Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar Read online

  I was so surprised that she could move that fast that I didn’t even follow her.

  Not right away.

  By the time I managed to move, Rhonda had blasted through the hallway doors. Then the second bell rang, and I found myself alone in the hall. I was late for class.

  I should find her later and apologize, I told myself. But I knew that wasn’t good enough. No—I had to find her and apologize now. Right away. Even if it meant skipping class and getting in trouble.

  Because friendship is more important than French, oui?

  The first place I looked was the girls’ room. No Rhonda. Just a very annoyed eighth grader who I, uh… accidentally barged in on.

  Next I tried the cafeteria, but there were just lunch ladies assembling huge trays of goop that looked like reheated goop from yesterday’s lunch. Blech.

  The only other room in the direction Rhonda had run was the teachers’ lounge, and it didn’t seem very likely she’d go in there. I knew I didn’t want to, since it was a well-known fact that the lounge doubled as Mrs. Stricker’s harpy lair.

  Rhonda was nowhere to be found.

  Who could help me? If I called Mom, she’d just come to school and make a Parental Scene. My bandmates? They don’t really get Missy Trillin’s evil power, or why I don’t just throw down with the Princesses. Besides, they were in school too.

  In the end, there was only one person I could think of to call.

  I’ll always owe my brother, because that phone call cleared up everything.

  The minute I hung up, I knew what I had to do.

  South Nowhere Street

  My escape plan was simple yet flawless: I walked out the door. Nobody said anything or tried to stop me.

  My heart thrashed like a beached fish, but I didn’t look back. I wondered if this was how Rafe felt when he broke a rule at HVMS: excited and a little scared and kind of proud of himself all at the same time.

  It hadn’t been hard to look up Rhonda’s address. Her street was only a few blocks from school. The houses were mostly small and close to the curb, without any front yards at all—just driveways and trash bins. Rhonda’s house was as dingy as the rest of them, except her front door looked brand-new, with an oval of stained glass in the center.

  As I clanged the huge knocker, I thought I saw the hideous flowered curtains move, just a little. Like someone was peeking out. But no one answered the door. I knocked again. And again.

  Rhonda doesn’t know who she’s dealing with, I thought as I kept knocking. Rafe could’ve told her—I don’t give up that easily.

  “GO AWAY!” Rhonda shouted from the other side of the door.

  “No!” I knocked again, then rang the doorbell three times in a row just to be annoying.

  Rhonda opened the door a crack but left on the security chain, like I was a burglar or a church lady she wanted to avoid. “WE AREN’T EVEN FRIENDS,” she announced.

  “Don’t be dumb. Of course we are.”

  “WE ARE?” Rhonda looked so hopeful. Her whole face lit up.

  “Of course you’re my friend.” I swallowed. “Rhonda… I’m sorry I said that to Missy. The truth is—you’re my best friend at HVMS.” I knew it was true the minute I said it. Rhonda was sort of weird, and sort of annoying, and—frankly—a style disaster. But she was also unique. And brave. And kind.

  I thought about Missy and felt embarrassed. How could I ever have cared what she thought?

  Rhonda blinked, and I could see the sparkle of tears on her upper lashes. She pulled off the security chain and opened the door, but she didn’t invite me inside. “WHY DID YOU TELL MISSY WE WEREN’T FRIENDS?”

  “Because… I’m an idiot,” I confessed. “Rhonda, I’m really, really sorry.”

  Rhonda didn’t say anything. She just pulled me into a hug.

  I’d never been that close to Rhonda before, and I was surprised by her pretty fabric-softener smell and her strong, soft arms. “You’re squishing me,” I told her.

  Then we pulled apart, and we both laughed like we were a little embarrassed. Rhonda swiped at her eyes, and I saw that the tears were gone. “BEST FRIENDS!” she said brightly.

  “Okay, but—” I bit my lip. “Rhonda, maybe you could… try not to follow me around so much?”

