President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sherri Winston

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Erwin Madrid. Cover design by Marcie Lawrence. Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: March 2018

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Winston, Sherri, author. Title: President of the whole sixth grade: girl code / Sherri Winston. Other titles: Girl code Description: First edition. | New York; Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 2018. | Series: [President series; 3] | Summary: “Working on an assignment for her journalism class, Brianna Justice learns about coding, and the difference between herself and a group of inner city girls”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017037191| ISBN 9780316505284 (hardback) | ISBN 9780316505307 (open ebook) | ISBN 9780316505314 (library ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Journalism—Fiction. | Computer programming—Fiction. | Social classes—Fiction. | Stereotypes (Social psychology)—Fiction. | Cheerleading—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Prejudice & Racism. Classification: LCC PZ7.W7536 Pv 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017037191

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-50528-4 (hardcover), 978-0-316-50530-7 (ebook)

  E3-20180208-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  To all the teachers at Muskegon Heights Middle School who always told me, “Yes, you can!”

  Reporter’s Notebook

  January 1. Happy New Year!

  Show I’m ready to be the best young reporter EVER!

  1

  My name is Brianna Justice and I am president of the whole sixth grade. I am also a businesswoman and cupcake baker. And if I’ve learned one thing so far, it’s that life has to have purpose.

  Which is why, when my friends and I had a sleepover to celebrate New Year’s Eve, we all made resolutions. And mine was to pursue my new purpose: becoming a butt-kicking TV journalist.

  I used to think being a cupcake-making millionaire like my girl Miss Delicious from the Food Show Network was my purpose. I’ve been baking since I was little. Still love it. Only, now I’m in middle school and I’ve got so much more on my mind.

  A few marking periods of journalism introduced me to a whole new world. Now I have a new hero—Yavonka Steele, Action News 9. Her investigative reporting has sent crooks to the slammer and scammers running out of town.

  I thought she was The Business. (That means awesome, the best, amazing.)

  So, naturally, when I found out that my beloved journalism teacher at Blueberry Hills Middle was assembling a group of professional journalist mentors and that Miss Yavonka was one of them, well… I had to make sure she picked me. TV news is where I want to be!

  I even have a plan to start an online bakery so I can save money for journalism school. Now how’s that for purpose? My life has purpose all up in it!

  At least, that’s how I see it.

  Soon, Mrs. Galafinkis, my journalism teacher, is going to pair us with our mentors. After she sees my investigative story on the lack of nutritional choices in the cafeteria—I am going to blow the lid right off the mystery meat controversy that has been sending kids to the nurse’s office since the first week of school—I know I’ll be the number one draft choice. The MVP. The lucky student who gets paired with Miss Yavonka Steele!

  You’ll see.

  It’s all going down this week!

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Tuesday, January 2

  Notes for Mrs. G.’s class

  The basics of being a good reporter!

  WHO—Make sure your reader knows who the story is about.

  WHY—Readers must know why we are writing about a particular person, but they must also understand “why now?”

  WHAT—What has happened?

  WHEN—At what time did the event occur?

  WHERE—In what location did the event take place?

  Brianna’s To-Do List:

  Must make sure investigative story on cafeteria food is best EVER!

  So much to do, so little time!

  2

  “White girls can’t dance!”

  That’s what my friend Lauren wanted us to believe, anyway. Lauren was killing us with her… um… “dance moves.” We practically fell out of the school bus laughing.

  The Michigan air was icy and cold. The ground beneath our feet was a crunchy crust of snow packed over days and days of ice. Foggy clouds puffed all around us, creating frosty breath halos. (Breath halos—that’s a metaphor. My language arts teacher would be pleased.) Anyway, we were breath-halo-ing up the place as we tried to recover from all the silliness. We didn’t care about our runny noses or freezing toes. Too busy laughing at that fool friend of ours.

  Lauren was doing what she called her “white girl dance,” a shady version of an already shady dance move. I was like, “Do your thing, ma.” Besides, anybody with eyes could see this white girl definitely couldn’t dance!

  Lauren had her narrow butt tooted in the air, one leg stuck out, bouncing herself up and down. The look on her face was hee-hee-larious—one eye squinted shut like a pirate, tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth, elbows flapping around like she was about to go airborne.

  I was laughing so hard I was scared I would mess up my top-bun. You know, a future star reporter and businesswoman needs to look tight and right—always!

  Ebony shook her head, tossing her long, thin braids. “Seriously, girl,” she said to Lauren, “why so many white girls don’t have no rhythm?” Between you and me, I’d seen Ebony dance, and let me tell you, being African American did not help her rhythm at all. Just saying.

