Starring Jules (As Herself) Read online

  This Australian edition first published in 2013

  First published in the United States by Scholastic Press,

  an imprint of Scholastic Inc, in 2013

  Copyright © Text, Beth Ain 2013

  Copyright © Illustrations, Scholastic Inc 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 454 8

  Cover design by Alissa Dinallo

  Cover and internal illustrations by Anne Keenan Higgins

  Text design by Natalie C. Sousa

  Set in 14.5 pt Electra

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  for

  GRACE EDEN

  and

  ELIJAH HENRY

  (as themselves)

  CONTENTS

  take one: fizzy milk, to-do lists, and promising maybes

  take two: yeps, nopes, and sweatshirts from far-off places

  take three: boys in helmets, minty-fresh mysteries, and the writing on the wall

  take four: the art of breathing, the other Hollywood, and things that make me itch

  take five: not-so-helpful science experiments, earth-rattling knees, and free-roaming relatives

  take six: promising playdates, spaghetti with peanut butter, and other distractions

  take seven: surprise guest stars, boys in bow ties, and butterflies over Broadway

  take eight: crying cats and dogs, blackout barbecues, and secrets of the . . .

  fizzy milk, to-do lists,

  and promising maybes

  “That’s how you make a fizzy ice-cream cone / That’s how you do it / That’s how you do it.” I look up from my cup full of milk bubbles and see my little brother, Big Henry, eyeing me.

  “What’s a fizzy ice-cream cone?” Henry asks.

  “It’s a milk cup full of bubbles,” I say, blowing into my straw and humming my jingle.

  “I want one!” Henry yells.

  “You want what?” the waitress asks. She’s been hovering since my mom went to the restroom. “You want an imaginary ice-cream cone?”

  “Yeth,” Henry says to the waitress.

  “You want one?” I ask. “No problemo.” I pour my mom’s ice water into my brother’s ice water and then pour half my milk into the empty cup. Voilà! I look up and the waitress has walked away from us. I think she thought I couldn’t take care of my little brother all by myself while my mom was in the restroom, but she was wrong. I can take care of him just fine. I poke a straw in his cup and hand it over. “Here you go, Big Henry.”

  Henry looks at the cup of bubbles with big eyes and blows into the straw. I join him and get back to humming my jingle.

  “Jules!” My mom is back. By now, our fizzy ice-cream cones are up to our eyebrows.

  “What?” I say into my straw. I laugh when I see that this makes even more bubbles.

  “Whoa! Not funny, Jules,” she says.

  “Then why are you smiling?” I ask.

  “Because it’s a little bit funny,” she says, sitting down.

  “It is, right?” I say.

  “Yes, it is,” she says. “Now stop it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Big Henry,” I tell my brother, “that’s enough, now. We have to make a list.”

  “Of what?” Henry asks.

  “Of things to do before I turn eight,” I say.

  “Mommy,” I say, “pen, please!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she says, handing over a pen with a turquoise felt tip. My mom and I have a lot in common, including:

  1. Loving the color turquoise more than any other color.

  2. Loving lists.

  Things to Do Before I Turn Eight, I write on a napkin.

  1. Finish fizzy ice-cream cone jingle.

  2. Be perfect at performing fizzy ice-cream cone jingle.

  3. Find a new best friend since Charlotte Stinkytown Pinkerton has turned out to be the worst best friend ever.

  “Jules,” my mom says, “why’d you write that about Charlotte?”

  “Because it’s true,” I say. “I can’t believe she was ever my best friend in the first place. How could you have let that happen?” I ask.

  “Because it was nursery school and you and Charlotte loved each other,” my mom says.

  “What did I love about her? Her pink sparkly barrettes? Her pink sparkly tights? Her pink sparkly backpack?”

  My mom sighs really loud now.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I never know how you’re going to feel about Charlotte on any given day,” she says. “Tomorrow, you will probably love her again. And Abby and Brynn, too.”

  “No way, José,” I say. “Any person who can just go off on a big fancy vacation and come back with fancy fingernails and two new best friends . . . well, we will never, not ever, be best friends again.”

  “Oh, it was the vacation,” my mom says. “I see. The one they all went on together.”

  “At the place with the towels,” I say.

  “The towels.” My mom says this and puts down her menu.

  I can tell that this means that she needs me to explain. “You know, where they lay out the towels on your pool chair like maybe you don’t have arms or something, and it’s all because they just want to be as fancy as they can be and not because anyone needs to have their towels laid out for them,” I say.

  “Well, I would like that,” Big Henry says now.

  “No you would not, Big Henry, because there are kids who are starving,” I say.

  “Where?” he says.

  “In the world,” I say.

  “I’m starving,” he says right now.

  I am too upset to even have an answer for this.

