Queen of Likes (9 page)

Mood: Kind of silly

Naturally, I pass by Auggie Elson in the corridor right next to the bulletin board with the “How to Help a Choking Victim” poster.

Auggie sings my name. “Hey, Karma Karma Karma. How's the canned food drive coming?”

I reply,  “Good,” only I just mouth the word because I don't want Auggie to stop and actually talk to me when I still have my retainer in my mouth. I forgot to take it out before I went to school. I only have to wear my retainer at night. I need to spit it out ASAP!

Wait a minute. It's weird to care what I look like since it's Auggie. But still, other people might see. I whip around to face the wall, yank out my retainer, and stuff it into the front pocket of my backpack.

“Nice retainer!” calls out Auggie as he struts down the hall backward. My face is blow-dryer hot now.

In my mind, I text,
I wish I had a hoodie on right now so I could block Auggie from view.

If I had my Snappypic, I'd make sure to make a sarcastic comment on one of his photo bombs. But I don't. I have a slimy retainer in my backpack.

The last bell rings and Ella and I file out of the library. Mr. Schlesinger, our science teacher, brought our class there to do research for our reports on cell development. We reach the double doors of the cafeteria in two minutes.

“Should we go in?” asks Ella. She glances at a clock on the wall. “It's so early.”

I shrug. “Let's do it.” We've never gone immediately from third period before. Normally we'd go to our lockers, but they're way across school. The minute we go through the double doors, I know it's a mistake. Less than a dozen kids mill around inside. Most of the round tables sit empty, and there's only one person on the hot lunch line. Bailey and the Bees are not yet at their table by the Quick Cart. Of course nobody—
nobody
—at Merton will sit at that spot. Even though there's not a
RESERVED
sign there, there might as well be.

“Should we sit down at their table?” asks Ella, as we stand alone near the front entrance.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“But it'd be weird. Right?” She peeps at the table.

“No, we've been eating with them for a while.” I try to sound convincing. So we sit at Bailey's table.

Some boys call out to their friends by the entrance and I turn to look. Bailey and the Bees are strolling in now.

They're here.

I nudge Ella's side. “It's them.”

She stares ahead with huge eyes, like Lucky does when he's caught with people food in his mouth.

“Don't stare,” I hiss.

“I'm not. I'm checking out my nail polish.”

“Yeah right.” The Bees are all dressed in skinny jeans, bright tops, and cute flats. Megan has her honey-blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, while Bailey and Janel wear their hair down.

Bailey waves at us as she nears the table. “Sorry we're late,” she says. And that's it. Not “What are you doing sitting here?” This is my reality. Remember it. Like a snapshot.

We go to sit down with Bailey and the Bees, and I'm smiling so big. They sit at a round table with six seats. “Ella, I like that color top,” says Janel. “Lemon-yellow looks awesome on you.”

Bailey glances at my homemade gluten-free pizza. “Wow, does your mom have a cooking show? What's on your pizza?”

“Sliced olives and morel mushrooms,” I say as I dig in.

Ella opens her chicken salad sandwich. “Her mom makes her all this creative stuff. It's supercrazy.”

We start talking about the weirdest food our mothers have packed for us. The mention of weird things leads to us talking about Milton P. Daniels. Today his shoe box is wrapped in silver duct tape, the shiny kind that gleams under the lights.

As I shift in my chair to glance over at Milton P., he catches my eye. His hands
thwack
onto the roof of the taco fixing bar. “Karma, remember, your storage drawers need to be opaque!” he calls out. “Or else they are useless.”

“Okaaaaay.” My face burns as his eyes laser in on me. I pivot back around.

Everyone giggles, covering their mouths.

Bailey cocks her head to the side and presses her lips together like she's going to button them. “Now that was different.” Megan nods in agreement, and Ella nervously looks down at her ink-stained art hands.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” I shake my carton of milk. “I seriously have no idea what that was about.”

“Pure Milton P.” Janel stirs her yogurt. “He arrived here from his own planet.”

“Just what is in that shoe box thingy, anyway?” asks Megan.

“Bones,” says Janel. “Of his pet guinea pig or something.”

“I'm thinking dozens of chocolate bars,” says Bailey. “He is on the hefty side.”

“Maybe a secret transmitter,” says Ella. “Since he's a spy.”  We all laugh.

Swirling her milk carton, Bailey squints at Milton P. as if she's trying to figure something out. “I don't get why Milton P. talks to you.”

“Or what he means when he does,” says Janel.

“Me either.” I pull a pear out of my lunch bag. Okay, that's not true. But I just can't say. Ella gives me a worried look. We both know why Milton P. might feel bonded to me.

In fourth grade, Milton P. sat by himself next to the globe of the world. I sat by myself next to the sink in the back of the room.

We were both outcasts.

But I just can't say that to Bailey and the Bees. They didn't really know the old me. Bailey knew me, of course, but she doesn't seem to remember. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

In my mind, I text,
Why does Milton P. bother with me now all of a sudden? I don't get it. But I'm not sure I want to find out.

I'm at home in my room getting ready to bike to the historical society. I need to go in twenty minutes. A photocopy of my Torah portion sits on the corner of my desk. That's the part I'm going to read from the Hebrew Bible. I still have no idea what I'm going to say about it for my
drosh
, which is a teaching lesson you have to give during your bat mitzvah about your Torah portion. I guess I'm supposed to be philosophical or something.

