Chapter 1 1. In one quick motion, I unpeel the last strip of packing tape from the moving box labeled LEAH MILLER'S ROOM. It comes off fast, with a loud riiip ! I pause for a moment, taking it all in. Everything else has been put away. Maybe this is the last box I'll ever unpack! Finally I open the cardboard flaps. A whiff of grape-scented markers and the familiar aroma of books--along with a hint of something floral that I can't quite identify--almost brings me back to our old home on Camp Humphreys, the United States Army base in South Korea. Growing up with my dad in the military, I've moved around a lot. He's an army dentist and has been assigned to a new place every two years since I can remember. But he's a few years away from retiring, and there's a chance this will be our last PCS--that's "permanent change of station," in military terms. This could be the last time I have to pack up my life and start all over again. It's taken a couple of months to get the remainder of our things from the move. The last time I saw my stuff, it was summer. I was wearing sandals and shorts. Now the trees have lost their leaves, and we are days into October. I've been in school for over a month now, with my wardrobe of jeans, thick socks, and sweaters. It's almost nine thirty p.m. and I'm ready for bed, dressed in hot-pink pajamas covered with elves dancing and singing. (It was my mom's very unfortunate choice of pattern for the family Christmas pajamas.) I hate them, but I'm almost out of laundry. This is my bottom-of-the-drawer choice that no one will ever see. But, whatever. I'll just wear them to bed. "Look, Avery," I say to the calico cat sitting on the neatly made twin bed. "I finally have everything. Maybe those cute sushi sticky notes are in here somewhere." Yes! My intuition is right. Nestled near the top are sushi-shaped Post-its. A smiling California roll and blushing nigiri piece seem happy to see me again. Not as happy as I am to see them! I love stationery. It's almost an obsession. Example: I got to choose the name of our family cat, and what did I named her? Avery, after an office-supply store that sells labels, binders, and all things to organize your life. Steven, my sixteen-year-old brother, thought the choice was completely nerdy. But the name Avery stuck, beating out Steven's generic choice: Furball. I place the sticky notes on my desk next to cups full of color-coded gel pens, then continue to reach into the box and pull out remnants of a past life. A trophy from the elementary school spelling bee, where last year, in fifth grade, I took home first place with the word "instantaneous." Tucked away in a folder labeled ACCOMPLISHMENTS is a certificate of straight As and perfect attendance. I take a stack of stickers to pass out tomorrow to my new friends in Team Awkward. I think Jojo would like the dog holding a baseball glove. There's a pair of pink ballet slippers for Izzy, and a colorful collection of hearts for Ryan, who loves all things cute. When I see the hardcover copy of Baking: From My Home to Yours , by my favorite chef, Dorie Greenspan, I nearly fall off my bed. "The recipe for World Peace Cookies!" My voice squeaks. "Almost in time for Christmas!" I'm already I'm feeling the creep of holiday baking. Who says I can't make gingerbread before Halloween? I glance at the clock on my desk. It's really getting late. I might not have time to cross off everything on today's to-do list. Mentally organizing my schedule, I tap the box with my fingers. Avery doesn't like the nervous drumming. She walks toward the door, signaling for me to let her out. I ignore the cat. I still want to add a couple of paragraphs to my history project. Unpacking really took up more time than I thought. Avery scratches at the door. She looks at me expectantly. "Fine." I scoot off the bed. "You win." As I open the door, the sounds of laughter and loud rock music remind me of the party going on downstairs. My parents are listening to the vinyl records that came with the last of our family boxes. Dad was so excited to have his music collection again that he invited our next-door neighbors, the Walkers, over for a listening party. Thankfully, Ben, their cute son--who is twelve years old, my age--didn't come with his parents. Ben is mixed race like me. He's Black and Lao American, and I'm Thai American and white. Mrs. Walker loves that another Southeast Asian mom moved into the neighborhood. Mom and Mrs. Walker have become fast friends and take trips into DC together to stock up at the Asian grocery stores. Part of me wanted Ben to hang out tonight, but I'm kind of awkward around him. We're in the same advanced classes, and yet we've barely mumbled hello to each other at school. I'm still hoping there's a chance we'll become friends, though. Having moved around so much, I've learned how to talk about anything with people I don't know very well. Except if your name is Ben Walker. Then I forget everything I know about polite conversation. If you aren't the boy next door who metaphorically ties my tongue in knots, I'll try to talk about something that's interesting about you. For example: "I like the stickers on your water bottle." "Have you hiked Yosemite?" "That's a really cool pen! Where did you get it?" "What do you think of Radiohead? A little spooky, or a lot brilliant?" Making friends has been easy, but keeping friendships is tricky. Before this