âYou told him I thought he was cute!â
âNo. Promise.â
âIâm going to kill you, Karma Cooper.â
âI seriously didnât say a thing!â
The entire caf is looking at him looking at all of us. But then this little thought comes to me. Somehow Milton P. Daniels must have special abilities. He claims to build spaceships. What if he has real powers of some kind? What if he can read minds? And then another thought zaps me. Back in elementary school, both Milton P. âand I were teased. Even though we didnât hang out, we knew we were the same. Outsiders. And not well liked.
As Milton P. steps toward our table, I squint and try to figure out how Ella can see his cuteness. A thick brown belt holds up his too-baggy jeans. The busy checked pattern on his shirt makes me dizzy. But I almost glimpse it for a second, if you take away the shoe box clutched under his arm, his strange robotic shuffle, and his bangs plastered against his forehead. Maybe, possibly.
âI swear I didnât say anything,â I whisper to Ella. âYou have to believe me.â
âWhy is he coming toward us, then?â
But he doesnât stop in front of Ella.
Are You Kidding Me?
Hereâs the weird thing. Milton P. Daniels stops in front of me, Karma Cooper.
And he smiles at me with his outer-space eyes while his mouth stretches in a little line, expressionless. And then, as he clutches his shoe box in the middle of the cafeteria, with everyoneâs ears turned our way, he says in his robot-y voice, âKarma Cooper, I always knew youâd appreciate red aircraft fuselage curved aft section six by ten bottom with fire logo pattern on both sides.â
âHuh?â I say as everyone stares.
Because itâs Milton P. and heâs talking to me. And nobody has any idea what he just said.
I choke back a laugh. âSure,â I say. âWhatever.â
âSee you later.â Milton P.âs neck pivots down, as if thereâs a rod inside of it, as if heâs really made of steel and not flesh. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. Then he tucks his shoe box under his left arm and plods away.
Ella sits next to me, blinking in surprise. âAs Milton P. marches across the cafeteria, there are snorts of laughter as someone calls out, âWhat do you got in there, Snollygoster? Someoneâs head?â
âHis box is from outer space. Heâs communicating with his mother ship!â cracks a kid sitting behind me in a hockey shirt. I think itâs Brian Feeker.
Thereâs a burst of laughter. But Milton P. doesnât react. My throat feels dry. I canât help feeling badly. I stare outside the window, where a steady rain beats down.
Milton P. plods across the cafeteria as if his legs donât have joints, then sits down to eat his lunch.
âUm, people, what was that about?â asks Bailey, pressing her lips together.
I shrug. âNo clue.â
And itâs true.
I donât have a clue.
And I donât want to know.
My Stats:
No new followers on the seventh-grade Spirit Week page
602 followers on Auggieâs eighth-grade Spirit Week pageâargh!
1 warning by Mr. Chaseâbut not a detention! YAY!
1 mysterious utterance by Milton P. Daniels. No idea why he decided to speak to me after all this time.
Mood: Baffled and hopeful that Milton P. lunchroom encounter is an isolated incident
10
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7: DAY 4 WITHOUT LIKES
Wag More
After I get home from Hebrew tutoring, I fling my backpack and soccer bag into the front hallway. Lucky noses into me and I scratch him behind his ears. His tail swishes back and forth.
Dad pokes his head into the hall. âHow was Hebrew?â
âFine.â I rub under Luckyâs chin.
âHey, Lucky, youâre such a cutie,â says Dad. âYes, you are. Youâre so cute.â
Luckyâs golden-brown tail swishes faster. It looks like a flame. I could take
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