My parents didn’t share any photos with Mr. Milhokovich. Bridget’s dad has lived in California since the split. “He’s little more to his daughter than a signature on child-support checks.” That’s what Bridget’s mom says on Saturday nights after her double shift at the restaurant and a glass or two of pink wine.
Bridget spent most of the summer with her dad. She came back with tons of souvenirs from all the cool places she visited while she was on the West Coast—Universal Studios, Disneyland, the Academy Awards theater, and so on. She also came back with a blistery sunburn that just healed in time for school. She said the souvenirs were more painful than the sunburn, which I thought was strange until I witnessed Mrs. Milhokovich crying over the discovery of a Mickey Mouse plushie, a Hollywood sign key chain, and a Lakers T-shirt Bridget had stuffed deep into the kitchen trash can—but not deep enough.
It always made Bridget sad to talk about stuff like this, so we never talked about stuff like this, except when she decided she wanted to talk about stuff like this and she’d cry a lot and I’d feel guilty about complaining about how my dad acted like a dork when I was lucky to have a dad around at all. My parents really aren’t that bad, I guess. They’re just… you know. Parents. It’s pretty much impossible to look at them like ordinary people when they’re your own.
“Now say, ‘Brie!’ ” Dad shouted.
“Brie!” Bridget shouted back.
I stood next to Bridget stiffly as she struck a pose like a runway pro.
“Now say, ‘Gorgonzola!’ ”
“Gorgonzola!”
Bridget acted like smiling for pictures was the funnest thing ever. And the weird thing was, the more confidence Bridget projected as we posed and posed and posed for my parents, the less confident I felt about my own appearance—as if there was only so much awesomeness the universe could handle. What if there was a limited amount of confidence to go around? Like, if Bridget had self-assurance out the wazoo, there’d be less for the rest of the first-day-of-seventh-graders like me to share. As I strained to smile, I asked myself if I’d feel less loserish if I went upstairs and put on a safer outfit from the mall. Something more like Bridget’s. And why didn’t I get a stylish new haircut? Or braces? So what if I have naturally straight teeth? I could have gotten braces just to stun all of Pineville Junior High School with the dazzling sight of my naked teeth when I got them removed!
Bridget was still going along with my dad’s cheesiness. Ha! In more ways than one.
“Monterey Jack!” Dad shouted.
“Monterey Jack!” Bridget shouted back.
I had just about convinced myself of the Limited Universal Confidence Theory when she stopped striking poses and turned her attention to me.
“I love your T-shirt! I wish I was cool enough to pull that off!”
And that’s when Bridget reminded me why she’s my bestest friend ever.
“You’re cool enough, Bridget. Believe me.”
Then I hooked my arm around hers and we set off for the bus stop.
Coolly. Confidently. Awesomely.
Together.
Chapter Seven
The bus ride to Pineville Junior High was like all other bus rides to school in that it was very, very loud. Selective hearing must be a mandatory trait for school bus drivers. For most of the ride Miz Carbone—the tattooed, toothpick-chewing lady behind the wheel—somehow managed to ignore the craziness going on behind her and concentrate on the road. Just when I thought she was totally zoned out—fantasizing about hitting the open road on her Harley instead of driving a bus full of screaming kids—she’d miraculously tune in to reprimand a rider for using profanity or otherwise inappropriate language.
“HEY NOW!” Miz Carbone yelled. “NO CUSSIN’ WHEN I’M BUSSIN’.”
I will bet a bazillion dollars she has this motto tattooed somewhere on her body.
Even though it was the first day of school, I was struck by how our school bus already had that very specific school bus smell, like scorched rubber, bag lunches gone bad, and… well… and a scent I can only describe as armpit.
The eighth graders had taken their rightful positions in the back of the bus while the rest of us were expected to fend for ourselves. Bridget and I silently slipped into an empty two-seater toward the rear-front, which was a pretty sweet spot for seventh graders. I knew I was as grateful for Bridget’s company as she was for mine.
Apparently the eighth-grade boys were also appreciative of Bridget’s presence on the bus. They went to very noisy lengths to let her know it.
“Yo, Bee Em Bee!”
“Hey, Bee Em Bee!”
“Yo, Bee Em Bee!”
Bridget ignored these fascinating attempts at conversation.
Boys my age are the most inarticulate creatures on the planet. They’ll stick to single syllables unless it’s a topic of conversation that’s of major significance to their lives. As far as I can tell, their deepest discussions are limited to three subjects:
1. Sports
2. Video games
3. Farts
And my mother wonders why I haven’t developed major crushes on any of my classmates. It’s a nonissue anyway because apparently the feeling is mutual.
Back on the bus, the shouting continued.
“HEEEEEEY, BEEEE EMMMM BEEEE!”
“YOOOOOO, BEEEE EMMMM BEEEE!”
“I really hope we end up in at least one class together,” Bridget was saying.
“Uh,” I stammered. “What?”
It was almost impossible to concentrate on the conversation even though Bridget was seated right beside me.
“I was just making sure you picked Family and Consumer Sciences as your first choice for Exploratory.”
“HEEEEEEY, BEEEEEEMMMMMMBEEEEEE!!!”