  “SURE, GEORGIA! NO FOLLOWING!” She thought that over for a moment. “BUT WE CAN STILL HANG OUT ALL THE TIME, RIGHT?”

  I sighed. I guess it was too much to hope that Rhonda would suddenly turn normal. But that was okay.

  Who’s normal?

  Missy?

  Right. I’d take Rhonda any day.

  Smacked Down

  That evening, I sat perched on my favorite stool at Swifty’s as Mom darted back and forth like a dragonfly behind me. The diner was jammed with the usual supper crowd, but the noise didn’t bother me. I was reading The Invention of Hugo Cabret and drinking a (gasp!) chocolate milk shake, which Mom let me have after someone sent it back, insisting that he’d meant to order strawberry. I should have been happy.

  But how could I be? Missy and her family were in the corner booth again.

  I tried to concentrate on my book, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking how much I wanted to grab Missy’s glass of water and toss it in her face. She’d probably start melting like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. And then I’d be all “Clip-clop—I mean, ding-dong—the witch is dead!”

  Someone kissed my hair, and I looked up to see Mom smiling at me. “How’s it going?” She leaned against the stool beside mine. “Good shake?”

  “The best.”

  “Then why are you scowling?”

  “I’m not,” I lied. “This is just my face.”

  Mom folded her arms across her chest and glanced over at Missy’s table. “How are things going at school?” she asked. When her eyes met mine, I was suddenly sure Mom knew all about Missy and why I wanted to toss water on her.

  “Is this, like, some psychic mom thing?” I asked her.

  Mom shrugged. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Things are… not great,” I admitted. “HVMS is like Georgia Smackdown Central.”

  Mom touched my hair gently. “You’ve always been good at standing up for yourself with Rafe.”

  “He’s different,” I said.

  “How?”

  “Because he’s Rafe!” I stabbed a long spoon into my milk shake and stirred. “He isn’t the queen of anything. Missy is.”

  Mom looked over at Missy’s table again. “I know it’s hard to stand up for yourself sometimes,” she said. “I wasn’t any good at it at your age either.” She bit her lip. “I still have trouble sometimes.”

  “I guess it’s genetic, then,” I said.

  Mom frowned for a minute, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Pearl buzzed by with a “Jules, honey, would you be a sweetheart and take care of table eight?”

  “Sure,” Mom said to Pearl. Then she touched my shoulder. “We’ll talk later?”

  “Okay,” I said, but my words only reached empty air. Mom had darted off again.

  I glanced over at Missy and caught her watching me. I narrowed my eyes at her.

  Just you wait, Missy Trillin, I thought. Your queendom is about to get trashed.

  When You Seek Revenge, Dig Two Graves

  I’m taking her down, even if I go down with her.

  That was the thought that whispered itself over and over in my mind as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. I wasn’t angry. I was perfectly calm. Okay, maybe a little excited.

  Missy had insulted, humiliated, and betrayed me. I’d lost my bet with Rafe. I’d gotten detention—twice. There really wasn’t anything she could do to me that she hadn’t already done.

  So I was free.

  Free to get revenge.

  An image of Mini-Miller flashed in my mind—how he looked as he limped away from me. I solved that problem pretty fast. All it took was a couple of kicks to the shin.

  Remembering that made me realize that Mom was r
ight. I am good at sticking up for myself. And Missy really isn’t any different from Mini-Miller except that her clothes are nicer.

  But was kicking her shins the best way to teach Missy a lesson? Probably not.

  There were almost too many good alternatives.

  Revenge Served Lukewarm

  Georgia, it’s seven AM. What on earth are you cooking?” Mom asked when she walked into the kitchen two days later. She blinked blearily at the large pot on the stove.

  “Just desserts,” I told her. I stirred the thick mass of rice pudding in the pot on the stove.

  “Desserts? At seven o’clock on a Thursday morning?”

  “I’m bringing the snack today,” I said. “Once a week, someone brings in a snack for homeroom.” Yes, I felt guilty about lying to my mom. Guilty and a little proud too, because it turned out I was good at it.

