WILD GIRL

Being wild doesn’t mean you can’t be good.

Sneak Peak

My homework hides snugly in my folder, undone, but I can't focus enough to work on it right now. From my desk in the back row, I watch the other kids gather into small groups like raindrops forming puddles around the room. I don't have a puddle to join. My eyes land on Kylie King, the only girl in my class who has said hi to me since I started this school three weeks ago.

I've studied her and the other girls who cluster around an oversized white Formica table in the lunchroom every day. They laugh and chat over French fries and carrot sticks while I wander through the thorny jungle of the middle school cafeteria, eyeing empty seats like juicy fruits I can't quite reach, alone. The lunchroom is a cruel place for a sixth-grader, especially a new girl who is quirky and loud like me. I usually eat solo in the library, my books my only company.

Kylie is leaning against Malik's desk, their shoulders pressed together, eyes glued to her pink glossy cell phone as she swipes the screen with her blue-painted nails. I wish I had a cell phone, but my mom's rule is not until I'm in the eighth grade. I'm pretty sure I'm the only kid my age without one.

Desperate to know what they're ogling over on Kylie's phone, I stand, strain my neck to steal a better look, and notice kids moving toward Kylie from different corners. Others are naturally drawn to her because even though she's cool and popular, she's nice too. I start inching down the aisle toward her, hoping to join the fray.

"Look at my new puppy. His name is Zeus," she says to Malik, shifting the phone so he can see.

"His paws are huge!" Malik says. 

"Is he a Husky?" George asks, saddling up beside Kylie and peering over her arm.

"Yes, he's only eight weeks old. We just brought him home this weekend." Kylie tucks a glossy brown strand of hair behind her ear.

Miranda, one of Kylie's best friends, closes her math book with a thud and shuffles over. "Oh! He's so cute!" she says. "My Goldendoodle, Honey, used to be that small."

Suddenly, everyone gathers around Kylie, trying to catch a glimpse of Zeus. The other kids move faster than me, or maybe I've stopped moving; I'm not sure. It only takes seconds, but I'm lingering on the outskirts of an expansive group circling Kylie like a hive of bees buzzing around their queen. Stories begin spilling of beloved pets, seemingly as payment for this unspoken club that formed in an instant before my eyes.

"I have two hamsters," Jordan says.

"I have a cat and a dog," Kruthi says.

Some kid—I don't know his name—exclaims loudly, "I have a bunny named Hoppy." Not a very creative name if you ask me, but I guess you can only do so much with a bunny.

As the pet names and stories pour from my classmates, my mind snags on the realization that everyone has a pet except for me. A tiny pinch of jealousy squeezes my gut—the familiar pebbles of anxiety tumble and mix. I have nothing to add to the conversation, nothing I can say to connect me to the group. I don't have a dog, cat, or even a fish.

"Maybe someday," my mom used to say, but that was before she met Bert and fell in love. They got married two months ago, and now, everything is different.

Bert doesn't like dogs, and neither do the Bugs—that's what I call Bert's sons—Seth and Shawn, my new twin stepbrothers. They are fifteen, three years older than me. They don't actually look like bugs, but they sure act like them, constantly rummaging for snacks, carrying food around the house, leaving garbage all over, and blaming their messes on me.

I picture my mom bubbling up at my bug imitations, my fingers like antennae on my head as she pleads, "Be nice, Sage!" between snorts. Even though she tries to hide it, she laughs every time.

The urge to be a part of my classroom pet conversation rises inside me like a storm.

Without thinking, I open my mouth and blurt as loud as possible, "I have bugs at my house!"

The roar of laughter I expect to billow around me like a warm breeze fails to materialize. The room falls silent. All heads swivel toward me in slow motion. I freeze. What feels like a million pairs of eyes burn holes in my face as I go from pale to crimson in two seconds. Time stands perfectly still. I wonder why no one is laughing. Did I deliver it wrong? Replaying the joke in my head, it dawns on me that no one knows I am talking about my stepbrothers. It sounds like I just announced to my whole class that my house is infested with insects.

Oh my gosh. What did I do? I just said the most embarrassing thing in the world–that's what. Way to go, Sage. Good job!

What is wrong with me?

Is the floor still below my feet, or am I suspended in midair, floating, waiting to drop into a dark abyss?

I scan the surrounding faces, searching for one grin, one smile, but all I see are flat stares. Kylie’s mouth is twisted like she just swallowed something sour. Malik appears confused.

My mouth is dry like someone poured sand on my tongue. My heart beats like a bass drum so loud I can't hear anything. Just as I think I will pass out, my teacher, Ms. Pinch, breaks the silence like a hammer dropping on a thin sheet of glass.

"No blurting, Sage McLeod. If you have a bug problem, you should have your parents call an exterminator." 

Now laughter ripples through the room. Kids cover their mouths, snickering and whispering to one another. My body goes numb as I stumble back to my desk and shove myself into my chair. As I close my eyes, I feel like a small child convinced they can't see me if I can't see them. My ears throb as chatter floats around the room. I don't have to wonder what my classmates are saying about me now; "Weirdo, stupid, crazy, awkward."

New school, same story. But maybe I can handle it different this time.