  “Well, anyway,” my mom says, “I thought all of you were best friends. You and Charlotte and Abby and Brynn. If you’re not friends with any of them anymore, who’s left?” she asks.

  “Teddy!” Big Henry shouts.

  I snort some milk bubbles into my cup at this.

  “What?” my mom asks. “You and Teddy are meant to be.”

  “Jules!” I hear my dad’s voice.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” I say.

  “Mommy thinks I ought to be best friends with Stinkytown and also that I’m meant to be with Teddy Lichtenstein.” I pause. “Teddy. Lichtenstein.” I say it again — slowly, for emphasis.

  “Well, I think you ought to clean up that snorted milk,” he says, smiling.

  “Daddy!” Big Henry says, standing right up in the booth and stepping his giant four-year-old sneaker right into the middle of the table before throwing himself into my dad’s arms.

  “Big Henry!” my dad says.

  “Want
to hear my jingle?” I ask, mopping up my milk.

  “Does it have to do with fizzy ice-cream cones?” my dad asks.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say.

  “Then yes,” he says.

  I clear my throat and let my best jingle voice out. “That’s how you make a fizzy ice-cream cone / That’s how you do it / That’s how you do it.”

  I feel people’s eyes on me and my face gets hot.

  “Don’t stop,” a woman says. She is sitting in the booth behind us.

  “Sorry,” I say, turning around.

  “Yes,” my mom says. “Don’t mind us. You know how it is.”

  “Yes,” the woman says, “I do.” Then she stands up and comes around to our side of the booth. I look up at her and see that she is beautiful. Movie-star beautiful. She has long red hair and long feather earrings on and her eyes are sparkly and green.

  “My name is Colby Kingston,” she says, looking at me and not at my mom or dad, “and I was sitting there thinking, Who is this kid with all that pizzazz at the next table?”

  Pizzazz? I think to myself. Now there’s a word that belongs on my list of possible signature words.

  “And then I heard her sing and, well, she’s got quite a voice.”

  Now it is my mom who clears her throat. “Hi,” she says, shooting her hand out at the woman for a shake, “I’m Rachel Bloom, and this is my husband, Robby. And these two are Henry —”

  “Big Henry,” I say.

  “Big Henry,” my mom continues, “and Jules.”

  “Well, all I can say is that I find all of you, well . . . entertaining,” she says. And then she says something else. “Especially Jules.”

  My face goes from hot to on fire, and I wonder if Colby Kingston notices, and then I wonder if she will take back all the nice things she’s been saying about me, since a person with pizzazz probably does not get an on-fire face in a situation like this. I picture a nice, calm, grown-up type of person taking these compliments and smiling and shaking hands with Colby Kingston the way my mom did and saying things like, “Isn’t this place just great? The scrambled eggs and chocolate milk are especially delicious here. Definitely better than that other diner. Hm? Yes, I know, too crowded.” And then I think that this imaginary person has pizzazz, not me.

  “Well, anyway,” I hear her saying, “here’s my card. Please give this a shot. It’s just not every day you come across someone like her.”

  I think maybe Colby Kingston is talking about me, but I’m not sure because I was too busy thinking about my hot face and scrambled eggs and chocolate milk while she was talking to my parents. “See you soon, Jules. Bye, Big Henry!” And just like that, she is gone.

  “Well, what do you think of that?” my dad says.

  “Of what?” I say.

  “Of auditioning for a TV commercial,” my mom says. “It’s flattering, Julesie, but I don’t —”

  “Wait, what?” I say.

  “Didn’t you hear what she said?” my dad asks.

  “I was thinking about something else,” I say.

  “Well, she’s a casting director and she thinks you are just right for a kids’ mouthwash commercial,” my mom says, waving a little card all around. “That’s what you missed while you were out.”

  “While you were out” is my mom’s way of saying “While you were daydreaming and inventing a completely different universe from the one we are currently living in.”

  “Is Jules going to be on TV?” Big Henry asks.

  “Am I?” I ask.

  “We’ll have to think about it,” my dad says.

  “Wait,” my mom says. “Would you even want to do something like this, Jules?”

  I can’t think of the right answer.

  “Wow,” my dad says. “She’s speechless. Let’s get that Colby Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is back here. Maybe she can get you to go to bed on time, too.”

  “Colby Kingston,” I say. And then I say, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” my mom asks.

  “Yes, I’d like to be on a TV commercial,” I say.

  My mom and dad look at each other and I think they are going to say no because that’s what usually happens when they look at each other before answering.

  I cover my ears.

  “It isn’t a no, Jules,” my dad says, laughing.

  “It’s a maybe,” my mom says.

  “I’ll take a maybe,” I say.

  Maybe is the most exciting word I’ve heard since pizzazz.

  yeps, nopes, and sweatshirts

  from far-off places

  I blink my eyes open and a list pops right into my head.

