1

Pinkie Swear

The yellow school bus rattles past the stretch of cornfields, leaving behind the mandatory get-to-know-you camping trip.

June knocks my hiking boot with her lake-soaked sneaker. “You promise, right?”

I nod. It’s been twenty-four hours since the thing happened.

“You have to say it out loud.” She slips her long blond braid through the back of her I Love Texas cap.

“Fine.” I sigh. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

She holds out her pinkie with the green nail polish.

I link mine with hers.

“Pinkie swear,” she says.

“Pinkie swear,” I say.

June looks out the bus window as I take the bag of lemon jelly beans from my backpack and put it between us. “But if I’m being totally honest, I think you should say something. What those girls did wasn’t okay. And it wasn’t funny. It was mean.” I pop some candy into my mouth.

“Leave it alone, Bess. Please.” A redness spreads across her long neck. “Telling only makes things worse.”

“But saying nothing never fixed anything.” I put my hand on top of hers. “Look, I’ll do it with you.”

I hear Emmy and Zee laughing two rows in front of us and then someone from the back of the bus starts singing.

June ignores it all and scoots closer. I can smell her lemony breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to be new. You’ve lived here your whole life. If I say anything, I’ll be that girl forever.”

“Or maybe--hear me out--you’ll be the girl who stood up to those jerks,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “Please, Bess. You promised. Not one word. Like it never happened.”

2

Fingers Crossed

I rub the gray and white fur between Barnaby’s ears and kiss his spotted nose for good luck. Then I look in the mirror and braid the part of my hair that is now purple. I love it. I think it makes me look fearless. Like I’d do anything.

I tuck in the stray rebel curls. When I’m done, I straighten my Taylor Swift poster. The one I got when Dad took Emmy and me to the concert for Hanukkah last year. A top-five night.

One more quick mirror check. Cowboy boots, favorite blue beret, tie-dyed tee, faded jeans with the rip above the knee.

Barnaby nudges my hand. “Okay, fella.” I scratch his belly and he snuggles his twelve-pound body close to mine. We got him three years ago. He’s part mini–Australian shepherd, part poodle, part something else that makes his giant ears stand straight up. “Today’s the big day. I find out if I’m the new president of sixth grade.”

My lips twist as I think back to when I gave my speech two weeks ago. Mateo Lopez, Zara Flynn, and I were standing in a straight line on the stage in the big auditorium. The lights felt hot on my cheeks and the one above my head buzzed.

While I was excited to be president, I was dreading the speech part. Up there on stage, it didn’t matter that I’d planned, prepared, and practiced what I was going to say, like, a million times. Or that I did a morning kindness meditation. My hands were still clammy, I talked way too fast, and my nerves marched like ants across my chest as I stood there and promised No Homework Wednesdays, a new panini maker for the cafeteria, and a book vending machine.

But when I was done, kids clapped. I could even hear Emmy shouting my name and, later in the day, I got texts from June with dancing horse gifs.

This morning I find out if my campaign promises were enough. I latch the silver Jewish star necklace that was my great-grandmother’s. It feels good around my neck. Like she’s with me. I take a deep breath. Remembering. We were super close. Not sure if that was because Nana always made me feel like I was the only person in her world. Or because she baked the best sugar cookies ever. Whatever it was, it’s been two years and I really miss her.

So last April on my eleventh birthday, Mom gave me Nana’s Jewish star. She said it was the only thing Nana saved when she fled Poland and came to America after World War II. The necklace had been sewn into the lining of her coat.

I run my fingers across the grooves. I straighten my fluffy comforter, then I dab on my pink watermelon lip gloss. Almost ready.

Barnaby trails me like a shadow out of my room. My little brother Avi’s already sitting at the wooden table in the kitchen, burping the alphabet.

I shake my head. “You’re gross.”

“Morning,” he says between L and M.

“Want one?” I ask, taking a bag of Dad’s frozen waffles out of the freezer. He makes a big batch for us every Sunday.

Avi nods and starts tap tap tapping his foot.

