Name Tags and Other Sixth-Grade Disasters Read online

  Advance Praise for

  “Fun, funny, and fully heartfelt. Everyone needs true-blue friends like Lizbeth’s. SuperChicken for life.”

  —Kristin L. Gray, author of The Amelia Six and Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge

  “Name Tags and Other Sixth-Grade Disasters is one of those books that explores difficult topics—divorce, a new school, being dubbed a ‘weirdo’—with grace and good humor. Lizbeth’s antics will make readers giggle and groan, likely both in the same breath!”

  —Rebecca Petruck, author of Boy Bites Bug and Steering Toward Normal

  “Lizbeth and her pod of ‘weirdos’ will make you laugh then steal your heart. This hilarious and heartfelt gem is moving straight to my ‘favorites’ shelf.”

  —Lisa Lewis Tyre, author of Last in a Long Line of Rebels and Hope in the Holler

  Text copyright © 2020 by Ginger Garrett

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Books®

  An imprint of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Jacket illustration by Emma Trithart.

  Main body text set in Bembo Std.

  Typeface provided by Monotype Typography.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Garrett, Ginger, 1968- author.

  Title: Name tags and other sixth-grade disasters / by Ginger Garrett.

  Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Books, [2020] | Audience: Ages 10–14. | Audience: Grades 7–9. | Summary: “Twelve-year-old Lizbeth is determined to get rid of her dad’s new girlfriend and make friends at her new school-neither of which turns out to be as easy as she expects.” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019034457 (print) | LCCN 2019034458 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541596139 | ISBN 9781541599345 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Bullying—Fiction. | Divorce—Fiction. | Moving, Household—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.G375 Nam 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.G375 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034457

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034458

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-47630-48110-4/27/2020

  For Johnna, Sandra and Sharon.

  Sitting at a table with the three of you changed my life forever.

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m a big believer in foreshadowing. That’s why I told the movers to put my bed right under the bedroom window. They did exactly that but hustled from the room before I could explain my plan: starting tomorrow, the first thing I would see every morning would be the sunrise. I planned to think positive, sunshiny thoughts and take control of my own story. What was left of it, anyway.

  My cosplay costumes were all packed up and in storage. Mom had put her sewing machine into storage, too, so I couldn’t count on getting anything new made. It’s hard to have an epic story when you don’t even have a character.

  “Thank you again, guys!” Mom called out from downstairs as the moving truck’s engine roared to life. I had to admit, the movers had been the best part of this ordeal. Darien, the strongest and nicest guy on the team, had taught me a cool secret handshake. We were basically lifelong friends now.

  Mom passed my room on the way to hers. “Put sheets on your bed, honey. I’ll get mine done too.”

  Climbing onto the bed, I reached for the blinds, then paused. We had only moved to the other side of Atlanta. My real home really wasn’t that far away. It would be impossible to see my house from here, but maybe I could see something else. Maybe I could see a sign from the Universe. The Universe is always trying to communicate with us.

  “On the count of three.” I said this aloud in case the Universe was listening. Of course, if It wasn’t, that would explain a lot about my life these days.

  “One.” Show me a sign, Universe! Just a hint.

  “Two.” What would the new school be like? Would I love it?

  Three. I lifted the blinds.

  Ack.

  “There are a million disgusting fingerprints on my bedroom window!” I yelled.

  “It’s not a crime scene, Lizbeth!” Mom yelled back to me from her room. “Wipe them off!”

  “Nothing is more personal than grime! I don’t want to touch other people’s finger dirt.”

  Moments later, Mom tossed a plastic tub of antibacterial wipes onto the bed.

  “Thanks,” I sighed, unable to summon any enthusiasm for the window now.

  “I think I can find the box with our kitchen stuff,” Mom said as she walked out. “Want me to whip up some mac and cheese for dinner? I’m starving.”

  “Yes, please! Extra butter, and if you harvest a cheese packet from another package and make double-cheese macaroni—”

  “Don’t say harvest,” she said over her shoulder. “This is dinner, not an organ transplant.” She did not share my love of scary sci-fi movies. Dad did. All of this—the move, this dumb house—was his fault.

  I could hear her steps padding down the narrow staircase. A high-pitched wheeze and creak told me one of the stairs was seriously defective.

  “If I get extra cheese I’ll love you forever!” I called.

  “Only if you take your lactase pill first,” she called back. “And you’ll love me forever no matter what.” That was true. But I was pretty sure I could still count on that extra cheese. Mom would do pretty much anything for me. She’d always encouraged Dad and me to do our cosplay stuff together, and she had learned to sew just to make our costumes.

  I pulled the stack of sheets out of their box but left the bedspread inside. There was no way I could set it on the carpet while I put the sheets on. Used carpet was creepy. This wasn’t really my house, and I didn’t know if mutant microbes were living in the carpet waiting to eat me alive.

