The farmers in the area listened to Joe. Of course, anyone could get loads of weather information from TV, from the Internet, even from the phones in their pockets. But Joe was a homegrown weather guy. He grew up driving a tractor on his dad’s land down near Heyworth, and he knew about McLean County farming from the ground up.
When he pushed that red ON AIR button, Joe always sounded bright and cheerful, but behind the jokey voice there was a weather scientist a person who studied his computer models, as if they held the secrets of life and death. Because once in a while, they did.
Earlier in the morning, Joe had been arguing with Warren Shane. Warren was the chief meteorologist at the National Weather Service office in Lincoln, Illinois, about fifty miles west and south of him.
“I grew up around here, Warren, and all I’m saying is it’s just too darned hot and humid today, plus there’s all that new-plowed land soaking up the sunlight. The numbers look wrong to me—I think we could have some trouble.”
Warren was calm and patient. “I understand your concern, but the radar is fully deployed, Uncle Sam has the best supercomputers money can buy, and we’re chewing on the data six ways from Sunday. Really, things look fine—and even if there was a problem, we’d have loads of time to snap out a warning. So relax. Have another cup of coffee, look out the window, crank up the air-conditioner, and tell the farmers over there it’s going to be another great day to grow some corn. Okay?”
“Okay,” Joe said, “you’re the boss,” which made them both chuckle as they hung up. Because Joe was making a joke. In the weather business, the only boss was Mother Nature, and she never let you forget it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LATE BLOOMER
Jordan liked her reading class more than recess, even more than lunch. Reading was her best subject—the only one where she was in one of the top groups. And Mr. Sanderling was her favorite teacher because at least once a week he made everyone read silently for the whole period. Today was one of those days.
Hey—I should have put reading on my Things I’m Great At list!
But that idea made her think of Marlea, which she did not want to do. All she wanted to do now was read.
Jordan had been hooked on animal stories for a month or so. Mr. S. had some great ones in his classroom library, and not just newer books. He had a lot of his own books there on the shelves, the ones he had grown up with.
She’d found two inscriptions on the inside of an old hardcover copy of The Black Stallion: “For Jimmy, with love from Mother and Dad, Christmas 1953.” And below that, another one: “For Tommy, with love from Dad and Mom, Christmas 1987.”
She knew that Tom was Mr. Sanderling’s first name, so her guess was that the book had probably first been a gift to his dad back in 1953.
Jordan imagined Mr. S. as a kid, finding a quiet place to curl up and start reading his new-old book on Christmas afternoon. The picture made her smile.
Books kidnapped Jordan the same way her memories did. Starting a new book was like jumping into a rushing stream—something she wished she could do right about then. She was still sweating.
But at least on hot days Mr. S. kept a fan running, a big old thing with black metal blades. It sat on a wooden stool at the front of the room, and each time it swung one way and started back the other, there was a soft click. It didn’t make much of a breeze, but it was tons better than sticky stillness. And when she had to come back to Mr. Sanderling’s room in the afternoon for seventh-period language arts? Any moving air was going to feel wonderful by then.
The whirring fan also blocked out most of the other sounds in the room. However, it did not block out the memory of Marlea’s voice echoing around the girls’ room. The sheer meanness of what that girl had done had burned itself into her mind. Not good.
But Jordan pushed back. She wasn’t going to let a crowd of Not Nice thoughts about Marlea ruin her reading time. She’d just begun a new book about a girl who was a spy during the Civil War—and from the cover she could tell that the girl’s horse was also an important part of the story.
Her dad loved reading too. He’d read to her almost every night when she was little, and later, when she wasn’t so little, he kept it up. They had graduated to mysteries, biographies, adventure stories, spy novels—so many great books.
Spy novels . . .
A memory, something from back in the middle of December.
Jordan had heard her mom and dad talking softly in the family room, and then she’d heard her own name, so she’d thought they might be whispering about her Christmas presents.
She tiptoed closer for a little spying.
But they were talking about school. Jordan had just brought home her second report card—all Cs and C minuses, with just one B. In reading.
“I’m worried, Jay.” That’s what her mom called her dad—his name was James. “Jordan’s just not doing very well.”
“Compared to what?” her dad said.
“Compared to all the other kids, of course.”
“Her grades are average,” he said. “Some kids do better than she does, some do worse. Nothing wrong with that.”
“I just want her to do . . . better. That’s all.”
Jordan heard the worry in her mom’s voice.
“She’ll be fine,” her dad said. “She’s happy, she loves people, and her grades? They’ll come along. She’s just a late bloomer.”
“But if she doesn’t start getting better grades . . . ”
“She’s going to do just fine, sweetheart. We know she’s a hard worker. That’s ninety-five percent of success, right there. And life involves a lot more than getting good grades. So relax, okay? She’s a good kid. We have to let her be herself.”
Her mom sighed. “I’m just a big worrywart. You’re right. I know you’re right.”
Jordan had backed away silently, feeling awful.
She’d gone to her room and flopped onto her bed. She lay there staring up at nothing. And a picture came to her thoughts—the vine that grew beside the arched gate into the backyard garden.
