Vivian lantzs second cha.., p.4
Vivian Lantz's Second Chances, page 4
“Oh wow. What happened to you?”
I glance at my muddied outfit.
“Uh,” I say.
My brain fuse is still blown. All I can think is, Alex and Amberleigh are a THING.
It must’ve started this summer. Didn’t I see a TikTok of them together at Myrtle Beach? Their families went on a joint vacation in June. Did Alex and Amberleigh have a whirlwind tropical romance I knew nothing about?
Just then, my stomach practically howls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten breakfast.
Amberleigh laughs in surprise. “Oh my god. Are you okay?”
Tate—Amberleigh’s other best friend—sniffs the air. Her face contorts, and she giggles. “Something smells like caca.” She locks her eyes on me. “Or someone.”
Oh no. Trixie’s poop. Nooo.
Neil cackles. “Jeez, Vivian. Do your parents feed or bathe you?”
I stammer, and Amberleigh shoots Neil a dirty look. “Rude,” she says, before telling me, “Mud is a bold choice. Very . . . uh, punk. Not a lot of people can pull that off.”
So Amberleigh gets it. Punk is pretty close to rocker chic.
“Thanks,” I say.
Then I rethink it. I know that Tate and Neil are poking fun at me, but I’m not sure about Amberleigh. Technically, everything she’s said is nice, but what if she’s being sarcastic?
I notice that Alex is biting back a grin. Does he think me smelling like poop is funny? My face burns like the boiling lava of Mount Marladia, but lucky for me, Amberleigh returns her attention to Gemma.
“You’re not going to be late tonight, right?” she asks her.
Gemma’s eyes narrow. She still looks pissed about something.
“It’s raining,” she says dully.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter!” Tate chirps. “Dad got sunshades installed over the pool. They’re water resistant.”
“Anyway,” Amberleigh says, “it’s tradition.”
Now everyone—Amberleigh, Tate, Alex, and Neil—is looking at Gemma.
All she does is shrug and say, “I guess.”
“Cool.” Amberleigh keeps on smoothing her smooth hair. “You got Lally first period?”
“Yeah,” Gemma says.
“That’s too bad.”
Then Amberleigh grabs Alex’s hand, which makes me want to puke.
“See you!” she calls, heading for the auditorium doors.
Tate and Neil follow her, cracking up about something, and my heart sinks as I wonder if that something could be me.
I turn to Gemma, and maybe I’m seeing things, but I think she’s about to cry. She looks even worse than I feel. When she catches me staring, she quickly brushes a hand under one eye.
“Gonna head out,” she says.
But I’m not ready for Gemma to go.
“Y-you’re in Ms. Lally’s math class?” I ask cautiously.
Gemma nods.
“Me, too,” I say, gaining confidence. “Guess we’re on the same class rotation.”
Gemma’s wet eyes brighten a little. “Oh,” she says. “Cool.”
“Wanna walk there together?” I ask.
And that’s how we end up leaving the auditorium side by side.
We stop at Gemma’s locker first, then mine, where I unload my backpack. I peel off my rain jacket, relieved to find that most of the mud splatter missed my shirt. I shove the jacket into my locker, very aware that there’s a poop bag in the left pocket.
Something smells like caca. Or someone.
Ugh.
That’s a crappy problem—literally—for another time.
Right now, there’s a more pressing issue on my mind.
“So, uh, Tate is having a pool party today?” I ask Gemma.
Instantly, I regret it. Will Gemma think I’m trying to invite myself?
If she thinks that, she doesn’t show it. All she says is, “Yeah. We’ve been doing it since fifth grade.”
“Must be nice,” I say, and I want to kick myself. Everything coming out of my mouth sounds desperate.
Calm down, Vivian. Stay cool.
“Honestly?” Gemma says, watching me click my lock into place. “It’s gotten old.”
I frown. “What, like, you don’t wanna go?”
Gemma shrugs—the same shrug she gave Amberleigh earlier. “I mean, we’re in eighth grade. Maybe it’s time for something new, you know?”
I think I do know. Gemma is saying what I’ve been thinking for the past few weeks: eighth grade means a fresh start. Only, if I’m hearing Gemma right, her fresh start involves not going to the pool party. I think about the way Gemma glared at Amberleigh earlier. Are the two of them . . . fighting?
