Ava and Pip (9 page)

AFTER DINNER

DEAR DIARY,

Mom and Dad went to a party and told Pip and me to “look after each other.”

Pip asked about my hair, and when I told her, she said, “It'll grow back.”

“I know,” I said and nuked some alphabet soup.

I've liked alphabet soup ever since I was a baby. I used to eat it at room temperature in a high chair. I even have a poster next to my bed of a can of Campbell's alphabet soup. It's by Andy Warhol and is called P-O-P art.

If Pip keeps drawing, maybe she can make P-I-P art.

Tonight, all Pip made was a mess. She poured herself some Lucky Charms, and then her cell phone buzzed—practically a first. It said: “Nadifa.” Pip jumped up and—
unlucky
for her—spilled the
Lucky
Charms.

On the floor was a pink puddle of soggy shamrocks, pots of gold, shooting stars, rainbows, and mushy hearts.

“Smooth!” I said, but Pip just picked up her phone with one hand and a sponge with the other. Last week, she might have cried over spilt milk. Today she mopped up and kept talking.

“Tomorrow? Sure!” Pip said into the phone. “I love ice-skating!”

I stirred my letters, looking for words and keeping myself company. It's not that I expected Pip to include me. But I didn't expect to feel left out.

AVA WITH NO APPETITE

BEDTIME

DEAR DIARY,

Dad told me he'd googled “Wren Misty Oaks” and three of his plays popped up. “So did ‘Sting of the Queen Bee,'” he said. “There are two writers in town now!”

“I never thought my story would show up online,” I mumbled, quiet as Pip.

“Well, no need for modesty. The more people who see your work, the better.” He put his arm around me. “Maybe it'll go viral!”

“Like a virus?” I asked.

Dad laughed, but I didn't.

I wished I could tell him that even though “Sting of the Queen Bee” got an
honorable
mention, it's making me feel like a
dishonorable
person!

No, worse. It's making me feel like P-O-O-P.

AVA, AILING

AFTERNOON

DEAR DIARY,

Yesterday, Maybelle's mom took her to get a real haircut, a “bob” (B-O-B), and today at school, everyone kept saying how adorable she looks. I tried not to feel jealous.

My math teacher, Miss Hamshire, stopped me in the hallway. Most kids refer (R-E-F-E-R) to her as Miss
Hamster
. She has beady eyes and big glasses, and no one likes her except Maybelle, because Maybelle loves math and Miss Hamshire loves kids who love math.

Miss Hamshire said, “Ava, I read your story on the school website. I hope it's not based on any fellow students.” She peered down at me, her beady eyes all googly and magnified.

I started sweating, because I had a feeling that my math teacher had put 2 + 2 together.

“I wonder what Mrs. Lemons thinks,” she said.

“Mrs. Lemons likes me,” I blurted, which was moronic because Miss Hamshire hadn't said she didn't like me. She'd just hinted that she didn't like my story.

After school, Bea came over. Her hair was in a braid, and she asked about my hair. I told her, and she offered to try to straighten it, but I said, “No thanks.” I mean, just because Bea is good at giving advice doesn't mean she's good at giving haircuts, right?

She turned to Pip and said, “How'd Week Two go?”

This time, Pip seemed happy to answer. “I won't give you a day-to-day play-by-play. But whenever I saw myself in a mirror or a window, I did what you said: I gave myself a compliment. Fortunately, only one person caught me—not counting Ava.”

“And I don't count,” I joked, then realized that this was starting to feel a teeny bit true.

“Did you also keep smiling at people this week?” Bea asked Pip.

“Mostly at myself,” Pip answered.

“Well, that's part of the whole point. But keep smiling at other people too. Not 24/7, and not when you don't feel like it. But sometimes, when you can.”

“I'll try.”

“Good. So you ready for your third assignment?” Bea pulled a folded strip of paper from her pocket and read it aloud.

Week Three:

Say hi to someone new every day, kid or grown-up.

“That's it?” Pip asked.

“That's it,” Bea said.

“That doesn't seem so hard.”

