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are now the new PlanMaster for Winston Academy!”

Chapter 4

    True Confession: You know how everyone says you shouldn’t care what others think about you? Well, I care. A lot.
    S OMETIMES I THINK A LYSSA GAVE ME THE WRONG nickname. Sure, Plastic Polly is clever. But Parrot Polly might have been an even better choice, because my job at the Court—and on the Groove It Up planning committee—is to agree with whatever Kelsey says. It’s not like she gets mad at me if I don’t. (Not usually, anyway.) But Kelsey always knows what she wants, and most of the time I don’t, so it’s just easier to go along with her.
    Groove It Up is always planned by the members of the Court, with the most popular eighth grader serving as the PlanMaster. It’s not a school rule or anything, more likea tradition. And when Mr. Fish holds a meeting for anyone interested in being the PlanMaster, and Queen Kelsey raises her hand and stares down everyone else—silently daring them to cross her—how many other girls are going to volunteer?
    Look, it may not be fair. But this is middle school. This is how it is .
    So the next morning while Mom and I wait outside Principal Allen’s office, I’m trying to figure out how to abdicate as the PlanMaster. It has always looked like a ton of work (even though Kelsey didn’t seem to be doing a whole lot). And, being the Vice PlanMaster, I get to stand in front of everyone at the Groove It Up pep rallies. But I haven’t had to actually do anything. It’s been nice.
    Next to me Mom is firing off texts. Her black pantsuit is freshly pressed, her nutmeg-colored hair is twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and her ice-blue eyes are narrowed as she taps on her cell. Sometimes I wonder how we could possibly be related when we look so different. Once, I heard Grandpa Pierce say she was the most striking woman he’s ever seen. But no one would ever call me striking. Most things about my appearance—my face, my height, my dirty-blond hair—are average. Except for my eyes. Dad says they’re the perfect shade of aqua, likethey couldn’t decide if they wanted to be green or blue, so they chose somewhere in the middle.
    Mom glares at her phone and mutters something under her breath. She’s a lawyer for a big firm, but she’s not the cool kind of lawyer that struts around in shiny high heels badgering witnesses and demanding that they tell her the truth. More like she spends all day (and many times all night) poring over stacks of boring paperwork in her stuffy office.
    Mom says she always knew she wanted to be a lawyer. After she graduated from Harvard, she planned on going to law school. But then she moved back to Maple Oaks in northern California and met Dad. They got married and had me. Mom stayed home with me when I was little, but once I started first grade, she told Dad she was going to law school. I’m probably the only first grader who learned to read by sounding out sentences in legal briefs. Mom just seems happier when she’s working and has a huge to-do list. I don’t take it personally. Most days, anyway.
    â€œMom, can I talk to you about something?”
    â€œIn a sec,” Mom answers, scowling at her phone and texting away.
    I wait, but she keeps sending one text after another. Finally I give up and send a text of my own:
    I need to talk to you.
    â€œAlmost finished. I promise.”
    â€œHave you had a chance to look at the application for Camp Colonial?” Mom asks once she’s put her phone away.
    â€œThat’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. And, no, I haven’t.” A couple of weeks ago Mom handed me an application for this lame camp where you spend half your summer prepping for high school. Look, I may get all As, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend every second of my life studying. And sometimes I think Mom looks at my future like it’s a geometry