Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship

A
my looks up at Misty. “Excuse us, but Portia and I are focusing on serious business here.”

Misty insists, “This is about a missing grasshopper with only three legs. I'd say that's pretty serious.” She sighs. “How will she ever survive without me?”

Amy just shakes her head in an “I told you so” sort of way, slipping her fashion sketch into the center of her pop-star-emblazoned homework folder. “Portia, text me when you're ready to get serious about beautification.”

Caught in the middle, all I can do is just nod okay. In an attempt to escape this tense girl triangle, I take out my PDA to make a few quick notes.

 

OBSERVATION: Amy and Misty appear to be from different planets, both of which are currently circling the same galaxy, and unless I figure out a solution soon, they are about to collide!

F
riendship is everything. For Clare, Carol, Roxanne, Chesley, Mary, Amy, and all of my friends who are the magic formula for my joy and happiness.

 

Special thanks to…

 

Liesa for her gentle touch, Dan for his unwavering support, and Matt for believing in Portia and me from the very beginning.

Elsa and Norman, you wrote the book on true friendship.

Mom, Susie, Stevie, Hannah, Joey, Olivia, Mary, Sophie, Josie, Elaine, Larry, and my whole family, whose love and devotion inspire me everyday.

And to the coolest and most loyal friends I could ever ask for, Benjamin and Will.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

2:42
P.M.,
MATH CLASS, PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

M
ath! What an incredibly irrelevant subject. Aren't there other bigger problems in the world to solve than a strange girl's candy budget? There is world hunger, overpopulation, and I'm pretty sure there are hundreds of animals going extinct every day. And Miss Killjoy is having us ponder a totally ridiculous and fictional shopping spree? I'm not even allowed to let candy enter my household. It's a major Indigo (she's my mom) violation to even think about refined sugar. So this whole math exercise relates to my life as much as hot chocolate marshmallow fudge does to agave-sweetened soy carob pudding!

Since Indigo is a health food chef and restaurant owner of a local organic eatery called Contentment (aka The Tent), my house, and in particular my refrigerator, is a no-sugar zone. Instead it's packed with fresh vegetables and fruits handpicked from our overgrown backyard garden. In our sputtery ancient refrigerator, you can also find recyclable containers of every possible size, filled with food experiments created by Indigo herself for The Tent's ever-morphing menu. Many of these food combinations will most likely never make it past our driveway,
but to my “good fortune,” they do make it to our dining room table almost every meal.

I try to focus on what Miss Killjoy is teaching us, but the numbers and decimal points blur together until my eyes cross. I switch pencils, adjust the angle of my head, tuck my hair behind my ears for better listening, but still I find it hard to pay attention. It sounds like she's repeating the same words over and over again.

As I look out the large floor-to-ceiling window of our classroom, I see the quiet semitropical small town of Palmville, California, just beyond the tall palm trees that border the middle school's parking lot. I imagine that right now Indigo is in the back office of The Tent, figuring out how many pomegranates she'll be ordering today for a new round of menu-tasting. There's more than a 70 percent chance that her mind is swimming with thoughts of organic ingredients for just the right food combination that she will serve to her loyal customers, who expect only the healthiest and the most delectable creations from her. My taste buds, on the other hand, don't always agree with Indigo's 100 percent organic and cruelty-free food experiments. My idea of a fortified breakfast consists of an oversize bowl of Frosted Flakes with two lightly toasted strawberry Pop-Tarts for dessert.

Just around the corner from Indigo's office, past the storage cabinet and walk-in refrigerator, you will find The Tent's assistant chef, Hap Lester, who is just shy of thirty years old. He is chopping away at an assortment of sweet onions for the late breakfast rush, perfecting a Spanish omelet with a new twist. He barely misses his index finger midway through one of his expert chops. That's because he's caught in a daydream starring none other than my mother, whom he imagines will recognize his true love for her one day and then fall deeply and hopelessly in love with him.

Suddenly Miss Killjoy's high-pitched voice sends me soaring back to middle school reality. With an “I just wolfed a whole bowl of super sour lemons” puckery smile, she asks, “Portia, what do you think the solution is?”

Oh no! My temporary mind vacation has led to a potentially disastrous result and a further rift in the not-so-compatible ongoing relationship between me and mathematics. I open my mouth, hoping that my brain will provide me with just the right word combination to rescue me from this math jam. Just then, by some miracle of awesome timing in the universe, someone knocks on
the classroom door. In walks a shy-looking girl, clutching a shiny purple retainer case like it's the last one on the planet Earth.

Miss K. welcomes the new girl. “Class, this is Misty Longfellow. She just arrived from Precipitation, Oregon. I want you all to give Misty a great big sunny Palmville welcome.”

Halfheartedly and terribly out of sync, the whole class attempts a communal greeting. “Welcome, Misty.”

Misty lifts her head slightly and manages a quarter of a wave. She responds with a quivering whisper. “Thank you.”

Miss K. then leads her to the empty seat just to the right of me. Misty's head faces in the downward direction of the classroom floor the entire time she makes her way to her seat. Just as she's about to sit down, she drops her retainer case and shrieks at the top of her lungs, “My Ralphie!”

I'm not sure, but I think I see a furry black thing with eight legs that looks suspiciously like a spider crawl past my olive flats. Hold on, it is a spider!

For the first time in the history of seventh grade, I see
Miss K.'s sour-lemon smile fade away. She screams, “It's a spider! Okay, nobody panic. It's only a SPIDER!”

Twenty-two kids plus one terrified teacher equals total chaos. The only three kids who aren't freaking out about the runaway spider are Misty, Webster (the class brain with the sparkling green eyes), and me. Remembering what Indigo has always taught me about being kind to all living things, I zero in on Ralphie. He's crawling stealthily up Miss Killjoy's chair, about to nose-dive into her leather briefcase. I take out a lavender-tinted tissue from my convenient pocket pack and silently make a beeline for the confused spider. I corner him, take a long deep breath, and then scoop him up with the tissue.

Meanwhile, Misty zigzags between the disordered desks that used to be set in neat rows before Ralphie decided to make an escape. She opens her retainer case, excitedly insisting that I place Ralphie inside, which I do, tissue and all. Snap. The case closes, and Ralphie is back home safely.

Misty then leaps over a chair, catching my left elbow as I return to my desk. “You did it! You are Ralphie's savior. You must surely have a name.”

I take two steps back and answer her. “Portia.”

Misty freezes. With her eyes glazed over, she utters, “That's a magnificent name. Do you have a last one too?”

“Avatar.”

“Portia Avatar! That is the most perfect name I truly have ever heard in my entire life. It is unbelievably amazing to meet you, Portia Avatar.” She giggles as the rest of the class, including Miss Killjoy, slowly straighten themselves out and slide their desks back to their pre-Ralphian positions, pretending that the last five minutes of their lives never actually happened.

Then the bell rings. Miss Killjoy is so concerned about making a speedy exit from the classroom that she forgets to give us tomorrow's homework assignment.