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  1

  How It All Began…

  My name is Brianna Justice.

  I am president of the whole sixth grade. If you are thinking that being class president means I’m popular, you’re wrong. At least, you would’ve been—before everything that happened.

  The truth is, getting chosen as class president in middle school was NOTHING like it was in elementary.

  When we voted for class president in fifth grade, it was a big BIG deal. Win or lose, you knew it meant something—it mattered. Everybody was excited. Hearts were broken. Dreams were realized. It was… amazing.

  In sixth grade? Yeah, “running” for class president meant having Mr. Galafinkis tap me on the shoulder and ask me to stay after class and fill out some paperwork. I think my only qualification is that I looked least likely to set a fire in the trash can. And I was one of the few kids who was shorter than him.

  Anyway, being president of the whole sixth grade was an important job. It didn’t matter whether or not you were popular. What mattered was getting the job done.

  And the idea of failing started giving me nightmares.

  See, every sixth grader at Blueberry Hills Middle School learned about THE BIG class trip to D.C. long before we started middle school. But somehow, despite about seventy-five of us paying our deposits the first week of school, our class was still twenty-five hundred dollars short.

  Now it was up to me to turn my classmates into a lean, mean fund-raising machine, otherwise our big trip was not going to happen. And I didn’t just want us to go—we had to go to D.C.

  Why I HAD to help the sixth grade get to Washington, D.C.!

  1. TO WIN! Each year, the leadership conference has a theme based on government—this year’s theme was ancient Rome. We were going to compete with all the other schools to show how much we knew.

  2. The most important magazine in the whole wide world, Executive, Jr., was going to be at the conference. The magazine was doing workshops on leadership skills for business success, and offering tips for kids who wanted to start their own businesses. (I WAS ALREADY A BUSINESSWOMAN! And this could help me make my business even BIGGER!)

  3. Our school had participated in this trip for twenty years and NO WAY would I be the first president of the whole sixth grade who FAILED. No way!

  4. All of the class presidents had to give a speech. The winning speech would earn $1,000 for that school.

  5. MOST IMPORTANT: Getting out of town would give me much-needed time with my girls!!!

  So, as you can see, I had A LOT riding on this trip. And time was running out.

  The whole thing started that one day. The day the museum lady came to our school…

  2

  The Ides of March

  Wednesday, October 15

  Rome was burning.

  That’s a metaphor. Maybe with a little hyperbole mixed in. It refers to a massive fire in ancient Rome that destroyed a lot of neighborhoods. It was rumored that this heartless emperor dude, Nero, played the violin while the city burned to the ground.

  Living near Detroit, I knew a little bit about fire. Buildings sometimes got torched for no reason, although the city was trying to improve its image. The metaphor, about Rome burning, referred to me. My life. Only in reverse, because my world was burning up while the rest of my classmates fiddled, played, and joked around.

  We were studying ancient civilizations, especially Rome, for Civics class. Preparation for learning modern government, our teacher, Mr. Galafinkis, said. We had to keep a journal comparing and contrasting our lives in middle school with life in ancient times.

  At first, I thought that assignment was lame. However, it turned out that middle school had a lot in common with ancient civilization. Big egos… fighting for territory… weird clothes. The weak getting thrown to the lions for fun. And lots of drama.

  Want to know a good vocabulary phrase for Civics?

  The Ides of March.

  Ancient Romans called the middle of each month the ides. Sometimes, like in the case of Julius Caesar, who found himself dead on March 15, 44 BC, the ides were bad luck. For me, on a particularly disagreeable day in the kingdom of sixth grade, I felt like I was suffering through the Ides of October. And in this case, the ides truly sucked.

  Thanks to a laughable shortage of funds in the sixth-grade account, my class presidency was in BIG TROUBLE. Welcome to my world—The Ides Edition.

  “Aw, girl, we’ve got plenty of time,” cackled some sixth-grade deviant during what could only be described as “The Debacle.” DEBACLE—totally a vocabulary word. It means awesomely bad failure.

  The Cackler overheard me say how desperate I was to get started with fund-raising. I wanted to smack him in the head with my Civics book. We did not have plenty of time. The clock was ticking. Our trip was scheduled for Monday, December 8. That was less than eight weeks away. Plus, the money was due by December 1.

  Which was why we invited today’s speaker, a lady from the Henry Ford Museum who specialized in helping kids with fund-raising ideas. She came to help us brainstorm ideas. She was trying to help us raise twenty-five hundred dollars to get to D.C. However, after the way my fellow sixth graders behaved, I bet most of them couldn’t even spell D.C.

  If I could write what I really, REALLY wanted for my journalism assignment, here’s what I’d say:

  WAS THERE A MOOSE ON THE LOOSE?

  (DETROIT)—The sixth graders had their first meeting of the school year today with Ms. Kenya Benson from the Henry Ford Museum in Greenfield Village. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss how to raise the $2,500 needed for our upcoming trip to Washington, D.C.

  Sounds simple, right? So simple, even a sixth grader can do it? Apparently not. Like a lot of things in middle school, looks were deceiving.

