“And for the record?” I say. “I love you, too.”

  I close the door, leaving Arlo frozen behind the wheel. Eventually, he shakes his head, like he’s shaking off a chill, and lifts one hand in a kind of half wave. I wave back, watching as he drives off into the pouring rain.

  Bye, Arlo, I think, shoving my hands into my rain jacket pockets. Maybe for a day. Maybe for forever. What do I know anymore?

  Then there’s nothing left to do. I turn, hurrying toward the school entrance, and—wham.

  Pain cracks across my ribs and lodges in my gut. I’m losing my balance, reeling out from under the awning and into the rain. My back hits the ground, and air whooshes out of me. Rain smacks my face, causing my nose to itch. I sit up and let out a giant sneeze.

  “Oh my gosh,” says the girl standing over me. The girl who ran into me.

  It’s Gemma, of course.

  “Here,” she says, reaching out a hand.

  I look up, my eyes locking on hers, and suddenly? I want to laugh. Here I am, late for school and sprawled out in a muddy heap—again. On my very first day of school, I thought this was a disaster to clean up and forget as fast as possible. I didn’t know then what a cool person Gemma was. I didn’t know what a massive crush I’d get on her. I didn’t know that, actually, her running into me was the best thing that would happen to me all day.

  And then it happens. It’s like the heavens open up and flaming angels burst out, blowing trumpets in my face. My fall hasn’t just knocked the wind out of me; it’s jarred loose memories, too. I’m thinking of the back-room flood—magic that looked like disaster. I’m thinking of what Arlo said to me yesterday, over breakfast: It’s not about getting it right. It’s more about getting it wrong.

  Holy crap.

  All this time, I’ve been trying to use magic to break my first-day curse. I thought that, with the help of my Master Plan, I could use my second chances—however many it took—until I got everything just right.

  Arlo said that maybe the magic was trying to teach me a lesson. But what if that lesson is the exact opposite of what I thought? What if my first day of school isn’t supposed to be perfect? What if it’s supposed to be messy and full of mistakes? What if it’s about getting it wrong?

  I’ve spent the past week trying so hard to rid myself of the first-day curse. But now I’m wondering—if it’s okay to get things wrong, then maybe all of my bad first days haven’t been cursed at all. Maybe they’ve just been . . . well, life.

  So what if today there were no Master Plan? Sure, it wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be real, at least. A real day of mistakes. That’s what I want: a second chance at all my second chances. A chance to undo my attempts to make this the perfect day. I don’t have to suffer on purpose; I’m definitely glad I’m prepared for my period. But as for the rest? What if I stopped trying to make today fit into my plan? What if the plan is there is no plan?

  No more pressure. No more perfection. No worries about happening to life. I’m simply going to live.

  “Uh, Vivian?”

  My thoughts clear out of my head. Gemma’s still looking down at me, and my butt is thoroughly soaked in mud. The eight o’clock bell sounds—ding-dum-ding.

  Right. Time to start living.

  I grab hold of Gemma’s hand.

  “Thanks,” I say, as she hauls me to my feet.

  Gemma looks me over in horror and asks, “Are you okay?”

  I rub my sore tailbone but nod. “I’m fine.”

  Gemma looks uncertain. “I’ve got makeup wipes to help with your mascara, if you want.”

  It’s only makeup wipes, but my heart nearly explodes. This moment with Gemma Cohen? It’s worth me falling in mud a hundred times.

  “We’re late,” I tell her, motioning toward the school. “Want to go in together?”

  “Oh.”

  Gemma glances at the doors, and my breath catches. What if she says no this time?

  I wait for her answer with bated breath.

  Then, a small smile curls up Gemma’s face, and her left dimple appears.

  “Sure,” she says. “That’d be nice.”

  I smile right back at Gemma, and then? We run. We sprint to the auditorium, and when we arrive, we take the seats that Mrs. Campos points us to. Gemma hands me a makeup wipe, and I rub it beneath my eyes, but I don’t bother with being precise. I’d rather focus on the fact that I’m sitting here with Gemma. I’m not worried about Amberleigh anymore, or about making a good impression on Alex. There are no steps in my plan to cross off. Instead, a new idea hits me, and when the houselights come on, I whisper to Gemma, “You’re in Ms. Lally’s class, right?”