  “What?” Mom shuffled over to the coffeepot. “Rafe never did that.”

  “Oh, Rafe,” I said, shrugging in my most Rafe-doesn’t-ever-participate-in-class-activities way.

  Mom is never really awake before her morning coffee. It isn’t hard to fool her.

  She just nodded and then suggested that I add a little more nutmeg to the pudding. So I did. Then she offered me a ride to school, since it would be hard to carry the huge plastic tub on the bus.

  Perfect!

  I got to school early and hid in a stall in the girls’ room near the gym. The Princesses occupied it every morning for the ten minutes before homeroom. They needed that time to slather on makeup and figure out ways to insult perfectly nice people, I guess.

  “Can you believe what Ashley Parker is wearing today?” I heard Brittany ask as the Princesses waltzed in.

  Right on time, I thought gleefully.

  “She looks like a cup of cottage cheese,” Missy said, and the other Princesses cracked up.

  Wait, I told myself. Wait until the time is right.

  I watched through a crack in the door as Missy smeared on some lip gloss, then pursed her lips in the mirror. “Who’s going to tell Madison that she’s got broccoli caught in her teeth?” she asked.

  “I will,” Bethany volunteered. “Who eats broccoli for breakfast, anyway?”

  Missy fluffed up her hair. And then she headed into the other bathroom stall.

  I counted to five, then climbed up onto the toilet seat, hauled up the tub, and let out a huge “Bluurrggh!”

  I fake-barfed warm rice pudding all over Missy. The moment it glopped down the side of her head, she screeched like a cat in heat. Like a cat in heat that’s just been puked on while peeing.

  “BLUURRGGH!!!” I upped the volume of my retching noises.

  The other Princesses rushed to help, but the door was locked and Missy was blinded by pudding, so they fumbled around while I just calmly walked out of there as if nothing had happened. My only regret was that I didn’t actually get to see Missy, but I had a heck of a great time imagining it.

  Mom was right—revenge tastes best when you add a little extra nutmeg.

  A Visit with the Lizard King

  I was only in homeroom for about five seconds when the school secretary appeared and handed a note to Mr. Grank. When he read it, his head snapped up. “Rafe’s SISTER,” he announced, “the Lizard King has called you to the Pit of Torment.”

  “Hmm.” I kicked the giant pudding tub behind my desk. “Okay.” I followed the school secretary down the hall to the principal’s office.

  A cricket chirped as I slid into the chair across from the Lizard King, Mr. Dwight. My flesh crawled as his long tongue shot out and his teeth crunched. The room went silent.

  Poor cricket.

  “I hear you’re following in your brother’s footsteps, Ms. Khatchadorian,” the Lizard King hissed. “Why don’t you tell me about this pudding incident?”

  “Pudding?” I repeated, as if I had no idea what he was talking about. I was doing my very best whatever-are-you-talking-about-my-good-sir? face, with my hands clasped under my chin. It’s a proven innocence stance.

  Heh-heh-heh. A chuckle from a giant lizard is a scary sound. The Lizard King stretched out a scaly hand and tapped his claws on the arm of his throne. “Come now, Ms. Khatchadorian,” he said. “Someone poured a pot of pudding on Missy Trillin, and you are the prime suspect.”

  Please note: I didn’t even lie!

  But there was something in the Lizard King’s golden gaze that told me he wasn’t buying it. I bit my lip and smiled nervously. I wished he would ask me a question or something, just so I wouldn’t have to sit there in silence until one of us died.

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Before the Lizard King could even shout, “Come in,” my defense attorney strolled in. Well, I guess he was supposed to be my defense attorney.

  It was Rafe.

  This Deserves Two Chapters

  You’re pinning this on the wrong girl,” my brother said. Rafe plopped a briefcase on the Lizard King’s desk, and a pile of papers spilled out. Rafe picked one up. “Exhibit A.”

  “What’s this?” The Lizard King frowned at the paper.

  “Her report card from last year.” Rafe held out another paper. “Here’s the one from the year before that. And the one from the year before. As you can see, the grades are straight A’s.”