I rub my hand across his buzz cut. “You’re okay, bug.”

He keeps tapping.

“Fishes?”

He nods again. That’s what he calls the worries that swim in his belly. I tried to teach him how to meditate, but he said the quiet just makes the fish swim faster.

Mom promises me that Avi’s fine. That lots of kids have anxiety and she’s working with him on it. Well, her and Lola--the world’s greatest horse. She’s milkshake-brown with a white patch running down her nose. I love that Mom is an equine therapist. That way she can help Avi and we all get to ride Lola and the rest of the horses at the stable.

I pluck the waffles from the toaster and put two blueberry ones on Avi’s plate. He smothers one with maple syrup and stops tapping. Then he puts the other one on a napkin and slides it to his left.

“Penelope doesn’t like syrup.”

“Good to know.”

“But she loves fruit flies and grape jelly sandwiches cut into triangles,” he says.

I nod. When Avi first started talking about Penelope, I thought she was a kid from his kindergarten class. But when she was with him all the time and everywhere, I realized that she wasn’t an actual classmate. She was his invisible friend.

My phone buzzes with a text from June: Good luck today

I smile.

“Mom says no phones at the table.” I look up and Avi’s staring at me.

“Mom also says to mind your own business.”

I text June back: Fingers crossed we both win

Mom walks into the room. Her sweater unfortunately matches the striped wallpaper behind her. I discreetly slide my phone off the end of the table and into my lap.

Avi’s mid-burping X, Y, and Z.

Mom pulls her wiry brown curls into a low ponytail, then takes a waffle from the top the stack. “Looks delicious. Thanks for getting breakfast ready, Bess.” She sips her coffee. “And no texting at the table.”

Avi smiles.

“No burping either.”

I smile back. Then my phone timer goes off. I take one last bite of my waffle and grab my backpack. “Gotta run.”

“Wait,” Avi says. He jets out of the room, then darts back in and hands me Charizard, his lucky Pokemon. “This is for you today. I hope you win.”

I tuck the little plastic figurine in my pocket and wrap my arms around my gross and somehow still sweet little brother. “Thanks, bug.”

I send a Snap to Emmy and June: New sixth grade president? I walk out the door, ready to find out if my promises were enough.

3

Lucky Charizard

When I get to school, the ants are back and marching up my spine, one by one. I take a deep breath. The hall is lined with lockers and smells like a mix of bleach and breakfast potatoes. I center myself and head straight to the auditorium. There’s a buzz of voices as the sixers--what my school calls sixth graders--file in. I look to the left and see Principal James on the stage. I rub Lucky Charizard and am grateful for my sweet, gross little brother.

Emmy runs over, her wavy black hair pushed back with her signature pom-pom headband. “You’re totally going to win.”

I hug my best friend. “I hope so.”

We met four years ago at Camp Echo Lake. I was standing next to her, eating a hot dog, when she offered me her French fries if I’d audition for Beauty and the Beast with her. She wanted to be Belle but didn’t want to audition alone. I didn’t want the fries but did want someone to ride horses with me. June got the part and all summer long, I listened to her sing “Be Our Guest” on stage, in our bunk, and at the stables.

Emmy holds out her wrist with our matching BFF bracelet. We got them for each other last year from Bojangles Gems. They’re blue and white beads with two tiny silver hearts in the middle. I touch mine to hers. The hearts clank. “Well, I voted for you. Besides, Mateo’s hamburger food truck idea doesn’t really work when you’re a vegetarian.”

We laugh. “True, but Zara totally nailed it with the later start time for school. Who doesn’t want to sleep more? I mean, I do,” I say.

“Even if all the grown-ups agree this is a great idea, which I doubt they will, it’d likely not even happen until we’re in seventh grade or maybe even eighth. And that’s a year or two from now,” Emmy says, tossing her sparkly backpack under the seat next to mine.

“Still, she could win.” Doubt nibbles the corners of my confidence.

Emmy squeezes my hand. “She could, but she won’t.”

