Mom hummed her “friends in low places” song, when I saw a flash of red hair in the mirror—a woman driving a minivan. That had to be her mom. I slapped the seat.
“It’s go time.” Mom sounded like a cop on one of those police shows.
She zoomed into the street and pulled alongside the minivan at the stoplight before the school. She honked lightly a couple of times before a woman with wild red hair rolled down her window. Through the woman’s annoyed expression, I noted her nose dotted with freckles, same as Isabella’s.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Wood. My daughter Charity used to be in class with your daughter.”
Isabella’s mom shook her head as if she had no idea what was going on. I pounded my window to get Isabella’s attention in the back seat. Could she see me through the tinted windows? Probability: low.
When the light turned green, the minivan drove forward and entered the drop-off line.
Miss Marcia started shuffling over. The sight of her made me want to barf.
Mom pulled alongside Isabella’s car again. “Please, please, my daughter wants to talk with you and Isabella. Here is our number. Please call us.” Mom crumpled up the paper with our phone number and threw it through the open window of Isabella’s car. The redheaded woman shrieked as if Mom had just tossed a dead rat.
This is not going well.
Miss Marcia pointed at us and started dialing a number on her cellphone. But Mom sped away with a tire screech and a wave.
The Welcome Table
Pepperoni, not soggy cheese.
Tuesday was pizza day in the cafeteria, and now I could ask for my favorite kind.
Julian joined our little lunch group, bringing his iPad to add his voice to the conversation. He typed, gazing intently at the screen through thick glasses. His electronic voice spoke with an Australian accent today. “I’m gonna sit at the welcome table.”
“Hey—that’s the name of a song, isn’t it?” asked Jaz.
Julian typed:
“Yes, a great old spiritual.”
“I remember learning about this in English class,” Jaz said. “People sang it during the civil rights movement when African Americans fought for equal rights.”
I typed with Ana steadying my arm:
Works for our cafeteria too.
“Yeah,” Jazmine’s face lit up, and she sang with Skyler clapping along.
I’m gonna sit at the cool kids’ table,
I’m gonna sit at the cool kids’ table one of these days,
Hallelujah!
Jaz scooped a spoonful of peach yogurt and spilled a drop on her shirt. “Geez, by the end of the day my shirt looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.”
Peter muttered with a full mouth, “What the heck does that mean?”
“He’s the artist who dribbled and dripped paint on the canvas.” Jaz shook her head. “And today those paintings are worth millions.”
Skyler perked up. “I will paint one for you and you will be rich.” She meant it.
Julian typed:
“You can buy a turbo-charged, windblown-hair wheelchair.”
Jaz laughed. I giggled inside too—the electronic voice did not ruin the joke.
“Room for one more?”
All eyes stared at the guy standing over us with three pieces of pizza piled on his plate. He flipped his surfer bangs out of his face and squeezed between me and Skyler.
Hypothesis: Aunt Kiki was forcing him to sit with me again.
“I’m Charity’s cousin, Mason.”
Wow. Cover blown.
His cool-kid status was dropping every second he sat here with us EPIC kids.
“I get it,” Jaz said. “You’re the guy who led the lost sheep back to her flock during that disastrous fire drill. I suspect some dumb girls pulled the alarm on purpose to freak us out.”
“Dumb girls? Usually it’s dumb guys who do stuff like that.” Mason smiled, a slice of pepperoni hanging out of his mouth.
Jaz eyed the cool kids’ table, Lilly and Darcy the loudest of the bunch. “It’s a feeling I have.” She scrunched her eyebrows and peered at Mason. “How do we know you’re not a spy? You could be here to gather dirt on us for future torture.”
Julian pounded his fist on the table and typed:
“This is the welcome table!”
He pointed to the screen and Jaz nodded.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mason said. “My days hanging with the jocks and cheerleaders are over. Being the new kid, I thought I could remake my image. But you can’t change who you are. From now on, I’m going back to my usual strategy for fitting in: Keep your head low.”
Jaz laughed. “And we’re about as low as you can get at this school.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, I just try not to stand out.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong table,” she said. “We stick out wherever we go. You can tell that by the people staring and gawking.” Jaz slurped her chocolate milk then pointed at Mason with a dramatic gotcha stare. “Tell us what really happened. Did they kick you out of the cool kids’ club?”
“I think they finally realized I’m a geek at heart. Charity knows I spent the last eight years living in Milwaukee.” He grabbed his surfer T-shirt and pointed at the logo. “I’ve never even been on a surfboard. And I’d rather spend a day playing video games than hanging at the beach.”
“Minecraft or Warcraft?” Julian typed.
“Warcraft, definitely, bro.” Mason and Julian bumped fists.
“No way,” Peter said. “You guys are crazy!”
While Jaz refereed the debate between Julian and Peter, Mason scooted closer. I noted the painful expression on his face, like he was about to have teeth pulled.
“I, uh, actually wanna give you a heads-up, Charity.”
Uh-oh.
Fact: No one ever gives a heads-up for good news.
“The main reason I’m done with those jerks is . . . well . . . there’s this app they have on their phones. It posts anonymous comments from people at our school.”
He spoke softly, taking bites of pizza as he went.
“A kind of chatroom for all that he-said-she-said junior high bull.”
Mason scanned the cafeteria to see if anyone was watching.
“Anyhow, there’s a comment that appeared there today from someone called Sassygirl72. It’s
