My Best Frenemy (9 page)

The only one left to wonder about is Jenna. I glance at her. She’s standing in line ahead of Tom, holding her lunchbox. Will she think it’s funny if I yell in the lunchroom?

Part of me answers
yes
and part of me answers
no
.

I decide to let the
no
part of me be the boss for a little while, and ask Tom if I can cut in line. He says okay, so I scoot around him and tap Jenna on the shoulder.

Jenna glances back at me. “What? ”

“Um . . . I was wondering if maybe I could trade my hot lunch for your cold lunch today.” Jenna’s cold lunches almost always include bread that looks like it was made from twigs, soy milk, and tofu brownies. But I’m pretty desperate.

Jenna turns. “
You
want to eat
my
lunch? ”

“Uh-huh, ” I say. “Just this once. ”

“But you love macaroni and cheese,” she replies.

“Yes, but I’ve heard that too much dairy can make you moody. ” I do my best moody face.

Jenna squints. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your
dare,
does it? ”

I gulp. “No. ”

“Because Randi told everyone to keep an eye on you at lunch. ”

I gulp again. “Well, maybe it has a
tiny
bit to do with my dare. But if you trade lunches with me, it would help a lot. ”

“But if I help you get out of doing a dare, then we’ll
both
get double-dog dared. ”

“I know, ” I mumble. Then I sigh. I think about this morning and how Jenna helped Tess with her snot problem. It’s hard enough for me to get a mean person into trouble. It’s even harder when it’s someone who was recently nice. “Never mind, ” I say.

Jenna lifts her chin. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I only said it might get us into trouble with the other girls. ”

“So, does that mean you
will
help me? ”

Jenna shifts her jaw back and forth, thinking. “What about Stacey? ” she asks. “She’s your best friend. Shouldn’t
she
help you? ”

“I asked her to, ” I say. “I mean, I meant to. But some other stuff got in the way. ” I glance behind me and see Stacey talking with Brooke. “I guess I could ask her now, but—”

“Fine,” Jenna cuts in. “Ask her.” She turns away quickly and one of her braids whips against my cheek. It leaves behind a sting.

I rub my cheek and watch Jenna push past people to get into the lunchroom.

The line moves forward. I head back to Stacey.

But before I can get to her, someone squeezes my arm.

“Lunch is
this
way, ” Randi says, tugging on me. “You don’t want to miss
mouseroni
and cheese, do you? ” She gives me a grin.

“No, ” I say. “Of course not. I was just—”

Randi turns me around and steers me toward the trays.

Each tray has five food compartments—three squares, one circle, and one big rectangle.

The squares get peas and carrots, a pudding cup, and a carton of chocolate milk. The circle gets a buttered bun.

The rectangle gets enough macaroni and cheese to feed twenty mice.

I walk over to our usual table. Jenna is already there. So are Meeka and Jolene. I sit down, leaving a chair between me and Jenna. Randi sits across from me. A minute later, Stacey and Brooke show up. Brooke slides in next to Randi. Stacey takes the empty chair between me and Jenna. “Yum,” Stacey says. “Lunch looks good today. ”

“Oh, it’s good, ” Randi says, scooping up a forkful of cheesy noodles. “Go ahead, Ida. Dig in.” She stuffs the saucy noodles into her mouth and watches me while she chews.

I blink at my tray. Each noodle curves like Randi’s grin. I scoop a few into my mouth and swallow them like medicine.

The other girls start talking about Mr. Crow and how mad he was this morning.

“I’ll never tell him what’s going on,” Brooke says. “Even if it means getting detention for a week. ”

“A month, ” Jolene adds.

“A
year
, ” Meeka chimes in.

Randi nudges me under the table and nods toward my macaroni. “Go on,” she whispers. “Do it. ”

I take a sip of milk.

And feel another nudge.

This time it’s from Stacey. “What’s wrong? ” she asks, studying my face. “You look sort of... queasy. Does the milk taste like cardboard again? ”

“Uh-huh, ” I say, and set down my carton.

Stacey scoops up a forkful of peas and carrots. “You should take it back and complain,” she says. “That’s what I’d do. ”

“Uh-huh, ” I say again.

I push back my chair.

Stacey munches and gives me the thumbs-up. Randi gives me the thumbs-up too.

I stand and shut my eyes.

