Oopsy Daisy
Lauren Myracle
ALSO BY LAUREN MYRACLE
Luv Ya Bunches: A Flower Power Book
Violet in Bloom: A Flower Power Book
Shine
Bliss
Rhymes with Witches
ttyl
ttfn
l8r, g8r
bff
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Thirteen Plus One
Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks
Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances
(with John Green and Maureen Johnson)
How to Be Bad
(with E. Lockhart and Sarah Mylnowski)
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 978-1-4197-0019-4
The text in this book is set in 11-point The Serif Light. The display typefaces are Annabelle, Chalet, FMRustlingBranches, RetrofitLight, Shag, and TriplexSans.
Text copyright © 2012 Lauren Myracle
Illustrations copyright © 2009–12 Christine Norrie
Book design by Maria T. Middleton
Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.
www.abramsbooks.com
Violet. Her arms are wrapped around a potted plant, and she waddles down the hall because it’s so big and she’s so small. She’s only small on the outside, though. Well, sometimes she feels small on the inside, but not today. Today, Milla is in a great mood. Today, goodwill radiates out of her and into the world, making her feel as if she and the world are one, and not for the first time she understands why the Bible says it’s better to give than to receive.
It has nothing to do with sacrifice or doing the right thing or any of the reasons people often trot out when they want you to “be a good girl.” In fact, Milla thinks that gift giving, when done right, is totally selfish, but in a good way. Giving is better than receiving because it makes your heart glow—and when that happens, everyone involved is sprinkled with happy dust, the gift-givers and the gift-getters.
She’s eager to put this particular gift down, however. The terra cotta pot is heavy, and the leaves of the plant tickle her face. As she rounds a corner, she runs smack-dab into someone—oomph—and she reels backward.
“Omigosh, I am so sorry,” she says, giggling despite her mortification. She rests the pot on her hip so she can issue a proper, face-to-face apology, but the plant is so lush that it takes Milla a moment to identify the girl she collided with. When she does, her words die in her throat. So do her giggles.
The girl, whose name is Modessa, snorts. She’s beautiful on the outside, with shiny, flip-about hair and piercing blue eyes, but on the inside, she’s as ugly as they come. She’s Milla’s archenemy, and though Milla wishes she wasn’t scared of her, she is.
“You’re right, you are sorry,” Modessa says.
A second girl laughs. “Hunhhh. Good one.”
Milla doesn’t have a clear view of the second girl—too much potted plant, not enough space between its leaves—but she would know that phlegmy voice if she heard it oozing from a sewage pipe. It’s Quin, Modessa’s second-in-command.
“Yes, ha ha, very funny,” Milla says, feeling her enthusiasm slip away like beads sliding from a broken necklace. She knows Modessa will do her best to humiliate Milla. She knows this because in a different lifetime—or what seems like a different lifetime—Milla and Modessa were friends. Quin, too.
Not all that long ago, they were a threesome: Modessa, Milla, and Quin. Only it wasn’t a threesome like the Three Musketeers—all for one and one for all. It was all for Modessa, with Quin and Milla doing everything to please her, because if you didn’t please Modessa, she made you pay. Just like she was going to make Milla pay now.
“So, Camilla,” Modessa says, stretching Milla’s full name out. Milla hates the way she does that. The way she savors it, as if it’s hers to do with as she pleases. “I only ask because I’m curious”—loaded pause, enhanced by a snicker from Quin—“but … did you just ram me with a potted plant?”
“I said I’m sorry,” Milla says. “Can you let me pass? Please?”
“Hmm,” Modessa muses. “What do you think, girls? Should we?”
Girls, plural? How many girls? Milla twists awkwardly and glimpses a snatch of a pink plaid shirt through the leaves of the plant. There’s a third girl there, all right, but Milla can’t make out who it is.
Her muscles slump. She’s surrounded, and other than their small group, there’s no one else in the hallway.
“Not unless she passes a test,” Quin says. “We should only let her by if she answers, like, a question, and it has to be a hard question.”