  Lauren, her blond topknot bobbing with her uncoordinated movements, grinne
d, pumping her palms heavenward in a played-out raise-the-roof sort of way.

  I noticed that our laughter and general rowdiness was drawing unwanted attention from the under-caffeinated, always-bitter Assistant Principal Snidely, who was standing in the doorway to the front hall. Arms crossed. Glowering at us. Throwing major shade, if you ask me.

  Red ignored old Snidely. Red, a nickname for fiery-haired Scarlett Chastain, had pulled her petite frame onto the toes of her black leather boots. Chin up and back straight. “I’m a white girl and I have rhythm,” she said, twirling down the sloping walkway. A perilous feat, considering the slant of the ground and the ice. But she made it look easy.

  “Girl, that is not rhythm. That’s ballet,” snorted Ebony. “And stop that twirling before the assistant principal comes over here. You know he’ll send people to IS in a heartbeat!”

  “Then how about this?” Red asked, and before Ebony could even open her mouth, Red did a perfect walkover, delicately placing first her front foot, then the back, on the slick ice.

  Ebony hissed, “Cut it out! If Snidely sees you, we’ll be in IS for a month!”

  In-school suspension. I may have only been a sixth grader, but I already knew too much about it, so I had to bite my lip and make a silly face at Red. Then Ebony tried to quiet her own laughter behind her gloved hands, but plumes of frost hung around her face. Did I mention it was cold? Really, really cold.

  Lauren did a shimmy inside her jacket, attempting another ungraceful dance move. She stuck her butt out, then her leg, and—whoosh!

  She was going… going… gone!

  See, our school got its name partly because Blueberry Hills Middle was actually on a series of hills. The back of the property sloped downward. Way downward.

  “Omigod!” someone yelled.

  “Girl down!” Ebony yelled as we raced to Lauren’s rescue. Before we could reach her, Lauren was flat on her back, looking like she was going to make a snow angel.

  Then Ebony fell belly-first on the ice, skidding across the ground, barreling right into me. Normally I was very sure-footed, but the weight of my book bag pulled me to the ground.

  And who was the only one still standing? Red, our little ballerina!

  Now we were laughing so hard, I swear to goodness, I was scared Lauren was about to wet herself. That girl’s face was redder than Rudolf’s nose.

  Ebony pushed up to her knees, pulled out a hairbrush from her book bag, and made this goofy expression.

  “Hey, it’s ya girl Ebony, coming to you live from the GNN—Ghetto News Network!” I slapped my hand over my mouth, but I couldn’t hold back the laughter. I knew it might not be right saying junk like that, you know, making fun of ghetto news or whatever, but she was truly cracking me up.

  “Brianna, can you tell me what happened here today?” Ebony’s imitation of her favorite ghetto-acting YouTuber, “Go Ask Darnell,” was on point.

  I played along, giving my answers with a hand on my hip. (Shhh! If my mom saw me acting like one of Darnell’s cast members she’d knock me over with her shoe. Okay, maybe not. But, as FBI, she might try to have me arrested!)

  With all the clowning around, none of us paid any attention to the large truck lumbering down the hill beside us. Or to the smaller truck at the bottom of the hill.

  Until…

  A sharp hiss!

  Air brakes screamed for traction on the slick ground. The sickening sound of large rubber tires whump-whump-whumped, trying to grab hold of some unfrozen earth and finding nothing but ice. The metallic shriek of brakes pierced the air as the long truck body spun sideways and began to skid.

  Staring down the hill, watching helplessly as the big truck started its slow-motion pinwheel routine, I realized with horror this was going to get a lot worse. At the bottom of the hill, puttering along, was the other truck.

  I looked at Ebony, who looked at me. But it was Red who spoke first. Pointing at the much smaller truck, she said, “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Um, yeah! Most definitely,” I concurred. Concur had been a vocabulary word last week in language arts. So had calamity. Which was just a new way of saying d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r!

  The smaller truck was one of those clunkers you see a lot out in more rural areas. Junky old trucks with wooden pens for animals.

  One minute the large truck was grinding its brakes against the skid; next thing, it had sideswiped the smaller truck with a solid THUNK!

  The noise crackled in the cold air. Kids stood frozen like shadowy snowmen.

  The smaller truck thudded into the nearest snowbank, tilting to one side.

  Cows made multiple moos.

  Only then did I read the big, bold sign emblazoned along the side of the larger truck:

  OREOS.

