Standing over the kitchen sink, I gobble up five cookies, and when I look out the window, I see Odelia. Odelia, who insists on being my friend. She’s twirling around, whistling a tune I don’t recognize. The sparrow flits above her as she scribbles in a hot-pink notebook. I blink to make sure I’m not watching a scene from a movie.
My cell vibrates. It’s Roxanne, but I don’t answer because I’m not in a great mood, and I don’t want to hear about her latest fight with her mom. Plus, I’m feeling slightly guilty about how I treated Odelia today. I got mad at her, but I was really only mad at my own awkward self. Since it’s tough to ignore a princess bouncing around your yard, I push open the screen door and go outside.
“I’m writing down helpful hints,” Odelia says.
“Hints?” I ask, peeking at the gold lettering on Odelia’s spiral notebook:
ODELIA’S GUIDE TO THE SOCIAL GRACES
And when she turns a page, I look a little harder at what she’s written inside:
LESSON 1: SQUEAKY CLEAN
OBJECTIVE: Bernice will learn the importance of hygiene. (Note to self: Bernice’s current hygiene equals that of Penelope Pig, a runt I owned who had a fondness for malodorous bonnets and manure baths.)
I’m not sure what malodorous means, but it has the word odor in it, so it can’t be good. It’s the manure part that worries me most.
Odelia takes both my hands, squeezes them, and says, “Let’s get started!”
“Started on what? Look, Odelia, these hints, or lessons, or whatever you’re calling them—well, I don’t care about them. Even if you think it’s your royal responsibility to be my friend, it’s not your job to clean me up.”
Odelia picks at the edge of her notebook. “I . . . I want to help,” she stammers. “If you let me, you’ll soon be able to woo Wyatt.”
“English, please,” I demand. “What’s woo?”
“You’ll be able to talk to that boy at the park. You may even be able to impress him.”
I let down my guard a little. “How would I go about that exactly?”
“By smoothing your rough edges and becoming more confident,” Odelia answers smugly. “I’ve had oodles of practice with this since becoming a prin—” Odelia stops. “Since I am such a polished princess. Maybe with my help, you’ll get what you want.”
“I want Wyatt to think of me as more than just another skater, and definitely more than a dude.” There, I said it out loud.
“If you work on your social graces, that might happen,” Odelia promises.
“But I like skating and hanging around boys. Boys never worry about fashion, make-up, combed hair, or malodorous whatever. They only worry about mastering the next trick. Wyatt is one of those boys. He doesn’t care how I look. He doesn’t care how I smell. Does he?”
“He cares,” Odelia answers, blowing out a huge sigh.
I plop on my swing. “When he ran over to check on me, it was like he expected me to say more; be more. Be more what?”
Odelia grins. “Be nicer, maybe?”
I twist the swing around, then lift my feet off the ground and let it spin me. If Wyatt sees me as a cool girl, maybe I’ll fit in at Porchtown Middle come fall. Maybe I’ll have a shot at being popular. “Wait. A. Minute,” I tell Odelia. “You are not turning me into you, are you?”
“Of course not,” she says.
“I will not give up skating.”
Odelia sighs. “I understand.”
I unravel myself from the swing. The next word that comes out of my mouth is a surprise, even to me. “Deal.”
“Hooray!” Odelia shouts. “Serena will be so pleased. She thinks I’ve led a reclusive life. I haven’t had many friends. We’re officially friends now, right, Bernice?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say.
Odelia ignores me. In a forceful voice, she reads what she’s written in that pinker than pink notebook:
“ODELIA’S GUIDE TO THE SOCIAL GRACES
LESSON 1: SQUEAKY CLEAN
OBJECTIVE: Bernice will learn the importance of hygiene. (Note to self: Bernice’s current hygiene equals that of Penelope Pig, a runt I owned who had a fondness for malodorous bonnets and manure baths.)”
Odelia scribbles something else in the notebook. Then she says, “And chocolate.”
“Your pig didn’t eat chocolate. You made that up.”
Odelia doesn’t own up to the truth but instead points to my mouth. I run my tongue over my teeth and taste the gooey chocolate mush that’s stuck between each tooth. “I don’t have pig teeth. And I don’t smell as bad as manure.” I lift up my arm and smell my pits. I could be wrong. It’s pretty gross under there. “And what about the bonnet thing? I don’t wear a smelly hat.”
Odelia makes a sneak attack on my beanie. “Now, you don’t,” she says.
“Hey!” I squeal. “That beanie is my signature!”
Odelia throws the beanie on the ground. “From the tip of your nose to the soles of your feet, you should smell as fresh as a field of flowers.”
“I am not wearing perfume.”
“A light, flowery or fruity scent might do wonders.”
“That’s crap. I smell fine.”
Odelia shoots that left eyebrow up and scribbles furiously. “What’s that word, crap?” she asks. “It sounds awful.”
Now I know for sure that Odelia has been living under a rock. “Crap is what you say when you’re mad. It’s sort of like a swear word, but not a bad one.” When I listen to myself say this, I hear Mom and Dad in my head, scolding me for swearing. And crap is a word I’m never supposed to use.
“What does it mean?” Odelia asks.
“Well . . . it actually means poop.”
Odelia’s mouth drops open. She has the same horrified expression as Roxanne had when we saw parts of that old movie The Exorcist.
I try to explain. “All the kids say it.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Odelia shouts, loud enough to send her sparrow away