That can’t be right. Even if it is, I bet they’ll work it out in a day or two. Every fight I’ve had with Cami hasn’t lasted more than a weekend, tops.
“By the way,” Gemma says, “what Neil and Tate said? The ‘caca’ thing? That was mean.”
“O-oh,” I say. “Yeah, it’s no big deal.”
Gemma’s right: what they said was sort of rude. But there’s no way I’ll get into Amberleigh’s group by bad-mouthing Tate and Neil, so I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Water off a duck’s back.
Gemma and I walk the rest of the way to room 1067. I take a seat in the second row, and I’m kind of surprised when Gemma sits next to me. When I look her way, she’s biting her lip, revealing the baby pink bands on her braces. I had to wear braces all sixth grade, and I didn’t look anywhere near as cute as Gemma does. I wonder if she even planned for her outfit—a scalloped pink sundress—to match her teeth.
Probably. She’s that cool.
Ms. Lally starts class by taking attendance, and I flip open my notebook to the first page. On the top line, I write, Vivian Mare Lantz, Eighth Grade. I take a deep breath. I say “here” when Ms. Lally calls my name. Then? I stop paying attention. I’m stuck in my head, and all I can see is Alex and Amberleigh. Amberleigh and Alex. Holding. Hands.
It doesn’t make sense. They have nothing in common. Alex loves soccer and has a great sense of humor. Amberleigh hates sports—I’ve heard her say so a billion times in PE—and from what I can tell, her idea of “funny” is making off-key TikTok sing-alongs.
It’s only as Ms. Lally draws a parabola on the board that I have a revelation: Amberleigh and Alex don’t make sense. And that means that they can’t possibly last. Maybe they fell for each other in Myrtle Beach, but they’re back in the real world now. No way they’ll stay together for more than a month or two. He’s meant to be with me—his hero. So I don’t need to go erasing goal number three from my Master Plan.
Yeah. Alex and Amberleigh will see that they’re wrong for each other and break up, and then Alex will notice me. By then, I’ll be in Amberleigh’s group, so we’ll be hanging out all the time, and he’ll see what he’s been missing. Soon, we’ll be the ones holding hands. I’ll go to his soccer games and hold up a big poster board that says, Fernandez #17, and I’ll make him laugh so hard that his 7UP shoots through his nose, and then . . . I’ll get my first kiss. I bet that Alex’s lips will be warm, and they’ll taste a million times better than rocky road ice cream.
I can hold out for that kiss.
I’ve been doodling spirals in my notebook as I daydream. Now, feeling bolder, I draw an “A” connected to a “V.” Together, they form a sparkling diamond. A and V. Alex and Vivian. Meant to be.
My gaze drifts across the aisle to Gemma’s desk. She’s drawing in her notebook, too, only her doodle is an actual picture: a girl in a flowy dress, with wavy hair drawn in purple ink. She has long lashes and looks dreamy with her chin propped in one hand as she stares out an arched window. I keep watching as Gemma adds details to the girl’s dress: a sash around her waist and buttons down the bodice. Then Gemma writes something beneath her drawing. Princess Ruth, it says in a loopy purple scrawl.
Princess? Color me intrigued. I wonder if Gemma likes fantasy books, like me. Books like the Relevane series. I file that away as something to ask her—the next step of my plan to befriend Gemma and thereby infiltrate Amberleigh Allen’s group.
After pre-algebra, I run to the bathroom, where I empty a whole paper towel dispenser wiping the mud off my tights, skirt, and shoes. Then I put on fresh coats of lipstick and mascara so that by my next class I look like an actual human. I wolf down a s’mores Pop-Tart so that my stomach won’t rumble through physical science, and by the time I’m in language arts, I feel fed, clean, and confident. That’s a good thing, because the key to goal number two is impressing my new teacher, Ms. Rose.
I’m laser focused in class. I take three full pages of notes, and when Ms. Rose asks for someone to explain the difference between a simile and a metaphor, my hand shoots up. Ms. Rose calls on Jordan Gilday instead of me, but, hey, I made the effort—unlike, say, Amanda Cravens, who I’m pretty sure has fallen asleep with her eyes wide open.
