Love Puppies and Corner Kicks Read online

  Dad says, “Dan DiLorenzo. I’ll be teaching literature.” They shake hands.

  Then Dad introduces Mom, Faith, and me. The guy smiles real big at me and says, “Well, as luck would have it, my daughter is thirteen as well. I’ll introduce you.” He peers around with a hand near his eyes like he’s looking into the sun. “Where has she gotten to?”

  This is very, very bad. Now I’m going to have to talk to some kid I don’t know. Don’t you hate it when adults try to make you instant friends with a total stranger just because you’re the same age? I grab the sides of my jeans and squeeze the material between my thumbs and first fingers. This helps steady me.

  I watch Mr. Geddes go over to the huge rack of coats. He reaches in behind them and starts pulling on something with both hands. A screech pierces the air from the coatrack. “Leave me! Leave me!” It sounds like E.T. with his finger in a rat trap, but it’s a kid. She has round glasses and wild, bushy short hair. She’s pulling against her father, digging her feet in, and yelling.

  He comes back, a little out of breath, dragging her behind him with one hand. “This is Jasmine. Jasmine, this is Andrea.”

  Jasmine is wearing tan culottes and a black T-shirt that says RUNS WITH SCISSORS on the chest. She straightens up, looks at me blankly, turns, and walks away. No one says anything. Then in a light, airy voice, like all of this is one hundred percent normal, my mom says, “Why don’t you go ahead and see what Jasmine’s doing, Andrea?”

  I stand there. Mr. Geddes and Dad are looking at me. Mom motions me with her head to get going. Jasmine is by a table of drinks. I don’t want to, but I walk slowly over and stand next to her. I pray she’ll walk away again.

  Instead she thrusts her face in front of mine. “Who’s yer teacher?”

  Now I have to talk to her. Fortunately I’m not as nervous as I might be because this girl is so totally weird, I don’t care if she likes me or not.

  Mr. Dryden told me my teacher’s name, but it didn’t mean much. “M-M-Mrs. Watkinson,” I mumble.

  She whines, “Yer so lucky. I have Miss Lyle. She’s a million years old.”

  Yes! This girl is not in my class. Then Jasmine brightens suddenly. “Dare me to eat somethin’ weird?”

  I shrug. She’s probably going to do one of those stupid lunch table things kids do where they put ketchup on an Oreo or something.

  “Ohhhhkay,” she says. She bends over and picks at a scab on her knee, and before I can turn away again, she puts it in her mouth!!!

  I can’t believe I just witnessed this! She chews slowly and grins at me. “Mmmmm,” she says.

  The perfect word from Word Power flashes into my head as I grip the table. Aberrant: “a person whose behavior departs substantially from the normal.” Is Jasmine Geddes an aberrant? I think so!I begin walking quickly away.

  She is right on my heels. “Where do ye live then?”

  I watch my Nikes as they move swiftly toward the coats. I don’t want to see what she might be doing now. “We’re, um, staying with someone.”

  I begin walking and spinning around, looking desperately for my parents.

  “Who? I know everyone.” She is at my side like a sheep-dog. She blinks at me through her smudgy glasses.

  I’m out of here. I’ll sit in the car or stand in the rain if I have to. I find my coat and put it on.

  She hops in front of me, pushing her face at me like it’s a weapon. “Who?”

  I tell the coats, “M-M-Mr.-” Oh crap. Breathe.“Dry-den.”

  She screeches, “Yer livin’ with the headmaster?!” Heads turn.

  I move out the door. I hear her voice behind me as I sprint for the car.

  “Wait! C’mon! Look. Ye won’t believe what I can do with stirrin’ straws!”

  5

  CLAIRVOYANT

  Foreseeing the future, having psychic gifts.

  I wake up out of a terrible dream. Jasmine Geddes was chasing me down a narrow alleyway with bunches of pointy stirring straws poking out of both nostrils. What a nightmare! What a kid! Thank God she’s not in my class.

  I kneel on my sleeping bag and look out the rain-streaked window as my heartbeat slows down. Mr. Dryden’s front yard is a lake. Does it rain here every day? Faith is still unconscious. I hightail it into the living room and stuff Candyland deep under the couch.

