by Katherine Grace Bond

I settle into the back row of Monsieur Martineau's French class and try to be invisible. Christopher Sparrow is at it again. He's sitting in the front with a big, fat copy of Les Miserables, creating a list of vocabulary words. And that's not even an assignment!

No sane teacher would ever require his students to translate Victor Hugo's novel in their first month of French. But while I'm memorizing “'Je m'appelle Abby” (“My name is Abby”), Christopher is trying to figure out which French words he doesn't know and learn them quickly. Of course, he's used to working independently and doing extra research; he's a former home schooler.

I, Abby the Oddity, am trying to make everybody forget I'm a former home schooler and that I home schooled with Christopher Sparrow.

Learning the Rules

Christopher hasn't quite figured out that middle school has rules.

“Look what he's wearing.” Katie nudges me.

I hadn't noticed. But now I do: red sweatpants, scrunched with elastic at the ankles and an oversized red, white and blue U.S. Olympic Training rugby shirt.

Across from us, Tianna rolls her eyes. “He looks like a time traveler from the '90s,” she whispers with a smile.

I glance at my boring jeans and T-shirt. Safe wear. At least I hope so. I learned the first week of school that you don't wear the quilted jacket your nana made you. Emily Maples spotted it right away and everyone started calling me Patchwork Girl.

Central Middle School is new to all us sixth-graders, but for me it's like another planet. At least I knew some of the kids before my parents decided to put me in public school. Tianna and I have been friends forever. We grew up playing flower princesses together in the woods (not that either of us would ever admit that now). Katie's pretty nice, even if she's best friends with Emily.

The rules of middle school say there are three kinds of people: the ones who are too cool for you, the ones who let you be with them and the hazardous ones. Hazardous people stick out. Because they don't know the rules, they usually eat alone. If you are seen with a hazardous person, you might become hazardous yourself.

Playing by the Rules

Christopher has become hazardous in middle school.

“He's so mean,” Tianna said yesterday at lunch. “Katie said that Emily said he called LeAnn a 'deranged cyborg,' whatever that is.”

“I have no idea,” I told her. Actually, I know what a cyborg is, but many people don't. I learned about cyborgs watching old “Star Trek” reruns. Christopher and I watched them after his mom taught us science. Over at my house, we'd stage “Star Trek” plays after my mom's writing lessons. I would be Uhura and he would be Captain Kirk. But that was when we were 9.

Monsieur Martineau opens his book. “Page trente- trois,” he says.

I like Monsieur Martineau because he does funny stuff like put a potato on his head and say, “La pomme de terre est sur ma tête” (“The potato is on my head”). He has a snail puppet named Ernie Escargot.

I turn to page 33. “Donner,” it says, “to give.”

Behind me, Emily flips through her entire book. She doesn't know which page is trente-trois. Emily is one of the too-cool people. At least she doesn't call me Patchwork Girl anymore. Much.

“Abigaile,” Ernie Escargot is talking to me from the end of Monsieur Martineau's arm. He holds the potato in his snail mouth. “Donne la pomme de terre à Christophe.”

Give the potato to Christopher? Why would Monsieur Martineau do this to me? A million thoughts race through my mind.

I have to handle this carefully. If I just walk over and hand him the potato, people might think we're friends. Katie will come up after class and say, “Do you like him?” Or she'll think I am like him: a hopeless home school nerd.

Emily has an amused look on her face, as if she expects Patchwork Girl and Enterprise Boy to take their potato and a copy of Les Miserables and go boldly where no man has gone before.

That decides it for me. Without looking at Christopher, I extract the potato from Ernie's mouth. Pausing, I hold it over Christopher's desk as if it's something toxic - as if he's something toxic. Katie snickers. I drop the potato with a thunk that says, “I am not a part of you, Christopher Sparrow. I'm the new Abby, the mature Abby, the Abby who knows the rules.”

