Chapter One CHAPTER ONE

• worst advice ever
• When my best friend, Juniper Green, was placed in a separate sixth-grade classroom from me, my mom said, “How interesting.”
• She said, “Look at what the world is giving you.”
• She said, “This is a wonderful opportunity to make a new friend.”
• She said, “You lucky girl!”
• To be clear: this is not interesting, wonderful, or lucky.

Which is why I’m sitting on a toilet in the sixth-grade wing of Jefferson Middle, hiding. The bathroom is empty. The air smells like bleach mixed with a peanut butter sandwich. The beige tiles, which I like to count for something to do, gleam like wet noodles. The sink faucet in the far-left corner doesn’t turn off all the way. Da-wip, da-wip, da-wip…

My classmates from 6-B are having Snack and Stretch. It’s a ridiculous activity, which seems obvious, given the name. Still, I’m happy to list the reasons why. First, I mean, seriously, Snack and Stretch sounds like something toddlers do. Second, seeing how Juniper is in 6-O and her Snack and Stretch happens an hour later, I’ve got no one to sit with. Third, it’s way better to feel alone with yourself than alone in a crowd.

I grab a Sharpie from my back pocket and write in small letters on the toilet paper dispenser dee. It’s the seventeenth time I’ve done this, marking my one visit per day since the start of sixth grade. Then I go back to counting the wet-noodle tiles. One hundred and thirty-four, one hundred and thirty-five…

The bathroom door squeaks open, and voices flood the room.

“Pomegranate seeds.”

“That’s the smell.”

“Sweet—”

“Sour—”

“Come on—”

“Trust me.”

The three voices cut one another off like bumper cars. I stay on the toilet, pull my feet off the floor, and clutch my legs to my chest.

“Did you know Harry Casey bites his nails? Like, he bites them so much, the tips of his fingers start to bleed. It’s crazy intense.”

“I saw him. He was trying to hide it, covering his mouth with his other hand.”

“Oh my god, can we go back to her? That smell.”

“Is cabbage a fruit?”

“Vegetable.”

“Does she smell like that?”

“Totally.”

“Is it true about Harry?”

“Wait, can we go back to Dee?”

“She smells. Like cabbage.”

“Totally.”

“That’s why no one sits with her at lunch.”

“You guys, it’s kind of sad. Don’t you know her mom? She has lot of”—the voice lowers to a whisper—“boyfriends.”

“Dee?”

“Are you kidding? Her mom. Dee’s super weird. Who would like her?”

“Yeah, she’s gross.”

My heart beats hard like it wants to push up my throat. Tears gather at the bottom of my eyes, so I pinch the bridge of my nose and look up at the tiled wall to keep from crying.

I will never cry at school. Never.

“So gross,” the voices say at the same time.

After that the door squeaks open. The voices leave. As quick as a light switch, the bathroom is quiet. My sweater clings to my neck. I pull it from my skin, trying to stretch away the itchiness.

Smelly. Weird. Gross. I cover the dees with my hands. My throat aches. I wish Juniper was here. She would’ve told those girls that they’re being superficial and mean, not to mention that they overuse the word “totally.” I pull my hands off the dispenser. The dees are right in front of me.

• facts about my name
• I’m named after my great-aunt, who I never met, and she’s dead.
• One of the nicknames for my name is Dezzi.
• I do not let people call me Dezzi.
• “Dezzi” sounds like someone who drinks pickle juice and listens to saxophone music.
• I think my name is why my dad left. I bet he and my mom argued about it when I was a baby.
• My middle name has the word “man” in it, which is weird, because I’m a girl.
• Desdemona Hillman Diller.
• Most people call me Dee.