  My parents and Mr. Dryden are already out. I open the front door to see how cold it is and nearly trip over three milk bottles on the welcome mat. They actually still deliver milk to people’s houses like in prehistoric times. I look out over the valley. I can’t see the ocean, but through the fog I can see the dim outline of the creepy skull castle.

  After Faith gets up, I pull out some Scottish-brand Cheerios for breakfast. They look like Cheerios, but they don’t taste quite right. We eat them anyway and then hang around reading till it finally stops raining. It’s muddy, but I grab my ball and Faith follows.

  We kick around back and forth in the wet grass. I juggle the ball off my knees, head, and feet for one hundred touches. It feels so good to do something normal in this new world of weirdness.

  After about an hour, the adults pull up. Dad leans out his window. “Hi, guys! Guess what? We’re going to take a bus ride into Dunnotar this afternoon.”

  “Why?” I ask. This doesn’t sound so good. I’ve never actually been on a public bus before. Just school buses.

  My father smiles. “Just to get a few things.”

  “Change into something dry, girls,” Mom says.

  Mr. Dryden adds, “Ye might want to use the loo afore ye go as well. There’s really nowhere in town tha’s convenient.”

  I look at my parents. Loo? Like, is that some person?

  My father nods. “Faith. Why don’t you use the bathroom before we head out?”

  I look at him. Faith trots off. A loo is a bathroom? Loo? Bickie? Ta? It’s like they let infants write the Scottish language.

  I am standing in front of the mirror in Mr. Dryden’s hallway. I am wearing a gray pleated flannel skirt, white shirt, gray V-neck sweater with a red crest that says DUNNOTAR ACADEMY, and white knee socks. I have never, ever worn white knee socks before in my life. “This is really sick!” I call out.

  My mom comes up behind me. “Oh, it is so cute.”

  “Mom!”

  “Here. Try on the jacket.”

  These are the “few things” we had to go into Dunnotar on the bus to get this morning.

  Three words can tell you what Dunnotar looks like. Stone, gray, and old. Just like Cults. And I don’t mean old like the fifties. I mean old, like, George Washington would look at home in one of these buildings.

  We got off the bus on a busy street with lots of little cars parked on both sides. Buses keep going up and down the street. Bunches of them. “This is Union Street,” my dad said. “The main shopping area.”

  The next thing I know, my mom points at a store and says, “Well, this is where we get your school uniform.”

  I was stunned still for a second, then I shot in front of her. “Wait! Like you wear it in class?”

  Faith smiled. “Like a Brownie uniform?”

  “Yes, sort of,” Mom said.

  “What?!” I blurted.

  “Not exactly like Brownies. There’s no hat.”

  “Oh, great.”

  Then she leaned over to me. “We weren’t sure. Besides, it eliminates all that competition about labels, and, well, everyone here wears them.”

  The only good thing on the whole day was that I found out that every store in Scotland has candy. There was a counter full in a clothing store! There’s all kinds I’ve never seen anywhere before: Double Decker, Bounty, Mars, Blue Riband. Even the candy is different here.

  I put on the weird gray jacket. It has dark maroon stripes on the sleeves and collar. Like I’m in a marching band or something. Faith crosses her arms and pouts. “I want a uniform, too.”

  “Kindergarten doesn’t have one, dear,” my mother says.

  “Faith,”
I say. “You can borrow mine anytime you want.”

  I can’t believe that tomorrow I am going to wear this thing in front of people. And what is school going to be like? What are the kids going to be like? How am I going to talk to anyone?

  We are having macaroni and cheese for dinner. Mom made it and is serving it up. Another safe meal. Mr. Dryden says, “Thanks, Lisa. This is brilliant. Ye needn’t have done that.”

  Mom smiles as she dishes it out. “My pleasure.”

  Dad nudges me and says nice and loud so there is no way out, “Why don’t you ask about soccer, Andrea?”

  I asked my father to ask Mr. Dryden if they have a soccer team at school, but, as usual, my father the teacher makes me do it. “Well. D-d-do-do you have a s-s-soccer team? For girls?”

