2

THURSDAY MORNING, MOM’S HEAD IS COVERED with huge pink curlers in neat rows. She makes coffee in her robe, bunny slippers, and lucky pearl necklace. “I don’t know why I keep buying you cute outfits if all you ever wear is a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and those boots.”

I don’t know why either.

“Where’s Ashley?” Mom asks.

“We’re meeting at the bus stop.” I take a quick look at the spider pin I’ve attached to the small pocket of my backpack before I shove my new notebooks inside.

“How about I pick you up at Grampa’s a little early today? I have to develop a whole table concept for one of the campus sororities. We could get our tablescaping partnership started this afternoon.” Mom wiggles her shoulders like she’s dropping some really exciting news.

“Sure. Okay.” I try to sound upbeat, but Mom’s smile fades. I head to the bus already feeling like the day’s gotten off to a stumbling start.

Over the summer, Ashley went to church camp, but instead of finding Jesus, she found Farrah Whitmore. Since she got home from camp all Ashley talks about is Farrah. Did I know Farrah has an older brother? Did I know Farrah’s mom owns a beauty supply store? Don’t I think Farrah Whitmore sounds like a movie star’s name?

Ashley’s full name is Ashley Enid Oostergooster. There are already three Ashleys in our grade, her Grandmother Enid is the meanest woman ever to ride a motorized wheelchair, and Oostergooster is… well, that one’s obvious. My last name isn’t much better—Cunningham—but it’s got pun possibilities. So, the name fascination I sort of understand.

But then Ashley called to ask if we could meet at the bus stop instead of walking together. It’s an extra block for her to swing by my apartment. Maybe Ashley is too tired in the morning. Maybe she likes that time to think and wants to walk alone. But the one maybe I keep coming back to, is maybe she just doesn’t want to walk with me anymore because she has a new best friend.

I sling my backpack around and decide to take the spider pin off and wear it. As I fasten it to my T-shirt, I whisper, “I could really use some help in the luck department today.”

When I get to my stop at the corner of Cedar Street and Sycamore Lane, David Verdon, Kyle Colom, McKenna Higginbotham, and Ashley are waiting—all the usuals. And it’s like nothing is different. Except for one thing. Farrah Whitmore is right where I usually am.

Ashley and Farrah wear matching hot-pink ankle socks and T-shirts that have ROCKSTARZ printed across the back. All sorts of things bother me about this situation, like maybe the reason Ashley isn’t stopping by my house is that she’s stopping by Farrah’s instead. Rock stars is misspelled, and I’m pretty sure it’s two words, not one. But the matching was definitely planned, and I wasn’t included. So, I both deeply dislike their shirts and wish I had one on too.

It’s very confusing and a whole lot of different for me to handle before eight AM.

“Guess what,” Ashley says when I approach. “Farrah got a whole makeup set, with trays and trays of product.”

The only product I know is the answer in a multiplication problem, and I’m not a fan.

“Want to come over after school today and try it out with me?” Farrah asks. It’s possible she’s asking both of us, but she looks mostly at Ashley.

“Can’t. I have to go to my dad’s.” Ashley doesn’t exactly look at me either, and the silence before my answer is long and awkward.

“Sorry, I can’t either,” I finally say. I don’t give a reason because I don’t have one.

When Ashley’s parents got divorced at the start of the summer, she cried on the edge of my bed and asked me what it was like. I really didn’t have a clue how to answer; my dad’s never been around. He left before I was born. Every time I’d ask Mom about him she’d end up cleaning and buying a new outfit. She still says, “A cluttered house makes for a cluttered mind,” which is maybe why Grampa’s house makes her so upset.

Farrah nods to the spot on my shirt where the spider pin rests. “What’s that?”

“A pin, actually a brooch. My grampa and I found it. Believe it or not, someone had thrown it away.”

I turn so Ashley can see too. But she doesn’t look. In fact, she avoids looking at me altogether. I must have said something wrong, but I don’t know what.

“Did you at least wash it off?” Farrah asks.

“Of course,” I say. But I didn’t. Ashley doesn’t say anything.

“It’s his hobby. I just go along to help,” I add. That’s not exactly the truth, but it ends the conversation.

The bus rumbles up, and as soon as we climb on and I see the fourth row on the left empty, my seat all through elementary school, I feel better. Like always, I sigh and slide right in.

Ashley sits and we toss our bags on the floor space between our feet and the seat in front of us, her purple bag next to my lime green one, like always.