“YOOOOOO, BEEEEEEMMMMMMBEEEEEE!!!”
I couldn’t take it anymore. She had to do something—wave or smile at them—whatever would shut them up. Or would that just rile them up even more?
“Bridget!” I hissed.
“What?”
“Them!” I jerked my thumb toward the boys in the back.
Then she looked up from her BMB-embroidered backpack, shrugged, and grinned at me without a trace of guile. Her smile was like the sun bursting through the clouds accompanied by a choir of angels. And that’s when I realized that Bridget wasn’t ignoring the boys because she was exhibiting the Miz Carbone–like superpower to NOT hear them. No, she ignored them because she had absolutely no clue that she was the person they were trying so hard to impress. It made me wonder if there’d ever been a time a group of boys had tried to win my approval—only to lose out to my own oblivious indifference. If I ever hope to make good on IT List #3: Pick your first boyfriend wisely, I better start paying closer attention. That’s what I was thinking as the bus pulled us into the Pineville Junior High parking lot for the first time.
“We’re here!” Bridget squealed with wide-eyed excitement.
The first homeroom warning bell was already ringing as we got off the bus. They didn’t waste any time in junior high, did they? My homeroom and Bridget’s were on opposite sides of the first floor, so we pretty much had to say good-bye as soon as we got inside. I really, really didn’t want to find out what would happen if I showed up late, so I was all ready to take off when Bridget clutched both of my hands.
“If I don’t see you again,” she said as if she were going overseas, not just across the hall, “save me a seat on the bus ride home, okay?”
Before I could answer, one of the eighth graders from the back of the bus came over. He was the cute one, I guess, if I were forced to choose. Suntanned, tall, and broad-shouldered, he looked like he’d spent the entire summer outside throwing, catching, and running after things. This was undoubtedly true because he was wearing a PJHS Football T-shirt. His smile revealed a small space between his top front teeth, a flaw that somehow made him look even cuter than he already was, you know, if you’re into the jock type. Which I’m not. I don’t think I
have a “type” yet. How am I supposed to pick my first boyfriend wisely if I don’t have a type?
“I’m Burke Roy,” the cute jock said to Bridget. “I’ll save you a seat on the ride home.”
Burke Roy clearly didn’t require orthodontic perfection to boost his mojo. Bridget just about melted under the warmth of his gap-toothed grin. He took this as a sign of encouragement and stepped right between us.
“I’ll be your one-man welcome committee,” he continued, taking her by the elbow.
As the final warning bell rang, I watched Burke escort Bridget to her classroom. She didn’t even turn to say good-bye or good luck. This boy she’d known for less than twelve seconds had made her forget all about the best friend she’d known for more than twelve years. I hadn’t even gotten to homeroom yet and I’d already discovered five hard truths about junior high:
1. My best friend had turned pretty.
2. She didn’t know it yet.
3. It wouldn’t be long before she did.
4. That knowledge would change everything between us.
5. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
Chapter Eight
Today was the first time kids from our town’s four elementary schools merged into one harmonious seventh-grade class of two hundred students. My school was the smallest of the four so I was one of only twenty Pineville Elementary students who moved up to the junior high. I had way fewer friends and familiar faces than the lucky graduates from Beach Pines Elementary, who were one hundred strong.
I tried not to be discouraged by this social disadvantage.
Homerooms were arranged alphabetically by last name. Room 102 included the second half of the Cs, all the Ds and Es, and the beginning of the Fs. IT List #4, Stick with the IT clique, weighed heavily on my mind, so I was a bit stressed about finding the “right” person to sit with. Would I even recognize the “right” person when I saw her?
(Or him, I guess. I have to get used to being more open-minded about boys.) I was actually kind of relieved when I didn’t get to decide for myself. My name was on a placard designating my assigned seat: two rows from the left, second seat from the front.
I had to pass by the first girl in the row to get to my seat. She had dark curly hair and was wearing an outfit very similar to the one Bridget had picked out for herself that morning—only she’s shorter and stockier than Bridget so it looked different on her. Not bad, just different. I couldn’t help but notice that she was watching me very carefully as I squeezed past the pricy designer backpack that she had thrown carelessly in the aisle between the rows, like she was afraid I’d step on the rhinestone strap or something.
I had barely sat down when this girl spun around in her seat and introduced herself.
“I’m Sara,” she said. “D’Abruzzi.”
She put special emphasis on her last name, which for some reason made me feel like I should do the same.
“I’m Jessica,” I replied. “Darling.”
I probably should’ve stopped there, but I didn’t.
“I guess it’s our alphabetical destiny to be seated together.”
Sara squinted her eyes, giving me a curious look. Sometimes I say too much. This might have been one of those times.
“Omigod! Yeah! I guess you’re right!” she said, laughing.
I released a sigh of relief.
“So you probably recognize my name. D’Abruzzi.”
I didn’t.
“Because my dad is Wally D’Abruzzi.”
This still meant nothing to me.
