Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (3 page)

A
nd then there was lunch. Students everywhere, and not a friend in sight.

Oh, but there was a
fiend
in sight. It seems that my brother’s old buddy, Miller the Killer, has a little brother. And by
little
, I mean
enormous
. I’d seen Miller—and Mini-Miller looks just like him. Only bigger and uglier.

I was standing at the front of the cafeteria when he walked up to me. “Muuuuuunh,” he grunted. “Muuuuuuunh.” He was dragging his leg behind him.

Then he grinned a stupid grin at me.

“Are you supposed to be a zombie?” I asked. “Because clearly someone has eaten your brain.”

He narrowed his piggy eyes at me. “You’re Rafe Khatchadorian’s sister, right?” Mini-Miller plucked my chocolate chip cookie right off my tray and ate it in a single gulp.

“What makes you say that?” I replied.

Mini-Miller glared. “It says ‘Khatchadorian’ on your notebook.”

“Oh, you can read that?” I asked. That must have been the wrong thing to say, because he flipped my lunch tray right out of my hands. Food splattered all over the floor, and the hard plastic tray landed with a clatter that rang through the cafeteria.

“Oops,” Mini-Miller said. Then he laughed, stomped on my foot, and walked away.

N
EED SOME HELP?” someone asked in a screechy voice that made my eardrums want to shrivel up and die. She sounded like the Screecher from the Black Lagoon.

When I turned and saw where the voice came from, I jumped. She didn’t just sound like a screechy Creature from the Black Lagoon. She, uh, kind of looked like it too. And she was dressed in what looked like a costume straight out of the 1950s.

Not to mention the girl was huge. Okay, that’s
softening it. She was fat. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Some people look like manatees that have escaped from a musical theater production. Some people look like supermodels. I’m not judging, just stating facts. I’m no supermodel myself. You’ve seen the pictures.

I’ll say one other thing: In a cafeteria full of kids, the Screecher was the only one who stood up to help. So she actually looked pretty good to me.

The Screecher flipped over my tray and started piling my cup, plate, and bowl on it. “I’M RHONDA,” she said, grinning up at me. She had a really friendly smile—white teeth and a dimple in her left cheek.

“Oh. Hi.” I squatted to gather my silverware.

“YOU HAVE MASHED POTATO ON YOUR SHIRT,” Rhonda told me.

I sighed.

“AND YOUR FACE,” she added.

I let my silverware clatter onto the plastic tray. “Do you know where the girls’ room is?”

“DOWN THE HALL, TO YOUR LEFT. WANT ME TO SHOW YOU?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve got it.” I took the tray from her hands. “Thanks.”

“ANYTIME!” Another bright smile, and then she stomped back to her seat. She walked like she talked: loudly.

So, in half a day, I’d met Mini-Miller and the Screechy Creature from the Grease Lagoon. Surely HVMS couldn’t produce anything weirder—right?

Wrong.

W
hen I left the cafeteria, the noise suddenly died down (and I’m not just talking about Rhonda). The only students in the hall were three girls clustered around a locker, and they all looked like they’d been dressed by the same celebrity stylist. They eyed me for a minute, and then one put up her hand to shield a whisper. The others laughed.

I’d seen them before. All three are in my French class. Missy Trillin is clearly in charge of, like, the entire school. And everyone in it. In class earlier today, a nerdy boy with glasses had made the mistake of sitting in the seat she wanted.

Missy’s family is incredibly rich. Her mother invented Mac N Cheesyohs—you know, macaroni-and-cheese on a stick that you heat up in the toaster—so they have gobs of money. Everyone wants to dress like Missy. Everyone wants to go to her parties. Everyone wants to ride in her solid-gold limousine.

The two celebutantes with Missy were named Brittany and Bethany, but I wasn’t sure which was which. Looking at them, I finally understood what Rafe had meant about my pony backpack. These girls had clothes that made my T-shirt and jeans look like sewn-together old dish towels. Their perfect skin made my face look like someone had attacked me with a permanent marker. Their white teeth could’ve blinded anyone within fifteen feet of them, and you could probably lose a pet Chihuahua somewhere in the middle of their thick, puffy hairstyles. (In fact, Missy actually did have a pet Chihuahua.) I felt like I’d just wandered into a shampoo commercial they were starring in.