  The Lizard King eyed the papers and suddenly let out a stream of fire from his mouth that turned my report cards into ash. But Rafe just went on with his speech.

  “Georgia also got 1s in effort, which—honestly—is a little obnoxious. I mean, who tries that hard in study hall?”

  “If you’re trying to make a point, Mr. Khatchadorian, I suggest you do it soon,” the Lizard King told him. “I’m getting hungry.”

  “Um… right. My point is,” Rafe said, “that Georgia was a model student until she came to Hills Village Middle School. And that’s my fault.”

  “Rafe?” I was so surprised, I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  My brother turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Georgia,” he said. “I know everyone thinks you’re guilty because I pulled so many pranks here. But”—he turned back to face the Lizard King—“Georgia is not me. Not even close.”

  There was a long stretch of silence like a curving road leading who knows where. I stared at the Lizard King. He stared back at me. “Do you have anything to add?” Principalzilla asked.

  I blinked, and Rafe disappeared.

  You knew he was never really there in the first place, right? I mean, why would he be at my school in the middle of the day?

  Still… it was a cool thought.

  Crime and Punishment

  What makes you think I did it?” I asked.

  The Lizard King opened a drawer and pulled out a toad. “We have witnesses, Ms. Khatchadorian,” he said, popping the toad into his mouth. I could see the bulge in his throat when he swallowed.

  “Oh,” I said.

  I should’ve known. Bethany and Brittany were in the bathroom too. I guess they had noticed me after all.

  “You’ll serve a week of detention, of course,” the Lizard King said. “And I’m requiring a visit with Ms. Jordan.”

  “The headshrinker?” I asked.

  “The school psychologist, yes.” The Lizard King’s forked tongue flicked in and out. “She knows your family history.”

  “Oh, good, maybe she can help me with my genealogy report,” I said. (Not really. I said that in my head. Would you get sarcastic with a giant lizard?)

  The Lizard King leaned forward. His breath smelled like August garbage during a sanitation-worker strike. “The next time you visit my office, Ms. Khatchadorian, I won’t hesitate to expel you,” he snarled. “I’ve had it up to the gills with the Khatchadorians.”

  Well, I’ve had it up to here with this school, I wanted to shout back. But like I said, you don’t mess with a hungry giant lizard.

  “You’ll be heading to Ms. Jordan now, Ms. Khatchadorian. And remember, next time I won’t let you off so easily.”<
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  I stood shakily and fled from his lair, glad to be alive. But who knew what awaited me in the next den of despair?

  Shrinkology

  The minute I sat down in the chair across from hers, the school shrink gave me a warm welcome.

  “Please don’t say it like that,” I told her.

  Ms. Jordan leaned back in her chair and studied me. “Don’t say it like what?” she asked.

  “With all capital letters and an exclamation mark at the end.” I sat on my hands. “Rafe and I aren’t the same person. And besides, he’s not as bad as everyone around here thinks.”

  I thought about how he’d helped out at the garage sale and defended me to the Lizard King—even though that hadn’t really happened—and I got a warm, fuzzy feeling.

  “Hmm.” Ms. Jordan picked up a pencil and bounced it off the table a few times. “So—what brings you here, Georgia?”

  Um, royal command of the Lizard King?

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have a lot of time on my hands,” Ms. Jordan said.

  I sighed. Clearly, I wasn’t going to escape until I’d delivered my autobiography.

  I tried to give her the condensed version.

  “I’m wondering if you can speed this story up a bit,” Ms. Jordan said.

  “I spilled pudding on Missy Trillin’s head while she was taking a pee.”

  “I see.” Ms. Jordan nodded. “Now I think we’re getting somewhere.”

  More Shrinkology

  So, you spilled pudding on Missy’s head,” Ms. Jordan said. She poked her flabby cheek with the eraser end of her pencil. “How did that make you feel?”

  “Horrible,” I said.

  Ms. Jordan lifted her eyebrows.