  My speech control is absolutely falling apart! I can barely focus on his answer. Mr. Dryden shakes his head. “Sorry, no. Not till upper school. I’ve heard there is a local girls club team though. T-G something, it’s called, I think.”

  Stay calm. Talk slow. Back in control. Tongue between front teeth for th. “That’s—okay.” Figures. No school team.

  Mr. Dryden says, “Your mother mentioned that you spent some time with Jasmine Geddes at the Welcome Tea.”

  I nod. My dream flashes before me. Stirring straws poking at my eyes!

  Mr. Dryden says, “Tha’s super.” He stirs his macaroni and cheese with his fork. He lowers his voice. “Ye know we have two seventh form classes at the school.”

  I nod again.

  He adjusts his napkin in his lap. “And I was thinkin’ how ye would not really know anyone in yer class.”

  I shrug.

  “Well, you see, when I heard about you and Jasmine this afternoon, I rang up the Geddeses.”

  I am sensing something very, very bad here. I hope I am not being clairvoyant.

  “I told them that I was considerin’ movin’ Jasmine from Miss Lyle’s into yer class. So that ye would know at least one person in there.”

  Oh please no.

  He folds his arms and leans back with a big grin. “And even though it was very last-minute, they were absolutely fine with it! In fact, they said Jasmine was quite excited.”

  Dad smiles and says, “How about that? What do you say to Mr. Dryden, Andrea?”

  Nooooooooooo!

  6

  LARYNGITIS

  Inflammation of the larynx, often with accompanying hoarseness or loss of voice.

  THE sun came out this morning! The valley to the sea is all sparkling greens and golds. It’s like a painting. It is also the coldest day so far. How does that work? I’m struggling with whether to put on my ski hat. If I do, my hair will look like a rat sucked on it. If I don’t, my ears are going to freeze and crack off my head. I finally choose frozen ears.

  Faith and I stand next to each other in the courtyard of the school, waiting for the teachers to call us. We are huddled next to each other for warmth and, I guess, security. That’s one good thing about having a sister, even if she’s little. You’re never totally alone.

  First-day-of-school jitters are always bad, but this is multiplied by a billion. All around us buses are unloading swarms of kids. I don’t know even one. Oh wait. I know one.

  I look down at my new black suede clogs. The only normal thing I am wearing. The white knee socks glare back at me. The gray flannel skirt itches. The stiff white collar of the shirt digs into my neck. All the other girls are wearing the same crazy getup though. Some have definitely hiked the skirt up a bit, and there are different pins and necklaces girls are wearing, but it is still the same gray wool skirt, white blouse, and band jacket. Every boy has on dark gray pants, gray blazer, white shirt, and a woolly gray and red tie.

  In the swarms of kids there is lots of hugging (the girls) and shaking hands and punching each other (the boys). Finally a bell rings. A small lady with wire-rim glasses, short dark hair, and a big dark coat strolls to the edge of the parking lot. She raises a gloved hand and calls out, “Watkinson, seventh form, come along, please.”

  She walks toward the school, and kids start peeling off and following her. I look back at Faith. I rap her on the head. “You’ll do fine, kiddo.” I point to the kindergarten class sign. “Right there.”

  “Here I go!” She pretends she’s a plane and flies to the line.

  I do not fly to my line. I wander to the back and try to blend in. We walk through a back door from the playground and step into a room with shiny hardwood floors and high ceilings. It’s like a rich person’s dining room except that someone took the dining room table and chairs out, filled the place with desks, and put a chalkboard and two bulletin boards on the walls.

  “Please put your things away in the coat closet, then find your seat, thank you. Your name is on your desk.”

  The coat closet is huge. There are pegs, and each one has a name under it. I hang up my coat, hat, and backpack. Just as everyone is seated, Jasmine comes flying in the door. “Ah’m here!” she calls. Mrs. Watkinson just nods.

  After everyone sits, I realize—there are only twelve kids! My father said Dunnotar Academy is a really good private school because of the small classes and all, but I never dreamed “small” meant twelve! We had more kids on The Blast.

  Mrs. Watkinson steps to the front of the room. “Right, then. I’m Tanya Watkinson. And I’m very pleased to be your teacher this year.”

