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  Milla has no clue what “extremely large values of 2” means. All she knows is that it’s nerdy, and that Max embraces that nerdiness. Max is proud of being a nerd, and Milla is proud of Max for being proud of who he is.

  Milla is still working on that: on being plain old Milla and feeling good about it. The hardest part is forgiving herself for who she used to be, when she was Modessa’s slave. Because when she was Modessa’s slave, Milla did bad things. She did them to Elena, even.

  Last year Modessa said they should all hold their noses whenever Elena walked by, and Milla went along with it. She held her nose and pretended Elena smelled bad, just because Elena has hippy-ish parents who raise llamas on a small farm outside of town. When Modessa said they should call Elena “Llama Girl,” Milla went along with that, too. It was so dumb, and anyway, Elena doesn’t smell. She didn’t then, and she doesn’t now.

  Why, given all that meanness, was Elena walking arm in arm with Modessa this morning? It makes no sense.

  Milla only recently escaped Modessa’s head games herself, that’s the thing. And what pushed Milla to the breaking point—what made her realize she had to get out—was when Modessa turned her cruel gaze on Katie-Rose. Modessa dubbed Katie-Rose a “foster friend” and a waste of space, and she banned Milla from talking to her.

  Milla didn’t think that was right. No, she knew it wasn’t right, because why should Modessa get to tell Milla who she could and couldn’t talk to? So Milla talked to Katie-Rose anyway … when Modessa wasn’t around.

  But Modessa found out.

  To punish Milla, she stole Milla’s good luck charm, a small wooden bobblehead turtle named Tally. Then she planted Tally the Turtle in Katie-Rose’s backpack, making Milla think that Katie-Rose stole Tally. Making everyone think Katie-Rose stole Tally.

  It was so awful … so so awful … but in a mixed-up, confusing way, Milla is glad it happened, because it was the Fake Incident of the Stolen Turtle (later trimmed to FIST) that brought the flower friends together.

  With the help of her new friends, Milla finally found the strength to break Modessa’s evil spell. At last she became her own self again.

  Milla shivers. The scariest thing about that time in her life—and why she can’t help but be scared for Elena—was how easily Modessa cast her spell over Milla in the first place. Or maybe how easily Milla allowed herself to be bewitched? It was as if Milla were a bug trapped in poisoned honey, and the honey tasted sweet, but in a sickly sweet way that was WRONG.

  Milla doesn’t want Elena to fall into Modessa’s trap. At the same time, Milla wants to stay far, far away from Modessa for the sake of self-preservation.

  A boy saunters into Mr. Emerson’s classroom, pulling her out of her trance. Her heart beats faster. Is it Max? No, it’s just Cole, with his long, always-in-his-eyes bangs he’s so proud of. Cole used to be nice, Milla thinks, but recently he’s been acting stuck-up. Like a cool kid, that’s the term the FFFs use. Like he thinks he’s made of awesome and everyone else is made of stupid. Everyone but the other cool kids, that is.

  Someone else steps through the door. It’s not Max, and it’s not Violet, but nonetheless Milla hops to her feet.

  “Yaz!” she exclaims. She smiles, because it really is Yaz here in front of her. Not that there’s a fake Yaz running about, or even a Yaz look-alike, but after her run-in, the presence of the real Yaz, solid and familiar, is reassuring.

  “Is Violet here?” Yasaman asks.

  “Not yet,” Milla says.

  Yasaman’s face falls. Even in the thick of disappointment, she’s flat-out gorgeous. Her dark eyes have tiny candles in them—it’s her pure soul shining out, Milla thinks—and her hair is glossy and thick. One disobedient strand is visible, but the rest is tucked tidily beneath her hijab, which is green and sparkly and sets off Yasaman’s warm brown skin.

  “But look,” Milla says, pulling Yasaman to her desk. “I think Violet’s mom will like it, don’t you?”

  “Wow,” Yaz says, admiring the plant on Milla’s desk. “What is it called again?”

  “A butterfly bush,” Milla says. “When Mom Joyce and Mom Abigail bought our house—I wasn’t born yet—one of their friends gave them a butterfly bush. That’s what gave Mom Abigail the idea. That, and the fact that they’re so … magical, kind of. Like, Mom Joyce didn’t believe their butterfly bush would really attract butterflies, even though it had a tag right on it that said, ‘Attracts butterflies.’ But guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Two seconds after they planted it—literally, two seconds—a butterfly flew into the yard and landed on it.” Milla laughs. “Mom Joyce was like, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ but there it was, the most gorgeous orange-and-black butterfly my moms had ever seen.”

