When we’re finally done, I try to break away and talk to Abby again, but she’s walking with Rinah and a couple other girls. I call her name, but she doesn’t hear me.
Roy walks up, bringing the strong smell of his cologne with him. “You sweet on her?” he asks in a thick southern accent.
“What?” I say, louder than I should.
He chuckles and smacks me on the back. “Well, that answers my question. Definitely sweet on the girl.”
“No I’m not,” I say, glancing around to make sure no one is listening.
He just laughs even harder. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”
Eleven
ABBY
This competition has me paranoid. Ever since it started, the school has become this different type of ecosystem. Sure, some people don’t care about winning a car or they don’t want to put in the effort to win. Others even thought it would be fun to try to have the lowest score possible. Some students have even been so apathetic about the whole thing that they just go on with life as usual, not caring one bit about the app. But the people who do care have made everything so stressful.
Every morning I wake up and wonder if I still want to do this. I haven’t had five minutes of peace and quiet since this month started. At school, I have to be “on” all the time—giving so much of myself to make everyone reward me with kudos. After school, I’m volunteering, taking my sisters to all their activities, and dealing with their back-talking and general little sister annoying traits. An hour or two (or three) before bed, I’m on social media leaving comments and interacting so everyone remembers to keep giving me kudos.
And the worst part of all? No matter how many kudos I get, Annabel Johnson has about five thousand more. If her score was exactly five thousand more than mine, I’d feel more confident that she was cheating. But it’s not. Every day, it’s some random number more that averages to about five thousand more than mine. Sometimes 4952 more, sometimes 5013 more. But never 5000 exactly. That’s why I can’t risk tattle-telling on her when it might get me in trouble, despite the fact that Janelle’s tip has caused me so much stress I am now walking around feeling like there’s a massive ball of stress in my chest.
It’s Sunday today and I haven’t thought of any volunteer work to do. The animal shelter is closed to volunteers today, I’m all out of lashes and makeup to do free makeovers, and I have no money to buy more, and I’ve fulfilled every homework assignment I agreed to “help” people with. So today is going to be my day to relax. After all, tomorrow starts the final week to win that car, and I’ll be busier than ever.
If I don’t give up first. I’ll just have to visualize that gorgeous red Jeep at the dealership. Earlier this month, the idea of winning a car was exciting enough. I hadn’t even thought of what kind of car I wanted. I thought just any car would be perfect. But then I saw the Jeep. It’s beautiful and sporty and has all these new high-tech features that I didn’t even know cars had. I love it. I want is so bad. That’s why I haven’t given up yet.
Since it’s my day “off,” I stay in bed until lunchtime. I don’t get to sleep very late because my little sisters are extremely loud in everything they do, but as long as I don’t leave my room, they can’t annoy me too much. Once I venture out into the living room, I find Abuela working on a crochet blanket on the couch. Maria is playing on her phone next to Abuela, and Andrea and Pippa are screaming at each other in the kitchen.
“What’s going on with them?” I ask.
Abuela shrugs, her attention on her yarn work. “They’ve been at it all day.”
I don’t bother asking Maria, because at thirteen years old, she only cares about herself. I head to the kitchen and find my two youngest sisters in an all out war.
“You eat it!” Pippa says.
“I’m older, I don’t have to,” Andrea says.
“That’s not fair!”
“What are you arguing about?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard over their nonsense.
“I want the last pizza pocket!” Pippa squeals as if this is some life-altering decision. “I got it first, I want it!”
“I said she can have a PBJ sandwich instead,” Andrea says, lifting her chin as if to make herself seem taller. “She ate a pizza pocket last night and I didn’t, so I deserve it.”
I roll my eyes. “Both of you eat a PBJ and save the pizza pocket for later.”
“NO!” they both yell at once.
“Will you go buy more?” Andrea asks. “I’ll ride with you to the store.”
I sigh and glance at the fridge, where we have a dry-erase board that shows how much money we have left. “Thanks to your sister Maria, who spent all the money this month, we can’t go get anything else until Mom and Dad send us more money.”
If I had better luck, my sisters would listen to my explanation, understand, and quietly figure out who eats what. But no, my luck is awful. All they do is start yelling even more. As much as I feel obligated to stay here and fix their problem, I decide I’m not going to. Abuela can handle it.
I turn right around