  The big cookie truck had just wiped out a tiny truck full of cows!

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Tuesday, January 2

  BREAKING NEWS

  BREAKING NEWS

  BREAKING NEWS

  Why is the news “breaking”? When news breaks, does that mean it’s broken?

  Breaking news is simply an alert to let you know that something new is happening and you need to be aware. Sometimes news can break where you least expect it—even sneaking up on you at your own middle school.

  If news breaks and Yavonka Steele isn’t there to report on it, is it news at all?

  3

  For a second, nobody moved. To the east, the sky remained dark, with only a suggestion of the rising sun, a thin pink trail peeking between multiple layers of black and gray.

  Seconds passed, and then it was as if we all came back to life at once. Red and I and a seventh-grade boy from my journalism class raced to the smaller truck that had been carrying the cows.

  “Mister, uh, sir, are you all right?” I panted against the glass of his rickety old truck as the three of us yanked at his door handle.

  “Stop banging on the dad-blasted door!” cried the old man. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The scent of old tobacco spilled out, along with the bouncy tune of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.”

  He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be driving around singing KP. He looked like what Grandpa referred to as an “old codger.” Grandpa often lumped himself into that category: grumpy old men who move when they want to and do as they please.

  We stepped back and he moved out of the cab, as creaky as his truck. When he stepped onto the slick ground, for a second or two I thought he might spill over like his cows. He did not.

  “You like Katy Perry?” asked Lauren. The man’s blue eyes flashed like he was thinking, Don’t badger your elders!

  He moved around for a few seconds, making sure everything still worked. Then he looked at Lauren and said in a softer voice, “Me and the girls like all kinds of music.” He nodded toward the cows, which had spilled onto a snowbank and were now wandering, slipping over the icy ground. “Miss Katy is one of our favorites, but we like that gal who sings ’bout all the single ladies, too.”

  The scent of damp hay and cow droppings wafted off the man. A few of us took a step back, except for that one kid. Normally quiet and almost invisible in class, he seemed absorbed by the old man’s every syllable.

  The guy who had been driving the semi rushed over, his face a crisscross network of worry lines. He was quite a bit taller than the older man, lean-faced, and wearing a black cowboy hat like a bad dude from the Old West.

  Both men started going on about how they hadn’t seen each other and how the ground was so slick.

  The tall man from the Oreo truck had a mustache that bounced around when he talked. His name was Larry, I think.

  “Now I got cookies all over the ground,” sighed the Oreo cowboy, removing his hat. “What a mess!” The farmer had introduced himself as Cletus. Larry asked if he was sure he was okay and Cletus grumbled about his arthritis acting up and how his wife had been nagging him about getting “the HBO on that danged idiot box,” and he said he had a tooth that had
been hurting since he saw Frank Sinatra in Vegas for his honeymoon.

  Larry appeared to listen to all of this before asking if any of that was because of the accident. Cletus scratched at his patchy white hair and shook his head.

  “Naw, I reckon whatever’s wrong with me this morning started going bad long before I laid eyes on you!”

  So Larry turned his attention to his Oreo truck. The back doors hung open. The ground behind the truck was littered with dozens of bright blue packages of cookies. Larry put his hands on his hips. Cletus put his hands on his hips. I put my hands on my hips. We all stared at the cookies.

  “Hey, man, want some help picking up them cookies?” asked a kid who did not have his hands on his hips.

  Cookie cowboy Larry put his hat back on, shrugging. “I for sure can’t put ’em back on the truck.”

  “If we pick them up, can we have some?” asked the kid.

  “Help yourself,” the truck driver said, blowing into his fists for warmth.

  In the frozen stillness of the early morning, a voice shouted a phrase guaranteed to reach the ears of even the groggiest kid:

  “FREE COOKIES!”

  All of a sudden, an avalanche of kids raced from all different directions. Feet stomped, hands grabbed, bodies dove. Shrieks of delight and groans of defeat filled the air as kids fought to nab the cookie packages.

  Red edged alongside me and said, “Maybe if we get somebody to go over and milk one of the cows, we could have some milk, too.”

  “Cow milking is beyond my skill set,” I said.

  “Brianna! Catch!” called a voice. Just as I looked up, a package of Oreos came sailing at my head. I snatched it out of the air just before it could smack me in the face. Lauren had turned into a cookie quarterback.

  We started laughing—first a little, then more, until soon the truck drivers were laughing, too.

  Then came the big MOO!

  I guess it’s all fun and games until someone spooks a herd of cows and they start stampeding behind your middle school. Can six cows be a herd?