  We were only living here until I got rid of Dad’s newest girlfriend. In the two years since he and Mom had split up, I had destroyed his prospects for finding domestic bliss anywhere else. Of course, I’d had help from our friends in the cosplay community. They were rooting for Mom and Dad to get back together, too. And they had a soft spot for kids taking on the world.

  I grabbed my fitted sheet and fluffed it out, trying to get rid of the cardboard-box smell. Mom was right. I did love her and Dad, and I would love them forever, no matter what. So why did I also want to smack them right in the face with a giant pile of mashed potatoes? The impulse hit me at the strangest times and without warning.

  Everything I’d found on the internet about divorce suggested that I was experiencing the stages of grief. Unfortunately, “stages” was a metaphor. It was not a venue where I might one day showcase my cosplay poses. Besides, any kind of artistic expression I attempted these days ended the same way. Even haiku.

  I feel good flinging

  Mashed potatoes in your face!

  FEAR MY POTATO

  This didn’t feel like grief to me. It just felt like plain old anger.

  Why was I angry with both of them, though? My dad was the one who’d left, the one who had already had three girlfriends in the past two years. By contrast, Mom was unbelievably awesome, never getting mad a
t me when I went berserk or slammed doors. She never got mad at Dad either. She just got tired, the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix.

  Once I’d finished putting the sheets on my bed, I grabbed the comforter and went downstairs. Plopping down on the couch, wrapped up in my comforter, I sighed and looked around. The walls were bare, except where fresh beige paint covered recently patched nail holes. Whoever used to live here had lots of pictures, I guess.

  “Just when you thought beige couldn’t get any more depressing,” I muttered. It was the same color I’d seen in the nurse’s office at my old school. A color for kids who were dizzy from the stomach flu or a broken arm. A color that had no emotion or flavor. The longer I stared at it, the sadder I got.

  “You okay?” Mom asked from the kitchen. Standing at the sink to fill a pot with water, she was able to look over the counter, right at me on the couch.

  I shrugged. “This house is cold.”

  “Grab another blanket.”

  “No, not that kind of cold. It . . . doesn’t have any memories. Any of ours, I mean. It’s blank.”

  Mom turned and rested one hip against the counter, nodding as she considered this. “You know what we need?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “A dance party!”

  “Mom, you can’t dance!”

  “I can and I will!” she yelled, a slotted pasta spoon raised high.

  She was like that. She called it being a free spirit. I suspected that pharmaceutical companies would love to market a pill to her. Millions of kids would order it for their moms, too.

  I held a pretend microphone to my mouth for the commercial while she searched for her phone. “Does your mother suffer from inappropriate and ill-timed moments of embarrassing dance moves?” I said in my serious announcer’s voice.

  Hitting the music app on her phone, she began convulsing with shoulder shimmies. If someone didn’t know she was trying to dance, they might call Child Protective Services.

  I raised my voice. “If so, she may need ActHerAge, the new pill from HelpMe Pharmaceuticals.”

  Before I could even get through the list of ActHerAge’s debilitating side effects, she grabbed my hand and forced me off the couch to dance with her.

  “You can’t fight this feeling!” she shouted over the music.

  “It’s completely out of our control!” I yelled.

  “Yes! Your body knows what to do!”

  “Like when I had food poisoning!”

  “Wait. What?” She laughed. “Oh, who cares? We’re free!”

  I grabbed her phone and hit pause.

  “By free, what exactly do you mean?” I asked. The good feeling that might have been sort of happening—and I’m not saying it was—evaporated.

  Mom struggled to catch her breath. Her eyes lingered on mine with a trace of sorrow. She rested one hand on my shoulder. “Free to be happy again, honey. Free to start a new life.”

  My lips stretched into a tight line as my eyes narrowed. “Look around, Mom.” I pointed around the house. “We’re not starting a new life. This isn’t new. This was someone else’s. Why do you want someone else’s life? I want what we had. I want us.”

  She reached for my hand but I stepped back.

  “You don’t get it. You never have. Without Dad, you’re still you. You can just go back to being you, the person you were before Dad. But what about me? You two made me and together we made a family. Now there’s no more you two, and it feels like there’s no more me. Not the old me, anyway. And I don’t want a new me.”

  Before she could say another word, I turned and marched up the stairs. My dramatic exit was punctuated by a high-pitched wheeze-creak. I hated that stair already. This house was going to be my mortal enemy; I could feel it in my bones.

  I spent an hour scrolling through old pictures of me with my best friends, Camden and Eva. It was better than going online and seeing what they were doing now without me. Dad texted me asking how I was doing, but I couldn’t decide how to answer, or whether he would even listen if I told the truth.

  Eighteen months ago, my dad introduced me to his first girlfriend, Lisa. She was a yoga instructor. He let me come with him to her class at the gym.

  Rookie mistake.

  “Have you ever tried meditation, Lizbeth?” Lisa asked in her singsong voice. She sounded like Elmo, if Elmo had sustained multiple blunt-force traumas to the head. Plus she reeked of lavender oil and always had green salad bits stuck in her teeth. “It might help with your feelings right now.”

