Odd Girl In (4 page)

She shrugged. “It's okay. Since we're friends, I forgive you.”

Fantastic. I now had
one
person who considered me a friend for my Champs survey. Not that the feeling was mutual. “Uh, thanks,” I said, slipping into a bathroom stall
to change. Normally, I wasn't so modest, but it was a chance to escape Emily.

Or so I thought.

Her feet appeared on the tile just outside my stall.

“We get graded on how we do out there, you know,” she said from the other side of the door.

“I'm doing great,” I said. “Don't worry.”

“A ‘B' is average,” she corrected me.

With my shirt around my neck, I opened the stall door. “How do you know my grade?”

“I have access to
everyone's
grades,” Emily said mysteriously. “If you want to do better, I can teach you.”

“Thanks, but I'm all set.” I closed the door.

“Think about it,” she said. “We'll talk more tonight.”

“Sorry,” I said, slipping on my jeans. “I have plans.”

“I
know
.” She made a scoffing sound. “They're with me and my stepmom.”

I froze, one foot suspended in the air with an unlaced sneaker. “What?”

“You're in Champs, right?” asked Emily. “My stepmom teaches the class.”

I sighed and sank down onto the toilet. “Of course she does.”

“And I'm her assistant.” Emily almost sounded proud.
“It's the first year she's trusted me with so much responsibility.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to be sick.”

“You know what helps an upset stomach?” she asked. “If—”

I leaned back and flushed the toilet to drown her out. Maybe being a student at St. Ignatius wouldn't be so terrible.

Chapter 3

I
f there was one thing I hated more than a
poodle in a dress, it was
me
in a dress. But Dad insisted we look our best for the Champs evaluation.

“First impressions are very important,” he said, helping Parker knot a tie. “Especially since you're joining the class a week late.”

“We've already missed a week?” I asked, slipping into my sandals. “That's a lot of learning down the drain. Maybe we should just wait for the next round.”

Dad smirked. “Nice try. Ms. Success will help you catch up on everything you missed.”

“Ms. Success.” Nick chuckled to himself.

Dad pointed a warning finger at him. “I don't want to hear a single ‘ha,' ‘hee,' or ‘ho' out of you all night.”

“Okay, okay,” said Nick.

“Does everyone have their surveys ready?” Dad held out his hand, and we each passed ours over.

He studied them, wincing a little more with each new one he read.

“Hey!” I pulled at his arm. “We're right here. Save the disappointed face for when we're not around.”

“No, it's not that,” said Dad. “It's just … I should have helped you fill these out.”

“What was wrong with mine?” asked Parker.

Dad gave him a look. “Do you really want me to say?”

Parker crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “I've got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Dad cleared his throat. “The question was, ‘How fast can you run?' You answered, ‘As fast as my servants can carry me.'” Dad lowered the paper.

Nick and I laughed, and Parker did his best to play innocent. “Do you think Alfred Nobel did all his own running? He probably had a guy.”

“You're so lame, dude,” Nick told Parker.

“Nick,” said Dad, “you said the capital of France was
F
.” He pursed his lips. “It wasn't a spelling question.”

I doubled over with laughter, and Parker slapped Nick on the back. “It's okay. You can get a job as one of my servants.”

“And finally we come to Alex,” said Dad, squeezing my shoulder. “For social groups, you can't count being a member at Sam's Club. Especially since it's my card.”

By this point, we were all laughing, and even Dad couldn't resist a smile. “At least you'll all get flying colors in the humor category.”

The Champs class was taught at the university where Dad worked, so he could drop us off on Tuesdays and Thursdays and then go to his office until class was over. For evaluation night, however, he came with us to the office of Ms. Success.

Whatever she was doing, it seemed to be working. While Dad's office was in one of the old, drafty buildings with crooked doors, Ms. Success was in the newly built ivory tower, where all the inner doors were cherry wood with chrome handles. The placard on her door actually read “Ms. Success,” and I could hear Nick snicker into his hand.

Dad nudged my brother and knocked.

“Come,” said a woman's voice. It was loud, authoritative, and almost masculine.

Dad poked his head into the room, and the woman's
voice sounded even louder. “Jaaake!” She stretched out Dad's first name. “How the heck are ya?”

“Just fine, Sharon. I've brought my kids.” Dad held the door open wider and motioned for us to step inside.

Ms. Success was tall with a hawklike nose and enormous brown eyes that made her look slightly cartoonish. Her brown hair was cropped short against her head, and she was sitting behind a massive glass desk.

Ms. Success smiled at us, revealing a predatory amount of teeth, and got to her feet.

“Well, well. This must be Nick, Parker, and Alexis.” She pointed to all of us in turn.

“Alex,” I corrected.

“It's Alexis,” said Emily, coming in behind us. “We already made your T-shirt.” She held up a blue shirt as proof, showing me the back. My name had been printed above the number one, like a sports jersey.

“Yep. Alexis,” I said, taking the shirt from her with a tight smile. “And it's blue.”

Blue was Mom's favorite color. Her entire office—curtains, carpet, paintings—had something blue in each part of it.
I
loved black, even though Parker had pointed out on several occasions that it was actually the absence of all color.

“It's nice though, right, Alex?” Nick elbowed me and nodded encouragingly.

I turned the shirt over. On the front was the same smiling star from the pamphlet, but this time in an Olympic-style jumpsuit. Above the star were the words
CHUMPS ARE LAME
…, and below the star,
CHAMPS GOT GAME
!

