Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (4 page)

Their eyes were on me as I walked along, looking for the girls’ room. It wasn’t where I expected it to be, but I kept hoping it would appear, like an oasis in the desert.

“Clip-clop,” Missy said, and the B’s cracked up.

I didn’t know what that meant, but it was clearly a joke, so I chuckled along.

“Um, hi,” I said with a smile. “Can you tell me where the girls’ room is?”

Missy gave me a pursed-lips smile that twisted up the side of her mouth. “Do I
know
you?” she asked. Her voice made it clear that she couldn’t
possibly
know me. She gave me an up-and-down look that made me want to go hide out in a locker for the rest of the year.

“I don’t think we know anyone who gets her clothes out of a Dumpster,” one of the B’s said.

“Or cuts her hair with a Weedwacker,” added the other.

Clearly, these girls were grade-A snobs. So I was all “I guess you guys blew off a couple of lessons at charm school, because that was seriously rude.” And then they burst into tears, and Missy tried to draw me a map to the girls’ room, but I just walked off.

Well, okay, not exactly true. I
did
just walk off. But I didn’t think of that witty comeback until three days later.

“Clip-clop!” Missy called after me. Her little
friends laughed, and they all took off, prancing down the hall like show ponies.

Great. Now they have some little inside joke.
Clip-clop.
What did that mean?

I came up with a few possibilities:

I wasn’t really sure which choice was correct, but—based on their personalities—my guess was number three. Though I went ahead and pretended it was number one.

Soooooo… now I had Grank and Screecher, a Mini-Miller,
and
a Princess Patrol to deal with. Could this day get any worse?

S
chool ended about five million hours later. By the end of the day, I felt like I should just get
I AM RAFE KHATCHADORIAN’S SISTER
tattooed across my forehead to save everyone the trouble of mentioning it.

When the last bell rang, Missy climbed into her jewel-studded limo, and I headed back to my bus. Three whiplash-inducing miles later, I was safely home with my friends Nanci, Mari, and Patti. (Yes, they let me hang out with them, even though my name doesn’t end in an
i
and we don’t go to the same school.) We were sitting at the kitchen table, munching warm chocolate chip cookies that my Grandma Dotty, who lives with us now, had made.

“So, Georgia!” Mari smiled through her crumbs. “Are we ready to rock?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Just one more cookie,” Nanci said, grabbing five. I have no clue why she’s so thin.

“What happened to your shirt?” Patti asked.

“Mashed potatoes,” I explained. “Someone flipped them on me.”

“That is
so
wasteful.” Patti shook her head as she smoothed her natural-fiber batik shirt. Patti is very eco-friendly.

“Next time, I’ll give the guy a lecture,” I promised.

Then we headed out to the garage to practice.

I turned on my amp and strummed my electric guitar. Yes, that’s right, I’m in a

Nanci, Mari, and Patti are friends I made over the summer. They all go to Rafe’s school, Airbrook Arts, and I met them at the spring picnic. Mom insisted that we all go to it, since Rafe would be starting at Airbrook in the fall. We brought dessert, which is helpful for making friends with food-eating machines like Nanci.

Patti and Mari were with her. We started talking about baking, then about art (Nanci makes
awesome sculptures, and Mari and Patti are into painting), and then about music. It turns out that Nanci plays drums, Mari plays bass, and Patti plays the keyboard. “All we need is an electric guitarist,” Mari said.

So I said,

The next day I picked up my electric guitar and amp at a tag sale. Grandma Dotty loves tag sales, and somehow she managed to bargain with the guy who was selling them, until we paid just three dollars for both. And the rest is history.

Well… it
will be
history. Once we’re famous.

Naturally, Rafe was furious that I’d actually made friends at Airbrook Arts before he did, which only made me even
happier
to be in the band. We’re called the Awesomes! It’s our dream to play the school dance this year.

Mom let us keep our equipment in the garage, so we were all set up. “Should we do our theme song?” I asked.

“Let’s jam!” Mari shouted
—
and we blew the lid off that garage!

U
m, did I say we blew the lid off the garage?

Someone knocked on the door between the kitchen and the garage. A second later, Rafe’s messy-haired head was poking into my band’s space.

“Get out,” I said. It’s a reflex.

Rafe ignored me (also a reflex). “Can I listen to you guys practice?”

“No!” I shouted, but Mari had already said, “Sure, Rafe,” and Patti added, “Come on in!” So the next thing I knew, my brother was propped on a folding chair right next to the rack where we keep the extra paper towels and toilet paper. He smiled at me. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“It’s really cool that you guys have started a band,” Rafe said. He looked at me. “I didn’t know you could play guitar.”

“We wouldn’t have a band without Georgia,” Mari said.

“Really?” Rafe smirked in my direction. He tipped back in his chair, and I wished that it would fall over backward, dumping him onto the floor. “So, what kind of music do you play?” he asked.

“Loud,” Nanci told him.

My brother grinned. “My favorite!”

Mari, Nanci, and Patti cracked up. They’re really friendly, which is a pain sometimes. Like when they’re being nice to my brother.

“One!” Mari called. “Two! One-two-three-four!”

We launched into our theme song again. I added a little guitar solo in the middle, but it wasn’t really on purpose. My fingers just got stuck in the strings. Hey, give me a break—I’ve never had a single lesson, okay? I’ve been teaching myself by watching music videos. I can jump, twirl, even crawl on my knees while playing. I just can’t really make the notes come out right.