Cricket Magazine


“SO . . . YOU gonna eat me or what?”

I look down at my lunch. I know my mom would be mad if she knew I only bought a donut. She’s always on me about how a growing girl needs good nutrition, how you can’t learn with just sugar to fuel you. She never mentioned this particular issue though: the donut is talking to me. Some people would be delighted about this, I guess. But me? This is the last thing I need.

Long story, but in the fourth grade I was known as the girl who threw up on her hand. It took two years for me to live that down. Now, in the sixth grade, I think most people have forgotten about it. They haven’t teased me in months, plus Callie’s been over to my house twice AND she invited me to her birthday party. But this donut thing could set me back. I don’t want to become known as the girl donuts talk to.

It’s tricky. I know I have the cut-rate brand of suede boots, the pink sweatshirt from the discount mart with the waffle pattern on it instead of the smooth version that Callie has.

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