Modessa makes a noncommittal sound, then addresses the third girl. The mystery girl. “What do you think? Should Milla have to pass a test?”
There’s a tense sort of silence, followed by a thud. It could be flesh against flesh … or shoe against shin?
“Ow!” cries the mystery girl. “Yes. Yes, she should have to pass a test.” The mystery girl swallows loudly. “Um, sorry, Milla.”
Who is this girl who seems to be Modessa’s new toy? Milla shuffle-steps in a circle, trying to get a better look at her. Pink plaid blouse: check. White jeans: check. On the girl’s feet, pink cowboy boots—or cowgirl boots, Milla supposes. It’s a surprising touch, those pink boots. The sight of them makes Milla’s brain go ping! ping! But she’s unable to translate the pings into an actual recollection.
“You have no reason to say sorry,” Modessa informs the mystery girl in pink boots. “Camilla rammed me. Remember? Camilla should say sorry.”
And I did, Milla thinks, not that what’s true and what’s not has ever mattered to Modessa.
“I didn’t see you,” Milla says, keeping her voice as level as possible.
Modessa laughs. “You’re so clumsy, Camilla. You always have been. Remember last summer, when we were at the pool? And you tripped on, like, a Skittle, and went flying into the lifeguard stand?”
Quin snickers. “And your top fell off, and the lifeguard was like, ‘Why is this girl taking her bikini off in front of me?’ Omigod. Hilarious.”
It wasn’t hilarious, and it wasn’t a Skittle she tripped on. It was Quin’s foot, which appeared out of nowhere at just the right time. No, at just the wrong time. And her bikini top did not fall off. It did need readjusting, however.
The memory of her humiliation hits her like a wave, causing her cells to tighten and draw in until she feels as if she’s half her former size. Her body knows the sensation all too well, and not just from that day at the pool, but from a multitude of “good” times with Modessa.
Like in third grade, when Modessa told the whole class that Milla had diarrhea. Or in fourth grade, when Modessa wrote a mean poem about a teacher Milla liked, signed Milla’s name to it, and left it on the teacher’s desk, knowing Milla wouldn’t have the guts to correct the misunderstanding.
Milla does have a problem with that. With self-esteem. She had hoped she was doing better, but apparently not if Modessa can still turn her into the amazing shrinking girl with one rude comment.
Standing in the hall, her biceps straining at the weight of the plant and her cheeks so hot that it feels as if her blood is trying to push its way out of her, Milla travels back in time.
Yesterday during Sunday School, the teacher passed out paper and crayons and told everyone to draw a picture of God’s love. She said they could draw whatever they wanted, so Milla drew a picture of Katie-Rose, Yasaman, Violet, and herself—the flower friends—because if friendship wasn’t love, she didn’t know what was.
“Right on,” the teacher said, kneeling by Milla. She pointed to the yellow-haired girl in the foursome. “Is this you?”
“Um, yeah?” Milla said.
The teacher laughed, and Milla didn’t know why until her teacher said, “Oh, you sweet thing. Let me guess: You’re the shortest girl in your class?”
“No,” Milla said.
“I was, too, when I was your age,” her teacher went on obliviously. “Kids would call me ‘shrimp,’ which I hated. My mother suggested I respond with, ‘Yes, whale?’ but I was like, ‘Uh, no thanks, Mom. Great idea, but no.’”
Milla frowned, trying to figure out what she’d missed. She wasn’t the shortest girl in her fifth-grade class. She wasn’t the shortest of her flower friends, either. In terms of tallness, first came Violet, then Milla, then Yasaman, and, last of all, Katie-Rose. Katie-Rose was so short and teensy that people sometimes mistook her for a third grader, which drove Katie-Rose crazy.
Her Sunday School teacher moved on to admire someone else’s work, and Milla studied her drawing. She’d drawn four girls jumbled up in a hug. So far, so good. But, wait. The blond girl in the picture—the one meant to be her—was shorter than the others. A full head shorter, and what was up with that?