  “An awesome gift,” Yasaman says. She touches one of the plant’s leaves. “She can look outside and see butterflies whenever she wants, and who can be sad with butterflies around?”

  For a moment, the two girls are silent. Yaz catches her bottom lip between her teeth and looks at Milla from under her crazy-long eyelashes, probably worrying if that was a bad thing to say. Sadness, and too much of it, was the reason Violet’s mom had to be in the hospital in the first place. It was called being depressed, according to Milla’s moms. They told Milla that she might not understand, since she was only ten, but that what Violet’s mom has (had? since she’s home now?) is a mental illness and not a physical illness.

  Thinking about it makes Milla uneasy, because she does understand. Milla knows what it’s like to feel depressed. When she was part of Modessa’s circle, she felt depressed a lot.

  Yaz moves her finger from the leaves of the bush to one of its purple blossoms. She’s clearly enchanted by the butterfly bush, and Yasaman’s shy smile makes Milla feel better. It’s so much lovelier to spread happiness than poisoned honey. That’s what she needs to focus on. That, and making sure Violet is doing all right, given all the changes she has to deal with.

  She looks at the door. “Where is that girl?”

  Mr. Emerson strides into the classroom, whistling. He breaks off when he sees Milla, Yaz, and the enormous potted plant. Gesturing at the plant, he says, “Whoa. Is this a new student?”

  Milla giggles, and it loosens things up inside her. “No. It’s a plant.”

  Mr. Emerson addresses the butterfly bush. “You’re properly registered, I assume? You’ve filled out all the paperwork, had your transcripts sent over, etc.?”

  Milla and Yaz share a look. Mr. Emerson is tragically embarrassing, but in a cute way. Even his Woe is me, I’m a lonely bachelor act is endearing because he’s so cheerful about it, despite pretending otherwise. Also, Milla is sure he does have a life, and that it’s filled to the brim with tons of friends and zero dust bunnies named Maude.

  Maybe he doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment, but he’ll find someone eventually and fall in love. Milla is sure of it, because he’s so great.

  “Not the friendliest sort, is he?” Mr. Emerson says to the plant. He squints. “If he’s a he. Are you a he, new student?”

  “It’s not a new student,” Milla repeats. “It’s a plant, and you know it.”

  “Ahhh. Perhaps that’s why he wants me to leaf him alone. Leaf him alone. D’ya catch that, girls?”

  Milla groans. Yaz scrunches her face as if she’d like to, only she can’t—or won’t—because she wasn’t brought up that way. Her parents are way stricter than Milla’s.

  Mr. Emerson pats the butterfly bush the way he’d pat a child’s head. “Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll get to the root of this.”

  “Omigosh,” Milla says. “Mr. Emerson!”

  “And if we have to, we’ll get you transplanted to an environment that better suits your needs.” He pauses. “Wait—did I say transplanted? I meant transferred. My bad. Though Rivendell is quite a fertile learning ground, wouldn’t you say, girls?”

  “I better go,” Yasaman says. She sneaks a peek at Mr. Emerson, who grins. Yaz blushes an
d hurries across the room. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Say ‘hi’ to Violet for me, ’kay?”

  “Of course,” Milla promises.

  Only she never gets the chance. Carmen Glover waltzes into the room at eight-thirty on the dot, and Max—Oh, cute Max!—follows on her heels.

  His shirt today says FACTORIAL! Milla has no idea what that means, but that’s okay. Seeing him in his goofy shirt, and not understanding his goofy shirt, is a normal occurrence, and it makes her feel normal, just as chatting with Yaz did. She’s coming back into herself more and more, and Modessa’s sticky residue is clinging to her less and less. Max gives her a shy wave, and she waves back.

  Mr. Emerson rings the cowbell he keeps on his desk and tells everyone to take their seats.

  “All right, short people with large heads, let’s see what the day holds for us,” he says. He shakes out a sheet of paper and starts reading the announcements, marking the official start of the school day as well as the official absence of Violet.