“It's not.”

I almost pointed out that “It's not” sounds like “It's snot,” but I didn't. Funny how Pip has to tell herself to speak up and I have to tell myself to shut up. Just because something pops into my head doesn't mean it should leap from my lips.

Bea looked at Pip. “Two weeks ago, it would have seemed harder.”

“You're probably right,” Pip said.

“I
am
right,” Bea said with a twinkle, and somehow it didn't sound conceited.

The phone rang. It was Mom. Pip answered and started talking, so I walked Bea out to her bike. “How'd you get so good at helping people feel more confident anyway?” I asked. It's not like she went to Advice Columnist School or Life Coach Academy.

“At my old school,” Bea replied, “the whole sixth grade was pretty clique-y, and a lot of girls put me in the middle of their fights. I didn't like it, and there were a lot of stupid rumors. So I talked to my aunt a lot—she's a psychotherapist. She's expensive, but she always talks to me for free.”

I started wishing I had an aunt who was a psychotherapist. But I don't, and even if I did, I couldn't picture myself talking about my troubles.

“I also just hung out at the bookshop a lot,” Bea continued. “Me and Meow Meow. I read a ton: novels, magazines, and books with quotes.”

“Quotes?”

“Quotes. You know, like, ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.'”

“Who said that?”

“Eleanor Roosevelt. And, ‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.'”

“Who said that?”

“Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

“You know a lot of quotes?”

“I guess. Oprah Winfrey said, ‘Being angry with other people hurts you more than it hurts them.'”

I thought about how angry I'd been at Bea before I'd even met her. “The only quotes I know are the morals of Aesop's fables.”

“The morals?”

“Yeah. Like, you know ‘The Mouse and the Lion'? It's about a big lion that spares a little mouse, and later, when the lion gets captured by hunters, the mouse saves him by gnawing through the hunters' net.”

“What's the moral?”

“No good deed, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”

Bea nodded. I think we were both aware that we were doing Pip a good deed, but only I was aware that deed (D-E-E-D) is a you-know-what.

I started thinking about the moral of my Queen Bee story: “There's no shortcut to true friendship.” Then I thought I'd been
right
about friendship, but
wrong
about Bea.

I wished I could tell her that I was worried that my BEE-BEA story was turning into a BB gun, but I couldn't.

Besides, Bea's visits aren't for me. They're for P-I-P.

AVA, AWARE

MIDDLE-OF-THE-NIGHT

DEAR DIARY,

I just got out of bed and turned on my lamp. I hope Mom and Dad don't notice and tell me to turn if off and go to sleep, but there's something else I want to tell you.

In gym we combined classes and this lady came to teach us yoga. She talked about “breathing” and “balance,” and it was actually pretty calming. Then she said to pretend we were trees.

First, we stood on our right leg and lifted our left foot in the air and raised our arm-branches and wriggled our finger-leaves and tried not to fall. Then we switched and stood on our left leg and lifted our right foot in the air and raised our arm-branches and wriggled our finger-leaves and tried not to fall.

It was hard!

Most of us couldn't help wriggling and jiggling, and some of us (including me) kept putting our feet down so we wouldn't keel over. A few of us did fall!

Only Chuck had no problem standing perfectly still. I bet he could have stood there like a tree all day long. He's either extra coordinated…or part egret?

Well, the yoga instructor told us to form a circle, stand on one leg, hold hands, and make a “group tree.” (She should have said “forest.”) I was in between Maybelle and Alex, and as I reached for their hands, I started to giggle, but the instructor said, “No giggling, and please close your eyes.”

Next thing you know, we were all in a circle with our eyes shut.

“Some of you are still swaying, like trees in a breeze,” the instructor said. “But notice how you are holding each other up and supporting one another. Be aware that you can trust each other, and know that you will not let each other fall.”

The amazing thing was: she was right! All of us (except Chuck) kept wobbling, but not one kid fell! Not one! Alex and I almost fell, but we both “supported” each other and even shared a teeny tiny half-smile.

