Just Right Jillian

Dedication

For Vic

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One: Last Man Standing

Chapter Two: Tomorrow I Will Be Brave

Chapter Three: Purple and Pockets

Chapter Four: Don’t Count the Chickens

Chapter Five: Playing the Dozens

Chapter Six: The Invitation

Chapter Seven: Egg on Your Face

Chapter Eight: Eyes on the Prize

Chapter Nine: Master Your Mind

Chapter Ten: Change of Heart

Chapter Eleven: Pecking Order

Chapter Twelve: Heart of a Champion

Chapter Thirteen: New Sight

Chapter Fourteen: JTRA

Chapter Fifteen: Fly Away

Chapter Sixteen: Walking on Eggshells

Chapter Seventeen: Speaking Up

Chapter Eighteen: Keep Hope Alive

Chapter Nineteen: Perchance to Weave

Chapter Twenty: William and the Weaver

Chapter Twenty-One: Champions Never Say Die

Chapter Twenty-Two: I’ve Got the Power

Chapter Twenty-Three: Let Love Rule

Chapter Twenty-Four: The ER

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Sky Is Falling

Chapter Twenty-Six: Egg-ceptional

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Suck It Up

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Signs of Life

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Late Bloomer

Chapter Thirty: Early Birds

Chapter Thirty-One: Make a Peep

Chapter Thirty-Two: Chickens and Champions

Chapter Thirty-Three: Today I Was Brave

Chapter Thirty-Four: Free as a Bird

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Last Man Standing

It’s all Rashida’s fault.

Well, my Mama says don’t say that. Never start a story with the other person, she says. But sometimes you gotta start with the other person to tell the story. Only this is not a story story. It’s the truth.

Mama teaches women’s leadership workshops. She says leaders look inside, so my problem isn’t really with anyone out there. She makes you point at your imaginary problem, then she makes a big deal about your other three fingers pointing back at you.

I don’t know about any of that, but I do know my problem is totally Rashida. She’s my Foe, with a capital F. A foe is your opponent. Or your enemy. I’m not sure we’re enemies, but it feels that way some days.

Most days.

Rashida’s the smartest person in our school. Even smarter than some teachers, I bet. We were both in Mr. Gray’s fourth grade class last year, when Rashida was new to Jemison Elementary.

Everyone thinks she’s all that. She speaks crisply, as Mama would say. She pronounces all her letters, that kinda thing. Her long black twists are thick and shiny—no frizzes flying around. Her sister, Valerie, is like her twin, even though Valerie is a year younger. They dress alike, wearing skirts in invisible colors like beige, tan, blue, or gray. And it’s not just them. All the girls blend in with each other. It’s not a school uniform or a rule. Boring is just what’s in these days, I guess. We all wear ponytails and colors that make you yawn. Unless you wanna stick out like a sore thumb, you just go with the flow. Rashida and Valerie are the flow.

They have smooth cocoa brown skin. No freckles. No zits. No braces. No glasses. Nothing. They are perfect. A matching set, tall and graceful.

On the other hand, there’s me. I have a small gap in my two front teeth and little moles on my cheeks. Beige makes me want to vomit, but I wear it like everyone else.

Rashida glides everywhere. I run. Across the field. Down the hall. Around the bases. Each day, my black-brown hair is frazzled and dusty by the end of recess. And Daddy tells me to stop swallowing my letters. Only he hears it as swallowin’. No g.

So that’s Rashida, and I guess me, too. And now we’re in fifth grade.

Ms. Warren (Ms. W. or Ms. Dub for short) is our teacher this year. And she’s different. She’s younger, like a big sister or a cool auntie. But in some ways she seems older, wise like my Grammy Ruby. She wears her hair cut low, almost bald. And she always has supercool earrings. She looks like a model. She’s fun, but she doesn’t take any foolishness from kids or anyone else.

She wears these round glasses. They’re gold! Have you have ever seen a teacher wear gold glasses? They sparkle, and she can see everything when she puts them on. Everything and everyone, me included. Even though—if I’m being honest—sometimes I don’t want anyone to see me at all.

Today we played a math game. Sometimes Ms. W. makes us work on speed and accuracy with class competitions. Today’s game was Last Man Standing. We should make up a new name because there’s no men in our class. Just boys, girls, and Scottie, who doesn’t like to be called either one. Here’s how the game works:

Ms. W. pulls two names from her cup.

She calls out a math problem. Easy at first, but they get harder as we go.

Whoever’s quickest and accurate wins the round. Their name goes back into play. The other person is out.

Everyone keeps working on the problems just for fun as Ms. W. goes to the next two people.

She goes pair by pair at random until it’s the last two. The winner of that round is the last man standing, and she wins the whole thing.

So we played, and finally it was down to us. Me vs. Rashida. My Sworn Enemy. Foe. Or whatever. Guess what happened?

I won.

I. Beat. Rashida.

I finished working the problem while she scribbled the answer. I laid my purple pen on the desk with no fanfare. I floated my hands to the corners of the desk while everyone watched.

But they weren’t watching me, they were watching her. Because they knew she was going to win. Ms. W. hovered halfway between us, her eyes on Rashida, too.

I listened as Rashida’s perfectly sharpened Ticonderoga pencil scratched across her paper. As usual, I kept my face down, kept my mouth shut. I did not put my hand up. I did not yell DONE! I did not do a single thing but grip my desk and disappear. I became invisible.