  “Yeah,” Gemma says, looking surprised.

  “Wanna walk there together?” I ask.

  Gemma’s eyes widen. She glances into the crowd, and I can guess who’s on her mind: Amberleigh. I see her filing out of her row with Alex, and there’s not much time left if we want to avoid them.

  Gemma turns back to me, wearing a steely look.

  “Yeah, actually,” she says, “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Great.” I pop out of my chair, practically zooming toward the doors at maximum speed.

  “Whoa!” Gemma yelps, but she keeps up. She’s laughing as she says, “You’re fast.”

  “Something about pre-algebra class,” I say breathlessly. “Really gets me fired up.”

  Gemma keeps laughing as we escape into the hallway. “Ooh, yeah. Same. Numbers are so sexy.”

  Which gets me giggling.

  It’s as we turn a corner that I see an iguana shirt passing by. I do a double take, and sure enough, the iguana is attached to none other than Mike Brot.

  That’s when another idea hits me. I grin, thinking it through, and decide to go for it.

  “Hey, Mike!” I call out.

  When he spots me, he waves and makes his way in my direction.

  “I, uh, gotta talk to him,” I tell Gemma.

  “No worries,” she says, shrugging. “I’ll save you a seat in class?”

  My stomach flips ten times in a row, but I manage to nod. Then Gemma’s gone, and Mike is upon me, flashing his student council smile.

  “Nice shirt,” I tell him.

  I mean it, too. It’s taken me a few days to realize, but that iguana’s pretty impressive—shades of teal and purple, with iridescent scales. More power to Mike.

  See, I’m not sure I’ve ever given Mike Brot a fair shot, and I do feel bad about the time I made up the story about the pooping volleyball team. Now I’d like to make things right.

  “Look,” I tell Mike, lugging off my backpack. “I’m a terrible baker, and so are my dads, but I want to contribute to the bake sale.”

  I zip open the bag’s back pocket, tugging out my wallet. There’s a ten-dollar bill in there from the last time I helped Dads with inventory. I tug it out and offer it to Mike.

  “Oh.” Hesitantly, Mike takes the bill. “A-are you sure?”

  “Totally,” I say.

  Mike looks like he doesn’t know how to feel. I guess he settles on glad, because he smiles and says, “This means a lot.”

  “Happy to help.” I turn to walk away.

  “No.” Mike puts out a hand to stop me. “Like, a lot. I’m in charge of getting people to sign up, and it’s not easy. People ignore me or, like, run off. Honestly? I’ve been dreading asking for volunteers at lunch. But Ms. Vela is gonna be super stoked to know that we’ve already got a donation.”

  “It’s . . . not that much,” I say, starting to feel self-conscious.

  Mike shakes his head. “It’s the thought that counts. Speaking of which, um . . . hang on.”

  Mike opens his own backpack, rummaging through its contents. Moments later, he pulls out a soda can and hands it to me.

  “Dr Pepper?” I say.

  Mike shrugs. “Consider it a token of my appreciation.”

  Before I can even say thanks, he takes off in a sprint. I watch that iridescent iguana go, wondering how I could’ve been annoyed by Mike Brot before. I guess I was so obsessed with my Master Plan, Mike just seemed like an obstacle in its way. Now that I’ve taken the time to actually talk to him? He seems nice. And I got a soda. That’s something new.

  The hallway is emptying out, and I should be in room 1067. I pick up the pace, breezing past the restrooms. I don’t have the time to clean the mud off my outfit, but that’s okay. I make it to Ms. Lally’s class, where Gemma’s saved me a seat at the back of the room.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, setting down my things.

  She’s already opened her notebook, and I notice the purple-ink face of Princess Ruth.

  I point and ask, “Do you draw?”

  It feels a little wrong, asking a question I already know the answer to, but Gemma nods and says, “For fun.” Then she eyes the front of the class. “You’re not going to, like, rat me out to Ms. Lally?”

  I smile conspiratorially. “No way.”

  Gemma makes a dramatic hand swipe across her brow, just as Ms. Lally calls the class to attention.