Chills had tickled the back of her neck. It was true that she wasn’t the greatest artist, but she’d done the best she could. The Milla she sketched was wearing the same cute sweater dress as the real Milla, the same silver flats, and the same sparkly green scarf, which Mom Joyce had given her at the beginning of the school year and which Milla adored.
She got all of those details right, so why did she make herself so short? Shorter than Katie-Rose, even???
“Hey,” Modessa says, snapping her fingers in the direction of Milla’s face. “You could at least answer my question.”
Question? Milla thinks. With an effort, she pulls herself back to the present. Does this have to do with the “test” they talked about giving her?
“Wh-what?” she says.
“Not answering someone’s question is just rude. Right, Elena?”
Elena? The mystery girl is Elena?! Milla goes on a rapid-fire roller coaster ride, all inside her own head.
The pink cowboy boots. Duh. Elena lives on a farm. Milla has seen Elena wearing those boots before. She just didn’t put the pieces together.
Why?
Because Elena is nice. The kind of girl who hand-makes cards for everyone on Valentine’s Day. What in the world is she doing with Modessa and Quin?
Milla’s emotions flip-flop. She hates that she still lets Modessa make her feel small, but now she’s equally concerned—maybe more concerned—about Elena. What are Modessa and Quin up to? Why is Elena with them, going along with their mean Modessa-and-Quin games? What have the three of them been saying while she’s been lost in her daze?
“Ask her again,” Modessa says wearily. “Just ask the question again, and Camilla, just answer. God. Is it really so complicated?”
“Modessa wants to know if that plant thing is for your boyfriend,” Quin says. “So is it?”
Milla tiny-steps farther around, and finally she can see all three girls clearly. They’re stretched across the hall. “No, it’s not for my boyfriend, and would you move, please?”
“Is it for Mr. Emerson?” Quin says. She makes kissy sounds. “Are you his wittle-bitty teacher’s pet?”
Milla looks at Elena, whose pretty eyes are wider than Milla has ever seen them. What’s going on? she asks Elena telepathically. Are you trapped? Do you need help?
Elena blinks several times.
Seeing Elena’s fear calms Milla. She straightens her spine. “It’s none of your business who it’s for,” she says. “But I’m about to drop it. Elena, want to help me carry it to my homeroom?”
Elena opens her mouth. “Uh … uh …” Her gaze goes to Modessa, then to Quin. She is a bobblehead doll whose head moves side-to-side instead of up and down.
Modessa pretends to hold back a laugh. She links her arm through Elena’s and adopts a sickly-sweet tone. “Oh, sweetie, I don’t think so,” she says to Milla. “Favors are for friends, and no offense, but we don’t really fall into that category, do we?”
“I’m not asking you. I’m asking Elena.”
“Give it up, Milla,” Modessa says, and her use of Milla’s nickname, after making such a point to call her by her full name, is not a sign of goodwill. It’s like Modessa is reminding her of what once was, when Milla was the girl Modessa linked arms with.
Modessa brushes past Milla, dragging Elena and Quin behind her. Milla is still worried about Elena, but stronger than her worry is her relief.
They’re gone.
They’re gone, and she isn’t one of Modessa’s friends/slaves/wannabes.
With a shudder, she pushes aside the whole yucky encounter, and now it’s gone, too.
She tells herself it’s gone, anyway. She tries to make it be gone.
When she reaches her classroom, she thunks the pot on her desk. Phew, her arms feel better. They’re shaky, and she tells herself it’s because of the weight of the pot. She rotates her wrists, lets out a big breath, and sits down. No one else has arrived yet, including Violet. But that’s okay. She needs a few moments to process what she just went through.
She and Violet are both in Mr. Emerson’s class, while Yasaman and Katie-Rose are in Rivendell’s other fifth-grade class, with Ms. Perez. Ms. Perez is also Modessa and Quin’s teacher. Ms. Perez is also Elena’s teacher.
