Free Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover by Shelley Coriell

sun and heat and gritty wind, eventually capturing a series of shots of the giant fish soaring through the air like eagles. Even to my untrained, eight-year-old eyes, I recognized the photo series for the brilliant work of art it was. Mom never sold the rights to the photos, and I understood why. She wasn’t ready to give up that piece of her heart.
    And for as long as I could remember, Mom told me to follow my heart. “Don’t just march to the beat of your own drummer, Reb. March to the beat of your own 275-member band.” I don’t know why Pen’s mentioning my mom and dad now, other than she’s been extra pissy since Kennedy’s memorial service. I’m in no mood to get into it with her. I’d already fought with Mr. Phillips and every member of the 100 Club today. With another click, I save Ernesto the Expensive to my bookmarks and hand Pen the laptop. “Go.”
    My cousin takes the computer and skips down the ladder.
    I walk to the back wall and straighten the sea-glass frames.
    I bang the rubber mallet on the bag of almonds.
    “Um, Rebel?” Macey takes the mallet from my hand. “I need almond crumbs, not almond milk.”
    The bag of almonds is gushy, gluey. “Sorry.”
    “I can handle it from here.” Macey takes the bag and picks out the pieces I haven’t sent to a milky grave.
    “How much do you think we can make by selling pies?” During lunch period, I’d once again followed Macey to the FACS kitchen, where she made another pie, this one with a graham-cracker crust, almond filling, and blueberries.
    “You’re getting way too obsessed with this turtle thing.” Macey pounds the almonds in a steady, even manner. “I’m assuming the donation jar in the biology lab is your doing.”
    Heat rises to my face. Dorky, but my deed. I took one of my Mason jars, painted it blue, and made a sea-glass mosaic in the shape of a sea turtle. I attached a sign that read Save the Endangered Leatherback Turtles , and cut a slice in the plastic lid. In two days I’d raised twenty-two dollars and fifty-six cents and a wad of dried gum. “It’s on the list.”
    Macey sprinkles the crushed almonds over the blueberries.
    Money has never been overly important in my world, at least not amassing large sums of it. To Aunt Evelyn’s horror, I prefer army-surplus pants and T-shirts and dime-store flip-flops. I don’t need expensive electronic gadgets. I don’t covet trendy clothes or designer cell-phone covers.
    “After taking out the cost of ingredients, we could make about five dollars per pie.” Macey bites into a forkful of pie, her mouth and eyes pinched in concentration. With a sigh, she drops the fork into the sink. “But they’re not right. Something’s off.”
    Like my life. Ever since that day in detention, my world has been off-kilter. I’m doing good deeds, hanging out with Mr. Perfect, and worrying about money. As I help Macey clean up, I ponder selling blood, plasma, and hair.
    No, not hair. Most people don’t get the blue. I discovered the electric-blue dye three years ago at Bella’s Discount Beauty Supply, and it reminded me of the blue waters of Belize, a place of sun and warmth and my mom.
    The bell rings as Macey puts away the final dish, and I hang the dish towel on the oven door. Out in the hallway, bodies move out of our way. It’s one of the perks of wearing a bag with a row of fossilized shark teeth. We leave the crowded hallway and escape into the breezeway. In front of Unit Five Nate hangs out with the other sportos. A girl with big cow eyes bats her lashes at him, clearly one of his admirers from the herd. He doesn’t acknowledge me, nor I, him. I don’t speak moo.
    The tardy bell rings, and students hurry into their classrooms. I take my time. I have art with Miss Chang, and I have no tardies. Macey doesn’t seem in any hurry, either. We reach my locker, and I dig out my art folder.
    “Maybe I should try a shortbread crust.” Macey rolls her bottom lip between her thumb and