  Civics teacher and class trip advisor Mr. Galafinkis arranged for the students to meet with Ms. Benson because she specializes in school fund-raisers. But she said only a few words before the whole meeting got out of hand.

  Maybe it was the macaroni surprise in the cafeteria. Maybe cafeteria food does something to turn students into mutants. Or maybe there’s something to the rumor about that whole zombie virus thing. Maybe middle school water is filled with soul-sucking pathogens that turn perfectly decent sixth graders into soulless flesh-eaters who need to infect others in order to fit in.

  Because something like that is the only explanation for what happened next. See, when the nice museum representative began speaking, a strange noise started coming from the back of the room. It was kind of a squawk and kind of a honk. It sounded like a moose. With a head cold.

  Soon the sickly moose sounds were coming from everywhere, until finally the nice museum lady was eyeing the door, patting me on the shoulder, and saying, “Good luck!” She said it the same way she might say it to an astronaut being sent onto a cold, deadly planet to tame a nest of gooey aliens determined to destroy Earth.

  Whatever possessed the kids to make the moose sounds, one thing is clear—THEY SUCK!

  Thank you and leave me alone.

  My three best friends and I had been so psyched about starting middle school. But then we got here and the whol
e world fell apart. Hyperbole again? Okay… maybe not the WHOLE-whole world fell apart. Sure was starting to feel that way, though.

  The four of us were used to being in class together, eating lunch together, going to recess together. Now Becks and I were in honors classes, which were mostly in their own hall, unfortunately nicknamed “Lame Land” by the rest of the school. And the school was so big that even after six weeks, I still got lost.

  That wasn’t the worst part, though. Getting lost I could manage. It was the weirdness that drove me insane. Sometimes sixth grade felt so stupid I just wanted to punch myself in the face. Like, repeatedly!

  Take Becks, my very best friend in the world. She used to wash her hands all the time because she was obsessed with germs. A pure hypochondriac—which means someone always afraid of getting sick. Now all she could talk about was wanting a boyfriend and wondering what it was like to get kissed.

  And sweet, sweet Sara. It was as if every day was costume day. She said she was “expressing herself through the way she dressed.” Two weeks into school, she started wearing only jeans and graphic tees. Now she was into pink. Like, really into pink. Seriously? Seriously?

  As if that wasn’t crazy enough, there was the whole size thing. In fifth grade, I was considered short. Okay, maybe I wasn’t just considered short. I was—am—short. Or, excuse me, “vertically challenged.” Anyway, so what? I could take a joke—I even had a T-shirt that said FUN SIZE. But in middle school, it was hard to just laugh it off.

  Every day, and I do mean every single day, I got called everything from Baby to Itty-Bit. Random kids I barely knew would sometimes swoop me off my feet and twirl me around. Worse, Becks started doing it, too.

  In grade school I was a lion. I roared like a lion. Queen of the jungle! However, with each passing day of middle school, I was more ly-ing than lion.

  Why all the lying? Because middle school was the Land of Fake-Believe. Nobody in that place was honest about who they were or how they felt. Everything was some big fake-out. I told myself I was better than that. I didn’t have to fake about anything.

  At least, that was what I wanted to believe. It started small. Little lies, like laughing along with my friends even though I thought their video or Facebook post or whatever really wasn’t all that funny.

  Or pretending to be interested when everybody around me talked about getting with this boy or that girl, hundred-dollar sneakers, or who was kind of ratchet. Trust me, ratchet—not good.

  Pretty soon I was faking more and more. Like, I faked that it didn’t bother me that Sara and Becks seemed to be drifting away.

  And I faked that I was cool with getting swooped around and called Baby Smurf. And when somebody fake-coughed and called me Nerd Girl or Dorkopolis just because I took honors classes, I faked like I didn’t even care.

  See what I mean? That was a lot of faking. I was getting pretty unhappy, but did I tell the truth and admit it? No! It was like admitting how I felt would make me look like even more of a loser.

  When I climbed aboard the big, shuddering school bus after that dismal meeting, I was about done with middle school. I wondered if I could move into the Michigan woods and be homeschooled by wolves. (Well, since it was Michigan, maybe I could be schooled by Wolverines.) The bus shook again and my stomach grumbled. School buses were the worst. Especially when the driver looked at us like we were serial killers.

  A lot of my classmates dressed like clones of their fave online stars. Girls with T-shirts pulled tight and held in back with rubber bands; boys wearing gym shoes that cost more than Daddy’s car payment.

  Kids pushed to get to their favorite seats. And as usual, everyone was being mega loud.

  Sara handed me my clipboard and squeezed my shoulder.

  Becks whispered, “Don’t worry, Bree-Bree. It’s just your first meeting with them. A lot of kids don’t even know you yet.”

  Today’s meeting was the first time a lot of the sixth grade had laid eyes on me. It had not gone as I’d diagrammed it on my trusty clipboard.

  I plopped onto the bus seat and slid over to the window. Sara sat down beside me and immediately began whispering across the aisle to Becks about some boy who was “beyond cute.” I couldn’t help wondering where, exactly, on the map “beyond cute” was. I mean, did you take a right just past Handsome and go three blocks, crossing the Bridge of Attractiveness? I’m just saying.