Right now, under my covers, I'm thinking that even though my plate is chock-f of worries, and even though Pip can sometimes be annoying, I'm glad that Bea and I are helping her.

She's my sister, after all, and I'm not going to let her fall.

AVA WREN, YOGA TREE

BEFORE DINNER

DEAR DIARY,

Lunch was meatballs. Maybelle and I were standing in line right behind Pip, and I was starving to death (poetic license). Pip said hi to the lunch lady, and while I paid for my meatballs, the lunch lady, who is very bubbly, said, “Ava, I read your story about the bee! Good for you!”

I said, “Thanks,” even though her “
Good
for you!” made me feel
bad
for me.

Well, Maybelle and I followed Pip into the lunchroom, and I don't know what Pip was thinking, but as she walked by two seventh-grade boys,
she
said
hi
. One was tall and skinny with curly hair, and the other was stocky with a starter mustache. Neither one answered—they just sort of looked through her.

Pip didn't even notice. She kept heading toward a corner table where Nadifa and Isabel were saving her a seat. The two boys were sitting next to Loudmouth Lacey. She's the girl with thick bangs and thick eyeliner who was mean to Pip last year.

Okay, I think this is a metaphor, not a simile, but let me put it this way: if middle school were an ocean, Lacey would be a barracuda and Pip would be a minnow.

Anyway, here's what happened. Lacey began making squeaky sounds, like, “Pipsqueak, squeak, squeak, squeak,” and then the boys started doing it too!

At first, I couldn't believe my ears, but I stopped and listened, and it was true: all three of them were squeaking. Lacey was the loudest.

Maybelle and I were just yards away, and I was tempted to throw my meatballs at them. But what would that help?

Then things got worse.

Lacey took the rubber band out of her ponytail and twisted it around her tongue and lisped, “Look! I'm tongue-tied! I'm tongue-tied!” Mustache Boy cracked up, and soon all three of them were laughing like hyenas.

Personally, I couldn't take it anymore! How dare they make fun of Pip? I was glad she was at the other end of the lunchroom, and I was thinking how brave she had been to follow Bea's step-by-step advice and get herself “out there”—and how I should try to be brave too.

I started walking, step by step, toward their table.

Maybelle said, “Ava, no!” but it was like their table was a magnet and I was a paper clip. My heart was pounding, and my
sneakers
, instead of walking me safely away, were heading toward the
squeakers
. Suddenly I was standing in front of them, staring into the taller boy's eyes. I looked at him, human being to human being, and said, “Why can't you leave her alone?”

“What's it to you?”

“She's my sister!”
I shouted, which surprised all of us, especially me.

Mustache Boy laughed, and Lacey lisped, “Sheeth her thithter!” But the tall boy was listening, I could tell.

“Give her a break,” I said. “She's shy, but she's a good person.” Mustache Boy snorted, and Lacey squeaked, and I added, “And being a good person is a good thing.” I couldn't believe I added that.

I looked at Maybelle, and her mouth was flopped open. Other kids were listening too. Even Chuck. I wondered what would happen if a fight broke out. Would he jump up and defend me using his boxing and balancing skills?

The taller boy nodded at Lacey as if to say, “Let's stop,” and Lacey made a face and mumbled, “Whatever.” Then she stuck her hand in her mouth and slid the slimy rubber band off her tongue and shot it at the window, saliva and all. It struck the glass and fell onto the floor.

Mustache Boy shrugged, and they all stopped squeaking.

I just stood there, shaky as a one-legged yoga tree. I was trying not to drop my tray.

Maybelle got me to sit down, but I couldn't eat. I looked toward Pip. She and Nadifa and Isabel were all facing the wall. I was glad they had missed everything.

Funny, even as I write this, hours later, I'm still a little shaky. But I feel proud of myself too. Like, maybe for once, I blurted out the right thing.

AVA THE ADMIRABLE?

FRIDAY LUNCH PERIOD, IN THE LIBRARY

DEAR DIARY,

“Principal Gupta wants to see you.”

These are six words you do
not
want to hear.

