Chapter 1

I was surrounded by racks and racks of swimsuits, as if circled by sharks.

“Mo, do we have to do this now?” I asked my mom. Everyone calls her Mo, which is short for Maureen.

“Come on,” said Mo, waving at the counter for assistance like she was landing an airplane. “This is the perfect way to celebrate the end of the school year.”

I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Yesterday had been my last day at Pico Primary, the only school I had ever known. In the fall, I would be moving over to the enormous regional middle school, along with hundreds of other new seventh graders from all over Kettleboro, Vermont. Just thinking about the maze of hallways and a confusing cafeteria in that gigantic cement building made my stomach cramp.

“I already told you, I don’t want a new—”

“What can I help you with, ladies?” the saleswoman chirped as she fluttered across the store.

I crossed my arms and scowled.

“This is the first day of my daughter’s summer break,” announced Mo, “and she needs a bathing suit. Nothing too pricey. Just a cute, sporty number that shows off her new curves.”

My face instantly burned.

“Ooh, let’s think about this,” said the saleswoman, staring at me as if I were a mannequin in the window. “I would love to find something to complement those gorgeous exotic tones.”

“Exotic” was supposed to be the nice way of describing the way I looked, but that word made me cringe. I’d inherited my dad’s tawny skin and piercing dark eyes, tossed together with Mo’s genes—her coiled, copper hair and excessive freckles. The combination makes it hard for people to label me, no matter how hard they try. And in the white world of Kettleboro, they try a lot.

Within minutes, Mo had gathered a dozen suits.

“Let’s get this over with,” I grumbled as I grabbed the hangers and trudged toward the dressing rooms.

Halfway across the store I overheard the saleswoman ask, “So she’s adopted?”

No one ever thought I could hear that question, but I always heard, even when they didn’t come right out and say it.

“Nope,” Mo whispered loudly, as if everyone in the entire world needed to know, “her dad’s half Korean and I’m mostly Scottish with a dash of Lebanese on my paternal grandfather’s side.”

Sometimes I wish I had been adopted. That would explain a lot.

Reluctantly, I tried on the first suit and stared at myself in the three-way mirror. Part of me still believed that one day I would wake up and find myself as I used to be, scrawny and shapeless. But standing under the fluorescent lights, in a navy blue one-piece, I looked curvier than ever.

“Can I see?” Mo called from the other side of the curtain. “I bet that orange one with spaghetti straps is sensational.”

“This is a waste of time. I don’t even like swimming anymore.”

“Hang tight,” my mother commanded. “I’ll check the racks again.”

I ignored her and changed back into my clothes.

“Nothing for you, sweetie?” asked the saleswoman as I handed her the pile of rejects.

I shook my head and found Mo by the bikinis. She held one in front of me, pastel pink and lacy.

“Not a chance,” I hissed, and we finally left.

***

We stopped for lunch at Mo’s favorite café, Pita Pan, in the center of Kettleboro, and were seated outside under a striped umbrella.

As soon as we’d ordered, Mo leaned in too close to my face. “Did you take a look at that book from the library I left on your bureau? The one on becoming a woman?” She grinned hard like she always does when explaining the facts of life, as if we were in on a wonderful secret together.

Mo had given the becoming a woman lecture so many times, I knew it by heart. Always comparing the “amazing transformation” to a caterpillar bursting into a butterfly or a bud blossoming into a flower . . . as if butterflies and flowers had to deal with divorced parents or trying on new bathing suits.

I wanted nothing to do with growing up. I would be perfectly fine living as a caterpillar in a cocoon, or a closed bud, for the rest of my life.

“Remember, it doesn’t usually happen all at once,” Mo continued. “You should see spotting first.”

“Gross.” I groaned. “Can you keep it down? The whole restaurant can hear you.”

She scanned the nearly empty patio. “You mean those two people sitting over in the corner? They aren’t listening to us.”

My dad, Mo’s ex-husband, sometimes calls her a bulldozer, because she plows over everything in her path to pave her own wide road. I know it isn’t as if she purposely talks too loudly or sits too close or offends strangers with her public comments, but I wish there was a library book she could read on becoming a normal mother.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I said through clenched teeth, “especially not here.”

“For crying out loud,” said Mo, after diving into the basket of complementary pita chips and stuffing several into her mouth, “it’s the most natural thing in the world!”

The thought of blood seeping uncontrollably from my body every month for the next 35 to 40 years sounded like the most unnatural thing in the world. It seemed only fair that I got a choice in all of this, or at the very least, a few more years to be a kid. I had just turned twelve less than a month ago.

Mo reached over and squeezed my hand. I tried to pull away, but she held tighter.

“I want you to know, Agnes, that the conversation is always open. You’ll experience a lot of changes and there’s nothing you can’t ask me. Got it?”

Agnes. That’s what my father allowed my bulldozing mother to name me.

My older sister and I were named after Mo’s grandmothers: Nana Vivian and Granny Agnes. According to Mo, my sister couldn’t say her name, Vivian, when she was little and called herself “Viva,” which basically means live it up! Of course, everyone thought that was adorable, so Viva stuck. And it fits her perfectly. Viva has always been wild and brave, as if nothing scares her.

Seven years after my sister’s arrival I was born. But I talked early and in full sentences, which meant I pronounced my name flawlessly. So, unfortunately for me, Agnes stuck. A couple of years ago my best friend, Megan, tried calling me Aggie, but that sounded even worse, like something you’d call an old donkey.

I wished more than anything I had a pretty name like Isabelle or Sophia or Chloe . . . but I know I’m nothing like those names.

“Got it, geez, Mo.” I groaned louder this time. “Can we please change the subject?”

“You’re right,” she said just as the server reappeared with our orders. Mo attacked her wrap with an extra-large bite. Chunks of chicken fell onto her plate.

“The reason I wanted to have this mother-daughter day,” she continued between chomps, “is to kick off our awesome summer plans.”

I took a sip of my smoothie. “In case you forgot, I already have my own awesome plans.”

For once, I wouldn’t be spending endless hours at the boring town-sponsored day camp. This summer, Megan and I were finally old enough to volunteer at the humane society, which was a dream come true, especially for me. I love animals, but Mo is allergic to everything, so Viva and I have never been allowed to have pets, not even a gerbil.

“Well, things are about to get even more awesome,” said Mo, as she wiped her chin with her napkin and grinned. “So you need to pack up your entire bedroom by Tuesday.”