Like my skirt. Like my desk. Beige.

Seconds ticked by like hours, and finally my Foe, my opponent, Rashida, slammed her pencil down in relief as she yelled DONE! Loud and proud. Just like I should have. Or could have, but didn’t.

I looked up to see what I already knew was true. Ms. W. peered over her golden glasses, checked Rashida’s work, and nodded. You got it! You win!

The winner gets chocolate. Not just one of the itty-bitty minis. Ms. W. gives out fun-sized! Rashida reached into the huge bag of assorted treats and noisily swirled them around. She yanked out a Snickers, tore it open, and chomped the end.

Yum! she yelled in delight. The sweet taste of victory! She even flicked her gleaming ponytail.

There was no such joy for me. No flick of the hair. No chomping on my chosen treat. No crunchy milk chocolate and caramel swirls. Instead, my throat was thick with envy.

I couldn’t swallow the lump.

My classmates whispered and giggled as they put away their papers and began packing their bags. Ms. W. swept her eyes to me now. I pretended not to notice as I packed up my things. Before the last bell rang, she slid over to me and looked down. First at me, then at my paper. She saw the truth. The real truth.

My correct answer. My silence.

She made a noise that only I could hear. Hem. I tugged my ponytail, a twist, low and on the left like every other girl in fifth grade. She waited, and I let my eyes float up to meet her gaze. She pulled off her glasses, and her deep brown eyes asked me why. Why didn’t I challenge Rashida after I promised myself I would? Why didn’t I speak up? My eyes revealed nothing. They did not answer back. Instead I blinked and looked away.

The bell announced the end of school. I wouldn’t have to explain myself this time.

And what would I say? I let Rashida win because I am too shy. I won, but to everyone else, me mostly, I lost. Again.

Ms. W. dismissed us, and I rushed to the bus.

Chapter Two

Tomorrow I Will Be Brave

I held it in until I got all the way home. I remained silent the ten minutes on the bus even though I wanted to yell at myself. Or cry. But I never cry in public, so silence won.

Man, yo mama feet so crusty . . . Marquez started today’s round of yo mama jokes. Without missing a beat, he caught the paper plane Shelby sailed in his direction. I stared out the window, silently urging Ms. Sally to drive the bus faster.

I clamped my mouth shut so I wouldn’t grind my teeth. Did you know that biting the back sides of your tongue is the best way to keep your mouth still? Mama taught me that.

I jumped off first at my stop. Janice and William followed next, whispering to each other. I’m sure I heard the word lose drift my way, but I pretended not to notice. The bus pulled off, and I waved goodbye to everyone. Or I tried to, anyway. It was more the helpless flap of a bird’s broken wing.

I turned and speed-walked up the hill and around the curve to home, racing to beat the tears. I couldn’t even enjoy the dogwoods blooming or the cloudless blue April sky. I wanted to run, to fly away. But I had to look normal.

I breathed through my nose and relaxed my face to erase the wrinkles in my forehead. Another trick from Mama. Did it work? Could anyone tell how close the tears were now? Still rushing, I straightened my posture, pretending a book sat on top of my head. Maybe they wouldn’t see the shame.

I passed Ms. Sandy, the neighborhood grandma, walking to meet Little Lonna at the stop. She looked after all the kids. Sometimes, when she’s not there, I grab Lonna’s hand and walk with her. I’d forgotten about her today.

I jogged the last bit home and nearly tripped up my front step. My hands, keys, and nerves all jangled. It took two tries to unlock the door and get inside. I sprinted to my room and shut the door. Even though nobody was home, I covered my head with my pillow and cried myself to sleep.

Mama knew something was up when she came home from her workshop and I wasn’t munching my way through one of my favorite snacks—celery and cheese or apple slices with peanut butter. She woke me with noisy smooches all over my face.

What’s wrong, Jilly Bean? She leaned down, tickling my chin. Her thick black hair dangled in small coils around her face. I could see the row of eleven mini moles across her cheeks and underneath her eyes. I liked them on her face.

You never take naps. Something happen in school today?

I shook my head.

I know what you need, she said. Planting a kiss on my nose, she stood up. Coconut curry always cheers you up. I’ll make that for dinner. The thought did cheer me a little, and she smiled when she saw me perk up. But she still couldn’t coax it out of me.

The guys are coming over for band practice. You want to go sing with Daddy for a while?

I shook my head no. I didn’t wanna do anything but go back to sleep.

She wouldn’t give up. You’re out there less and less these days, she said. I remember when I couldn’t keep you out of that garage. What gives?

I just don’t feel like singing today.

She stared at me. I looked away. My eyes landed on the smallest of three baskets of yarn. I wondered if it was dusty.

She sighed. It’s hard to believe time is passing so quickly, huh? It’s been almost a year already.

I shrugged. I knew how much time had passed. Grammy, Daddy’s mom, died exactly eleven months and one day ago. Last May Day. That day felt more like the beginning of winter than the opening of spring.

Grandma was always her wild woman self. That’s how she put it. When she was around—which was all the time, since she lived with us for a spell before she died—I always felt like me, Jillian. It was okay that I was more quiet than loud.

Grandma was quiet, too, in some ways. But she did her own thing her own way. Burning sage and whispering jokes while pretending she couldn’t hear half the time. She convinced almost everyone, even