After class, I walk up to Ms. Rose, who’s sprinkling fish food into the aquarium of Virgil, a crowntail betta fish and our unofficial class pet.
“Class pets are for kindergartners,” Lewis Marks said when Ms. Rose introduced Virgil.
“Well, I got special permission to bring him in,” Ms. Rose replied. “He’ll be our literary guide throughout the year, just like Virgil was Dante’s guide through hell in The Divine Comedy.”
Lewis guffawed and pointed at Ms. Rose. “You said ‘hell.’”
“I did,” Ms. Rose said calmly. “Now, for anyone who’s curious, Virgil’s favorite snack is brine shrimp. He’s also partial to mosquito larvae.”
Some of the kids made grossed-out noises, but I made a mental note. The next time I go to the pet shop with Pop, brine shrimp—whatever the heck those are—will be on the list. But today I have no offering for Virgil. It’s just me and my charm.
“Ms. Rose?” I say, standing before her with excellent posture, hands clasped behind my back.
“Hello, Vivian,” she says, setting the bottle of fish food aside.
Inside his aquarium, Virgil swishes in and out of a plastic turret, fringed tail aflutter.
“Vivian?” Ms. Rose prods. “Is there something you want to ask?”
Whoops. I got distracted.
I look up at Ms. Rose, and she smiles encouragingly. I go over the line I’ve rehearsed for the past week: I’d like to work on the Jaguar Gazette. Is there a reporter spot open?
Here it goes.
“I’d like to work on the Jaguar Gazette,” I recite. “Is there a purporter spot open?”
Wait. No. Purporter?
“Uh, reporter,” I correct, tingling with insta embarrassment. “Purporter—like, where did that come from? I promise, I write better than I talk.”
I laugh nervously, sure that my face is Hot Tamale red, but Ms. Rose smiles, like she’s telling me not to worry about the flub.
“I’d love to have you aboard the Gazette,” she says. “I’ve heard great things about your writing from Mr. Garcia.”
Mr. Garcia was my seventh grade language arts teacher. Hearing that he’s talked to Ms. Rose about me turns my cheeks hot, but for a different reason than before. At last, something today is going better than I’d planned.
“Do you have particular interests?” Ms. Rose asks. “Topics you’d like to cover?”
Topics? My mind goes blank. Virgil looks over at me with curious black eyes.
“Uh,” I say. “I like . . . newspaper stuff. You know, reporting. Getting the hard-hitting stories out there.”
I wince. That “hard-hitting stories” thing is just a phrase I heard once on a goofy local news commercial. It sounded better in my head.
“General enthusiasm is great,” Ms. Rose says, “but would you be interested in covering, say, school sports? Or clubs? Interviewing students for our Shining Spotlight column?”
Oh. That’s what she meant by “topics.”
The truth is, I haven’t read much of the Jaguar Gazette. I didn’t even know that there was something called “Shining Spotlight.” Now that I do, I wonder what answer would sound the most impressive to Ms. Rose.
I don’t want to come across as too picky, so I end up saying, “Any of it. Whatever you need me for, I’ll do.”
Ms. Rose wrinkles her nose. I feel like she gave me a test just now, and I flunked it.
But then she tells me, “I think you’ll like the Gazette. You’ll learn all about journalism. Figure out what you’re passionate about. Really hone those skills.”
I nod eagerly. “For sure. They will get honed.”
Ms. Rose goes on to tell me details about the paper—how the first meeting is tomorrow, after school, and I should bring a notebook designated solely for reporting. I nod, committing what she says to memory. I’ve replaced the blush on my face with a beaming smile.
Bam. I’ve done it. I’ve taken my first step to becoming a professional writer. Years from now, when I’ve made it big, I’ll tell folks that I got my literary start on my middle school paper, just like my hero, Q. S. Murray. Today may have started out crappy, but I’ve officially turned it around. The Master Plan is working after all.
“See you tomorrow, Vivian!” Ms. Rose tells me.
“See ya!” I call back. “You too, Virgil!”
Then I set off running. I still have to get in good with Amberleigh’s group, and for me to do that, I have to make it to their lunch table with plenty of time for a good second impression.
I’m practically leaping out of the classroom when my shoe catches on something, and I lurch forward, losing my balance. I’ve only got time to think, Not again. I pinwheel my arms so hard that I end up stumbling forward, finally catching myself on the edge of a desk.