  “Oh, could you teach me?” I asked. If you ever need to sound desperate, clench your butt cheeks together, hard. Works like a charm.

  “It’s easy. There are only two rules, my beautiful girl.” She lifted one finger. “Sit quietly with your thoughts.” She lifted a second finger. I refrained from lifting one of my own. “Do not judge your thoughts. And welcome them all. And learn from them all.”

  She couldn’t count. Not that I was judging because she had said that was against the rules. So I followed her advice exactly, and I got rid of her within a week. First, I welcomed all my thoughts. Second, I didn’t judge them as bad or mean or devious. I guess I added the third part, which was that I acted on them.

  She was horribly allergic to cats. Mom and I had never owned any cats, but our next-door neighbors had had dozens. They did rescue work for the humane society. I took my favorite sweater over to their house and asked the family to let their cats sleep on it for a few days. “Try to rub it on each cat, too, if you can,” I added.

  When Dad invited me along on their next date, guess which sweater I wore? Every time Lisa tried to get near me, she sneezed uncontrollably.

  “She’s allergic to me, Daddy!” I wailed, chin trembling. “Does she hate all children like this?”

  “No, no!” she gasped. “It’s just her, I swear!”

  Goodbye, Lisa. Thanks for playing.

  A glance at the clock on my nightstand told me it was after midnight. Wednesday was here. Most people want to move on a weekend so their kids can start at a new school on a Monday, but the moving company gave Mom a big discount for scheduling their services during the week. Discounts were important to Mom now.

  I would have preferred to wait until the following Monday to start at my new school—or better yet, to turn back time a full month so that I could start at the beginning of the school year. But if time travel had been on the table, I probably would’ve gone back even further, made sure my parents didn’t get divorced, and avoided the need for starting at a new school in the first place.

  My room was pitch dark, since my blinds were closed. I’d decided I didn’t want to see life from this angle. I liked my old view, from my real house.

  Too nervous to sleep, I reached over and turned on the lamp on my nightstand. I grabbed my journal to review my plan.

  Operation Survive Wednesday

  Step One: Eat a hearty breakfast.

  Before bed, I’d set out a cereal bowl next to a box of Lucky Charms. Adults always tell kids breakfast is the most important meal of the day, then they want us to eat rainbow-colored marshmallows. But then again, I’ve seen what those high-fiber ancient grain cereals cost, and they are not in Mom’s budget. Besides, why do adults want to eat ancient grains? In the ancient world, disease wiped most people out by the time they were thirty. Speaking of which . . .

  Step Two: Be irresistible. Be the MRSA of sixth grade!

  After only four hours online, I had uncovered three scientifically proven methods to make people instantly adore you.

  Smile at all times.

  Stand very close to other people.

  Ask a lot of personal questions. Pretend to be interested in the replies.

  I wasn’t sure how these tips worked, but science had proven they did. Not that I read the articles. If you already believe in science, why try to understand it?

  Suddenly I knew what was keeping me awake. This was an important list. It bestowed great power u
pon me.

  What if everyone wanted to be friends with me? What if people became obsessed with me and those who could not get close to me gradually withered away, like plants denied the sun? I only wanted one, or possibly two, best friends. I didn’t have any plan for crowd control!

  A cloud must have rolled over the moon, because even though my blinds were shut, shadows crept across my wall as I lay there, wide-eyed with worry. This unforeseen complication knotted my insides. I needed to pee.

  Seconds later, I opened the bathroom door but didn’t turn on the light. I didn’t want to wake Mom. I stifled a gasp as I lurched onto my tiptoes. The tiles were freezing. I’d forgotten that this bathroom didn’t have floor mats or rugs yet.

  Quiet as a mouse, I got into position and sat—then fell straight back, hitting my head on a hard object. My butt pressed against something freezing, too. I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  Seconds later, light blinded my eyes. “What on Earth?” Mom screeched.

  Blinking in the strong light, I realized my error. I had sat on the edge of the tub, not the toilet.

  Outraged, I pointed at the toilet. “What is that doing over THERE?” I pointed to the tub. “The toilet is supposed to be HERE. The tub is supposed to be over there.”

  “That was in our old house, honey.” Mom extended a hand to me. “The bathroom here is different.”

  I scrambled out of the tub, pulling my underwear back on and wrestling the hem of my nighty down. My butt hurt, my head hurt, and I was wide awake.

  “Ugh. I’ll never get back to sleep now.” I threw back my head and raised one fist. “Curse you, tiny bladder!”

  Mom looked at me for a long moment. “Want me to make Sleepy Tea?” That’s her specialty: herbal tea with milk, plus a cookie on the side.

  I shook my head. “I still need to pee.”

  She paused to ruffle my hair, then shuffled out of the bathroom. “Turn out the light when you leave.”