move, I didn't have the experience of having a close group of friends, or even a best friend. Forrest Ridge, Virginia, is different. For starters, we don't live on a military base. I'm going to a regular public middle school. I get to meet kids who stick around longer than one assignment. I really like this new home and new school. Meeting Jojo, Izzy, and Ryan in the secret locker room is the best thing that's happened to me in a really long time. Even better than making the QuizBowl team at school this year. Tryouts were the first week of school and I was so nervous. Ryan made me a pin that said YOU GOT THIS in bright, bold letters, and I think the positive reinforcement really did help. I felt confident and knew I had something to offer the QuizBowl team. When qualifying notifications were sent out the following week, I wasn't shocked to make it in but was happy all the same. To make things even better, Izzy also made the team. Practice will be starting soon, and I can't wait. While the first day at Kagan Middle School started off terrible, meeting Team Awkward made every embarrassing moment worth it. Even if the group name came from cringeworthy experiences, awkwardness was something we all shared. Together, we can own it, share it, and laugh about it. The music continues to float up from the family room, but Mom will be up soon to tell me to get to bed. I place the cookbook down and pull the last of the things out of my box. My hands wrap around a book with crinkled pages. The cover feels slick, like it is somehow... wet? I peek into the box and gasp. No. A bottle of essential oil rolls around the now-vacant box. The lid is off, and the bottle is also empty. The oil has leaked out, soaking through one of my cookbooks. Left for months in storage, the pages are now stuck together. This is where the flower smell is coming from. The essential oil. Taking deep breaths, I try to separate the paper. There's no use. The ink has already smudged, and no amount of careful prying will help the pages become readable. The book is ruined . Shaking, I place the book on my desk. I don't use essential oils. But I know who does. I yank my bedroom door open and march halfway down the stairs, just in time to see Mom open the front door and reveal that Ben is standing on our porch. In a normal navy-blue sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. Not hot-pink pajamas with dancing elves. I groan. Why me? Mistake. Ben looks up. I want to run back to my room, but my legs feel locked into place. In front of Ben, once again, I'm speechless. Mrs. Walker comes to the door. "Oh Ben, honey! Everything all right?" Ben takes his eyes off me and looks at his mom. "I was just wondering when you'd be coming home. The boys are fighting over the top bunk," he says. "They aren't listening to me." Mrs. Walker picks up her purse. "We better get going," she says to Mom. "It was so fun tonight!" The adults say their goodbyes, and the entire time, I'm still standing on the stairs. I'm not sure if it took two minutes or twenty for the Walkers to finally leave. Before his mom shuts the door behind her, Ben looks up at me again and gives a small wave. This releases the powers restricting me in place. I follow my mom into the kitchen and slam the empty bottle of essential oil on the counter. "How did this get into my box?" My hands are on my hips. "It destroyed my Cookies for All Occasions book. It had the perfect recipe for snickerdoodles. The edges are crispy, but the center is soft and chewy. Now I'll never make those cookies ever again!" Mom looks over the empty bottle. "Lavender! I loved this one. I wondered where some of my essential oils went." She thinks for a moment, then lets out an absent-minded laugh. "At the end of the move, we were so tight on time. The last day, I was shoving things into any box I could find. Today I also found a tube of toothpaste packed with the bed linens!" I throw my hands up. During the move, I made sure to label each box in my room. I also helped color-code the family boxes to show which ones would be for the new primary bedroom, Steven's stink hole of a room, and the various places around the house. My parents completely disregarded my system and order. And Mom doesn't even care. She puts down a kitchen towel and walks over to me. "You look really stressed." Mom pats my arm, drawing my attention back to the elves on the sleeve. The ones that Ben saw and will probably tell everyone at school about. "Too bad this bottle is gone," Mom says. "Lavender oil is really good for relaxation." "Mom!" I explode. "You can't just throw things into boxes. Especially my box. This stupid oil is all over my books. Now I have to clean up this mess instead of finishing my project tonight." Mom's face goes from sympathetic to stern in a snap. "Are you up working on homework? At ten o'clock on a school night?" I motion toward the record player. "No one was going to sleep with all the noise." Dad comes over with a roll of paper towels. "I can help clean up the mess. You know, I'm sure your project doesn't need any more tinkering. It's probably great as it is." Mom nods in agreement. Her face is softer now. "Leah, forget about your schoolwork. Come sit down and have some ice cream." She pats a kitchen barstool and goes over to the fridge. "We made brownies with the Walkers, but we forgot to serve the ice cream with them. Oh! We can have chocolate-cherry