Talia Talk Read online

  But some people had definitely changed. Meredith and Brynne looked even more high-maintenance than they had at camp. Blue eye shadow was only one of the new colors on Mer’s face. Pink circles glowed on her cheeks. Her lips were gooey with the same cotton-candy shade. Her wavy hair was suddenly sleek and straight. She looked annoyed when she caught my eye and quickly looked away.

  Meredith whispered something to Brynne, who glanced at me and looked annoyed, too. Brynne’s shirt was snug and her earrings dangly. Her hair looked like it smelled good. And the way she tossed it off her shoulder—did she practice that sort of thing in front of the mirror?

  “Those two look like they wiped their hands on their faces after finger painting,” Bridget said. Meredith and Brynne exchanged whispers with cupped hands, then shot us icy glares. Bridget gave them a fake smile and waved heartily, adding the “call me” gesture as a finishing touch.

  “Bridget!” I scolded, sinking lower into my seat.

  Ms. Perkins stood up from her desk at the front of the classroom. “Okay, class, time to settle down,” she said. “I’ll call the roll in a minute, but first, I want to go over a few things and I need your full attention, so let’s get serious.”

  Bridget made her goofy cheeks-sucked-in-like-a-piranha expression and we dissolved into laughter.

  “Girls!”

  We bit our lips in response to Ms. Perkins’s booming voice.

  “Very mature,” Meredith said with a sneer.

  “Actually, maturity is one of the very subjects I was just about to discuss,” Ms. Perkins said, which would have been the perfect time for Bridget and me to share another goofy look—maybe our concerned-index-finger-on-the-chin expression—but we both thought better of it. “You’re in middle school now, meaning it’s time to start acting like young adults. Up until this year, you’ve been taking baby steps. First grade to second grade? Baby step. Second grade to third grade? Baby step. Third grade to fourth grade? Baby step. Fourth grade to fifth grade?”

  “Step on it, will ya, Ms. Perkins?” Bridget whispered behind me.

  “Baby step,” Ms. Perkins continued. “Fifth grade to sixth grade?” She paused for effect, then raised a single eyebrow. “Giant step.”

  “I guess that explains Trey Ackerman’s size-twelve sneakers,” Bridget whispered.

  “You’re not boys and girls anymore,” Ms. Perkins said solemnly, walking back and forth with her hands folded in front of her. “You’re young ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to ‘step up’ the maturity, if you will.”

  I could practically feel Bridget about to jump out of her skin from the effort of holding in her snappy response.

  “Can anyone tell me what might differentiate a mature middle school student from an immature elementary school student?” Ms. Perkins asked.

  Brynne raised her hand primly.

  “Yes?” Ms. Perkins asked.

  “A mature student doesn’t make silly faces,” Brynne replied, casting a disapproving glance at Bridget.

  Bridget crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth for a split second, but rebounded to a sweet smile by the time Ms. Perkins’s eyes settled on her.

  “Okay,” Ms. Perkins said slowly. “Anyone else? Another example of what differentiates a mature student from an immature student?”

  Meredith raised her hand, then cleared her throat when Ms. Perkins called on her. “A mature student knows that acting like a baby will get you nowhere in life.”

  Bridget’s eyebrows shot up in mock horror as Meredith cast her eyes pointedly in her direction. “Me?” Bridget mouthed, pointing at her chest.

  “Yes, you,” Meredith mouthed back.

  Now it was Bridget’s turn to raise her hand, and she didn’t bother waiting to be called on. “Ms. Perkins, I think a sign of maturity is the ability to listen to constructive criticism without pointing out that the constructive criticizers’ blush isn’t blended very well into their cheeks. Is that a word? Criticizers?”

  Meredith and Brynne dropped their jaws. Ms. Perkins put her hands on her hips and stomped one foot as the class twittered.

  I sighed and glanced at my watch. It had taken Bridget a grand total of five minutes to start us on the road to middle school dweebdom.

  I made a beeline for Bridget as soon as I saw her in the cafeteria. We’d had separate classes and hadn’t seen each other since homeroom, so lunchtime was our first chance to hang out.

