Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar Read Free Page B

little, but Rhonda kept up with me. I wondered what would happen if I went into a bathroom. Or oncoming traffic.
    “WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN, GEORGIA?”
    OMG, is she my grandma or something?
I wondered. “Well, I’m in a band.”
    “YOU’RE IN A
BAND
?!?!”
    Rhonda said it the way everyone else said, “You’re Rafe Khatchadorian’s SISTER?!” She sounded shocked. Amazed. Maybe even terrified.
    “Yeah. We really… rock.” I was going to say “stink,” but then I realized that Rhonda would never know the difference.
    “OMIGOSH, I WOULD
DIE
TO BE IN A BAND!” Rhonda hugged her books so tightly, I thought they might explode against the ceiling. “I LOVE TO SING!”
    I laughed, but then Rhonda looked hurt, and I realized she was serious. “You… sing? You?”
    “WHY? DOES YOUR BAND NEED A SINGER?” She grabbed my arm and squeezed it hopefully. And painfully.
    “No,” I said quickly. “Sorry.”
    “OH.” She looked crestfallen. “BECAUSE I’M REALLY GOOD,” Rhonda added.

    “Okay,” I told her. “Well, here’s my class. Gotta go!” And I finally escaped into social studies.
    I could feel Rhonda watching me from the door as I sat at my desk. But I didn’t look at her. I just stared at the whiteboard until the bell rang and she disappeared.
    I am
soooo
regretting being nice to her.
    If I’m not careful, she could sink my whole year.

I’m In!
    W hat did I do?
    Something. It
had
to be something.
    Is it because I took their torture without complaining? Because I ditched the pony backpack? Because I’m the sister of a seriously rebellious HVMS legend who now goes to a totally hip art school?
    None of those reasons seemed likely. I only knew one thing: Missy Trillin asked me to have lunch with her and the other Princesses.
    There has to be a logical explanation
, I thought, but I couldn’t figure it out. Here’s what happened:

    Actually, it was a little more like this:

    Ha-ha, ha-ha, Rafe! I’m winning already!
    So—okay—maybe they just wanted me to bring them cookies. That was today. Tomorrow, it could be pie. And after a while, I would just be hanging out with them. The fourth Princess, on patrol.
    I picked three enormous cookies flecked with M&M’s for Missy and the B’s. The HVMS cafeteria mostly serves reheated mystery meat, but the desserts are good.
    Out in the courtyard, I sat down on a bench, wondering why more people don’t eat out there. It was a pretty day, with only a few puffy clouds in a bright blue sky.
    “Excuse me?” someone called. It was a cute guy with sandy-blond hair. “Um, hey—” He glanced over his shoulder, then hurried through the cafeteria doors. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”
    “What?” I asked. I turned to look over at the cafeteria windows.

    “Oh,” I said. I felt like I’d just swallowed a boot: sick and lumpy.
    “Are you okay?” the blond kid asked me. “You look like you just swallowed a boot.”
    Suddenly, the cafeteria doors burst open. In a cloud of smoke, Mrs. Stricker—the Hills Village Middle School vice principal—appeared.
    And she was heading straight for us.

Mrs. Stricker Loves Me
    M rs. Stricker swooped toward me. For a moment, I was terrified. Then I remembered something: I had cookies.
    “Would you like a cookie, Mrs. Stricker?” I asked in my sweetest voice. “It has M&M’s in it.” I picked the fattest one from the plate and held it out.
    Mrs. Stricker stopped short. She smiled. “You’re Georgia Khatchadorian, aren’t you?” she asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.
    I pointed to him. “This boy has just told me that I’m not supposed to be out in the courtyard. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I apologize for breaking the rule.”
    Mrs. Stricker laughed. “Oh, Georgia, don’t besilly. I just came out here to welcome you to Hills Village Middle School.”
    “Whoa,” the blond guy whispered. He stared at me with huge eyes. “Is this, like, some Jedi mind trick thing?”

    “It’s the cookie,”