Hope gave me a pointed look. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
And then she jogged to catch up with the rest of the girls on their way to Home Ec. I honestly don’t know what to make of Hope. Though I appreciate how she rescued me in Language Arts, she’s otherwise kind of a bummer. She definitely hasn’t gone out of her way to get to know me like Sara and Manda. Hmm. Maybe I’m not artsy enough for her.
Another thing I’ll say about Hope is this: She was totally right to warn me about Woodshop.
Chapter Ten
Eighth period. Woodshop. THE CLASS I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN.
It’s not a coincidence that the Woodshop classroom was in the farthest, darkest corner of the school. No one would just accidentally wander back there. Obviously school administrators didn’t want unsuspecting seventh graders getting lost (cue spooky music and evil laughter) ONLY NEVER TO RETURN. Nope, the only one who had to fear for her life was the innocent seventh-grade girl who was assigned Woodshop even though she specifically requested NOT WOODSHOP.
There was a beautiful wooden sign hanging on the door, its border intricately carved in folk-artsy vines. It read:
This did not make me feel any better about my personal safety.
I had barely recovered from this warning when the man himself emerged from the back of the workshop. Man is an understatement. Mr. Pudel is a… a…
“Monster!” he roared. “Sasquatch! Bigfoot!”
I was thinking Giant, but those other options would suffice.
“Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, allow me to officially introduce myself. My name”—he paused dramatically—“is Mr. Pudel.”
When Hope said it, I shook with laughter. When Mr. Pudel said it, I shook with fear. Not everyone was intimidated, however. This was a class full of tough kids. One of them started yipping like a teeny dog because this is how tough kids show how tough they are: with feats of stupidity. Why else would he mock a giant who could squish him like a grape underfoot?
“P-U-D-E-L,” Mr. Pudel spelled, pointing to the sign on the door. “Not P-O-O-D-L-E.”
More boys joined in on the yipping. Mr. Pudel ignored them.
“This is Woodshop. Not Industrial Arts or whatever fancy name the board of education wants to give it. Woodshop.” He paused and looked around the room. “Welcome to Woodshop.”
I also took this opportunity to look around the workshop. It was at that moment I realized that not only was I the only non-tough kid in the class, but I was the only girl! How did this happen?
I timidly raised my hand.
“Uh, excuse me, uh… Mr.…”
“P-U-D-E-L,” our teacher repeated calmly. “It’s Ukrainian.”
“Mr. Pudel… uh… sir.”
Mr. Pudel bearing down on me was bad enough. But all the tough kids had turned around on their stools and were staring at me, too. I couldn’t help but notice that they weren’t looking at me in the googly-eyed way the bus boys and the football team had looked at Bridget. They were looking at me like, “What the heck is she doing here?”
I couldn’t agree more.
“Uh,” I stammered. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be in this class.”
That’s when Mr. Pudel broke out into song.
“Whoooooo are you?” he sang. “Doot doot. Doot doot.”
It was only slightly less mortifying than when my dad sings, simply because I’m not related to my crazy Woodshop teacher.
“Uh, I’m. Uh… I mean, my name is…”
“Your shirt,” he said, gesturing with a beardy chin thrust. “The Who.”
I looked down, having totally forgotten all about my T-shirt.
“Whooooo are you?” he repeated. “Doot doot. Doot doot.”
I smiled weakly and willed myself not to faint.
“Jessica Darling,” I blurted.
Mr. Pudel reached behind himself and picked up the first piece of paper he laid his hand on. He “hmm-hmmed” over it for a second, then spoke.
“You’re on the class roster,” he said. “You’re supposed to be here.”
The “class roster” was definitely not a class roster. It was a delivery menu for Pineville Pizza Company. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one who pointed this out.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Because at that moment a latecomer walked through the door, a skinny redhead who looked as though he’d used a rabid squirrel for a hairbrush that morning. He muttered something as a greeting. I couldn’t make it out, but whatever it was did not escape the superior function of Mr. Pudel’s gigantic ears.