  I got right to the point. “Are you insane?”

  Bridget crinkled her nose. “Chicken strips or salad bar? I can’t decide.”

  “Bridget! Focus! Making fun of Meredith and Brynne on the first day of school? That’s crazy even for you!”

  Bridget headed toward the salad bar. I grabbed my cafeteria tray and followed.

  “It feels like such a giant step, having to choose what to eat for lunch rather than having a hairnet lady plop something on my plate,” Bridget said. “Am I really mature enough to make my own lunch choice?” She clutched her heart for full dramatic effect. “Am I ready for…the salad bar?”

  She grabbed some tongs and dropped lettuce onto her plate.

  “Bridget!” I said. “I know they were acting snotty, but we are all friends, you know—or we were, anyway—and it’s not like we have popularity to spare as it is, and did you notice the look you got from Ms. Perkins? You were like one baby step away from detention. How would you explain detention on the first day of school? Your mother would kill you.”

  She picked through the cherry tomatoes, putting the mushy pale ones back and placing the firm red ones on her plate. “Talia, murder would definitely be an overreaction to detention. I’m thinking anger-management classes would be in order.”

  I groaned. “You cannot go through middle school this way,” I said through gritted teeth. “You’re my BFF, and I have a reputation to consider.”

  She stopped poking through the tomatoes long enough to look me squarely in the eye. “Talia, your reputation is for stuffing crayons up your nose.”

  “And that being the case, it helps me that you tick off Meredith and Brynne on the first day of school?”

  Bridget sprinkled grated cheese on her salad. “Since when do you care what Meredith and Brynne think?”

  “Since I would prefer not to be labeled Dweeb of the Universe on the first day of school!”

  I huffed in exasperation. The most lovable things about Bridget were also the most infuriating. Yes, it was fun to have a total goofball for a best friend…sometimes. Yes, I loved clutching my sides with laughter…on occasion. Yes, off-the-charts zaniness was refreshing…in small doses.

  “Somebody needs a chill pill,” Bridget said in a singsong voice. Then her eyes locked on someone across the room. “Talia, that’s Ms. Stephens,” she said.

  “Our language arts teacher?”

  “Yeah. I recognize her from the yearbook.”

  “So what?”

  “She’s the Oddcast advisor, remember?”

  “Oh…”

  Bridget walked to a table with her salad, put it down and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ms. Stephens!” she called. “Yo, Ms. Stephens!”

  “Bridget!” I moaned, putting my empty tray beside her salad and burying my face in my hands.

  “What? I thought you wanted to audition.”

  “I do, but…” I turned with a jerk as I realized Ms. Stephens had walked up to our table. She had strawberry-blond hair and pretty blue eyes.

  “No shouting across the cafeteria, please,” she told us, but her tone was friendly.

  “Sorry,” Bridget said. “But here’s the thing: we want to audition for the Oddcast.” She pointed from me back to herself. “She’s Talia Farrow. I’m Bridget Scott. We’re in your language arts class. Talia’s mom has her own show, so Talia kinda has TV stardom in her genes. You’re still the advisor, right?”

  Ms. Stephens nodded. “Who’s your mom?” she asked me.

  I blushed. “Chelsea Farrow.”

  H
er face brightened. “Up and At ’Em! I love that show. I always watch it when I’m not at work. Your mom does a great job.”

  “Which is why we would be such a good addition to the Oddcast staff,” Bridget said. “Her mom could teach us everything she knows. I’m thinking I could be the director. And as the director—assuming you made me the director, of course—I’d like to make a few changes to the Oddcast, kinda spice it up.”

  Ms. Stephens sucked in her cheeks. “Is that right?”

  “Oh, I have a ton of ideas,” Bridget said, warming to the subject. “My brother was on the eighth-grade Oddcast staff last year—Brad Scott?—and according to him, the Oddcast is so dull, it doubles as a snooze alarm: Oddcast’s on, time to catch a few z’s. Oddcast’s over—time to wake up and start first period. Ya know?”

  Ms. Stephens’s eyes narrowed.