  I still don’t know much about parabolas, but I have a major appreciation for Princess Ruth. And today, by the end of pre-algebra, I’ve worked up the nerve to ask Gemma a big question.

  “Do you want to have lunch together?” I say.

  Gemma doesn’t answer for so long, I start to worry I’ve said the wrong thing. This isn’t a question I’ve asked before. Maybe it’s a step too far.

  But then she says, “That’d be cool.”

  And my heart soars.

  “I don’t want to eat in the cafeteria, though,” Gemma adds, “if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure,” I say, feeling lighter than air. “I don’t like the caf, anyway.”

  “Oh?” Gemma quirks a brow.

  I shrug. “Bad memories.”

  But the truth is, I’d eat anywhere if it meant spending time with Gemma.

  Today in language arts, I take the seat closest to Virgil’s aquarium. I give him a friendly wave, and he glares back. That’s fish for you.

  Ms. Rose talks about American poets, and Jordan Gilday answers the metaphor question. Me? I’m lost in thought.

  I’m remembering how Ms. Rose told me that writing should light a fire in me. What she said ticked me off at first, but if I dig down to the truth, I’m not lit up about the Jaguar Gazette. I never have been. Interviewing kids for the “Shining Spotlight” is fine, I guess, but I’d rather be writing stories about magical worlds.

  Well, who says I can’t?

  I thought that because there wasn’t an author club at Bluebonnet Middle, I’d have to pick newspaper writing instead. I tried to make that fit into my plan because that’s what Q. S. Murray said I should do. But what did Arlo tell me over breakfast yesterday?

  Who’s to say what worked for her will work for you?

  As Ms. Rose talks about Walt Whitman, my gaze drifts to the poster over Virgil’s tank. I hadn’t noticed it before. I’d been so obsessed with making a good impression on Ms. Rose, rehearsing what I should say, I didn’t see what was right in front of me: a bunch of names and author portraits, under the title Famous Short Story Writers.

  There’s Edgar Allan Poe and Gabriel García Márquez. There’s Alice Munro and Shirley Jackson. There’s Haruki Murakami and Flannery O’Connor and Anton Chekhov. They’re authors from different times, writing in different styles and languages, but they have one thing in common: they loved to write stories.

  And that gets me thinking . . . what if there are other kids at Bluebonnet who love writing as much as I do? Not writing news articles but writing fiction. Short stories. Novels. What if those kids exist, and I just don’t know them because there isn’t a club for us? Yet.

  Sure, joining the Jaguar Gazette might make me a better writer. I could learn how to finish articles and be okay with people reading my work. But I could do all that in an author club, too. I could even start by writing short stories. Those might be easier to finish than, say, a six-book fantasy series. I could share those stories with other club members and get used to the feeling. I could have fun.

  I think this is the fire that Ms. Rose was talking about. This is what I want to do.

  All I had to do to get here was trash my old plan and open my eyes. The answer was hanging over Virgil’s fish tank all along.

  You sly devil, I think, smirking in Virgil’s direction.

  Then? I turn to a blank sheet of notebook paper and get to work.

  After class, my heart is beating fast. I’m more nervous than ever before about talking to Ms. Rose. But I think that’s a good sign—a sign of how much this idea means to me.

  I ask Gemma if I can meet up with her in a few minutes, in front of the caf, and she says yes. She leaves the classroom, and soon it’s just me and Ms. Rose.

  “Hello,” I say, approaching Ms. Rose’s desk.

  “Hello, Vivian!” She looks up from feeding Virgil his flakes.

  Now it’s time to change the script.

  “So, I like writing,” I say. “Mr. Garcia might’ve told you that.”

  Ms. Rose sets down the fish food, dusting off her hands. “He did. He said that you were a stellar student last year.”

  My ears burn, but I press ahead. I’ve got to get this out.

  “I write stories,” I tell Ms. Rose. “They’re fan fiction, mostly, based on the Relevane series?”

  Ms. Rose brightens. “Of course! The Q. S. Murray books.”

  I nod. I feel self-conscious, but more than that? I feel brave.

  “Anyway,” I go on, “I know there are online groups out there, but there’s nothing here at school for authors, specifically. That’s what got me thinking about this.”