“What’s that?” Mr. Pudel asked, casting a shadow over the late kid.
“I said,” replied the late kid, “ ‘What’s up, Hagrid?’ ”
The room fell silent. Then Mr. Pudel broadsided us all with booming laughter.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA. I’ve been teaching here for fifteen years. I thought I’d heard them all. Hagrid! From Harry Potter! That’s a good one! HAHAHAHAHAHA.”
Mr. Pudel said it in a way that was sort of complimentary but also made it clear that he wouldn’t laugh so hard if he heard it again.
“I won’t answer to Hagrid or Paul Bunyan or Balrog or BFG or Jolly Green or Godzilla or any of those other names you’ll be tempted to call me behind my back. You will, however, answer to whatever name I call you. You see, I’ve got this rare brain disorder that makes it difficult for me to recognize faces and remember names.…”
A tough kid with a crew cut blew a farty raspberry.
“That’s bull—”
“Oh, is it, Mr. Mouth? I’ve got a doctor’s note to prove it!”
Then Mr. Pudel tossed aside the delivery menu, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out what was obviously a half-finished crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper.
“See? Proof! From a medical doctor!” He waved the paper around in the air before shoving it back in the drawer with a satisfied “Ha!”
At this point there was no doubt that there was something unusual going on in Mr. Pudel’s brain, and remembering our names was the least of it.
“So if I point at Aleck,” he said, gesturing at the crazy-haired latecomer, “and yell, ‘Hey, Aleck! Watch what you’re doing with that circular saw!’ Aleck here better watch out instead of whining that his name isn’t Aleck.”
“That’s not fair,” complained the boy now known as Aleck. “We deserve the same—”
“LIFE ISN’T FAIR!” Mr. Pudel roared, holding his right hand up for all of us to see. “I’m missing three fingers! You think that’s fair?”
Holy cow! No ring, middle, or index fingers! Instead of a wave, Mr. Pudel’s hand was caught in a permanent hang ten gesture. All of us—including Aleck and the rest of the tough kids—yelped something along the lines of “Holy cow!” and scrambled backward off our stools.
Mr. Pudel laughed heartily. Then his middle and ring fingers magically popped in place where they should be. We all screamed and fell off our stools again.
“Gotcha!” he bellowed. “I’m only missing ONE finger!”
The thing is, I know Mr. Pudel has probably pulled this prank at least a bazillion times in his life and he still thinks it’s as hilarious as the first time he thought of it.
We were all grateful when the bell rang. We had made it through Woodshop with our lives—and our fingers—intact. I was more determined than ever to meet with my guidance counselor—whoever and wherever that person was—and get me the heck out of this class where I so clearly did not belong!
I had almost made it out the door when a huge weight clamped on my shoulder and spun me around. I think Mr. Pudel was smiling at me, but it was hard to see any of his teeth through his beard.
“Gifted and Talented, right?” he asked.
I nodded meekly.
“Did you know that Woodshop connects real life with the classroom?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It encourages problem solving and reinforces lessons learned in math, science, and socia
l studies.”
I nodded again.
“I look forward to having you in my class,” Mr. Pudel said with a definitive tone that would override any guidance counselor.
Minutes later I ran into Sara at our lockers. She smelled like butter and brown sugar. While I was fighting for my life in Woodshop, my friends were in Home Ec baking chocolate chip cookies.
To quote Mr. Pudel: LIFE ISN’T FAIR.
Bridget got to the bus before I did. She was politely explaining to a boy in a backward baseball cap—a boy who was a shorter, scrawnier, not-as-cute version of Burke Roy—that, no, he couldn’t sit next to her because she was saving the seat for her best friend and, no, he couldn’t have a chocolate chip cookie because she had also saved it for her best friend.
“Woo-hoo!” she called out. “There’s my best friend now!”
And in that moment, after everything that had happened on my first day of seventh grade, I was so grateful that best friend was still me.
Chapter Eleven
My sister showed up at the house that night while Dad was out on his bike and Mom was at an open house. I think Bethany was anxious to hear about my first day of junior high.