Coke floats. I'll get the soda and syrup." "Are you kidding?" I say. "There's no way I am going to eat an ice cream sundae right before bed." Especially a float. All that caffeine in the soda will keep me up! Mom isn't listening. She's already scooping chocolate ice cream into two tall glasses. "Do you want two scoops or one?" Dad holds out a glass. "I'll take a float." Just then, Steven comes down the stairs. His floppy black hair falls over his face. "We're having ice cream? Why didn't anyone tell me?" I feel like screaming. "It isn't good to eat like this before bedtime," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. "Especially all that dairy. Mom, aren't you lactose intolerant?" Mom is layering hot fudge into the glasses. She adds more ice cream, followed by the soda. She stirs in cherry syrup and passes the floats around. Mom places a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. "Sometimes it doesn't affect me. Guess I'll find out later tonight." I cover my face with my hands. "Oh my gosh." Dad is laughing. He reaches over, prying my fingers away from my eyes. "Come on, Leah," he says. "You're in sixth grade. Rebel a little. You can have some ice cream this late at night. It's what kids your age do." I shake my hands out of Dad's grip. "Kids my age who want to do well in school are most likely in bed right now. If they are rebelling, it's to stay up late to finish projects like I should be. Not having ice cream, and definitely not caffeinated floats." Steven is holding out a spoon. "I'll take a sundae." He looks at me and shrugs. "I live on the edge." I shake my head. "My idea of living on the edge is making it to the state finals in QuizBowl." Mom places her spoon down. "Is this another academic activity?" Her voice has lost some of the playfulness. "Aren't you already in chess club, National Junior Honor Society, and Student Council?" "Yes," I say. "But no worries. QuizBowl works with my schedule." Mom taps on the counter with her fingers. "I think you're involved in too much. And they are all really similar, too. At least have a variety. Maybe play a sport? Let some energy out!" I take a step back. Sports have never been my thing. It's like my parents don't know me. "Mom," I say. "QuizBowl is important. If you start in middle school, you'll have a better shot of making the high school team. At that level, there are scholarships available. It looks really good for college." Mom frowns. "When did sixth graders start worrying about college?" Then her face brightens, and I get suspicious of the smile across her face. "Oh, wait . I almost forgot. We have a surprise for you!" She runs over to what she calls "the everything drawer" (let's be real, it's a junk drawer), pulls out a piece of brightly colored paper, and hands it to me. I take the paper and read it over. "Art club?" "Yes!" Mom says, and her smile grows wider. "Mrs. Walker told me about it last week. It's at your school, and they explore painting, ceramics, watercolor. There are two sections, actually." She looks over my shoulder at the flyer. "There's a sculpture section on Monday and general art club on Tuesday. You can choose either one. It doesn't matter." Mom points to the paper. "It sounds like fun! And guess what? It's all paid for. The Walkers let me know that Ben also signed up." She taps the flyer. "Perfect timing--variety!" I read over the flyer. The club meets after school in the art room. Mr. Jenner, the art teacher, is the one leading it. Knowing Ben will be in attendance makes it more interesting, but it has one big thing going against it. "I can't." I put the paper down and push it toward Mom. "The sculpture section is on Mondays when I have chess club. I don't like clay or getting dirty like that anyway. The general art club is on Tuesdays. The same time QuizBowl meets." Mom slides the flyer back my way. "You don't need to do everything in your first year of middle school. Come on. Try out art club. Maybe this is a sign that QuizBowl can wait." "No." My voice sounds flat, like how I feel toward Mom's interest in the arts. Mom doesn't get it. I'm not like her. I don't wear funky jewelry or take time in the morning to pick out an outfit that fits my mood. I'm not interested in self-expression through clothing. I crumple up the flyer to make my point. Mom uncrumples the paper. Again she slides it over. "Art club will be good for you." "I just made the QuizBowl team, and I have a shot at being team captain! There's an opening and I want to run." Mom isn't moved. "You can be team captain next year." I shake my head. "In the history of QuizBowl at Kagan, there has never been a sixth-grade team captain. This could be historic." Dad's been quiet this entire time, but now he turns over the crumpled flyer. "This is something you need to do. Not for me, not for Mom. This club will be for you." "But--" I start to say. "No buts." Dad holds up his hand. "This conversation is over, Leah. Art club is mandatory. You can keep your other clubs, but you need to do this one." I close my eyes. I never have a say in anything. We move every couple of years because of Dad's job. I wear ridiculous pajamas Mom picked out. Now I'm forced to give up QuizBowl because my parents think I need variety ? I turn around in a huff to stomp back up the stairs. Excerpted from Leah vs. Art by Joy McCullough, Veeda Bybee All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
