dad's desk and frowned at the green blobs moving across the map.

Dad let go of her straps and patted her shoulders. “There you are. Right as rain.” Then he rolled Turner back over to his keyboard, pressed a few keys, and pointed to the screen. “See this low-pressure system? It's moving in from the south and bringing up some warm air.”

“Warm air?” complained Fiona. “But it's January. It's supposed to be cold. And snowy.”

“This is winter in Maryland,” said Dad.

“Ordinary,” said Fiona with a sigh. Then for some reason Milo Bridgewater's scowly face flashed in her head. “I bet the weather in Minnesota is the same, though, right?”

“Minnesota?”

“Yeah,” said Fiona. “I mean, the weather isn't any better there.”

“Well, it depends what you mean by better,” said Dad. He clicked some keys and brought up a map of the United States. He pointed to an area on the screen that was covered in pink. “This is Minnesota. And look at the size of the snowstorm they are having right now.”

“No way!” said Fiona. “They have pink snow in Minnesota?”

Dad gave her a look.

“Just kidding,” she said. Only, she was just
half-kidding. Part of her believed that if Milo could be picked as electrician on his first day in a new school, he just might be lucky enough to be from a place that snowed pink snowflakes.

“Right,” said Dad. “Good one.”

“It snows a lot there?”

“You betcha,” he said. “Sometimes four to five feet at a time.”

Fiona huffed. “Lucky.”

“And it can get down to fifty degrees below freezing. Talk about weather that's not ordinary. It's extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary.” Fiona said it real slow. She knew the word because she got it wrong on Mr. Bland's vocabulary test a couple of weeks ago. By the looks of it, you would think “extraordinary” meant extra ordinary. Like extra ketchup. Extra large. Extra snowy. But it really meant the opposite of ordinary. It was another one of those lying kind of words.

• • •

At school the next day, Mr. Bland
still didn't have Milo's books. Fiona had to do more sharing.

“Hey, Florida. What's with the Halloween costume?” Milo whispered during their history lesson.

Fiona looked at the flared jeans and striped T-shirt she was wearing. “Huh?”

“On TV last night,” said Milo. “I saw your weather report.”

“Oh, that. It's called a tutu,” said Fiona. “I take ballet. And it's Fiona, not Florida.”

Mr. Bland tapped the chalkboard. “Who can tell me what the word ‘declaration' means? Anybody?”

Fiona pulled at her eyebrow. She had discovered that if she could pull out just one hair, Mr. Bland wouldn't call on her. But if she pulled out two, or even three hairs, she was going to get called on for sure. She yanked. One hair.

“Cleo,” said Mr. Bland.

“It means an announcement,” she said. History was Cleo's best subject. She had the kind of brain that was good at remembering dates of wars and names of presidents, which was all history seemed to be, anyway. Fiona's brain was not so good at remembering those kinds of things.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Bland. “An announcement. A formal statement about something important.” Mr. Bland picked up a pile of papers from his desk. “Who is our classroom courier this month?” Leila Rad raised her hand. “Oh, right, Leila. Would you please pass out these worksheets?”