I'm a weird mix of nervous and excited like it's my first day of kindergarten. Dad insisted that he walk me into school to make sure I was all set, but I insisted even more that he absolutely not. We had already toured school when we got here from Denver on Tuesday. I know my locker combination, and I have my schedule. I'm as ready as I'm going to be.
I step through the big glass doors to Sagebrush Middle and into the sea of kids. And, technically, while it's my first day, everyone else has already been in school for more than a month.
I should be watching where I'm going, not eyeing all the middle-schoolers around me. Instead I smack right into a girl with short dark hair propped on top of her head with an elastic headband.
I should say I'm sorry.
Help her pick up her books.
But I just stand there.
This is not like elementary school.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I'm still not moving. What is wrong with me?
"I'm Ashia," says the girl, apparently not fazed by my stone-statue look.
"Kenzie," I manage to squeak out.
"Well, hello, Kenzie,"she says. "I'm guessing it's your first day?"
I nod.
"Don't worry- this place looks like a zoo, but it's pretty easy to get around." She draws out her vowels the tiniest bit with an exotic accent I can't place. I wonder if I still sound like a Northern Californian.
"Thank you," I say. "It's all a little much."
And Just when I think I can do this, the cutest boy I've ever seen rushes past me. I don't even try to hide the head whip I do to catch another glimpse of him.
Ashia laughs. "That's Tate O'Dea. I can introduce you later if you'd like."
I shake my head. "No way. I mean, no thank you."
"Okay, but the offer stands. So, do you know where you're going?" she asks.
"Not really." Even though I was a couple days ago with my dad, it all looks so different with the halls full of kids. I pull my schedule from my backpack and hand it over. "Can you help me find my homeroom?"
"Sure. I'll walk you there," she says. "Oho, and we have the same lunch period! You'll have to sit with me."
On the way, she points out all the things I need to know, like where the nicest hall monitors sit; how to avoid the principal, Mr. Kumar, at all costs; and a secret shortcut to my first class. She promises to meet me at lunch, which makes me feel better already.
"And you should totally join the drama club," says Ashia. Her "totally" comes out as a beautiful "toe-tuh-lee." "Tryouts for the musical are after school today."
I secretly love to sing. In the shower. Giving a concert in our hotel room. In the rental cars with Dad. But not in front of anyone else.
"I'm more the stage-crew type," I say.
Ashia nods. "Whatever you want, but you do have excellent timing. "We're doing a classic this year."
I'm still stuck in the way she says "egg-cellent" when she gives me a light smack on the shoulder. "Oh, sorry, right. A classic. Which one?" I ask.
"The Wizard of Oz," says Ashia. "It doesn't get any better that."
No, it sure doesn't. Not in a million years would I have expected fate to plop down in front of me like this. I stop in my tracks and grab my new friend by the shoulders.
"Did you say The Wizard of Oz?" I ask.
She nods.
"It's my all-time, can't-possibly-convince-me-it's-not-the-best-movie-ever, favorite." I say. But then my shoulders droop. "Never mind. I couldn't possibly stand up in front of all those people and talk, let alone sing. " Plus, I'll be long gone before the performances. But I don't tell her that yet.
We walk again, in what I'm guessing is the direction of my homeroom.
"You can do anything you want to do," she says. Yeah if only
"Think about it." Ashia points to open doorway we're now standing in front of. "This is your stop. I'll see you at lunch."
And in an instant she's off down the hall. I turn to face a classroom full of new faces.
I'm a whole lot more nervous than I thought I'd be today, but at least I have tater tots and Ashia to look forward to.
I take a seat up front in English class.
To act like I'm not totally out of place, I open up one of my notebooks to write my name inside. But my chair is jolted from behind, and my pencil files across the paper.
The boy behind me mouths a Sorry when I turn around.
Ten seconds later, it happens again.
This time I jump into airplane passenger mods. It doesn't happen very often in first class, but when Dad and I have to fly coach (I'm not a snob, really I'm not, but first class is all kinds of AWESOME), having a kid kick my seat is a pretty regular thing. Unfortunately.
I turn around and get my friendly face ready. On try number one, you go for polite. "Maybe you don't realize that every time you do that, my chair moves," I say to the boy behind me.
"Right. Sorry," he says out loud this time.
Students are still coming in, chatting with their friends as they make their way to their seats. The teacher is busy flipping through her plan book and doesn't seem to notice qll the noise.
I go back to writing, and this time I'm trying to jot down the notes from the board when my head jolts and my chair moves forward a good two inches.