In March the vine was a few puny sticks in the ground next to the fence. By June it morphed into a leafy green canopy growing up over the arch, and by the end of August, it looked like a scene from a jungle movie—her dad actually used a machete sometimes to tame the dense foliage.
Then, near the end of September, only a few weeks before the first frost, there was a sudden explosion of tiny white flowers, hundreds of them covering the archway, and on still evenings a sweet perfume flooded the yard.
A late bloomer.
Her dad thought she was at the sticks-in-the-ground stage—not so great now, but good things would come. And her mom had sort of agreed.
So, do they talk and worry and argue about me all the time?
That was kind of a scary thought.
Still, she’d been glad to hear them say that stuff, to hear some unfiltered thinking on the subject of Jordan, Plain and Average.
They were always saying encouraging stuff to her one-on-one. But whenever her mom or dad talked to her directly, it felt sort of like a coach giving a pep talk. To a losing team.
The place her parents’ conversation had ended up wasn’t so bad. They didn’t think she was a total loser. It was good to know they believed she was going to turn out okay . . . eventually.
Because most of the time, Jordan felt that way too.
She shook off the memory, opened her new novel to chapter three, and jumped right into the flow of the story.
But a part of her mind looked at what she was doing—reading this great book—and she compared that with what she’d been doing a minute earlier: worrying about her life.
The wonderful thing about reading this book? It had a sudden beginning and a burst of connecting episodes, and then it came to the end—and the ending was all worked out. Everything was so tidy, so nice and neat, packed between two covers. Read the words, turn the pages, and the ending was already figured out, just waiting for you to
get there.
Reading this book was so unlike living her life . . . but wasn’t reading books actually a part of her living her life? And sometimes a big part of living it? Because she really did love to read. . . .
Too complicated.
Jordan shook her head free and switched off all the words in her mind—all except the new ones she was reading.
In less than ten seconds she even stopped noticing how warm it was.
CHAPTER NINE
SLIGHTLY WICKED
Reading ended, and Jordan did not want to go to PE. This was definitely going to be the hottest and sweatiest gym class since last September.
And of course, Marlea would be there.
But Kylie would too, so that was good. When Kylie was around, Marlea stayed on her best behavior, which was still pretty awful.
Best of all, Nikki would be there.
Jonathan would also be there, over on the boys’ side of the gym—hidden, but still there.
Nikki was right. She really was thinking about him too much. . . .
And Mrs. Nevins would be there too, running the gym class. But not quite really running the class.
Mrs. Nevins. Another complicated relationship.
Jordan took a left at the drinking fountain and headed down the long hallway toward the gym. She’d been taking this walk every school day for years and years, but there had been a big change this last September. As she had started sixth grade, Mrs. Nevins had begun as the new girls’ PE teacher at Baird Elementary. That was because over the summer, Mrs. Bellington had finally retired.
Mrs. Bellington had always made PE one of Jordan’s best classes. The thing she liked most about Mrs. B.? She never criticized anyone for not being able to do something. Unlike Mrs. Nevins.
Jordan knew that she wasn’t the most coordinated kid, and she knew she tended to get flustered in a team situation, when there was pressure to do something exactly right—like pass a ball so someone could score a goal. She also knew she didn’t have the speed or endurance that some other kids did. But she had figured these things out on her own.
Mrs. Bellington had always told Jordan she was doing fine, that she was a good sport and a good team player, and that she was making progress. She never made her feel like there was something wrong with being an average athlete. Unlike Mrs. Nevins.
The first ten days of gym class under new management hadn’t been so great. Mrs. Nevins didn’t give clear explanations about what she expected the kids to do, and then she was demanding and critical after they didn’t do what she hadn’t explained.
But when soccer season began, Jordan and Mrs. Nevins had gotten to know each other better. As Jordan turned the corner and went into the gym, she smiled, remembering how the soccer season had ended. She shook her book bag and listened for a soft metallic rattle, like a tiny jingle bell. . . .
Yup, it’s still there.
The class hadn’t begun yet, and she saw Kylie over by the bleachers hanging out with Lindley and Kathryn. And Marlea.
Oh, look . . . it’s a meeting of the Cuteness Club! But Jordan bumped that little comment out of her head. That was definitely a Not Nice thought.
Kylie noticed her and smiled, then waved for her to come over.
The other girls didn’t smile. Or wave. Or acknowledge she existed.
Jordan knew they didn’t want her around, but she smiled and waved back at Kylie and walked over anyway. Which was sort of a Not Nice thing to do—but it was a free country, right?
As she joined the group, Marlea immediately turned her back. Jordan ignored the silent insult and said hi to the other three girls. Then she acted like she was paying attention to their chitchat.
But she wasn’t listening. Her mind was months away—that ringy little rattle she’d heard from inside her book bag had sparked a memory.
Mrs. Nevins was also the girls’ soccer coach. Back in November, when their amazing undefeated season ended, all the other girls on the team had been awarded big gold trophies. Jordan had been given something else: an Acme Thunderer, a little silver whistle on a red ribbon.