I can be a philosopher. I text in my mind,
I am bored. Because I am
.

Yeah, I'm actually listening to the heater. I didn't realize how much noise a heater makes—a rushing sound, like wind that is constant and regular and then slows down as if it's a little tired, like it needs a break, just like me.

And without thinking, I finally look at my Torah portion. I'm surprised how easily the words slip off my tongue, almost as if I've been storing them there and they've been waiting to be free.

My Stats:

3 Bees who seem to be friends

1 kid who may be from outer space who doesn't stop talking to me

1 Torah portion that maybe I actually know

1 community service volunteer job where I need to show someone with orange lips that I'm mature!

Mood: Kind of looking forward to proving the person with orange lips wrong!

So I'm at the historical society. I have my notebook and the pen I swiped from my dad's desk. I'm even wearing a skirt. Before I left, Toby kept on telling me I looked too serious for the Hysterical Society and cracked himself up. This time I ride my bike there, which was probably not the best idea in a skirt.

When I buzz myself into the large bottom floor, the little balloon is gone. Officially deflated, I guess. Neda sits at her desk, working on the computer. She glances up, and for a moment she looks almost surprised to see me, her lips dropping down into her trout pucker, but then her head pops back to her screen. I get the feeling that she's really not that busy but likes to look busy. Mom says I do that too when she wants me to do a chore.

Out of the corner of her eye, Neda watches me climb up the oak staircase. It makes me feel all suspicious.
Sorry, but I'm not a criminal. I'm a volunteer! And I'm going to be the best one ever, even though I'm in middle school
. But Anna, the researcher, isn't like that. She smiles when she sees me. She's wearing a black top again. But her skirt is an awesome lime-green plaid. “Ready?” she asks.

“Yup,” I say.

She hops out of her desk chair. “It's been a busy, crazy day. So many rush research requests. Only just finished lunch now.”

“Wow.” I look up at the clock over her desk. It's already 3:30. I have a Spirit Week meeting with Bailey and the Bees at 4:45, so I'm going to try to sneak out of here in an hour without Neda seeing.

“So let me introduce you to some of our volunteers.”

Anna points to a fifty-something woman on a computer. “That's Karen. She's newer. And is working on a request.” Karen gives me a half wave. She wears little earrings with bananas on them. I guess fruit jewelry is a trend at the historical society.

“Karen's a recently retired school librarian,” explains Anna. “But I'm not sure about the retired. She's putting in some good hours around here.”

Karen glances up from the file folder on her lap. “I can't help myself.”

Anna laughs. She strolls over to a wooden table to the left of the circulation desk and I follow her. “Karma, this is Dorina. She's been a volunteer for eleven years and pretty much owns the place.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” says Dorina. She's got one of those teased-up hairdos that is shaped like an upside-down artichoke.

“So today Dorina will be showing you around,” says Anna.

Dorina smiles at me and I see that she's wearing feather earrings and a teal sweater vest.

“Teal is my favorite color,” I say.

“It's my second favorite,” says Dorina. “Purple is my number one.”

I wonder if Neda has told her that I'm here on a trial basis. My legs start to bounce. They bounce harder when I think about how I have to sneak out of here without being seen since I'm supposed to be at the Spirit Week meeting at 4:45, and I'm supposed to stay here until 5:00.

I whip out my little spiral notebook.

“My, I can see you're nice and prepared.” Dorina then shows me around, pointing out the different aisles and what's in each one. It really does look a lot like a library, only messier, with more boxes and rolled-up maps and stuff.

Dorina gestures at the back wall, where there are all kinds of shelves. “There are your ephemera boxes, and over there we have—”

“Ephemera.” I like that word, even though I have no idea what it means. If I had Floyd I could look it up right away.

“Yes,” she says. “The index for them is over here. So the
As
start on the left back wall and then there you have the
Zs
on the back right. It's where we keep the paper things. Newspaper clippings, brochures. No photos. It's all archival quality to keep it from turning yellow. If you want to go through them, wear the gloves.” She points to a table where there are boxes of them.

I scribble as much as I can into my notebook. I peep up at the clock. I have to leave in forty minutes. Yikes.

“You don't think there's going to be a test, do you?” Dorina says, laughing. “Because just when you think you know where everything goes, they'll do a reorganization around here just to mess with you.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Next we walk over to another aisle and Dorina pulls out a thick binder. “This is one of my go-to spots. It's a listing of buildings by city and street address.”

I nod, although I have no idea why you would need something like that.

“That's a lot,” I say. I mean everything. Not just the binder.

She laughs. “This isn't even half of it, honey. So why don't you spend some time just sniffing around, getting used to what goes where. Just remember to put everything back exactly where you found it.”

I give a salute. “Will do!”

I spend time just being a general snoop. I'm peeking into another file when Karen rushes up to Dorina. They talk excitedly about something, and then Dorina whips out some binders.

“Aha!” says Dorina triumphantly.

Anna and I trot over to find out exactly what's going on.

Karen explains that a woman from Texas claimed that her great-grandfather was born here in the county, but when they went for a family vacation and searched for his house, all they found was a grassy field. She thought he might have forgotten the right address or that maybe he wasn't from around here at all.

“But I had a hunch and dug up some records.” Karen waves a Xeroxed piece of paper. “And I discovered that the woman's great-grandfather, Ivan McMurphy, was an orphan.” She pulls a photo out of her file. “See. This is Ivan when he was a baby.”