Luv Ya Bunches Read online

  She lifts her head and sees her fear mirrored in the new girl’s face.

  “My turtle,” Milla wails. “I can’t find Tally the Turtle!”

  joy as she gets ready for her second day of fifth grade. La la la, she made a friend! A friend who likes computers and websites and HTML code! A friend who knows how to embed videos within blog sites!!!! Could life get any better?

  She hums as she pulls on cropped jeans and a T-shirt that says in a font that’s supposed to look like ancient Greek letters. It’s dorky, but appropriate, given the unit on ancient Greece the fifth graders are doing. Yasaman will appreciate it, she thinks. And who cares if I have to be a servant tomorrow. Servant girls are cool. Way better to dress up as a servant girl with a fellow servant girl buddy than to be some hoity-toity Athenian citizen.

  Yep, Yasaman is a servant girl, too. Yesterday, during class, Katie-Rose was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to note who the other servants were. But last night, she and Yasaman chatted up a storm: about school, about Greek Week, about how if Ms. Perez were smarter, she would have assigned Modessa the Gorgon-she-monster role of Medusa, heh heh heh.

  Medusa is from Greek mythology, after all. Yasaman Googled her as she and Katie-Rose chatted, and she reported that Medusa was said to be “made of terror,” a description equally fitting for Modessa.

  Then Katie-Rose did some Googling of her own and suggested that Quin was Modessa’s harpy, “a snatcher of people and souls.” Hahahaha, so perfect.

  How did Katie-Rose and Yasaman do all of this chatting, while simultaneously Googling fiendish Greek beasties? By IMing on the site Yasaman created, BlahBlahSomethingSomething.com! AND IT WAS AWESOMETATIOUSFUL!

  Seriously awesometatiousful. It wasn’t all that different from IMing on AOL, only it was, because Yasaman made the site herself. Katie-Rose couldn’t get over that. If Yasaman could build a website, was there any reason Katie-Rose couldn’t for real film and produce a movie? No, there was not.

  It’s all about dreaming big, Yasaman had typed. It gave Katie-Rose the chills, because, okay, IMing was already cool, but IMing with Yasaman on an invisible, private site that only Yasaman knew about—and now Katie-Rose—well, there just weren’t words to describe it.

  Except awesometatiousful. Seriously awesometatiousful.

  After exhausting the subject of Gorgons and harpies, Yasaman and Katie-Rose had moved on to more pleasant topics. For example, Yasaman told Katie-Rose all about Facebook and how she wanted to make her site be like that, only she wouldn’t have a rule about having to be thirteen. Her only rule would be niceness. She told Katie-Rose about virtual cupcakes, too, and Katie-Rose typed, ????

  they’re like smilies, kinda, except they’re cupcakes, Yasaman explained. sooooo cute!

  She told Katie-Rose how her cousin sent virtual cupcakes to her Facebook buddies, as well as virtual plants and virtual Starbucks drinks and even virtual name-brand purses.

  Virtual purses? Katie-Rose responded. Lame. i bet u cld come up with better things to send than *purses*.

  like what? Yasaman wanted to know.

  I dunno, Katie-Rose typed. Like . . . like . . . virtual cheese puffs!

  Then there was a pause, which made Katie-Rose nervous even though she knew by then that Yasaman was slower at typing than she was. Maybe Yasaman didn’t like cheese puffs and Katie-Rose had offended her? But how could anyone not like cheese puffs? Anyway, were cheese puffs any reason to get mad at someone?

  No. No, they weren’t, and surely Yasaman wasn’t.

  (Wasn’t mad, that is, not a cheese puff. Not that Yasaman was a cheese puff, either . . .)

  At any rate, when Yasaman’s response finally flashed onto Katie-Rose’s screen, Katie-Rose felt a glorious lightness in her chest.

  *WE* cld come up with better things, Yasaman’s message said. U and me, and for sure we’ll include virtual cheese puffs. and maybe 1 day we’ll invite other girls to join 2? do u think?

  Sure! Katie-Rose typed. Her smile stretched out her cheeks. I know exactly who we shld invite. camilla swanson!!!

  That set off a whole flurry of messages, because although Yasaman liked Milla—she came right out and said so—she didn’t think Milla would want to be a member of BlahBlahSomethingSomething.com. Katie-Rose won her over, of course. She got Yasaman to agree that they’d find Milla the very next day and ask her . . . unless for some reason they changed their minds. Which they wouldn’t, because wasn’t it Yasaman herself who said she wanted to invite other girls to join?

  Katie-Rose could have chatted all night, but Yasaman had to log off to put her little sister to bed. Boooo.

  Now, with the morning sun casting a pink glow on her bedroom walls, Katie-Rose snaps elastics around her pigtails and wonders if there’s time to IM Yasaman right this very second, before school.

  She really wants to.

  Is this what druggies feel like? Or cigarette smokers who can’t shake the habit? She giggles, imagining herself in a Computer Users Anonymous meeting. “Hi, my name is Katie-Rose, and I’m addicted to IMing,” she’d say. “And now, good-bye. My screen name is The*rose*knows if you ever want to chat!”

  From her desk, her laptop beckons. Come to me! it croons. Wake me up and open your internet browser! Just a simple click of a button . . .

  Oh, what the heck, Katie-Rose thinks. Charlie and Sam are no doubt downstairs hogging the last of the Cap’n Crunch, and she’ll get stuck with boring Product 19. But too bad. A need like hers cannot be denied.

  She logs on to BlahBlahSomethingSomething.com with eager, trip-along fingers, praying Yasaman will be online. But she’s not. No friendly avatar blinks on the side of the page to announce that Yasaman wants to chat.

  Katie-Rose drums her fingers on the part of her laptop below the keyboard. She telepathically wills Yasaman to get her booty in the chat room.

  Yasaman’s booty is apparently otherwise engaged.

  “Grrrrr,” Katie-Rose says. She gets up, leaves her room, and grabs the upstairs phone from its base.

  “Katie-Rose, is that you clomping around?” her mom calls. “Come eat your breakfast, bunny!”

  “In a sec!” Katie-Rose calls back. She punches in Max’s number. Answer, she coaches. Answer, you big slowhead!

  “Hello?” Max says when he finally picks up.

  “Hi, Max,” Katie-Rose says. There’s no need to introduce herself. “IM me, ‘kay?”

  “Um . . . my mom made pancakes,” Max says.

  “So? Bring your laptop to the table.”

  “I’m not allowed. Anyway, it would get sticky.”

  Katie-Rose groans. Boys.

  “What do you need to tell me?” Max asks.

  “Nothing,” Katie-Rose says, slightly offended. Why would she need to tell him anything?

  “So . . . why’d you call me?”

  This is so not going anywhere, Katie-Rose thinks.

  “Katie-Rose!” her mom calls. “Oatmeal gets gluey when it gets cold—you know that!”

  Oatmeal? Blech. Even worse than Product 19.

  “Bye, Max,” she says.

  “Bye, Katie-Rose. I finally mastered the elusive reverse domino effect, by the way. I can pretty much guarantee it to work every time now.”

  “Um . . . yay?” Katie-Rose says. She wants to feel glad for Max, but talking about dominoes makes her think of the Yasaman-Milla tripping incident, which makes her fingers tighten on the phone.

  Then she remembers, Wait! You’re friends now, you and Yasaman. The tripping incident? Regrettable, but a thing of the past!

  This realization makes it so much easier to be happy for Max that she says, “How’d you do it?”

  He goes into a long, detailed, Max-style explanation, which she tunes out. But when he ends with “So will you?” she doesn’t say, “Of course, dearest Max!” The servant girl thing with Ms. Perez taught her better than that.

  “Will I what?” she says.

  “Film it for me,” Max says. He pauses. “Were you even listening?”r />
  “Well . . . no. Film what?”

  “My five-hundred-domino course, complete with direction changers, a zipline, and at least one use of the elusive reverse domino effect.”

  “You made that? Holy cannoli!”

  “Katie-Rose!” her mom calls. “Off the phone!”

  “I haven’t made it yet,” Max says, a tad impatiently. “I’m still setting it up. I want you to film it once it’s done.”

  “Ohhhh. Of course, dearest Max!”

  The sound that comes out of him is mostly a laugh, though there’s a cautious element mixed in. “Dearest Max” is not how Katie-Rose typically addresses him.

  “Uh, great,” he says. “This is my most ambitious project yet. I really want it to work.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Katie-Rose says. “Oh, and just so you know, I’m friends with Yasaman now.”