Because the truth was, Jordan hadn’t been on the team, not really.
She was technically on it at the very start, because anyone who tried out made the team automatically. Her soccer skills were okay, but she saw right away she wasn’t going to be playing during any of the actual games. About fifteen girls were really good, and, of course, Kylie was one of the best. So was Marlea. And Nikki too.
Jordan didn’t want to just sit on the bench and swat mosquitoes, so at the end of the second practice, she had asked Mrs. Nevins if she could be her assistant. At first Mrs. Nevins thought that was sort of funny, but then she saw Jordan wasn’t kidding.
She raised an eyebrow and gave Jordan a half frown, and then said, “All right—but only if you can explain what ‘offsides’ means.”
So Jordan laid it all out perfectly, the complete off-sides rule, which convinced Mrs. Nevins that she truly knew something about soccer. Because she did—just like she knew how to take care of her violin.
But Jordan knowing the rules of the game? That wasn’t the kind of help Mrs. Nevins needed. Jordan could see that the woman was nine tenths of a mess, and she ran the soccer practices even worse than she ran her gym classes. She didn’t seem to have an organized bone in her body. She brought her official clipboard and a pencil every day, but Jordan never saw her making notes or keeping track of anything.
The girls would show up and Mrs. Nevins would yell a few orders. Then after a little warm up, everyone just ran around, randomly kicking soccer balls all over the field. After about ten minutes of complete chaos, Mrs. Nevins would shout, “Okay, everybody! Choose up red and yellow vests—let’s get a game going!” And that was soccer practice.
It was pathetic. The team needed structure. The team needed conditioning and basic drills. The team needed a plan. But there was no way Jordan could just start giving orders.
She began with little suggestions. She’d say, “Hey, Mrs. Nevins, should we maybe take ten minutes and use the cones to do some dribbling exercises before the scrimmage?”
And the coach would say, “Sounds good to me,” and then yell out the order.
Or Jordan would say, “How about everybody does some wind sprints after the warm ups?”
And Mrs. Nevins would shrug and say, “Sounds good to me.”
Jordan learned quickly that Mrs. Nevins didn’t much care what the team did, as long as nobody got hurt and everyone stayed on the field until the late bus showed up at 4:05.
Jordan became Mrs. Nevins’s planner, and in less than two weeks she was basically running the team. The coach still had the clipboard and the pencil, and she still yelled the orders, but nearly all the activities came from the worksheets Jordan printed up.
Practice began with stretching and exercises, followed by jogging and wind sprints. Then came drills—dribbling, tackling the ball, passing, inbounding, shots on goal, and corner kicks. Jordan made sure the two goalkeepers spent time defending the net. Each practice still ended with a game, but it was only about twenty minutes long.
When the Jefferson Jets showed up for the first match, the Baird Bumblebees crushed them, five goals to none. And the team just kept winning.
Kylie figured out Jordan had become the remote-control coach after about four days, and she thought it was great. Marlea figured it out after Kylie told her, and she did not think it was great.
And what did Jordan figure out during the soccer season? Whenever Kylie was the least bit nice to Jordan, it seemed to make Marlea crazy. Marlea needed to feel like she was Kylie’s only friend. Marlea was jealous!
Which made no sense.
Because Marlea was pretty, she was a great student, a talented athlete, and she played cello nearly as well as Jonathan Cardley. So how in the world could a girl like that feel jealous of her—Jordan, Plain and Average? It was a mystery, and very annoying, especially during all those soccer practices.
So one Octob
er day after Jordan had put up with dozens of Marlea’s snippy comments and hundreds of sideways looks and a million little frowny sneers, Jordan ducked around the corner of the field house out beyond the running track. She found those two concrete blocks that she had left loose and pushed them aside. She reached into the opening—yes, it was still there! She pulled out a slim aluminum case. She flipped the latch, opened the lid, and took out her nutrino-crux vaporizer. Jordan slid the nozzle around the corner, focused the viewer, took careful aim, and . . . ffzzzt! Marlea Harkins vanished above the soccer field in a pale-pink puff of perfumed smoke!
That wasn’t Jordan’s actual memory. It was wishful thinking—a Not Nice thought.
And slightly wicked.
• • •
Standing there now in the steamy gymnasium just before the bell rang that Thursday morning, she took a long hard look at Marlea, but not at her face—the girl still had her back turned to Jordan, trying to ignore her, trying to make her feel just how much she was hated.
And as Jordan kept on looking, it suddenly struck her that she was barely even seeing a person standing there. Because to her, Marlea had become less and less like a person and more and more like one huge, ugly blob of bad memories. And who kept going back over and over all those bad memories and hurt feelings?
Me, myself, and I.
At that moment, Jordan saw how Marlea was actually doing something pretty useful for her. Yes, doing it in a mean and nasty way, but it was still useful. Because Marlea was forcing her to face up to that impatient, mean, and nasty part of herself—the part that wanted to whip out a vaporizer and start blasting.
Being nice to people would be so easy if the world were filled with Kylies. Being nice to someone like Marlea was a whole other thing.
Being nice to Marlea? Was that even possible?