Free Queen of Likes by Hillary Homzie Page B

stuff. It’s supercrazy.”
    We start talking about the weirdest food our mothers have packed for us. The mention of weird things leads to us talking about Milton P. Daniels. Today his shoe box is wrapped in silver duct tape, the shiny kind that gleams under the lights.
    As I shift in my chair to glance over at Milton P., he catches my eye. His hands thwack onto the roof of the taco fixing bar. “Karma, remember, your storage drawers need to be opaque!” he calls out. “Or else they are useless.”
    â€œOkaaaaay.” My face burns as his eyes laser in on me. I pivot back around.
    Everyone giggles, covering their mouths.
    Bailey cocks her head to the side and presses her lips together like she’s going to button them. “Now that was different.” Megan nods in agreement, and Ella nervously looks down at her ink-stained art hands.
    â€œYeah, tell me about it.” I shake my carton of milk. “I seriously have no idea what that was about.”
    â€œPure Milton P.” Janel stirs her yogurt. “He arrived here from his own planet.”
    â€œJust what is in that shoe box thingy, anyway?” asks Megan.
    â€œBones,” says Janel. “Of his pet guinea pig or something.”
    â€œI’m thinking dozens of chocolate bars,” says Bailey. “He is on the hefty side.”
    â€œMaybe a secret transmitter,” says Ella. “Since he’s a spy.”  We all laugh.
    Swirling her milk carton, Bailey squints at Milton P. as if she’s trying to figure something out. “I don’t get why Milton P. talks to you.”
    â€œOr what he means when he does,” says Janel.
    â€œMe either.” I pull a pear out of my lunch bag. Okay, that’s not true. But I just can’t say. Ella gives me a worried look. We both know why Milton P. might feel bonded to me.
    In fourth grade, Milton P. sat by himself next to the globe of the world. I sat by myself next to the sink in the back of the room.
    We were both outcasts.
    But I just can’t say that to Bailey and the Bees. They didn’t really know the old me. Bailey knew me, of course, but she doesn’t seem to remember. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
    In my mind, I text, Why does Milton P. bother with me now all of a sudden? I don’t get it. But I’m not sure I want to find out.
    Free
    I’m at home in my room getting ready to bike to the historical society. I need to go in twenty minutes. A photocopy of my Torah portion sits on the corner of my desk. That’s the part I’m going to read from the Hebrew Bible. I still have no idea what I’m going to say about it for my drosh , which is a teaching lesson you have to give during your bat mitzvah about your Torah portion. I guess I’m supposed to be philosophical or something.
    I can be a philosopher. I text in my mind, I am bored. Because I am .
    Yeah, I’m actually listening to the heater. I didn’t realize how much noise a heater makes—a rushing sound, like wind that is constant and regular and then slows down as if it’s a little tired, like it needs a break, just like me.
    And without thinking, I finally look at my Torah portion. I’m surprised how easily the words slip off my tongue, almost as if I’ve been storing them there and they’ve been waiting to be free.
    My Stats:
    3 Bees who seem to be friends
    1 kid who may be from outer space who doesn’t stop talking to me
    1 Torah portion that maybe I actually know
    1 community service volunteer job where I need to show someone with orange lips that I’m mature!

    Mood: Kind of looking forward to proving the person with orange lips wrong!

12
    THURSDAY, MARCH 8: DAY 5 UNLIKED
    The Hysterical Society
    So I’m at the historical society. I have my notebook and the pen I swiped from my dad’s desk. I’m even wearing a skirt. Before I left, Toby kept on telling me I looked too serious for the Hysterical Society and