is explaining a writing assignment. Violet wants to hear what he’s saying, because she loves writing, so she glares at Thomas, who thinks it’s far more important to play with his annoying “sonic screwdriver” (whatever the heck a sonic screwdriver is!) than to pay attention to Mr. E.
As far as fifth-grade boys go, Thomas is basically a good guy … not that that’s saying much. The best thing about Thomas, in Violet’s opinion, is that he is Max’s friend, and Max is Milla’s semisecret semi-boyfriend. Therefore, by virtue of association, Violet likes Thomas well enough, she supposes. She still wishes he would shut it.
“Dude,” Thomas whispers to Max. “Check it.” With his thumb, he pushes a switch on his sonic screwdriver. The end of the screwdriver expands and unfolds, making four small blades spring open like petals. When Thomas nudges the switch again, the blades twirl rapidly, emitting a low hum.
“You love it, don’t you, dude?” Thomas says to Max.
Max sighs. He is the sort of fifth grader who likes to pay attention to his teacher, too. “Yes, Thomas. I love it. I love it so much, I want to marry it.”
Thomas chortles. “Dude! That is so wrong!”
Max sighs again. Violet sighs, too. The truth is, she’d be struggling to pay attention to Mr. E even without the distraction of Thomas and his sonic screwdriver. Why? Because she can’t get that new girl—Hayley—out of her mind, especially since Hayley is now in Mr. Emerson’s very classroom with her.
Right after lunch, while Mr. Emerson was drilling everyone on math facts, Rivendell’s principal escorted Hayley to Mr. Emerson’s room. Gone was Hayley’s cryptic smile from lunch. Her hands were jammed into the back pockets of her jeans, and her shoulders were hunched.
She’s nervous, Violet thought. Then again, a roomful of strangers is staring at her. Anyone would be nervous.
“Ms. Dub,” Mr. Emerson had called out to their principal, because that’s what he calls Ms. Westerfeld. Because of the “W.” Sometimes he calls her Ms. Rub-a-Dub-Dub, Three Principals in a Tub, but only to his students. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Emerson, students, this is Hayley Green,” Ms. Westerfeld said in her smooth principal’s voice. “Hayley is new to Rivendell. Today is her first day, and I know you’ll make her feel welcome.”
“Fantastic,” Mr. E said. “Glad to have you, Hayley.”
“Hayley, why don’t you go on and find a seat?” Ms. Westerfeld said, gesturing vaguely in Violet’s direction. Violet’s stomach tightened, but she wasn’t sure why. There was an empty desk between Violet and Cyril Remkiwicz, but why should Violet care if Hayley sat there? At any rate, it wasn’t as if Violet had any say in the matter.
“John, can I speak with you for a moment?” Ms. Westerfeld asked Mr. Emerson.
“You bet,” Mr. Emerson said, hopping off his desk and crossing the room. He and Ms. Westerfeld stepped into the hall. Their voices were low. Murmuring.
The new girl—Hayley—pressed her lips together. She met no one’s eyes as she strode across the room, and sure enough, she chose the empty desk by Violet. She’s been sitting there, still as a rock, ever since Mr. E returned from his whispered conference with the principal.
Math facts ended. Journal writing began. It’s been an hour since Hayley was ushered into the classroom, and she hasn’t looked at Violet yet. Nor, for that matter, has Violet looked at her.
Violet hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her, though. Thinking about her and feeling … well … worried about her. She wishes she weren’t, but Violet is one smart cookie, and she has learned some things over the course of her ten years. (Plus, she’s gone to therapy. It had to do with her mom, but her mom is better now. Mainly.)
Violet can sum up her life philosophy in three major points:
Heavy stuff for a fifth grader, Violet knows. But so it goes, right? It’s not as if you get to choose your life. The best you can do is choose how to live it.
All of which goes back to Violet’s policy of trying to be honest with her own thoughts and emotions, at least when it comes to admitting them to herself. And yes: Violet is worried about Hayley. Worried that Hayley will fall into the wrong crowd at Rivendell before she even has a chance to learn who the right crowd consists of.
“… so what’s this week’s writing assignment?” Mr. Emerson asks, pulling Violet back to the moment.
“To write a poem!” Becca calls out.
“Yes!” Mr. Emerson says, pointing at Becca as if she’s won a prize. He only uses his right hand to point at people, because he doesn’t have a left hand. For that matter, he doesn’t have a left arm, so how could he have a left hand? “Excellent, Becca. And the theme of the poem?”
“The Bay of Pigs!” Thomas shouts.
Mr. Emerson points at Thomas as if he’s won a prize. His tone is equally cheery, though his words are the opposite. “No! Wrong!”
“Doctor Who!” Thomas shouts. Doctor Who is a British television show that Thomas is currently obsessed with, and it’s the real Doctor Who who owns a sonic screwdriver. The real Doctor Who’s sonic screwdriver can open just about any lock, act as a medical scanning device, distract giant maggots, make an alien’s mask fall off, and destroy a Dalek’s brain. And that’s just a small, small sampling of what it can do, which Violet has the misfortune of knowing because Thomas is very persistent in his attempts to educate the whole fifth grade about his hero and his hero’s gadgets.
“No!” Mr. Emerson cries. “Ding ding ding, give the boy a sock monkey, because no, young sir, the theme of the poem is not Doctor Who!” He scans the room. “Someone else want to take a go at it?”
“Do I really get a sock monkey?” Thomas asks.
“You do not.” Mr. Emerson zeroes in on his star pupil. “Violet. The theme of the poetry assignment, please?”
Violet blinks. “Um … who we are, and how we got to be that way?”
“Yes, my darling girl, that is correct,” Mr. Emerson says. “Although to clarify, you will not be writing about yourselves, plural, as in the youth of America, or the fifth graders of Rivendell, or even the fifth graders in the dashing and brilliant Mr. Emerson’s class. Instead, you’ll be exploring, in words, your own perfect and unique identity. And yes, that even applies to you, Thomas.”
Everyone laughs.
“And the title of your poem should be …?”
Milla raises her hand. “‘Where I’m From’?”
“‘Where I’m From,’” Mr. Emerson repeats. “That’s right, Meal Worm. Very good.”
“Meal Worm” is a newish nickname Mr. Emerson has given Milla, and Milla blushes as other kids echo Mr. Emerson’s sentiments:
“Ding ding ding! A sock monkey for Meal Worm!” says Thomas.
“Yeah, a sock monkey for Meal Worm!” Carmen Glover repeats.
Violet gives Carmen a look. Not for being unoriginal but for teasing sweet Milla. Anyway, Carmen Glover is a known and card-carrying nose picker, and that’s just gross.
“Right, then, let’s get started,” Mr. Emerson says. Other teachers clap their hands to get their students’ attention, but Mr. E lifts a whistle that dangles from a cord around his neck and gives it a sharp blast. “Take out your journals, please, and begin brainstorming. And remember, brainstorming isn’t a right or wrong activity”—he eyeballs Thomas—“unless you focus exclusively on Doctor Who.”
Thomas thrusts his fists into the air. “I am a Time Lord! I am an extraterrestrial from the planet Gallifrey. That’s where I’m from!”
“Just let whatever comes out, come out,” Mr. Emerson says. “Except you, Thomas. Now get to work, if you would be so kind.”
Violet stares at her paper. She doodles a tulip in the margin. Tulips are easy to draw: just a “U” and three points at the top. Adding a stem and petals is easy-peasy. Where am I from? she thinks. Well, Atlanta, of course. She moved here, to Thousand Oaks, California, at the beginning of the school year. But what city you’re from … is that what Mr. Emerson means?
She glances at the new girl’s paper. Nothing. Not even any doodles. Not even her name at the top right corner.
Violet hesitates, then blows out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She puts down her pencil and leans toward Hayley’s desk. After all, Violet was the new girl once, and not that long ago.
“Hi,” she whispers. “I’m Violet.”
“I’m Hayley,” the new girl says. She cuts her eyes at Mr. Emerson, who’s taking care of busywork at his desk. “What’s with him?”
“With Mr. Emerson?” Violet says. “What do you mean?
“Is his name Mr. Emerson?” Hayley shrugs, as if it’s not the name she would have given him. “What happened to his arm?”
Violet grows defensive, forgetting that she was startled by Mr. Emerson’s folded-over-and-sewn-up sleeve the first time she saw it, too. “He was in a car accident.”
Once more, Hayley seems less than satisfied with Violet’s answer, as if she was hoping for something better, maybe a shark attack or a run-in with a piece of grinding machinery.
She jerks her chin past Mr. Emerson’s desk. “What about that oar thing? What’s up with that?”
“It’s a kayak oar,” Violet explains. “It’s the bathroom pass.”
“It’s … big. Really big.”
Violet starts to defend Mr. E’s bathroom pass—it’s funny! What other teacher uses a kayak oar for a bathroom pass?—then changes her mind. She mimics Hayley’s own slightly bored expression and cocks her head. It’s big, all right, she says silently, but with enough attitude that Hayley can probably get the gist. Good powers of observation.
Hayley looks away first. “Disturbing,” she mutters.
Violet would have to agree, if they were referring to the same thing. But they’re not. Hayley’s talking about the bathroom pass, while Violet is thinking about Hayley.