He went on about chess club. Ollie bit her tongue. She wanted to go outside, she wanted to ride her bike, and she didn’t want to rejoin chess club.
When Mr. Easton finally came to a stop, she said, not quite meeting his eyes, “I’ll send the club some links about opening gambits. Super helpful. They’ll work fine. Um, tell everyone I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “Well, it’s your decision. But if you were to change your mind, we’d love—”
“Yeah,” said Ollie. “I’ll think about it.” Hastily she added, “Gotta run. Have a good day. Bye.” She was out the door before Mr. Easton could object, but she could feel him watching her go.
Past the green lockers, thirty-six on each side, down the hall that always smelled like bleach and old sandwiches. Out the double doors and onto the front lawn. All around was bright sun and cool air shaking golden trees: fall in East Evansburg. Ollie took a glad breath. She was going to ride her bike down along the creek as far and as fast as she could go. Maybe she’d jump in the water. The creek wasn’t that cold. She would go home at dusk—sunset at 5:58. She had lots of time. Her dad would be mad that she got home late, but he was always worrying about something. Ollie could take care of herself.
Her bike was a Schwinn, plum-colored. She had locked it neatly to the space nearest the gate. No one in Evansburg would steal your bike—probably—but Ollie loved hers and sometimes people would prank you by stealing your wheels and hiding them.
She had both hands on her bike lock, tongue sticking out as she wrestled with the combination, when a shriek split the air. “It’s mine!” a voice yelled. “Give it back! No—you can’t touch that. NO!”
Ollie turned.
Most of the sixth grade was milling on the front lawn, watching Coco Zintner hop around like a flea—it was she who’d screamed. Coco would not have been out of place in a troop of flower fairies. Her eyes were large, slanting, and ice-blue. Her strawberry-blond hair was so strawberry that in the sunshine it looked pink. You could imagine Coco crawling out of a daffodil each morning and sipping nectar for breakfast. Ollie was a little jealous. She herself had a headful of messy brown curls and no one would ever mistake her for a flower fairy. But at least, Ollie reminded herself, if Phil Greenblatt steals something from me, I’m big enough to sock him.
Phil Greenblatt had stolen Coco’s sparkly notebook. The one Coco had closed when Mr. Easton called on her. Phil was ignoring Coco’s attempts to get it back—he was a foot taller than her. Coco was tiny. He held the notebook easily over Coco’s head, flipped to the page he wanted, and snickered. Coco shrieked with frustration.
“Hey, Brian,” called Phil. “Take a look at this.”
Coco burst into tears.
Brian Battersby was the star of the middle school hockey team even though he was only twelve himself. He was way shorter than Phil, but looked like he fit together better, instead of sprouting limbs like a praying mantis. He was lounging against the brick wall of the school building, watching Phil and Coco with interest.
Ollie started to get mad. No one liked Coco much—she had just moved from the city and her squeaky enthusiasm annoyed everyone. But really, make her cry in school?
Brian looked at the notebook Phil held out to him. He shrugged. Ollie thought he looked more embarrassed than anything.
Coco started crying harder.
Brian definitely looked uncomfortable. “Come on, Phil, it might not be me.”
Mike Campbell said, elbowing Brian, “No, it’s totally you.” He eyed the notebook page again. “I guess it could be a dog that looks like you.”
“Give it back!” yelled Coco through her tears. She snatched again. Phil was waving the notebook right over her head, laughing. The sixth grade was laughing too, and now Ollie could see what they were all looking at. It was a picture—a good picture, Coco could really draw—of Brian and Coco’s faces nestled together with a heart around them.
Phil sat behind Coco in math class; he must have seen her drawing. Poor dumb Coco—why would you do that if you were sitting in front of nosy Philip Greenblatt?
“Come on, Brian,” Mike was saying. “Don’t you want to go out with Hot Cocoa here?”
Coco looked like she wanted to run away except that she really wanted her notebook back and Ollie had pretty much had enough of the whole situation, and so she bent down, got a moderate-sized rock, and let it fly.
Numbers and throwing things, those were the two talents of Olivia Adler. She’d quit the softball team last year too, but her aim was still on.
Her rock caught Brian squarely in the back of the head, dropped him thump onto the grass, and turned everyone’s attention from Coco Zintner to her.
Ideally, Ollie would have hit Phil, but Phil was facing her and Ollie didn’t want to put out an eye. Besides, she didn’t have a lot of sympathy for Brian. He knew perfectly well that he was the best at hockey, and half the girls giggled about him, and he wasn’t coming to Coco’s rescue even though he’d more or less gotten her into this with his dumb friends and his dumb charming smile.
Ollie crossed her arms, thought in her mom’s voice, Well, in for a penny . . . , hefted another rock, and said, “Oops. My hand slipped.” The entire sixth grade was staring. The kids in front started backing away. A lot of them thought she had cracked since last year. “Um, seriously, guys,” she said. “Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do?”
Coco Zintner took advantage of Phil’s distraction to snatch her notebook back. She gave Ollie a long look, and darted away.
Ollie thought, I’m going to have detention for a year, and then Brian got up, spitting out dirt, and said, “That was a pretty good throw.”
The noise began. Ms. Mouton, that day’s lawn monitor, finally noticed the commotion. “Now,” she said, hurrying over. “Now, now.” Ms. Mouton was the librarian and she was not the best lawn monitor.
Ollie decided that she wasn’t going to say sorry or anything. Let them call her dad, let them shake their heads, let them give her detention tomorrow. At least tomorrow the weather would change and she would not be stuck in school on a nice day, answering questions.