So that’s how they got to her, Milla thinks, the “they” being Modessa and Quin, and the “her” being Elena. She imagines Modessa wooing Elena with compliments paired with insults, as that’s Modessa’s style. As in, “I love your boots. Most girls would look so babyish in pink cowboy boots”—tinkly laugh—“but somehow you pull it off. I swear I’m not just saying that, either.”
Stop. No. Modessa lived inside Milla’s brain for long enough. She no longer gets to, and anyway, Milla would far rather think about her real friends.
It would have rocked if Milla, Yaz, Katie-Rose, and Violet were in the same class, but since they’re not, Milla is glad that each girl has at least one bestie to be with. If Milla was in one class and Yaz, Katie-Rose, and Violet were all in the other, Milla doubts she’d survive. She’d wilt, because that’s what flowers do when they’re sad, and she, Katie-Rose, Violet, and Yasaman are flower friends, after all.
Katie-Rose is a flower because of the “rose” part of her name. Violet, obviously, is a violet, and Yasaman means “jasmine” in Turkish. As for herself, a camilla is a small pink flower that grows along the bank of a stream. Gather the four of them in a bouquet, and what do you get? Flower friends forever! FFFs instead of BFFs, Katie-Rose says.
Milla feels better now. She really does, despite the sad truth that Violet has not yet arrived. No one else in Mr. Emerson’s class has gotten here yet, not even Mr. Emerson, who almost always arrives early because he has no life.
That’s how he puts it, by the way. Not Milla, who adores her goofy teacher and wishes he wouldn’t say things like that. But he does, usually following up with a pretend-p
itiful monologue about the woes of being a bachelor, with no one to go home to except a dust bunny named Maude. He claims that Maude eats dinner in front of the TV with him (he prefers the History Channel; Maude, supposedly, only likes Nick at Nite), but Milla knows he’s being silly.
“Dust bunnies don’t eat dinner,” someone will invariably point out. Sometimes it’s Cole, sometimes it’s Thomas. “Dust bunnies don’t eat, period.”
“Tell that to Maude,” Mr. Emerson will respond, shaking his head. “Half my paycheck goes to keeping my pantry stocked with Double Stuf Oreos.”
“Which you eat,” Cole will say. “Admit it, Mr. E. And aren’t grown-ups too old to have imaginary friends?”
“Anyway, you have us,” one of the girls might say. “Don’t we count?”
“Yeah,” someone else will toss out. “How can you say you have no life when you have us? That’s just heartless.”
“Whoa, hold on now,” Mr. Emerson will say, holding up his right hand. It’s always his right hand that he holds up, because he lost his left hand in a car accident years ago. He lost his entire left arm, all the way up to his shoulder, which is awful. But Milla has never known him any other way.
“I have no life apart from being a teacher,” he’ll clarify. “I get great satisfaction out of being a teacher, and of course you count. Listen, I love you guys almost as much as if you were my own students.”
“We are your students,” everybody will chorus, giggling.
“Perhaps,” he’ll say. “But you aren’t waiting for me when I go home, now, are you?”
“Do you want us to go to your house?” someone will invariably say.
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Emerson will say, wrapping things up. “Which brings us full circle. You kids, as adorable and smelly as you are, can’t possibly understand my troubles. Baked goods do occasionally bring me solace, however.”
Baked goods, ha. It’s such a formal and funny way of putting it.
“Homemade, please, and no craisins,” he’ll finish. “And absolutely no coconut. It’s the texture that gets me, not the flavor. Know what I mean?”
Milla tidies her desk as other students trickle in. She keeps an eye out for Violet, but there’s someone else she’s also antsy to see. A boy someone who happens to be adorable and dorky, and whose name is Max, and who wears T-shirts that say things like OBEY GRAVITY! IT’S THE LAW! or 2 + 2 = 5 (FOR EXTREMELY LARGE VALUES OF 2).