I suck in every inch of air my lungs can hold.

Then I shout, “THERE’S A MOUSE IN MY MACARONI! ”

Only my throat muscles are pinched so tight, the words come out small and squeaky.

But even a small squeak spreads in a lunchroom.

Especially when Randi Peterson has told everyone to keep an eye on me.

Chairs slide. Trays clatter. I open my eyes and see a crowd of kids gathering around me.

“Look! ” someone shouts. “There
is
a mouse! ”

I look down at my tray. A white mouse slowly sinks into my noodles. Its rubber tail is tipped with saucy cheese.

“Mouse! Mouse in the macaroni!” someone shouts. Everyone joins in. Fists pounding. Trays clanking.

I look at Randi.

She looks back and wiggles her eyebrows.

Suddenly, all the pounding and clanking and shouting stops. The kids who are crowded closest to me back away to let someone through.

Someone with pea-sized eyes behind thick glasses. Meaty arms. And a black hairnet clamped over her gray hair.

“QUIET! ” Mrs. Kettleson shouts. “No yelling in the lunchroom! ”

She pushes to my side and sees the mouse on my tray. “What’s
this
?! ” she blasts. A moment later the mouse is dangling in front of my face.

Everyone explodes with laughter.

Not counting me.

Not counting Mrs. Kettleson.

She grabs my arm and starts pulling me through the crowd.

“Wait! ” I hear someone shout.
“Waaaait! ”
Mrs. Kettleson stops and we both turn toward the shout.

“Ida didn’t do it! ”

It’s Stacey. My best friend. Sticking up for me.

Mrs. Kettleson squeezes my arm tighter. “Then who did? ”

“Um . . .” Stacey says, glancing around. Her eyes hopscotch from kid to kid until they finally land on Randi.

Stacey turns to Mrs. Kettleson. “It was . . . one of the boys. ”

This isn’t the first time Stacey has lied. But it’s the first time she’s lied to get me out of trouble.

Mrs. Kettleson pushes her glasses up on her nose and scans the crowd. “Which boy?” she asks.

“Um . . . ” Stacey says. “It was . . . it was . . . ”

“
That
one, ” someone says.

I look past Stacey to see where the voice is coming from. Everyone else looks too.

A chair squeaks against the floor and Jenna Drews stands up. But she doesn’t stop there. She climbs right up onto her chair. She punches her fists into her hips and waits until everyone is looking at her. Then she points a finger at one face in the crowd.

A boy face.

A Quinn face.

“He did it,” Jenna says. “Quinn put the mouse in Ida’s macaroni. ”

Quinn’s face sags. “Huh? ” he says. “I did not! ”

Mrs. Kettleson huffs. “We’ll see about that.” She stuffs the mouse into her apron pocket and reaches for Quinn.

Then she hauls both of us to the principal’s office.

I’m sitting on one of the hard metal chairs in the main office. Mrs. Kettleson has already gone into Ms. Stevens’s office to tell her why I’m here. The door is closed tight, but some of Mrs. Kettleson’s words leak out. Words like
shouting
,
trouble
, and
fed up.

My face feels red hot, but my hands are ice cold. It’s hard to swallow because my heart is pounding in my throat. Not that I have any spit to swallow. My mouth is drier than Mrs. Kettleson’s corn bread. What am I going to tell Ms. Stevens?

I watch the clock that hangs above Ms. Rivera’s head. She’s sitting at her secretary’s desk, typing on her computer like this is just another ordinary day. The big hand on the clock moves ahead a notch. It feels like each notch equals one hour instead of one minute. I’m glad about this and not glad at the same time.

“You okay? ” I hear someone say.

I look at Ms. Rivera. She tips her chin and studies me over the top of her blue-rimmed glasses.

I nod. “It’s just that I’ve never been sent to the principal’s office before. Not ever. It’s something I work really hard at not doing even though Ms. Stevens doesn’t seem so bad. Still, if it was up to me, I’d rather do anything else than talk to her right now. Even fractions. Even dodge ball.” I’m babbling like crazy, but I can’t help it.

Ms. Rivera gives me a sympathetic smile. Then she goes back to typing.

I glance at Quinn. He’s sitting next to me on another hard chair, bouncing his feet against the chair legs like tether balls. “Is this your first time too? ” I ask him.