  Lauren sat in front of me, turned in her seat, and scoped out the action up and down the aisles. “Did you know that the world record for the largest bubble gum bubble is twenty inches in diameter?” She giggled. Then she blew a huge bubble and cracked it.

  I couldn’t help smiling at her. Lauren had always liked world records. At least she hadn’t gone totally bonkers the way Sara and Becks had.

  When did two of my best friends decide to become boy-crazed loonies? Was I next, destined to be the costar in their horror movie, Creature from the Boy-Crazy Lagoon!?

  “Your friend,” Sara said, knocking me out of my deep thoughts. I looked up and another kid from our elementary days moved into view. Raymond Wetzel. Nicknamed Weasel. His mother owned Wetzel’s Bakery, where I worked as a cupcake chef. My whole life, all I’d wanted to do was be a millionaire cupcake baker. Okay, maybe not my whole life. It might’ve only been since fourth grade. Still…

  Weasel was a funny-looking kid who made weirdness a hobby. But somehow we’d become sort of friends. He raised his hand to wave. Before he had a chance to say a word to us, though, a large chunk of balled-up paper came sailing through the air.

  PLUNK! Hit him right in his face. Ouch.

  My mouth fell open. Several kids laughed and pointed.

  I waited to see what Weasel would do, but he just looked at me, shrugged, then turned and trudged toward the front of the bus. Behind us, I could hear laughing, and one voice saying, “Yeah, you take yo’ geeky behind back to the front!”

  Between the moose calls, crazy moos, and being humiliated in front of the museum lady, I had had enough. I stomped into the aisle, Sara tugging at my sleeve.

  I didn’t recognize the paper-ball thrower, but it didn’t matter. Somebody needed to set these kids straight.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Why don’t you grow up?”

  The boy sneered. He had mean, beady eyes and wore the kind of expression that said he was no stranger to detention.

  “Awwww, shut up… Jelly Bean!” he said.

  That was followed by a chorus of laughter. Sara gasped, Becks’s eyes got huge behind her glasses, and Lauren immediately jumped to her feet.

  Jelly Bean. Just because some eighth grader had decided my electric-blue pants and candy-apple-red Converse were too bright and said, “Dang, girl! You look like a big jelly bean,” now it was a thing. I’m sure people thought if they said it, I was supposed to be all embarrassed.

  Well, I had a surprise waiting for my would-be tormentors. The next person to try to shame me with that stupid nickname was going to learn a thing or two about Brianna Diane Justice.

  I removed a ginormous plastic bag filled with jelly beans from my backpack. I opened it and scooped a handful into my mouth.

  I chomped them.

  I grinned with multicolored globs of jelly-bean goo stuck in my teeth like a psycho jelly-bean fiend.

  My heart hammered in my chest. I didn’t really want to be a psycho jelly-bean fiend, but, see, that was the thing about middle school. Sometimes it made you do stuff that you just couldn’t explain. When I’d finally swallowed enough sugary candy not to choke, I said:

  “Maybe I do dress like a jelly bean, but I can always buy new clothes. I know you’re not trying to talk about how anybody looks! Looking like what would happen if Frankenstein and Bigfoot had a baby!” The back of the bus erupted into laughter.

  With way more confidence than I felt, I spun around, flinging the zippered plastic bag like some sort of crazy flag.

  A stampede of jelly-bean-hungry sugar freaks drowned out the “oh snap” and “man, she told
you” chorus that filled the air.

  I slumped back against my seat. I thought shutting down a bully would make me feel better. It kinda did, but it also didn’t. The bus driver yelled for everyone to be quiet. Then the old yellow school bus staggered into traffic.

  Beyond the window, trees rushed past. Their giant green Afros of summer leaves had transformed into an array of dappled red and gold ’dos. As the bus’s tires flung gravel and grit across the cement road beneath us, Sara whispered, “Brianna, you’re soooooo brave.”

  I wanted to believe her. I really did. But I was afraid that the truth was, I was just a much better faker than she knew. Maybe I was the biggest fake of all.

  Civics Journal

  Ancient Rome and Middle School

  Dear Journal,

  Mr. Galafinkis has us keeping a journal on ancient Rome. He says if we can relate what we learn to our lives, we’ll really remember it, not just memorize it for tests and quizzes.

  Based on today, how can I compare my life to what we’ve been studying?

  Ancient Rome was a caste society. Which means people were treated differently based on whether they were citizens, noncitizens, or slaves. Commoners were called plebeians.

  Middle school is divided into sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. Sixth graders are treated like plebeians. We compete just to be commoners. The lowest members of society.

  Well, technically, slaves would have been the lowest. But they didn’t get to vote or have a voice. I wonder if plebeians ever made moose sounds while a senator was speaking to them. Probably the Romans would feed the rude plebeians to the lions.

  I wonder if the Detroit Zoo has any lions to loan to the leader of the plebeians…

  3

  Pandora’s Box

  Friday, October 17

  The world looked upside down.