  Milla cranes her neck toward the hall, but doesn’t spot her. She’s officially late, all right.

  “… and this Friday evening, as you know, all Rivendell students are invited to attend a special event,” Mr. Emerson says, and Milla snaps to attention.

  The Lock-In, she thinks, knowing already what he’s referring to. A surge of energy tingles through her, because all the flower friends are going, and so is Max.

  Nighttime! Pajamas! Popcorn! She can hardly hold still.

  “If by ‘special’ you mean ‘stupid,’” Cole says under his breath.

  Some kids laugh. Ever since the sign-up sheets were passed out last week, the “cool” kids have made it clear that they think the Lock-In is babyish. Someone even passed around a sheet of paper titled “The Top Ten Dorkiest Kids at Rivendell (otherwise known as the top ten reasons NOT to go to the Lock-In).” Milla suspects that a group of cool kids decided together whose names to put down, and in what order, but whoever actually wrote it used block letters to disguise his or her identify. When Mr. Emerson found it, everyone claimed innocence.

  Katie-Rose topped the list, and to be publicly called out as the number one dorkiest kid at Rivendell had to have hurt Katie-Rose’s feelings, even though she denied it up and down, backward and forward, sideways and inside-out. That’s Katie-Rose’s way. She copes with meanness by pretending to be above it. Yet on the day the list circulated, Milla noticed a telltale redness around Katie-Rose’s eyes. Milla pretended not to notice, since Katie-Rose clearly didn’t want anyone to.

  Yasaman made the list, too. Her name filled the seventh-most-dorkiest slot. Milla and Violet weren’t on the list, and maybe Milla should have been glad. Instead, it made her feel worse.

  But, as Katie-Rose said, the list was idiotic. The only good thing about it was that it meant Modessa and Quin wouldn’t be coming to the “babyish” Lock-In, as they surely played a role in composing the list and spreading it around. So too bad for them and all the better for Milla and Katie-Rose and everyone else planning to attend.

  Mr. Emerson ignores Cole. “The special event of which I speak is, of course …” He twirls his hand, and the non-cool kids fill in the blank.

  “The Lock-In!” they call out.

  “Bingo! And why is the Lock-In not to be missed?” He whishes his hand through the air and points at Cyril Remkiwicz, who is sullen and not the best kid to choose for audience participation. Mr. Emerson never lets that stop him, however. “Cyril?”

  Cyril glares from under a swash of dirty hair. He rarely answers Mr. Emerson’s questions. Then again, he rarely answers anyone’s questions. He rarely talks, period. When he does, it’s only to the handful of humans he tolerates, and of that handful, Violet is at the top of the list, which is strange, freaky, and yet somewhat awesome.

  Violet, Violet, Violet. Where are you? Milla thinks.

  “Right, then,” Mr. Emerson says. He swivels his pointing hand, and this time it lands on Milla. Well, not literally. That would be horrifying if his hand flew off his arm and landed—splat!—on Milla. “Milla?”

  “Huh?” Milla says.

  A couple of kids snicker, including Thomas, who is Max’s best friend. Max whacks him.

  “The Lock-In,” Mr. Emerson says. “Tell us, if you would, why will it be an evening of such merriment and fun.”

  “Oh. Um, because you’re the one doing it?”

  Mr. Emerson’s face brightens. “Exactamundo! That’s an A plus for you, Camilla, and a free homework pass to go along with it.”

  “Aw!” Cole complains. “Not fair!”

  “With me at the helm, I guarantee the Lock-In will be a blast,” Mr. Emerson says. His eyebrows come together. “Oh. And the lovely Mrs. Gundeck will be chaperoning as well.”

  Groans rise. Mrs. Gundeck is not lovely. Mrs. Gundeck teaches German, and she threatens to spank her students’ Hinterns—or bottoms—when they fidget or can’t stop clicking their pens.

  “Ah, Mrs. Gundeck has a fun side,” Mr. Emerson says cheerfully. “She must.”

  Must she? Milla wonders. It’s far more likely, she suspects, that Mrs. Gundeck has a doesn’t-actually-like-children side, as well as a children-are-germy-and-gross side. More than once, Mrs. Gundeck has sent a student to the bathroom to wash up, accusing him or her of smelling sweaty or having Dorito-breath. She frequently complains of being unusually sensitive to anything “distasteful,” from strong odors to smushed spiders to toe jam. She’s so sensitive, in fact, that the mere mention of toe jam makes her feel faint.