  She smiles a friendly smile. “It looks like we have everyone here, so let’s start off right and get to know one another a little, shall we? I’m going to call your name, and I’d like you to come up and just briefly introduce yourself to the class.”

  Oh no. Oh no. Please. Not right away! This is a worse nightmare than Jasmine with stirring straws in her nose! My shoulders tighten up. My heart is pounding.

  “Let’s begin, then,” Mrs. Watkinson says. She is smiling from her desk.

  I am so not ready for this! I’m really, really not. I can’t, I just, I don’t know—

  “Andrea? How about you start?”

  “Gak—” A noise emerges from my throat. I was trying to say something and not say something at the same time, and “gak ” came out. I look like a total fool! But—Wait! Brainstorm! I point at my throat and shake my head no.

  Mrs. Watkinson gets it. “Oh no! You have laryngitis on the first day?!”

  I nod vigorously and make sad puppy eyes.

  “Oh, bad luck. Well, I’ll introduce you. Class, this is Andrea DiLorenzo from New Jersey in America. Welcome, Andrea.”

  I give a half-smile and nod. My heart is still racing. I can feel the blood in my temples. I’m relieved but also ashamed that I chickened out so quickly.

  Mrs. Watkinson says, “Okay then, Margaret. Tell us about yourself.”

  A roundish girl with curly black hair strolls up to the board. She introduces herself saying, “My name is Margaret Ferguson and I was born here in Dunnotar. In fact, Ah’ve never bin out o’ Scotland.”

  A big, strong-looking girl with a broad face and a long brown ponytail groans real loud. “How would ye? They don’t have planes big enough to carry the likes o’ you.”

  There is some snickering and Jasmine laughs out loud. Mrs. Watkinson turns red. “Perhaps you would prefer to spend the first day in Mr. Dryden’s office, Becky?”

  The class falls silent. The big girl looks down. “No, miss.”

  “Then apologize now. A repeat offense sends you right out. Understood?”

  She mumbles, “Yes, miss. Sorry, Margaret.”

  Margaret smiles and says, “No bother. Well, tha’s about it, actually. If there’s any questions, Ah’ll be available after the show.”

  Everybody laughs, including Mrs. Watkinson. It’s nice to see she has a sense of humor even though she’s obviously tough.

  Margaret sits down right in front of me. Then the rest of the kids take their turns. There are only three short rows of desks with four kids in each row. Margaret Ferguson is in front of me, then Bernadette Fyffe, Stewart McCombi
e, and Gordon Greene make up the rest of the first row.

  In my row, it’s me, Christian Mortimer, Becky Leach, and Ian Murray. Then Lynne Alloway, Joseph Jacobs, Molly Lake-land, and good old Jasmine are in the last row. And that’s it. I know all the names already on the first day.

  Mine sticks out like a sore thumb. DiLorenzo is definitely not Scottish.

  We don’t actually do a lot today. After the introductions we get our books and schedule, hear the first chapter of a novel Mrs. Watkinson’s going to read aloud, and have a snack, and now it’s time to pack up. No one says a word to me. I mean, I supposedly have laryngitis, but that doesn’t mean they can’t talk to me.

  I put my books in my backpack to take home and cover.

  “Andrea!”

  Somebody is calling my name from across the room. Maybe there’s hope.

  “Hey, Andrea! Andrea! Andrea!”

  Forget the hope. It’s Jasmine. She’s jumping up and down in place like she’s on an invisible pogo stick. Everyone is stopped and staring at her.

  “Are ye (jump) still livin’ (jump) at Mr. Dryden’s (jump) house? (jump)”

  Every head in the class spins around to stare at me. The alien who lives with the principal.

  When I get home I strip out of the crazy uniform, put on my jeans, and take my soccer ball and run hard doing dribbling drills around through the trees by the house so I can blow off some tension. At dinner my mom asks the inevitable, “How was school?”

  Mr. Dryden is right there so I just say, “Okay.”

  No one asks for details. Meanwhile, Faith is going on and on. “My class is great! I have the best teacher and we played on the playground and we have a turtle, a pet turtle. I mean, a class turtle. His name is Snappy, like a snapper turtle—”

  “We get it. It’s a turtle.”