  “Yasaman Tercan? Cool.”

  “I know,” Katie-Rose says. She hangs up the phone, wishing she were at Rivendell with Yasaman already. This makes her realize something, and she mentally whacks herself. All morning, when she thought she was craving a jolt of instant messaging . . . well, she wasn’t.

  The buzzing Katie-Rose feels? It’s a seed, that last night turned into a sprout, that with every passing second is growing and stretching—only not toward a cold computer screen, but toward warmth and light. Toward Yasaman. Her friend.

  She bolts downstairs, eager to choke down her gluey oatmeal and get to school.

  at the start of this new day and feels the gloom of despair. One day down, five million more to go. And yet she has no choice but to trudge through this day, and the next day, and the next and the next and the next, so far into infinity that Violet might as well curl up like a rolypoly and give up now.

  Only, if she curls up like a roly-poly in the middle of this crowded elementary school, the principal will surely cart her off to the loony bin.

  Oh, well, she thinks fatalistically. Bound to happen sooner or later.

  If Violet’s mom were here, Violet could talk to her about how awful it is to be the new girl who doesn’t know the ins and outs of the social food chain, which means not yet knowing who she’s supposed to be friends with and who not. (Though she’s starting to figure it out. It’s kind of horrifyingly easy.)

  If Violet’s mom were here, Violet could talk to her about whether it even makes sense to worry about who to be friends with and who not. Maybe her mom would say, “Oh, Boo, you can’t worry about what anyone else thinks. Who do you want to be friends with?”

  And if Violet’s mom were here, maybe she could help Violet figure out the whole Tally the Turtle mess. Like, why didn’t Violet return that turtle she found to Milla yesterday? She didn’t initially know for sure that the turtle belonged to Milla, but she had a pretty strong feeling. And later, out on the playground . . . why in the world didn’t Violet make things right then?

  “My turtle, my turtle!” Milla had wailed. And Violet. Just. Stood there. Seriously, what was that all about???

  Violet doesn’t want the stupid turtle. It’s not that. She thinks—maybe—that it has to do with . . . oh, it sounds so petty and awful. With holding someone’s happiness in the palm of her hand?

  Now you have it, now you don’t.

  If Violet’s mom were here, Violet wouldn’t need to play God like that . . . because she’d have her mom.

  If, if, if.

  Violet’s getting a headache. Kids push past her, and a sharp elbow knocks her ribcage. Ouch.

  “Hey, new girl,” someone calls.

  The little hairs on the back of Violet’s neck stand at attention. Slowly, she turns around.

  “Give me a hand, will you?” It’s Modessa, the girl Milla wanted to introduce Violet to yesterday . . . until Milla realized her turtle was missing and forgot Violet entirely in her crescendo of panic.

  Violet has an inkling—fine, more than an inkling—that Modessa is Rivendell’s Queen Bee.

  Modessa smiles at Violet.

  Violet approaches, careful not to show anything on her face.

  Modessa’s wearing a flippy black dress with crisscross straps in the back, and her white-blonde hair is swept up into a sleek back-of-the-head bun. Her shoes are white ballet flats with black polka dots.

  “I forgot your name,” Modessa says, rolling her eyes as if she’s a dunce. But it’s an act, because Modessa never knew Violet’s name in the first place, and Modessa doesn’t for a moment think she’s a dunce. Violet sees all that and more behind Modessa’s smooth exterior.

  Violet hesitates, then says, “V.”

  “V?” Modessa says. “Just V?”

  Violet meets Modessa’s gaze straight on. It’s strange. With people like that Katie-Rose girl in the hall yesterday, and on the playground with Milla, Violet feels awkward and unsure of herself. But with someone like Modessa, who has power and flaunts it, Violet finds herself standing tall and throwing back her shoulders.

  “Just V,” Violet states. You have a problem with that? Take it up with my therapist.

  “Hmm,” Modessa says noncommittally. “Well, V, help me put this poster up.”

  Violet glances at the piece of poster board Modessa is holding. It says, HELP FIND TALLY THE TURTLE! And under that, REWARD. CONTACT MODESSA, QUIN, OR MILLA WITH ANY INFORMATION.

  Violet swallows as she takes the poster and holds it up to the wall. But her tone comes out casual when she asks, “Who’s Tally the Turtle?”

  Modessa puts her hands over Violet’s and scooches the poster to the right to cover up a PENNIES FOR PEACE poster. She pulls a strip of tape from her roll. “Only my best friend’s prized possession.” She presses the tape over the poster’s top corner. “She’s so attached to it. She’s probably got an attachment disorder or something, but whatever. I love her anyway.”

  The fact that Modessa insults Milla while at the same time claiming her doesn’t escape Violet’s notice.

  “Is it a real turtle?” Violet asks. Tally’s bobble-headed self stays mute in the side pocket of Violet’s backpack, but Violet can feel its burning presence.

  “It’s a toy,” Modessa says. “It probably cost all of fifty cents.” She tapes up the other corner and flashes Violet a just-between-us smile that means, Pretty dumb, I know.

  Violet returns the smile, thinking, If Milla’s your friend and you love her so much, you shouldn’t make fun of her behind her back. Even if you do it trickily.

  “There,” Modessa says, sticking on the last bit of tape. “Perfect.”

  “Hmm,” Violet says noncommittally. It’s a flawless imitation of Modessa, and she does it right in front of Modessa’s model-perfect face.

  Modessa’s eyes widen, then narrow with displeasure. Then, deliberately, she smiles. “So keep a lookout, ‘kay? And, hey—”

  Here it comes, Violet thinks.

  “You should sit with us at lunch. Me and Milla and Quin.”

  Violet knows what she’s expected to say. She even knows how to say it—meaning, not too eager, because girls like Modessa don’t like eager. So she gives Modessa what Modessa wants, all the while knowing that girls like Modessa don’t like girls like Violet, either. Not deep down.

  “Maybe,” Violet says. She glances at her forearm and brushes off an imaginary bit of dirt.

  “Riiight,” Modessa says, as if she sees through Violet’s ruse but respects her for it nonetheless. Her lips twitch. She grabs her messenger bag from the floor and spins on her heel. “See ya.”

  Violet watches Modessa stroll down the hall, noting how kids make a path for her. She’s the Queen Bee, all right.

  But Violet’s no dummy. If Modessa were to look over her shoulder and catch Violet watching . . . well, whatever respect Modessa may have granted her would vanish immediately and without explanation.

  Violet heads for Mr. Emerson’s class. As she walks, she takes stock of her emotions, the way Dr. Altebrando taught her.

  Is she happy?

  No, happiness is out of Violet’s r
each.

  Is she sad?

  No. Why would she be sad when the most popular girl in the fifth grade just asked her to sit with her at lunch?

  (Except . . . yes, maybe a little sad. Maybe a lot sad.)

  Why?

  Why not? LIFE is sad. Not being sad, that would be worth noting.

  Violet straightens her spine, but keeps her limbs loose. She strolls, like Modessa.

  Her headache is worse than before.

  Milla twines her new scarf through her fingers. It’s lime green and sparkly, with a smattering of pink flowers on the ends, and until yesterday, it belonged to Mom Abigail. Milla has always loved it, and she knows that’s why her mom gave it to her, as a replacement for Tally until Tally is found.

  But Tally hasn’t been found, and Milla saw the look Mom Abby exchanged with Mom Joyce. Her moms think Tally might not be found, ever.

  Milla rubs one of the flowers between her thumb and forefinger as Modessa and Quin put the new girl, V, through her paces. Milla made an effort to catch the new girl’s full name when Mr. Emerson called roll today, but the guys behind her were being loud. It might have been Vivian, or Viola, but it doesn’t matter. The new girl prefers to go by V, so V it is.

  Also? For the record? V didn’t give Milla the time of day during their morning spelling lesson or their class discussion of Greek gods and goddesses. She acted as if yesterday’s playground weirdness never happened.

  “V, go find out what color Ms. Perez’s underwear is,” Modessa commands.

  V arches her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “Go find out what color Ms. Perez’s underwear is,” Modessa repeats, fake patiently.

  “No, thanks. I don’t even know who Ms. Perez is.” V replicates Modessa’s tone exactly, and Milla gives her points for ballsiness. She’s a rare match for Modessa.

  “Me and Modessa’s teacher?” Quin says, like duh. “We’re, like, doing the ancient Greece unit with your class?”

  “She’s over by the swing set,” Modessa says. She gives a head-jerk. “El Fatty over there who eats too much baklava.”