I was less anxious to tell her about it.
Okay, despite my near-death experience in eighth period, I guess it was pretty successful as far as first days of seventh grade go. Yet I’d kind of hoped Bethany would be too busy tonight to find out how it went. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had failed miserably at #1 on the IT List. I mean, can my vintage shirt be considered trendy when the only person who appreciated it was my crazy Woodshop teacher?
I assumed, at least, Bethany would be happy to see me wearing it.
I was wrong.
I ran in for a hug, but she held her arms out to stop me like I was contagious.
“What on earth are you wearing?!” she cried out.
“I found your T-shirts!” I said. “I wore this one for the first day!”
“T-shirts?” Bethany spluttered.
“All those cool ol—I mean vintage—T-shirts at the top of your closet.…”
The next noise I heard was barely human.
“Noooooooooooo! You weren’t supposed to find those gross T-shirts in my closet! You were supposed to find the Style Inventories!”
“The what?”
Then she grabbed me by the hand and dragged me into her bedroom, the whole time going on about how Mom was supposed to have donated that trash bag of T-shirts to Goodwill a long time ago. She pointed sternly at the closet door.
“Go to the back of my closet right now,” she directed. “Next to the shoe tree is a shelf with a stack of notebooks. The Style Inventories!”
I did as I was told and found a library of spiral notebooks in bright colors. PRIVATE PROPERTY OF BETHANY DARLING was written on every one.
“Heeeeey,” I said. “I thought you said you didn’t keep a diary because popular girls don’t keep diaries.…”
“Those are not diaries! They are Style Inventories! They document what I wore to school between the seventh and twelfth grades!”
She took the yellow one labeled SEVENTH GRADE, flipped it open to the first page, and handed it to me for my inspection. Every line was filled with my sister’s bubbly handwriting:
9/4 Pink top, denim skirt, espadrilles, flowered headband
9/5 Blue cami, capris, sporty flats, butterfly clip
9/6 Striped mini dress, silver sandals, star barrette
I skipped ahead a few pages.
10/22 Fuzzy cardigan, pink top, plaid mini, black boots
And a few more.
11/6 Ribbed turtleneck, denim skirt, sporty flats
“I wanted you to consult these for inspiration!” my sister was shouting. “To show you how—with clever mix-and-matching and accessorizing and borrowing from friends—it was possible to never repeat the same outfit.”
And that’s when I realized the intended definition of IT List #1: Wear something different every day.
“Different” meaning dissimilar. Not “different” meaning unusual.
Bridget had the right idea all along with endless combinations of outfits, but I was too clueless to realize it!
My sister took calming breaths from a lotus position on the floor.
“All is not lost. There’s hope for you yet. Tryouts are next week, correct? We’ll just put this disaster behind us and move on to number two.”
IT List #2: Make the CHEER TEAM!!!
Ack. I’d been dreading shouty #2 with all its exclamation points. In fact, I’d kind of hoped that I rocked #1 so hard that I could just skip over #2 and maybe the rest of the IT List entirely. My sister had other ideas.
“Let’s see your best cheer.”
My best cheer? I didn’t have a cheer, let alone a best one.
“Uh?” I said. “Go team, go?”
Spirit fingers. Clap.
That was all I had.
My sister pressed her face into her hands and moaned.
“I see that I’m going to have to call in a favor.”
In an instant, Bethany had sprung up from the floor and was on the phone. Most of the half conversation I heard didn’t make much sense to me. From what I could figure out, she was talking to someone named Sherri about this year’s CHEER TEAM!!! She said some things about awesomeness and asked a few questions about an arrow and said some more things about awesomeness and asked a few more questions about a gap and then she laughed a fake laugh and said good-bye and turned on me with fierce intensity.
“Bring me a tape measure!” she commanded.
“But… what?”
“Bring me a tape measure!”
It was clear she wasn’t going to answer any of my questions until I brought her a tape measure.