On try number two, you layout the consequences. This requires a stern look.
"Listen, I don't appreciate having my chair kicked. I suggest you to stop or . . . "Wait, what are the consequences in a classroom? Telling the teacher and becoming the class tattletale is probably not the best move.
"Or?" asks the boy, daring me to finish my sentence.
I dive into my bag of tricks and manage to find one that might work. "Or the sticky red juice I have in my lunch bag might accidently squirt behind me and you'll need a good soapy bath after school. " Not my best (especially since I don't actu- ally have a lunch bag), but it works especially well with active little boys on planes. As long as their parents can't hear me, that is.
"I don't bathe often," says the boy with a smirk. "So that would be a disaster." He sits up straight and plants his feet firmly on the floor.
Good. He does not want to see try number three.
As soon as the bell rings, Mrs. Pilchard smacks a stack of brochures on her desk. "We have one item of business to get out of the way first. The countywide poetry contest begins today, and you have one week to submit your entries. Five winners will be chosen, and if you're one of those winners, you'll get a very nice prize pack, your poem will be published in the local newspaper, and you'll have the chance to read it aloud at a fancy awards dinner. I'd consider it if I were you."
Darn. She had me until "read it aloud." No chance of that happening. And fancy dinners cer- tainly aren't anything new to me. Still, I eye that pile of pamphlets on the way out of class, debat- ing whether or not to grab one.
I don't.
The hall is like an airport terminal at Chicago O'Hare. Luckily, I've already mapped out my route to lunch, so I keep walking straight until I need to make a right turn. When I finally make it to what I've been told to call "the caf," I search frantically for Ashia. Shoulder bumps from the crowd keep knocking me from side to side, so I get out of the way and head for the lunch line.
Once I have my food (stuffed-crust pizza day!), I scan the room again for Ashia. Right now I'm wish- ing I had a solid seat assignment. Seriously, the world of airplane travel has gotten that right. It would at least make this new-kid-in-the-cafeteria thing much easier.
"Kenzie!" Ashia is running toward me like I'm her long-lost puppy. "You'll still sit with me, yes?" I nod and follow her, grateful to have someone to have lunch with. A friend to have lunch with.
"Hey, everybody, this is Kenzie." She rattles off the names of the girls at the table, and when she gets to the end, she points toward the lone boy. "And this is Bren Clarke. Our resident book nerd."
He turns his attention to Ashia. "We've met. Sort of," he says. "She sits in front of me in English."
It's not until now that I notice what his T-shirt says. I READ. WHAT'S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
Maybe he's not as bad as I thought.
"I'm Bren." He sticks out his hand.
I take it and give a strong shake like my dad taught me. "Kenzie," I say. "But for now I'm going to call you Beckham, since you kick like him."
Bren laughs. "Well played, Kenzie," he says. "Well played."
Ashia nudges me. "You two done flirting? Lunch is only thirty minutes." She sits down, leaving me standing there with heat rushing to my face.
"We weren't-"
"It's a joke. Sit down." Ashia motions to the open spot.
For the next ten minutes, Ashia tries again to convince me to try out for the musical. I consider telling her exactly why I can't, but she's so excited that I let her keep talking.
"She should join book club," says Bren, pop- ping his nose out of the book he's been reading. "We do some really cool field trips. And we have an author visit in the spring."
I don't want to admit that book club is rightup my alley. "Are you in charge of book club?" I ask Bren. But before he can answer, someone is singing across the room, and the caf goes silent as everyone turns to watch.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Remember cute Tate from this morning?" says Ashia. "Dude can sing."
He's seriously belting out a love song to one of the girls sitting next to him, and all the awestruck girls in the lunchroom are watching like they're at a boy-band concert. Even the boys are hooting and hollering.
"Yeah, but ." I stop, wondering if school has turned into a real-live High School Musical or Grease while I've been in the air. "Is this Does it happen at other schools too?" normal?
"Totally not," says Ashia. "But he loves the attention and we love the show, so the teachers don't mind. Music is kind of our thing here."
Not only is Cute Tate adorable, but he also has an amazing voice. It's crazy to me that he can stand up there on the table bench and sing to a "sold-out" cafeteria. I could never. But Ashia's right: I'm loving the show.
When the song is over, the crowd claps and cheers, including the teachers and the lunch ladies.
"You know, Tate will most certainly be in the musical," Ashia whispers.
I try to hold back a smile but totally fail at it. "Meet you at tryouts after school?" she asks. I nod. If it means hearing that voice every day I'm here, I might need to reconsider.