  “No offense,” Bridget assured her. “You work with what you’ve got, right? You get a bunch of boring kids with monotone voices and the creative instincts of a gnat, and, well, you do the best you can with what you have to work with. But I think this is the year we could make the Oddcast the best it’s ever been.”

  Ms. Stephens’s expression softened a bit as Bridget came up for air. “You’re certainly enthusiastic,” she said evenly.

  “Oh, we really are,” Bridget gushed as I stared at my shoes. “And we’re hard workers, too. We’d do a great job for you, Ms. Stephens, really we would, and I was thinking Talia could—”

  “Does Talia speak? That’s kind of a prerequisite for an Oddcaster,” Ms. Stephens said.

  My cheeks got hot.

  “Oh, she talks,” Bridget said. “And she’s funny, like her mom. That’s why I was thinking we’d give her a chatty spot on the Oddcast. We could call it ‘Talia Talk.’”

  Ms. Stephens tapped her fingers together. “You’ve thought this through,” she told Bridget.

  “Oh, definitely. A director always has to be one step ahead, you know.”

  Ms. Stephens’s eyes locked with mine. “A commentary’s not a bad idea. But commentaries have to be written. Do you like to write?”

  “Loves to,” Bridget answered. I dug my fingernails into my palms.

  “Why don’t you show me a sample of your writing before the Oddcast auditions next week?” Ms. Stephens said.

  “Unnecessary,” Bridget responded. “Her writing is brilliant. Trust me.”

  I shot daggers at Bridget through narrowed eyes, but she didn’t notice. Ms. Stephens looked at her in that amusement-turning-into-irritation expression that Bridget had a knack for bringing out in people.

  “Yes, I can bring you a sample of my writing,” I told Ms. Stephens, nervously smoothing my green T-shirt.

  Ms. Stephens put her hands in her slacks pockets. “What kinds of things would you write about?” she asked me.

  My stomach lurched to my throat. Bridget might have thought this through, but I hadn’t. Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but Ms. Stephens, still looking straight at me, held up her hand to stop her.

  I cleared my throat. “Just whatever’s going on in my life, I guess,” I said. “How to get through PE class when you’re really awful at sports, or how to pull something from the bottom of your locker without all your books crashing down on your head—stuff like that.”

  Ms. Stephens winked at me. “Suppose you have your writing sample to me by next Monday,” she said.

  “Oh, she’ll have it for you tomorrow,” Bridget volunteered.

  Ms. Stephens nodded sharply. “Tomorrow it is. But no guarantees.” Her eyes darted to Bridget. “That goes for you, too.”

  Bridget saluted her. Ms. Stephens smiled. “See you girls next period.”

  She walked back to her table as I stared down at my empty tray. “Bridget!” I moaned. “Here’s the deal with having you for a friend: suddenly I have extra homework, and I have no lunch.”

  “You can thank me for the homework, but you’ll have to fix your own lunch tray.”

  I stomped my foot, just missing her toe.

  She grinned, stepping back. “You expect me to do everything for you?”

  7

  I kissed Grandma on the cheek when I got home from school, wolfed down a snack in the kitchen, then headed to my bedroom to do my homework. (Yes! Homework on the first day!) I breezed through math and English, struggled through science, read my social studies chapter, then moved on to the fun part. I walked from my desk to my bed, fluffed the pillows, snuggled against them and started typing on my laptop:

  SAMPLE COMMENTARY FOR THE CROSSROADS ODDCAST

  Talia Talk

  It’s official: I’m in middle school now. I’ve just gotten started, but here are a few things I’ve learned so far that might help my fellow newbies:

  • Locker combinations are trickier than they look.

  • Kicking your locker doesn’t make it any easier to open.

  • Tricky locker combinations can make you late for class, and you get detention even if you’re limping to class with a broken toe.

  • Middle school teachers don’t remind you to do your homework. They just give you a zero if you don’t have it. I think the teachers get off pretty easy with this low-maintenance approach, but there you have it.

  • Since I’ll be in middle school the next three years, learn how to pronounce my name. I get “Ta-LEE-ah” a lot, as in “See ya, Ta-LEE-ah, wouldn’t want to be ya.” Here’s an i-DEE-ya: learn how to pronounce TAL-ia, shall ya?