Quinn bumps the back of his head against the wall in time to his swinging feet. “Second,” he says.

“When was the first? ”

Quinn stops swinging and bumping. He glances sideways at me. “Remember last year? When all the kickballs got stuck on the roof? ”

I nod. “The playground monitor made us all stand by the school wall and think about how boring recess is without kickballs. ” I pause. “You kicked them up there? ”

Quinn nods. “Me and Rusty. ”

“Why? ” I ask.

Quinn shrugs. “Why not? ”

The door to Ms. Stevens’s office opens and she steps out. “Ida? ”

She says my name like it’s a question, but I don’t answer. I just slide off my chair. It feels like my heart slides right out of my chest and onto the floor.

Mrs. Kettleson steps out and gives me a smile. It’s not the sympathetic kind. “I’m telling you, Ms. Stevens, ” she says, “it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for. ”

“I’m sure we’ll get things straightened out, won’t we, Ida? ” Ms. Stevens says.

I nod, partly because I really do want everything to be straight again and partly because my neck is the only bone I can move.

Mrs. Kettleson looks at Quinn and frowns. “And that one, ” she says. “He needs watching too. ”

“I didn’t do anything, ” Quinn grumbles.

“We’ll see about that,” Mrs. Kettleson says again, and huffs out the door.

Ms. Stevens motions to me. “You first, Ida,” she says.

I take a step toward Ms. Stevens, but then I stop and glance back at Quinn. “I know you didn’t do it, ” I whisper to him.

Quinn starts swinging his feet again.

I walk inside Ms. Stevens’s office.

“Have a seat, ” she says, closing the door.

I sink into a chair by her desk. It’s a lot softer than the waiting chair. At least my butt feels cozy.

Ms. Stevens sits behind her tidy desk. The only things on it are a couple stacks of paper, a Purdee Panthers mug filled with pens and pencils, a telephone, and a rubber mouse.

Ms. Stevens looks tidy too. Her hair fits her head like a brown knit cap. It angles toward her square chin. She laces her long fingers on top of her desk. Her fingernails aren’t chewed up at all. They’re painted pink.

I pick at the last bit of gold polish on the tips of my stubby fingernails. It’s all that’s left from the last time Stacey spent the night at my house. The night we were both angels in the Purdee Holiday Pageant. We painted our nails gold to match our tinsel halos and wings.

“Why don’t you tell me about what happened in the lunchroom, ” Ms. Stevens says.

I look away and see a picture on her wall of trees and a river and hills. The colors all blend together and I wonder if maybe the artist used oil pastels to draw it. I wonder if it’s a drawing of a real place and if I could fly there right now.

“Ida? ” Ms. Stevens says my name like a question again.

“I guess I yelled, ” I say. “A little. ”

Ms. Stevens leans forward in her chair. The only thing between me and her is the rubber mouse. “What did you yell? ”

I sink deeper in my chair
.
“‘There’s a mouse in my macaroni’? ”

“And
was
there a mouse in your macaroni?” Ms. Stevens asks.

I shake my head. “Not a real one. ”

Ms. Stevens picks up the rubber mouse. It has dried cheese sauce on its tail. “Ida, why would you put a toy mouse in your macaroni? ”

“I didn’t, ” I say.

“Then who did? Quinn? ”

I bite my bottom lip. And shake my head slowly. “Quinn didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “Not since the kickball incident. ”

Ms. Stevens leans back in her chair. “Ida, ” she says. “It’s important that you tell me the whole story so we can set things straight. ” She runs her finger along the edge of her desk, drawing an invisible line from one point to another and back again. Her mouth is a straight line too. It’s not a frown line, but it’s not a smile line either. “Who put the mouse in your macaroni?” she asks again.

I try to think up a story to tell her. One that’s partly true and partly not. Like Stacey sometimes tells. The kind of story that will keep me out of trouble with the other girls.

But I’m not as good at making up stories as Stacey is.

“Ida, ” Ms. Stevens says again. “I’m afraid that if you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll have to call your parents and give you detention. I know Mrs. Kettleson won’t settle for anything less. And, frankly, I won’t either. ”

Ms. Stevens keeps talking, but I’m not really listening. What will my mom say when she gets that phone call from Ms. Stevens? What will she think? And my dad . . . This is just one more example of how not responsible I am.