  Milla knows this to be true, as she has seen with her own two eyes Mrs. Gundeck nearly faint. While Rivendell’s fifth graders are split into two classes—either Mr. Emerson’s class or Ms. Perez’s—the kids from each class get mixed up and switched around when it comes to “specials,” like PE and art and German. Milla figures it’s so everyone gets to know one another.

  Anyway, Milla and Katie-Rose aren’t in the same primary class, but they do have German together. Last Thursday, Mrs. Gundeck was teaching a lesson about German folk tales when Katie-Rose, out of the blue, exclaimed, “Omigosh, there is actual mold between my toes!”

  Her announcement caused a kerfuffle, of course.

  “Omigod, so vile,” Modessa said.

  “No way,” Chance said, slapping his knee. “Show us! Is it green?”

  Mrs. Gundeck, at the front of the room, turned as pasty as a piece of Wonderbread. Her eyes bulged, her chest heaved, and she put her hand over her mouth. She almost vomited. Katie-Rose’s hypothetical toe jam made Mrs. Gundeck almost vomit.

  As for why Katie-Rose was examining her toes during class, or why she would find it normal to announce the presence of toe-jam mold to the entire class … Well, that’s an entirely different issue.

  “We’ll have pizza, watch a movie, play some games,” Mr. Emerson says. “And there are a few spaces left, so if you haven’t signed up, it’s not too late.” He grins. “Be there or be square.”

  “I think you mean be there and be square,” Cole mutters.

  This time, Mr. Emerson chooses not to ignore him. “What’s that?” he asks.

  Cole blinks. “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t sound like nothing. Come on, out with it.”

  The atmosphere in the room takes on a charge. Mr. Emerson is a fabulous teacher, possibly the fabulousest. But he can be fierce behind the glint of his smile. He doesn’t put up with meanness or negative attitudes.

  Mr. Emerson waits.

  Seconds tick by.

  Cole sighs loudly. “Okay, and I say this with no disrespect, but who wants to go to school on a Friday night? You’d have to be kind of a loser, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ll be here Friday night,” Mr. Emerson says. “Am I a loser?”

  Cole’s face turns red. Even though Mr. Emerson pokes fun at himself—saying he has no life, making up dust bunny companions named Maude—no one else makes fun of him. Not even the cool kids.

  “You have to be there,” Cole says. “It’s yo
ur job.”

  “I volunteered, actually.” Mr. Emerson sweeps his gaze over the rest of the class. “It’s going to be a good time. Come.”

  He strolls to the whiteboard. “And now for something almost as thrilling, let’s pull out our Wordly Wise books, shall we?”

  Milla raises her hand.

  “Yes, Milla?”

  “Um … do you know why Violet isn’t here? Is she sick?” Milla asks. When kids miss a day of school, their parents are supposed to call the office and tell Mr. McGreevy. Then Mr. McGreevy passes along the news to the teachers.

  Mr. Emerson furrows his brow, and Milla gets the sense that he hasn’t noticed Violet’s absence until now.

  “Maybe she’s got the stomach flu,” Carmen Glover says. “My aunt says it’s going around.”

  “I’ll check with Mr. McGreevy during morning break,” Mr. Emerson tells Milla. “But I’m sure she’s fine.” He uncaps an erasable marker. “Turn to lesson sixteen, please. Carmen, would you do us the honor of reading paragraph one?”

  Carmen reads aloud in her nasal voice. The passage is about a homeless shelter and the people who live there, but Milla can’t focus. Plus, there’s a ginormous butterfly bush on her desk, leaving little room for her Wordly Wise book.

  She wraps her arm around the pot, heaves it up, and places it beside her on the floor. She has more space now. Still, she feels crowded. Or, no. Squished. Like her heart doesn’t have enough room in her rib cage. Like it’s trapped.

  She tells herself she’s worried about Violet, and that it’s normal to be worried, because Violet is dealing with some hard stuff. It would be abnormal not to be worried.

  Yet try as she might to pretend otherwise, Milla knows there’s more bothering her than that. Yes, Milla is worried about Violet. But Violet isn’t the only person Milla’s worried about, and the “trapped” feeling she’s experiencing?