I don’t know about your house, but the Darling family doesn’t have, like, a designated space set aside for tape measures. I thought it might be in Dad’s tool kit but it wasn’t and then I thought it might be in Mom’s sewing basket but it wasn’t and finally I had the good sense to look in our junk drawer, where it was caught in a brutal melee with a broken can opener, a length of twine, and about a bazillion packets of soy sauce. I disentangled the mess and returned to Bethany’s room.
“Tape measure,” I said.
“Stand up straight,” she ordered.
Bethany extended the tape measure from my head to my feet.
“Hmmm…” she grumbled discouragingly. “Okay, maybe not that straight.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all ab—?”
“Shhh! Slouch! But just a little!”
I tried my best to do as instructed.
“No! That’s too much! Just, like, a squinch.”
I didn’t know what a squinch was, but I must have figured it out because when I shrunk down just the teeniest bit, Bethany squealed and clapped in approval.
“Sixty-four inches! That’s it! You’re perfect!”
Now you have to understand something here. My popular, pretty big sister—she who had been officially voted Miss Perfect by her Pineville Junior High graduating class—was calling me perfect.
We were having a moment. I can honestly say that we had never shared a moment before. Not like this.
And I still had no idea what she was talking about.
“Let’s see,” my sister was saying. “Your hair is just long enough for the regulation ponytail. Obviously, you’ll have to pad your bra. But otherwise, you’re perfect.”
There was that word again.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
Then my sister explained that the Sherri she called earlier was her co-captain on the CHEER TEAM!!! Sherri, or Miss Garcia, is now the Pineville Junior High School CHEER TEAM!!! coach. My sister asked her for TOP SECRET INFORMATION.
“She revealed that there is a very specific gap in The Alignment!” my sister enthused. “A gap that you are going to fill!”
None of this information helped me know any more than
I did before she opened her mouth. My sister, patience waning, explained that an eighth grader named Annalise Shapiro had been injured in a tragic leg-waxing accident. Until the scabs stopped oozing, there was a gap in something called The Famous Pineville Junior High Arrow Pointing Toward Awesomeness Alignment. And that just wasn’t acceptable.
“The Famous Pineville Junior High Arrow Pointing Toward Awesomeness Alignment is famous for a reason,” Bethany said. “It’s our signature alignment.”
I’m not the sporty type, as a participant or a spectator. And having never attended a Pineville Junior High football game, I had no idea what The Famous Pineville Junior High Arrow Pointing Toward Awesomeness Alignment even was. For my sister’s sanity, I tried to pretend otherwise.
“Right! Of course! The Awesome Arrow of… uh… Awesomeness?”
I could tell that my sister was about to give up at this point, so baffled was she by the notion that one could exist for twelve-almost-thirteen years and not know that The Famous Pineville Junior High Arrow Pointing Toward Awesomeness Alignment is this: There are fourteen girls on the CHEER TEAM!!!! The two tallest are five feet six inches. They stand in the middle of the line. Then the rest of the squad lines up next to them in descending order: five feet five, five feet four, and so on until the five feet evens are on the ends. When lined up in such a fashion, the cheerleaders form an alignment that resembles an Arrow Pointing Toward Awesomeness.
Annalise Shapiro was supposed to fill the five-foot-four spot on one side.
“Now that spot is yours! You’re a vital part of The Alignment.” She blew on her hands. “I mean, without the five-foot-four spot, one side of The Alignment would go right from five foot five to five foot three and well, that just wouldn’t work at all.”
“But, Bethany, I…”
“How are your back handsprings? And your cartwheels? I mean, you can do a basic cartwheel, right?”
And then Bethany laughed like she was born doing cartwheels. Like she literally popped out of Mom, flipped head over feet, and landed right in the bassinet with a hearty “Goo-goo-go, Pineville!”
I cannot do a basic cartwheel. But when your perfect older sister is paying attention to you for the first time ever and keeping her attention depends on your ability to do a cartwheel, you assure her that yes, yes, of course you can do a cartwheel.