“My family practically owns the entire Boardwalk,” she said, ticking off his business ventures on her hand. “There’s Wally D’s Sweet Treat Shoppe, Winning Wally’s Arcade…”
Oh! I knew those places! I love the candy apples at the sweet shop and kick major Skee-Ball butt at the arcade! I was going to tell her this, but I never got the chance because Sara D’Abruzzi just kept right on talking. And talking. And talking.
Sara said she has two stepbrothers who are much younger than she is and total snot-nosed monsters and she also has an older brother named Joe who’s a senior varsity football player at Pineville High and totally cool and her two BFFs from Beach Pines Elementary have crushes on him even though they’ve totally denied it, especially someone named Hope because she’s always like, “Oh, Joe totally isn’t my type,” and then Sara’s like, “Omigod! Cool football players aren’t your type?” and then someone named Manda’s like, “Cool football players are my type!” and then the Hope person is all, “Every guy is your type!” which Sara said is totally, totally true. And when she took a breath I was able to ask, “Who are these girls you’re talking about?” and Sara was like, “Omigod! You’ll totally meet them and totally love them!” and I was feeling a bit woozy and overwhelmed by this information overload and was super-relieved when our homeroom teacher passed out our schedules and Sara finally stopped talking.
For about a second.
“Gimme!” Sara said, grabbing my schedule out of my hands before I’d looked at it myself. “Omigod! Our schedules are practically twinsies!”
It turned out that Sara D’Abruzzi was also in the Gifted & Talented classes. What luck to have met a new G&T friend in my very first minutes of seventh grade! In fact, all our classes were the same. Except eighth period.
“Ew,” Sara said, curling her lip. “What’s up with your Exploratory?”
I had no idea what was up with my Exploratory because I hadn’t had a chance to review it myself. Sara handed it over to me, looking grim.
“Industrial Arts?” I questioned aloud. “What the heck is that?”
“Omigod! I think it’s”—Sara paused dramatically—“Woodshop!”
Then she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, as if she’d just said Witchcraft instead of Woodshop.
“I asked for Family and Consumer Sciences,” I complained. “Not this!”
To be honest, I wasn’t really thrilled with the idea of taking Family and Consumer Sciences either, which is just a fancy way of saying Home Ec. I only checked off that box because Bridget begged me to. It was probably our only chance at having a class together. Otherwise, I would’ve picked Creative Writing.
“You need to get that switched,” Sara said, all serious. “Like, pronto.”
I spent the rest of homeroom fretting about how I would go about righting this wrong. Then the bell rang and we got up to go to our lockers for the first time, which is when I found out that lockers are also arranged alphabetically by last name, guaranteeing that Darling, Jessica would be seeing a lot of D’Abruzzi, Sara.
So Sara and I headed off for the first of our seven periods together: Language Arts with Miss Orden. Miss Orden was a wispy willow in a billowy gypsy skirt. She would lift off like a balloon in even the slightest breeze if she weren’t anchored to the earth by her chunky vegan footwear. Her voice quivered with passion for literature like a string on Cupid’s bow.
“S. E. Hinton was fifteen—hardly older than all of you—when she—yes, she—began writing The Outsiders.”
Miss Orden looked hardly any older than some of the more, uh, developed girls in our class. Her face was without makeup or care, as if she’d never had a worry in all of her cruelty-free life. Bethany would happily kidnap her for an ambush makeover.
“What do you think of that?” she asked the class.
There were about twenty-five of us, none of whom had come from my elementary school or looked the least bit interested in answering her question. I really hate awkward silences. The only thing I hate even more than awkward silences is my unstoppable urge to fill them.
“S. E. Hinton was so young when she wrote it,” I offered. “She was still in touch with how it feels to be an outsider.”
Miss Orden nodded, her earrings all ajangle, encouraging me to go on.
“That’s why readers are able to relate to the story even though it’s from a totally different time period.”
Miss Orden responded with a
fist pump and a resounding “YES!” followed by, “What does the rest of the class think?”
And the rest of the class responded with shuffled feet, averted eyes, and wordless murmurs. It didn’t seem possible—or fair—that all these students had scored higher than Bridget on the G&T entrance exam.
That’s when it hit me: I was the only one in the room who had actually done the mandatory summer reading! Or maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe everyone else had done the mandatory reading but had gotten the memo that it was totally uncool to acknowledge that they had done the mandatory reading by raising their hands and offering an insightful opinion about the mandatory reading that they were only pretending not to have read.
WHY WASN’T INSIDE INFORMATION LIKE THAT ON MY SISTER’S IT LIST?
And just when I was convinced that I’d doomed the Darling name to dorkdom on the very first day of my very first class in junior high, I was saved by Sara’s friend from elementary school. The one named—appropriately enough—Hope.
“She used her youth to her advantage,” Hope began. “Adults have no clue what it’s like to be young. It’s like they totally forget everything they went through when they were growing up. S. E. Hinton didn’t have to remember. She was living it.”
There were two things about Hope that you couldn’t help but notice right away: her height and her hair. She was definitely the tallest girl in G&T, maybe even the whole school. She might even have been taller than the tallest boy. And if that weren’t attention-getting enough, her height was topped off with a mass of the brightest orangy-red hair only ever seen on characters animated by Disney.