Since Principal Gupta never wants to see me, for a tiny second, I thought it might have to do with my standing up to the Squeakers. Maybe she was going to give me a bravery award?

But Mrs. Lemons wasn't smiling. And as I walked down the hallway and got closer and closer to Principal Gupta's office, I felt more and more sure that I was in trouble.

I knocked on her door, and she said, “Come in. Sit down.”

I did, and I saw a blond lady sitting in the other chair. The blond lady looked familiar. I had definitely seen her before. But where?

Uh-oh! At Bates Books! And Misty Oaks Library!

“Ava, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Bates.”

My heart went plunging down one of my legs and landed on top of my big toe. (Poetic license.)

“How do you do?” I said as politely as I could, but it came out kind of high-pitched.

Mrs. Bates eyeballed me as if she'd expected the malicious Ava Wren to be taller and tougher. “I've been better,” she answered.

Principal Gupta said, “Ava, Mrs. Bates just read ‘Sting of the Queen Bee.'”

My throat got all tight.

“I did,” Mrs. Bates confirmed. “And frankly, I felt a little stung by it myself. I can't say I appreciated your portrayal of my daughter as an evil, selfish, rude friend-stealer.”

I felt about as slimy as Ernie the Earthworm, so I apologized and said, “It was a mistake.” I was tempted to mention Pip's ruined slumber party but decided not to, because Mrs. Bates hadn't asked what had
inspired
me.

“I liked ‘Bookshop Cat,'” Mrs. Bates said, “and thought others might find it charming. So this morning I sent our customers an e-mail with a link to the library contest site. Within the hour, two people e-mailed back asking me about Queen Bee, the nasty new seventh-grader. One even took it upon herself to telephone.”

I sat there staring at the dark green rug. It had a bunch of crisscrossing vacuum lines in it. My eyes were prickling, and I had a lump in my throat.

“I'm all for free speech,” Mrs. Bates continued, “but not when it's hurtful or damaging. At Bea's last school, she had to deal with a number of mean and jealous girls and their nasty rumors, and I don't want her to go through that again. That's why I came over to put an end to this.”

“I wish I could press Undo,” I mumbled.

“Speak up,” Principal Gupta said.

“I wish I could press Undo,” I repeated, a little louder.

“I wish you could too,” Mrs. Bates replied. “Ms. Gupta, perhaps you can remove Ava's story from the school website? I assume that wouldn't be considered censorship?”

“Under the circumstances, I think it would be fine.”

Principal Gupta phoned her tech person while I sat there like a criminal. I started feeling smaller and smaller, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears.

I thought: I wish my parents were here. Then I thought: no, I don't. And to be honest, that made me feel even worse!

“I'm not sure if Bea even knows about your story,” Mrs. Bates said.

“She does,” I said softly. “She and I already made up.”

“Really? Well, I shouldn't be surprised.” She nodded. “My daughter has a very forgiving nature. More so than I.” Did that mean that Mrs. Bates was going to stay mad at me forever? “Bea is wise beyond her years, and she has a heart of gold.”

I wondered what my heart was made of. Pebbles? Dirt? Mud? I was still afraid I might start bawling.

“Mrs. Bates,” Principal Gupta said, “I feel certain that Ava has grown a lot because of this unfortunate experience. Would you say this is true, Ava?”

“Yes!” I said and threw in a couple more “I'm sorry”s. There was a silence, so I asked, “Would it be okay if I went back to language arts? I mean, if I'm not getting suspended?”

“It's okay with me,” Principal Gupta said. Mrs. Bates gave a nod too, so I stood up and backed out of the room, closing the door behind me.

In the hall, I was starting to breathe full breaths again when a seventh-grader I'd never met before said, “Are you Ava Wren?”

“Yes.”

“Bea Bates is a nice person,” she said. “She did not deserve what you did to her.”

“I know,” I said and kept walking.

“What's with the weird hair anyway?” she called.

I hurried back to class wishing Thanksgiving were
this
week instead of next week.

AVA WHO WROTE A BUNCH (INSTEAD OF EATING LUNCH)