  I hand over a folded sheet of notebook paper—the sheet I’ve been secretly drawing on in class. Ms. Rose unfolds it, looking over a makeshift flyer. In penciled bubble letters, it says,

  Join the Bluebonnet Author Club!

  And beneath that, in careful print,

  Show up every Thursday after school to share your stories and discuss your favorite books.

  Adviser: Ms. Rose

  Student leader: Vivian Lantz

  Ms. Rose takes a long time reading over the flyer.

  I wait patiently at first, but then, when it gets to be too much, I clear my throat and say, “It doesn’t have to be on Thursdays. Any day of the week is fine. And if you’re too busy to advise, then—”

  “No.” Ms. Rose cuts me off. When her eyes meet mine, they’re shimmering. “I think it’s a fantastic idea. I’m sure there are other students who’d love to join. There is a procedure to starting up new clubs, and we might have to cut through some red tape. But if you trust me to, Vivian, I’d be happy to take up the cause.”

  “R-really?” I ask. I’m honestly kind of shocked.

  “Really,” Ms. Rose says.

  I break into a grin. “Then yes.”

  Ms. Rose refolds my flier and asks, “Do you mind if I keep this?”

  “It’s yours,” I say.

  “Then I’ll get to work. In the meantime, I can name a few young writer programs in Austin off the top of my head. Tell you what: I’ll have a list written down for you tomorrow. You can show it to your dads and look up more about each program online—if that’s something you want to do outside of school, as well.”

  I smile so wide, I must be showing every tooth.

  “Thanks, Ms. Rose,” I say.

  She taps the flyer and tells me, “More on this soon.”

  On my way out of class, I’m careful to avoid that extension cord. I mean, making mistakes is one thing, but I won’t go out of my way to cause a disaster.

  “See ya, Virgil!” I call, as I leave class.

  He watches me go with his all-knowing fish eyes.

  19

  GEMMA’S WAITING FOR me outside the cafeteria doors.

  “Hey!” I call, running up to her.

  She smiles, revealing the baby-pink bands on her braces.

  “I brought my own lunch,” she tells me, “and it’s pretty big, if you want to share. But, like, I understand if you want to get your own.”

  Do I want to another round of tuna salad? My stomach gurgles sulkily at the thought. That’s a no.

  “Your lunch sounds great,” I say, “if you really don’t mind.”

  “Cool,” Gemma replies. “Let’s jet.”

  She leads me down one hallway and then another, and we reach a set of double doors. Gemma pushes them open, and we head into the east stairwell. At last, the great mystery has been solved. This is where Gemma has escaped to every Monday.

  “Teachers never come this way during lunch,” she explains, as we sit on the stairs.

  Gemma takes out a lunch bag, unpacking a big container of pasta salad with a plastic fork, a jumbo box of raisins, and a couple of string cheeses. She hands me a cheese and places the rest of the food on the step between us.

  “I nabbed an extra fork from the caf while I was waiting,” she says, tugging a fork from the front pouch of her backpack and handing it to me.

  “Nice,” I say, taking the contraband silverware. Before I dig into the pasta, though, another idea comes to me.

  I open my backpack and dig out the can of soda that Mike Brot gave me.

  “Want this?” I say, offering it to Gemma.

  Gemma’s eyes light up. “Oh my God, you rock. Dr Pepper’s my favorite.”

  You told me, I could say, but don’t, since that would be majorly creepy. All the same, it’s nice to be living in the moment. I’ve lived so many Mondays now, but I’ve never ended up in a stairwell, eating rotini with Gemma and cheering her up with a soda. This is my favorite lunch by far.

  “Have you eaten here before?” I ask, looking around. “Like, last year?”

  “Yeah,” Gemma tells me. “Once, after I went camping in Dripping Springs with Amberleigh’s family. She and I got in a fight, and I needed space to think.”

  I chew my string cheese thoughtfully. “Is that what this is? Space to think?”

  I feel suddenly guilty. I invited myself to crash Gemma’s lunch plans. Maybe she wanted to be alone.

  But Gemma shakes her head. “More like space. I’ve already done the thinking.”

  “What have you been thinking about?” I ask. “Um, if you want to share.”

 

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