“Wow,” I said. “It's … really something.”

Emily handed Nick and Parker theirs, introducing herself as she went. “I'm Emily Gold. I'm one of Alexis's friends from school, and I'm the Champs coaching assistant.”

“And I, of course, am your coach.” Ms. Success winked at us. “But I'm sure you already guessed that.”

“Ms. Success,” I said. “Is … is that your real last name?”

“Alex …,” said Dad.

Ms. Success held up her hand and smiled. “It's fine. I get that question
all
the time because of who I am and how well I do.”

I exchanged a doubtful glance with my brothers while Ms. Success strolled around her desk. “Success really
is
my last name. Sharon Success.” She gave a small laugh that barely lifted her shoulders. “You might even say I'm
sharin' success
with you.” She fired finger guns at my brothers and me, one after the other, and Nick could barely contain his laughter.

Thankfully, Ms. Success assumed he was amused by her joke, so she smirked and went back to her seat.

“Jake, why don't you and the kids relax while I take a peek at those surveys.” She pointed to a row of folding chairs against the wall that looked out of place in the plush office. Dad handed her the papers, and we all sat and waited nervously.

Just like Dad, Ms. Success frowned as she read through the papers, shuffling them and re-reading them several times. Occasionally, she turned the pages sideways and upside down, maybe hoping to shake out
good
answers.

To keep from going crazy, I stopped watching her and grabbed a framed group photo off a bookshelf beside me.

“That's the current class,” said Emily, crouching next to me. She pointed to a guy in the back row of the picture and lowered her voice. “And that's Trevor,” she whispered with a little grin. “He's—”

Before she could explain, Ms. Success cleared her throat and put the surveys down, folding her hands in front of her. Emily stood and so did the rest of us, as if Ms. Success were some judge giving a ruling.

“It's nice to meet you kids,” said Ms. Success, smiling with all her teeth again. “I like your father, and I want to like you. However …” She made a clicking sound in the corner of her mouth. “We've got a lot of work to do.”

“We had a feeling that might be the case,” said Dad.

Ms. Success looked at the paper on top. “Nick.”

My brother sat up straight. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You're athletic and you've got great social skills, but … it might not hurt you to get a tutor. Or at least someone who can tell you the difference between depression and the Great Depression.” She pulled out a thick black marker and circled the intellectual portion, sliding the paper to the edge of her desk.

Nick blushed and retrieved it. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Parker!” She practically barked his name, and he jumped. “No running, swimming, or otherwise useful skills, but you've got the sarcasm down. You strike me as a very bright, funny guy.”

He relaxed and smiled.

Ms. Success shook her head. “Too bad bright and funny won't keep the enemies from tying bricks to your ankles and throwing you in the lake.”

Parker stared at her, wide-eyed. “Huh?”

“Um, Sharon?” said Dad.

She held her hands up. “I apologize. That was a bit extreme. Worst case scenario.” She circled the physical portion of his paper and slid it over. “Your hair would probably help with buoyancy. I'm sure you'd be okay.”

“Yes, Ms…. Coach … Success,” he stammered.

“And finally we get to Miss Alexis,” she said, fanning herself with my paper. “You're smart and active enough, and
you're friends with Emily, which is a plus.” She nodded to her stepdaughter, who grinned and stood with her hands on her hips like a superhero. “But I question your involvement in
The Breakfast Club
since a, it was fictional, and b, it was well before your time. Let's make some real friends, okay?”

Once I'd gotten my paper back, Ms. Success nodded to Emily, who came forward with three identical books entitled
The Secrets of Success
. The cover featured none other than Ms. Success, hands held out with palms up, balancing the words “you” and “winner.”

“I'm sure you learned a little about the Champs philosophy from our pamphlet,” said Ms. Success. She took the books from Emily and opened each one to the front page. With a ballpoint pen, she autographed them for us while she kept talking.

“Any child can be a champ if they have a balanced life and the skills to help them excel. I'm here to teach you those skills.” She handed over the books. “This is your life material. It'll come in handy well beyond your days in my class. Maybe even as a flotation device.” She pointed to Parker and winked.

He glowered at her, but she didn't notice, already having moved on to the binders Emily was now passing out.

“Your class schedules are in there, as well as worksheets and progress forms,” said Ms. Success. “Every session, we'll
touch on a different skill. Last week's were Time Management and Adventures in Organization, which I'll review in a bit. Are there any questions so far?”

Parker raised his hand. “How are we graded?”

“The same as in life,” said Ms. Success. She squinted in a way that was probably meant to seem contemplative, but actually looked more like constipated. “You're graded by whether or not you succeed.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “So … this is a pass/fail course?”

Emily sucked in her breath and Ms. Success winced. “We don't like to use the
f
word around here, Alexis. Fail, can't, impossible: Those are chump words that don't belong in a champ's vocabulary.”

It took an unnatural amount of willpower not to roll my eyes. “Sorry.” I pointed to Dad. “But he says we
all
have to pass the class. We just want to know what it's going to take.”

Ms. Success frowned and lowered her voice. “Are you talking about a bribe, Ms. Evins? You think slipping me a few Benjamins will get you a passing grade?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“Oh.” Ms. Success sounded slightly disappointed. “Then your best bet is to show up for every class, work hard, and make it to the Champs Championship, since that's fifty percent of your grade.”

“Championship?” repeated Parker, always up for a little competition. “What's that?”