  • Friend amnesia starts in middle school. Kids who’ve known each other since kindergarten start sixth grade and it’s like the hard drives in their brains crash. Bam! Suddenly you’re perfect strangers. Time to reboot your friendship hard drive. Weird but true.

  I’m sure I have lots more to learn, but that’s all my brain can handle for now. Best of luck, fellow newbies. Signing off for now, this is Talia Farrow for the Crossroads Oddcast.

  “Talia?” Tap, tap.

  I jumped with a start and hit Save.

  “Talia?” my mother called again from behind my closed bedroom door.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  She opened the door and walked in. “How was your first day of school?” she asked with a wide smile, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s after five already?” Grandma stayed with me in the afternoons until Mom got home from work. I must not have heard Grandma calling goodbye as my mom walked in. I’d lost track of time typing away.

  “Yup,” Mom said. “I just got home. So how was school?”

  “Okay.” I glanced self-consciously at the laptop. Was my writing any good, or was it hopelessly lame? If I made the Oddcast staff, I’d find out soon enough.

  “Did you like your teachers? Your classes? Tell me everything.”

  I shrugged as Mom sat down on the bed beside me. “Bridget totally humiliated me,” I said.

  Mom gasped. “On the first day? What did she do?”

  “She was just…herself,” I said, and Mom nodded knowingly.

  She laced her fingers in her lap. “What happened?”

  I sat up straighter and hugged my knees against my chest. “She’s just kinda…loud, you know? I don’t want everybody in school thinking I’m a dweeb. Meredith and Brynne were treating us like we had blood oozing from our eyeballs or something.”

  Mom winced. “Thanks for the visual.” She squeezed my hand. “It’s just the first day, honey. I’m sure you’ll all be hanging out together soon, just like always.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “I don’t know, Mom. Things seem different now. I’m thinking I can have Bridget for a friend, or I can have Meredith and Brynne for friends, but I can’t have both.” I sucked in my breath. “But of course Bridget will always be my best friend. I’d rather not have any friends than to lose Bridget as a friend.” Why was I talking so fast? “And I’m starting to think that Brynne and Meredith are total snobs anyway. Who wants snobs for friends? Bridget’s a true friend. So what if she’s a little loud?”
r />   I nodded sharply. Problem solved. But Mom looked a bit concerned.

  “Honey, you don’t have to work everything out on the first day. Give things time to sort themselves out. Every friend has flaws, but you’re right: true friends stand the test of time.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Mom, you sound like a bumper sticker.”

  She tickled me and giggled, then said, “Well, you’re having a bumper-sticker moment.”

  “I just wish I could shove a chill pill down Bridget’s throat sometimes, you know?”

  Mom raised an eyebrow. “I have an idea. How about burgers for dinner? We’ll take Bridget, and I can drop a few hints about playing it cool in school, at least for the first few days while everyone’s still testing the waters.”

  I drummed my fingers on my laptop. “Burgers sound great. But go easy on the advice. I don’t want Bridget to think I’m turning into a narc or something.”

  Mom’s jaw dropped. “Narc? Talia, do you even know what that means?”

  I shrugged. “A fink? I heard someone say it in school today.”

  Mom shook her head and smiled. “Middle school has definitely arrived,” she murmured, then patted my leg. “Call Bridget. I’m starving.”

  “So then Meredith says something really snotty, so then I say something like ‘Criticizers should at least blend in their blush before they criticize other people,’ making a mental note about whether criticizer is an actual word, so then Ms. Perkins says—”

  “Bridget,” I said calmly while eating my burger in our red vinyl booth, “come up for air.”

  Bridget swallowed. “She asked!” she said, nodding toward my mom.

  Mom dipped a fry in catsup and popped it into her mouth. “You know, Bridget,” she said, “sometimes when you’re starting something new, like middle school, the best approach is to lie low for a while—you know, keep a low profile—and get the lay of the land before you start putting yourself out there.”

  Don’t go there, Mom, I was thinking.

  Bridget looked at her blankly. “Out where?”