Confessions of a So-called Middle Child by Maria T. Lennon Page B

one.”
    â€œNope, I choose her. I want Marta.” I looked over at her, my new class pet. She was kinda snarling at me with her popcorn fangs. I should have brought bones.
    It took a while, but Marta and I narrowed it down through an assortment of grunts that we were either going to work at the animal shelter or read to old people at the old people’s home.
    I dropped my head on the desk. “Come on, Marta, I can’t take all those eyes staring at me from the cages.”
    â€œOld people’s eyes are worse,” she stated with a weird accent.
    â€œYeah, but they’re supposed to die, time’s up, clock’s ticking. Those puppies are supposed to be adopted, Marta.”
    â€œEverything dies,” she said with zero expression. Marta spoke each word like she wanted to slug you with it. Man, was this gonna be seriously unfun.
    Trixie came around my desk, interrupting our heated debate. “Hey, guys, where are you gonna help out?”
    â€œI want old people; Marta wants soon-to-be-gassed puppies.”
    â€œBabs and I are cooking at a boys-and-girls club,” she said, laughing at us.
    How come I didn’t see that assignment? Babs showed up, leaned into Marta, like all of a sudden she liked her. “Hey, Marta.”
    But Marta just got up and slipped away, back to her desk. How could you blame her? If the mean girls at my old school were suddenly nice, I’d slip away too.
    Â 
    TRUE FACT: Bindi s don’t have a lot of stick.
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    By the end of the day I had to use a glue stick to keep my poor bindi on. I saw Pen and Felix on the lower yard. Felix was playing a game of soccer; the older kids were trying to steal the ball, but Felix held on tight. This one kid who had to be twice his size even tried to kick him in the shin, but Felix, he kicked him right back. I was proud.
    Pen was sitting with a bunch of girls. Some were playing with her hair; others were sitting by her feet, looking up at her and smiling or laughing at something she said. Marta was sitting on the ground over by the vegetable garden, writing furiously. Why was she trying to get her homework done so quickly? I wondered. What could a girl like that possibly have to do after school?
    I decided to use this time to walk around and look for the biggest losers and try to make them feel like they weren’t such losers because I, Charlie C. Cooper, was talking to them. Ugly girls and ugly guys were the ones I kept a keen eye out for, or the ones dressed in clothes that were so handed down, they looked like toddler outfits. “Cool Christmas vest,” I’d say. “How was your day?”
    â€œGo away, weirdo” was often the response. The word was out—I was friends with Marta the Farta. But you know what? I’m sure Mother Teresa had her fair share of tough cases too.
    The yard had quieted down, and people were just waiting for their parents to come and get them. I was watching Marta, looking at all the knots in her hair, which she had clearly cut herself. She had these thick, uneven chunks of bangs. The back was hacked off like a wedge. Was it mange? Lice?
    Trixie and Babs came down the stairs, slowing as they walked past Marta. Trix did a loud sniff like Marta smelled bad, which I had to admit she did.
    Babs shook her head. “She smells.”
    Marta looked like a dog about to pounce. “Grrrrrr.” She snarled her yellow-brown teeth at them.
    â€œWhat’s up, Marta?” Trixie teased.
    â€œYeah, what’s up?” Babs followed suit.
    Trix stood over her. “Toothbrush, Marta?”
    â€œA little soap?” Babette shrugged.
    â€œDeodorant maybe?” Trix stopped when she saw me coming.
    I envisioned Mama T of Calcutta, took a huge gulp of air, walked over, and cut them off. “You know what, guys? Just leave Marta alone.”
    â€œWhat?” Trixie looked shocked. “We’re just helping her out. See, the gymnastics tryouts are coming