  Things I Would Change About My Room:

  1. It would be all turquoise instead of all yellow since turquoise makes me think of the ocean in Florida and yellow makes me think of dog pee on white snow.

  2. It would have Christmas lights strung up all around because twinkly lights make everything look better, even my bulldog, Ugly Otis.

  3. It would be all mine.

  “Time to huthle, Jules.” My lispy roommate, Big Henry, is nose-to-nose with me. He thinks the closer he gets to my face, the more likely I am to listen to him.

  “Ready,” I say, and then I pull the covers up over my face and hide. Big Henry helps me by dragging me off the bed by my feet until I hit the floor with a thud. “Henry!” I shout, but I cannot be mad because I am laughing too hard.

  “Are you up now?” my mom asks from the doorway.

  “Uh, yes,” I say from the floor. “I’m up, all right.”

  I think it is a day for layering and light-up high-top sneakers, so it takes me an extra five minutes to get ready. I put on a blue-and-white-striped long-sleeve shirt, which means I have to put on my violet corduroy overall shorts — the ones with red poppies all over them — which means I have to put on my navy tights with the turquoise polka dots, because I can only wear my poppy overall shorts with my polka-dot tights. Then I remember that it is March, and even though March seems like it might be a springtime month, it mostly feels like a wintertime month, so I pull on my argyle kneesocks because they will keep my shins warm when the wind blows. And also because I love to say argyle.

  Out in the hallway, standing in front of the elevator, my mom shoves a blueberry waffle into my hand as the doors open and I fake-smile at all the people dressed in business suits. Outside, the city is wide awake. The air is cool and damp, and the flowers at the corner market have little droplets on them.

  “It’s gonna be a fun day, huh, Jules?” my mom asks.

  “Yep,” I say. I am not good at listening in the morning. Things like minivan taxis and women in high heels clickety-clacking on the street distract me.

  “Are you excited to meet the new girl?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Excited for your audition?”

  “Yep,” I say. “Hey!”

  “What?” my mom asks with a big old smile on her face.

  “I get to go?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she says.

  “Today?” I ask.

  “Nope,” she says. “Friday, right after school.”

  I haven’t breathed a breath since she said I could go, so I finally exhale. Today is Tuesday. That gives me four full school days to think about having the perfect pizzazz-ful audition. That ought to be enough time.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

  “I’m telling you right now,” she says. “Daddy and I called Colby Kingston last night and she told us she was looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “Pizzazz,” I say out loud.

  “What?” she says.

  “Nothing,” I say. But all I think the whole bus ride to school is pizzazz, pizzazz, pizzazz, pizzazz, and I picture that scrambled-eggs-and-chocolate-milk version of myself walking into the audition with sunglasses and a tall icy drink because it seems that people like that are always sucking on straws attached to tall icy drinks. I think that this tall-icy-drink person would do just fine in a minty-mouthwash commercia
l.

  I am only distracted by this news for a little while since, thankfully, today is the day we are getting a new student in our class — a girl from London! Her name is Elinor and from the minute I heard about her, I just knew Elinor of London was going to be my new best friend.

  And it’s about time. I’ve been waiting for a new best friend since January 3rd, when Stinkytown decided to turn into a pink sparkly blob of a boss instead of a regular seven-year-old girl. And now it has been a whole entire two months of watching Charlotte and Brynn and Abby poke each other in the ribs at things I don’t understand, whispering secrets they probably learned at that fancy resort hotel. Secrets they probably can’t tell me because nobody lays out your towels for you at the Museum of Natural History, which is where I spent most of my winter break. And two whole months of listening to them call themselves the ABC’s: Abby. Brynn. Charlotte. There are six letters in between Charlotte and Jules, but there might as well be one hundred. Fingers crossed for Elinor of London, I think, walking into my classroom.

  The very first thing we do at school, after we hang up our backpacks and sit down at our desks, is freewriting. We are supposed to take five minutes to put our thoughts on paper so we can clear our minds for the day. No matter how much freewriting I do, my mind will never be clear, which is why I keep lists. Today, I can’t do anything but tap my pencil over and over and over while we wait. I can only think about my audition and meeting my new best friend. I try again to write something down.

  Things I Will NOT Do at My Audition:

  1. Burp into the microphone when I mean to sing into the microphone.

  “What audition?” Charlotte whispers.

  “Charlotte!” I whisper back. “You looked at my page.”

  “So?” she asks. “Was it a secret? If it was a secret, you should have guarded it with your arm, like this.” Charlotte puts her arm around her own page and buries her face inside it.

  “Well, I didn’t think anyone would be peeking at my work,” I say. I always wish I could think of just the right thing to say to make Charlotte stop talking like she knows everything, but I never, ever can. Even when we were friends, I used to wish this. I bet the tall-icy-drink-drinking person would know what to say.