Farrah’s across from us, fourth row on the right, aisle side. Ashley scoots to the edge of our seat and turns to face her. This is not like always.

One stop goes by, and when the doors open, in walks a new boy. He has a tall stack of dark curls that fall over one side of his face, striped gym socks pulled up to his shins, pink Converse high tops, long cargo shorts, and glasses with bright red frames. As he walks down the center aisle, he doesn’t look up from the thick book he carries.

“Cool shoes, man,” David says. Judging from the laughter coming from his two friends, he means the opposite. Farrah breaks into giggles. But the new boy cuts his eyes at David and goes right back to reading.

I glance down at my own cargo shorts and Doc Martens, then stare at the floor. I unhook the pin, stick it back on the small pocket of my bag, and decide to leave Ashley’s butterfly brooch where it is. Maybe mom was right. Different isn’t good, especially in middle school.

The gem on my spider pin flashes in the light like it’s winking at me. Today is sure feeling like a dud day, and I haven’t even made it to school yet.

We rumble along Robinson Avenue, and I’m noticing all the things wrong on this bus. First off, it smells like a mixture of gasoline and the cheese section at Homeland. Then there’s David, who picks his nose and shows his findings to Kyle before wiping them under the seat on aisle ten, right side. And there’s Farrah. I lean forward to look at her. She wears lip gloss and little diamond earrings. No spider pins. No cargo shorts. No Doc Martens.

“Can you believe we used to call the bus the Deuce Caboose?” Ashley asks. Except she asks Farrah, not me. Deuce Caboose was my idea because it was bus number 2 all through elementary school.

Used to call, past tense, as in over and done. All of a sudden the view of Ashley’s back causes a tickle in my throat like the beginning of a cry-knot. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away.

We stop at the intersection in front of a small shopping center by the Shop-n-Save, and Farrah says, “Ugh. Look at that poor old guy digging in the garbage.”

I see Grampa’s truck before I see him. He has the tailgate down, using it as a step ladder. He’s gripping the edge of the dumpster with one yellow rubber glove and using the other hand to pull out a big black Hefty bag.

“Gross. Bet he smells good,” David says. A lot of kids laugh; even Ashley covers her mouth. David doesn’t know that’s my grampa. But she does.

That tickle in my throat turns into a sort of ache.

The light changes and our bus lurches forward. I want to say that Grampa does smell good, like lemon hand soap and coffee-roll donuts. But I don’t say anything. My face is burning, and I grip the seat so hard I can feel the metal through the cushion.

Ashley looks down at my hands. She doesn’t bump my shoulder with hers, tell David to shut up, or whisper “It’ll be okay.” Nothing.

Well, not really nothing. She shifts in her seat and doesn’t meet my eyes.

Once we pull up to Alcott Middle School, my tickly ache has turned to more of a boil. I walk straight off the bus, through the crowded hallways, with a printout of my schedule and my homeroom number, science with Mrs. Kirkpatrick in room 224. When I finally find it and sit, there are empty seats around me. Ashley makes her way to one across from me and says something about our lockers. I nod and smile, but really I’m still thinking about the bus.

Written on the whiteboard in looping cursive is the date and a fun fact.

This is the birth month of French naturalist Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, the first person to propose a full-blown theory of evolution.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick walks in wearing suspenders over a white button-down with her hair hanging in a straight, short bob. “Good morning, class. I thought the first day of middle school was a good day to talk about evolution and natural selection. Today, as an icebreaker, we’ll play a few rounds of telephone. We’ll get into our first official unit next week.”

The boy in front of me raises his hand and asks, “What’s natural selection? And what’s telephone?”

I read The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, so I could tell him natural selection has to do with how living things change over time to better adapt to their environments. But I don’t. Mostly, I don’t want to think about things evolving or me adapting or change of any kind.

“I’m going to whisper something to each person sitting in the front row.” Mrs. Kirkpatrick walks over to the first chair closest to the door. “You’ll turn around and whisper what you hear to the person behind you. And when we get to the back row, you’ll say what you think you heard.”

When I turn around and whisper, “Add outrageous grapes,” which is what I’m pretty sure the boy ahead of me said, McKenna throws her head back and laughs out loud. Despite the heavy feeling from the bus ride, I smile. Once the round is over, we find out our original phrase was “advantageous traits,” and the whole game was meant to illustrate how animals might evolve from one generation to the next.

There’s a lot of laughing over what phrases we ended up with. I glance at Ashley; she stares straight ahead. Not long ago all it took was eye contact to give us the giggles. But not anymore.