Whew. This time, I saved myself from a wipeout. Victory.
But then I hear Ms. Rose shouting behind me, and then? I hear an almighty crash.
I look back, taking in three things at once. First, I see what tripped me: a long electric cord running along Ms. Rose’s desk. Second, I see what that cord was connected to: the light at the top of Virgil’s aquarium. Notice I say “was connected,” because third? I see the source of the crash. It’s Virgil’s freaking aquarium, smashed into dozens of glass shards.
I stand stock-still as water gushes out on the classroom floor. Virgil’s little turret lies broken in two at the foot of Ms. Rose’s desk, and Ms. Rose herself is crouched on the ground, trying to catch hold of Virgil, who’s frantically flopping on the linoleum.
“Vase!” she shouts. “The vase!”
I look to where she’s pointing—the vase of sunflowers on her desk—and it finally clicks. I hurry to the desk, ripping out the sunflowers and offering the water-filled vase to Ms. Rose, who’s managed to scoop Virgil into her hands. She plops him into the water, and for a few moments, the classroom is dead silent. Ms. Rose and I stare at each other over the vase.
“I’m sorry!” I burst out. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s all right,” Ms. Rose cuts me off, getting to her feet. “That cord wasn’t properly secured, and that is my fault—not yours at all.”
But it sure feels like my fault. I stand there miserably as Ms. Rose takes the vase from me, placing it on her desk.
“Watch your feet,” she warns, shooing me away from the humongous mess of broken glass and rainbow-colored gravel.
“I can get a broom?” I offer faintly.
“No, no, everything’s fine.” Ms. Rose is trying to comfort me, which makes me feel even worse. “You head on to lunch, okay? I’ll find the janitor, and we’ll work this out.”
“B-b-but—” I sputter.
“I promise it’s all right,” Ms. Rose tells me, smiling. “You go on to the caf.”
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, though, and it’s starting to sink in: I almost killed my teacher’s pet on the first day of school. Way to go, Vivian.
I jet out of there before I can break anything else.
5
I’M STILL SHAKEN up when I walk into the cafeteria. The image of Virgil’s little betta fish body flopping around will stay seared into my brain forevermore.
Ms. Rose told me that the accident wasn’t my fault, but then, she has to say that. She’s a teacher. I’m worried that she’s actually pissed at me. And what does that mean for my future on the Jaguar Gazette? Does Ms. Rose think I’m a good-for-nothing klutz who can’t handle responsibility?
My intestines twist up like a pretzel, and suddenly, I’m missing Cami so badly. My fingers itch, wanting to text her, but that won’t make this better. Cami isn’t actually here, to talk things over at our old table. She’s not my lunch buddy anymore. I’m on my own.
I catch sight of Amberleigh across the caf. She’s seated at a table, chatting with Tate. Alex and Neil sit across from them, playing table football with milk straw wrappers. Gemma isn’t there, but I bet she will be soon.
Last year, there was no way I’d dream of asking to sit with Amberleigh’s group, but seeing them now sparks a fire in my heart. I’m Eighth Grade Vivian, aren’t I? And this is still a new first day. Forget the bad stuff that’s happened. I’m going to happen to life, no matter how many obstacles stand in my way.
I ball up my fists, make up my mind, and—
“Hellooo, wanna sign up for the Labor Day bake sale?”
“Yah!” I yelp, reeling back. There’s a tall kid in my face, grinning at me with shiny straight teeth. Their hair is a mop of tangerine orange, and they’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon iguana on it.
“Huh,” I wheeze, recovering from my shock. “Um, what?”
“The Labor Day bake sale,” the kid repeats. “It’ll be here before you know it! Can I put you down for cookies? You look like a cookie maker.”
I blink at the kid. They’re familiar. Definitely in my grade.
“You’re Mike, right?” I ask.
“You bet!” Mike sticks out his hand for a shake, like we’re at a business conference. “Mike Brot. You may remember how I got elected president of the student activities council back in May.”
I remember no such thing.
“Well,” Mike rattles on, “the elections take place in May because of how many activities start happening right away, when school starts up. Like . . . the Labor Day Bake Sale!”