Principal James steps up to the microphone and starts with all the boring stuff: schedule changes, the permission slips that need to be turned in for the field trip to Philadelphia to see the Declaration of Independence and the Liberty Bell, and the importance of being on time to school. Apparently, lots of kids have been coming in late. Then he clears his throat the way grown-ups do when they have something important to say.

My stomach clenches, and I lace my fingers tightly in my lap. I wish Barnaby was with me. My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if the kid to my right can hear the thump-thump-thump-thump. I look over and am thankful he’s not paying attention to anything but the scab on his knee. Principal James taps the mic. Everyone gets quiet. Well, almost everyone. Dillon McPherson shouts, “Mateo for president!”

Principal James tilts his head disapprovingly and holds up two fingers.

Dillon stops talking.

My throat feels dry.

“All the candidates should be proud of their campaigns.” His deep voice booms through the auditorium. “There were many creative ideas and thoughtful suggestions.”

Silence lands loudly at the end of his words.

He takes the microphone from the stand and walks to the edge of the stage.

Emmy looks at me in anticipation.

“The new president of the sixth grade is--”

I cross my toes. Hold my breath. Please. Please. Please. Let it be me.

“Bess Stein!”

My heart erupts with happiness.

Cheers. Claps. Snaps.

Emmy hugs me.

“The new vice president is June Myer!”

I look for June and see her in the second row. She turns around and gives me a thumbs-up. This is what we manifested that night on the school camping trip.

We were drying out June’s wet stuff in our tent. Earlier that day the thing happened. The one June made me promise not to tell anyone about. It’s been a month of keeping my mouth shut about the two sixth graders who bullied her the whole time. They made fun of her name, calling her July. Made fun of her clothes and stole her stuff--including her new white sneakers. Then tossed all of it in the lake when the teachers weren’t around.

I was angry.

June was sad.

I wanted to confront the girls. Get the teacher. Do something.

But June said no.

Instead, we stayed up all night. Talking.

We talked about the trails she used to ride with her horse Rose. I could hear the crack in her voice when she told me how much she missed her home in Texas. She’d moved here just three weeks before the camping trip.

We talked about how we both loved the twin sisters from Double Days, this amazing book we were reading.

We talked about the mosquitos that were definitely biting us.

And the more we talked, the more I liked her. And the more I wanted her to like it here.

I had an idea. We should run for president and vice president of sixth grade.

She was nervous. Didn’t think she could win.

I told her she wouldn’t be running alone as the new kid, but with me. Bess and June, together. We’d have a campaign slogan: Horseback riders make things happen!

The day after we returned home, she texted that she’d do it. She’d run.

As I leave the auditorium to go to ELA, my phone buzzes.

Text from June: We did it!

It’s only the end of September, but I already know this is going to be the best year.

Ever.

4

Worms

School ends with a pop quiz in history. I’m grateful I did the reading in free block after Ms. Garcia shushed June and me for talking nonstop about all the cool things we’re going to do this year.

On the way home, I pop into Blackbird’s Cafe.

When I open the door, all I smell is pecan pie. It’s on the counter next to Burt and Betty Kane, who wave from their stools. Well, technically they’re not their stools, but they’ve been sitting on them since Dad bought the place three years ago. Burt and Betty are retired and come in every day to share a slice of Dad’s famous pecan pie. The one that actually won a blue ribbon at the Lancaster Fair.

“Well?” Dad asks me as he hands Burt and Betty two forks and one piece of pie.

“You’re looking at the new sixth grade president!” I say, trying not to jump up and down right there in the middle of Blackbird’s.

Dad and the Kanes start clapping.

“I want to hear everything.” Dad smiles with his green eyes and scratches the gray-speckled beard that Mom hates. I open the pastry case to take out a piece of double fudge cake. I tell them about the morning assembly, and when Principal James announced that June and I had won.

“Really proud of you,” Dad says.

“Us too,” the Kanes say in unison.

My body warms. “Thanks.” We talk until Dad needs to head back into the kitchen, something about a new fall recipe with cranberries. Dad’s not just the owner of Blackbird’s but also the chef.