Laughter flows in ripples around the classroom. I avoid Christopher's face as I head back to my desk. I've done what I needed to. Tianna will congratulate me; Katie will say, “That was so funny;” and Emily will leave me alone. LeAnn, the deranged cyborg, will be glad I stood up for her.

I'm standing by my locker when LeAnn charges out of French class. She doesn't look grateful at all.

“That was so mean what you did to Christopher,” she says.

Mean? What is she talking about?

“I was just being funny,” I say.

“I was not amused,” she says.

Now I'm confused. When did the rules change?

“He called you a deranged cyborg,” I say.

“He always calls me that,” LeAnn says. “And I call him a Klingon.”

What? I think. I didn't know they were friends. How could that be? Christopher is my friend. I mean, he's not my friend at school because he's too much of a nerd. I mean . . . this is so unfair!

I helplessly stare at LeAnn, unable to form my thoughts into words.

Caught in the Rules

“Christopher's so annoying,” Katie says at lunch. “How many years did you have to do science with him?”

“Too many,” I say, though I'm not sure that's true.

As LeAnn's words bang around in my head, it occurs to me that Christopher walks alone to the bus every day even though he lives only three houses from me.

Emily stops by with a crowd of followers and a clipboard. “We're taking a survey,” she says. “What's your favorite music?”

Tianna says Alicia Keys. Katie says Kelly Clarkson. I rack my brains trying to think of a single song by either singer. “So how about you, Abby?”

“Um,” I say. “I like the Chieftains.” Tianna gives me a warning look.

Emily's pencil stops midword. “The what?”

“It's an Irish music band I heard . . . somewhere.”

At Christopher's. I heard it at Christopher's house. His dad always plays the Chieftains.

“Oh,” Emily says. “I don't think your kind of music fits our survey. But thanks anyway.” She walks away giggling.

Earlier in the school year, someone put a “kick me” sign on Christopher's back. I remember I laughed because Emily laughed. But she went on calling me Patchwork Girl. Even if you laugh at the right people, you can still be an outcast.

Breaking the Rules

On Friday, Monsieur Martineau hands out a list of words.

“Create a scene,” he says as he begins assigning partners. To my horror, he points to Christopher and me. Tianna gives me a sympathetic look.

Christopher comes to the back of the room. He looks at the top of the desk.

“Well,” he says, “we'd better get started.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. Is he laughing at me?

“We're supposed to speak only French,” I say.

“Bien,” Christopher says. He sits down.

LeAnn is watching us. She gives me a half-smile. Is she a friend?

“Où est ton manteau?” Christopher says.

“Where's my coat?”

“Yeah,” he says. “The one you always used to wear. I liked it.”

Is he making fun of me? Only a nerd would like that patchwork coat.

“As-tu faim?” he asks.

“Am I hungry?”

He nods. I can tell he's up to something. He bows grandly, then reaches into his backpack and hands me a potato.

I don't know what to think. I turn it over in my hand. “Is this the same potato I ...” I can't finish.

Christopher doesn't answer my question. He grins a Captain Kirk grin. A Christopher grin. A grin that says, “Come on, Abby. I know you're in there.”

He has on his oversized rugby shirt again. His copy of Les Mis is sticking out of his backpack. He's a misfit.

But I'm a misfit, too. Maybe we're all misfits.

“I was mean to you the other day,” I say. I feel myself turning red.

What if Christopher won't be my friend anymore because I've turned really mean? I think. Just as mean as Emily.

Then I have a thought that stops me cold: What if Emily is only mean because she thinks she has to follow the rules . . . like I do? Maybe the rules are mean. Maybe the rules shouldn't rule.

“Want to ask your mom if you can come over after school?” Christopher says. “I'm writing a script for Les Miserables.”

Katie raises her eyebrows at me from across the room. I raise my eyebrows at her, and then I turn back to Christopher.

“OK,“ I say. “Let's write a 'Star Trek' version.”

	Q: What do pigs write letters with? A: Pig-pens. Alejandro P., 12, California Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe