Code Name: Whatever

By Emily Asad

Sixteen-year-old Margaret Beverly hates her old lady name. Fortunately - or maybe not - a loophole in her mother’s latest divorce rips it away from her. But reconstructing a new identity is proving difficult. Introverted and covered in zits, Margaret develops a New Me project that is immediately put to the test by her new Satanic stepsister, a gossiping class bully, and a flirtatious young man from choir. But how can he like her, when she can’t even like herself? Is juggling really the answer? And if the New Me project fails, will she be doomed to nothingness forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Asad
• Release date: Jan 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465924513

Emily Asad

A native Minnesotan, nothing makes Emily happier than reading by the fireplace while it's blizzarding outside. Her favorite authors include Tamora Pierce, Louisa May Alcott, and Frances Hodgson Burnett. As a veteran high-school English teacher, her favorite subject is British Literature, especially the Chaucer poems. As a juggler, she uses her students for guinea pigs to perform her short plays, and she often conducts a Jester Academy that teach kids to juggle and tell corny jokes. In her spare times, she bakes bread and studies chess.

Book preview

CODE NAME: WHATEVER

by

Emily Asad

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2003, 2011 by Emily Asad

All Rights Reserved

3rd Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Dedicated to my amazing husband, who provided the soil for his Rose to bloom

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Over the years, many people have read my drafts and offered support and advice. I'd like to thank the following students for believing in me enough to help make this story reach its potential:

Gaither High School: Camille Maia, Gigi Graniela, Sophia Ruple, Jayson Palacio, Jenna Puertos, Justin Jordan, Yeniby Fernandez and Alexa Marrero

Sunlake High School: Katie Walters, Shelby Arnold and Alex Birtwell

Peoria Academy: Sarah Antonacci, Emily Antonacci, Aubrianna Radee, Sofia Rhode, Ariel Montieth (a fellow ginger), Anna Puterbaugh (glitter child), Shruti Pattekar (silent artist), Lina Aldadah and her mother May Abhouhouli, and my colleague Kayla Anderson

And to my friends: BJ Sisk, who helped me refine my juggling skills; Sarena Castorino, the most brilliant person I know; Melissa Grubbs, whose poetic sensibilities make me envious; and especially my fellow author-friend Janice Strand (who writes as Lynne Hansen) for getting me started and keeping me going.

Finally, of course, to my own mother, a strong and generous woman, and an excellent grandmother to my beautiful girls. I love you, Mom.

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Want more books by this author?

Visit Smashwords.com to download the following titles:

Survival in Style

Destination Paraguay

Visit the author's website for upcoming projects

www.emilyasad.com

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Before We Start

Chapter 2: Unpacking

Chapter 3: The Steps

Chapter 4: Introductions

Chapter 5: My Heart on Paper

Chapter 6: The List

Chapter 7: The Shenton Zoo

Chapter 8: Not So Alone

Chapter 9: Tryouts and Blow-ups

Chapter 10: Gallant Rose

Chapter 11: The Fall Play

Chapter 12: The Concert

Chapter 13: Confrontations

Chapter 14: Darcy

Chapter 15: Friends Forever

Chapter 16: Inward, Not Onward

Chapter 17: Confidence Builders

Chapter 18: A Valentine Discovery

Chapter 19: Spring

Chapter 20: The Explosion

Chapter 21: Moving On

Statistics and Fragments

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Before We Start

Okay, I confess. I’m not comfortable with you reading this. Especially knowing you’re going to judge me, and probably hate me like everyone else does. Or at least, like they used to. I know I went to the trouble of turning parts of my diary into a story for you, but now that you’re here, I’m getting cold feet!

Why am I letting you read it, then? Put it this way: Last year really changed my life and I just have to share it with someone. And since I’m still not good at this whole friendship thing, that someone gets to be you. A perfect stranger. Call it therapy, if you like. At least I have enough guts to keep fighting.

By the way, I’m calling myself Margerly now - not my real name, but you’ll figure out why later. It’s July, I turn seventeen next week, and Luke will be back in time for the new school year. He’s still my only friend – well, the only one still alive – but the guys in the juggler’s club have been nice. I’m hoping this therapy helps me find some new friends this year, you know?

You won’t find vampires or schools of magic or superheroes with their special powers in my story. I’m just an ordinary teenager, the kind you’d probably never notice, the kind you pass in the hallway every single day. I can only offer you my shreds of dignity – my dairy goats, my Satanic stepsister, my moody mother, and my nerdy little List. All I ask is that you not hate me, yet, until you get to know me better. Even my enemies have learned to respect me. Besides, I gave myself a second chance – maybe you can, too.

So here it is, my heart on paper, from one teen to another. I even included the statistics I’ve battled so you can see what everyone expected, plus some favorite poetry quotes that got me through the tough times.

Enjoy. Or not. Whatever.

Chapter 2: Unpacking

Statistic: Second marriages fail 75% of the time

I checked my watch yet again. With a shake of my head, I noticed that it was only four minutes since I last checked the time. Stupid, I said aloud.

What’s stupid? asked Matt - my twin brother, even though we look nothing alike. He has black hair and blue eyes. I have red hair and green eyes. In fact, we look so different that people often mistake us for a dating couple. That always grosses me out.

I keep looking at the time. And they’re not supposed to come home until tomorrow. I tucked my frizzy red hair behind my ears and bent over another box.

Paranoid, aren’t we, Matt said. He stood up and stretched. I think I’ve done enough unpacking. It’s Peter’s turn.

Oh, come on, Matt! You know that mom will beat me bloody if the house isn’t in perfect order. And Peter’s no good. He knows he can get away with anything.

So tell Becky to carry stuff for you.

You’re saying that a seven-year-old is more useful than a sixteen-year-old?

He shrugged. I’m done for today. With a sharp but affectionate punch to my shoulder, he added, And there are only nine boxes left. You’ll finish before dinner. Speaking of which, what are you making?

Weary, I rubbed the back of my neck. I hadn’t even thought about making dinner yet. I was so worried about Mom coming home to a messy house that dinner was the least of my concerns. Spaghetti, maybe? I replied. Hey, go check on Peter and Becky. Make sure they haven’t messed anything up.

Spaghetti, huh, he complained, but he did go outside to see what the kids were doing.

I sat back on my heels and looked around. The house had shaped up nicely in the week they had been gone – they being my mother and her new husband. You’d think after all the moves I’ve been through, I’d be an expert at this. After all, fourteen houses in sixteen years has got to be a Guinness-book qualifier, and I’m not even a military brat. But always before, Mom was in charge of the moves, and everybody helped, even lazy Peter.

Of the nine boxes left, most of them were books for the shelves in the living room. I could unpack those in less than an hour. Especially if I pulled the nasty-sister routine.

Peter! I bellowed, raising my voice toward an open window. Get in here!

Knowing that appearance was crucial, I stood up, put my hands on my hips and pasted a stern expression on my face. The minute he came inside, I growled, Why are you playing when there’s work to be done?

Peter laughed. School starts in a week, remember? I don’t want to waste any vacation.

I continued to look stern despite his easy-going answer. Well, I haven’t had any vacation this summer so far, and I want some time to relax. Grab that and put it where it belongs.

To my surprise, he obeyed immediately. I knelt beside the remaining boxes and began to shove books onto the shelf.

Where does this go? asked Peter after a few minutes, removing a magazine rack from his box.

I flipped my hair out of my face so I could see what he was whining about. Which box did it come from?

Uh, the one from Wal-Mart.

No, stupid. I meant, what label did we put on the box?

His face lit up in a goofy grin. Oops. Bathroom, I guess.

So put it in the bathroom.

Yeah, but which one?

I sighed, a long-drawn out sound that let him know I was being a very patient older sister but was on the edge of losing my temper. Mom’s the only one who reads while she sits, Peter.

He knew that sigh well. I had used it on him dozens of times before. Sorry, he muttered, and hustled out of the room.

It always amazes me how I’m the only one with brains in our family. My twin brother, Matt, is probably as smart as I am – at least, he knows lots more useless trivia, and always gets straight A’s – but he lacks common sense. He’s a poet and a dreamer who would have done better if he had been born in the Renaissance era. Twelve-year-old Peter, our younger brother, was never any good with academics, even though he’s probably the most popular kid in his grade. As if sixth grade matters. Then there’s Becky, the baby of the family, who still has to prove herself. I’m pretty sure she has a brain, but it’s hard to tell with second-graders. In any case, she’s phenomenal in gymnastics and already has coaches turning their heads whenever she gives a performance. Me? I’m the invisible, responsible one, the one who takes the blame for everything. And I don’t even complain.

A squeal of fright, followed by a shriek of laughter, arrested my attention. I turned my head. Matt was chasing Becky around the kitchen, threatening to tickle her. For some reason, their laughter made me cranky.

Is everyone going to enjoy themselves while I slave away? I said, loud enough for everyone to know I was unhappy.

Matt came and sat beside me on the hardwood floor. How long do you think this one will last?

I knew he was referring to Mom’s latest marriage. I’d give it a year, I said, maybe two. Statistically, it has a chance at two years.

I’m a big believer in statistics. Not because I believe that all people can be categorized, but because I’m determined to defy the statistics. Especially the ones that apply to me.

I’m thinking a couple of months, he said. You know Mom.

No, this one’s different. She looks… I don’t know… more complete. Relaxed, at least.

You shouldn’t place bets, said Becky, who had settled in a corner to play with her dolls. That’s not nice.

You said that about the last one, Matt continued, ignoring her.

Yeah, well, this one seems different, I insisted.

You’d think four marriages would be a record of some sort, he mumbled.

Three, I corrected.

He shrugged. We never were quite sure if that second one counted as a marriage, or if it was just some colossal fluke. We kids counted it as a marriage, since it had produced our little brother Peter. The third marriage gave us Becky. This new one was going to give us something we had never known before – stepsisters.

None of the Others came with kids, and this one – his name was Roger – came with two daughters. We had only met them once before, for a few minutes, right after the wedding. That is, I should say right after the wedding was over. We missed it. Matt and I were at summer camp half an hour outside of town, and we kept trying to get the driver to hurry. Did he? No, and my mom decided that it was better to proceed with the wedding as scheduled, instead of making her guests wait. So we missed their wedding by about twenty minutes. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

I don’t know why we had to move again, Matt continued.

Neither of them wanted any of us to have an advantage, I repeated for the umpteenth time. A new home is neutral ground. We’re all moving into a New Life, remember?

He groaned at the often-repeated phrase. To him, it was propaganda. I liked the last place. It had a lake.

This one’s better.

I can’t go fishing.

You can go hunting. Do you realize how much land there is behind the house? Have you gone for a walk back there yet?

He shook his head.

I lowered my voice. I saw two deer out there this morning.

Oh, yeah? His eyebrows lifted. I could tell he was interested.

I pointed out the window to our twenty acres, complete with a thick tree line. Come on, Matt. We’re nine miles out of town, in a huge old farmhouse surrounded by all this open land. Don’t tell me you didn’t think about hunting.

That did the trick. He forgot about fishing – I could tell by his sudden pensive expression. I smiled to myself. At least one of us felt better.

I’m starving, said Peter. And I have to go to the bathroom again.

When we finish unloading these boxes, I’ll make dinner, I replied.

The faint crunch of wheels on gravel grew louder, prompting Peter and Becky to look outside

They’re home! screamed Becky. She tucked her favorite doll under her arm and ran onto the lawn, laughing.

Matt pushed a curtain aside. And of course, you’re not done unpacking yet. Well, guess you’re in trouble.

I froze. There was no telling what kind of punishment I had earned this time.

Chapter 3: The Steps

And the feeble little ones must stand

In the thickest of the fight.

-Adelaide Anne Proctor

Forcing myself to stay calm, I walked to the front door to greet my mother. As I passed through the entryway, I brushed my right cheekbone with my fingers. The bruise had almost disappeared and I certainly didn’t want a new one just in time for school. Mom gave it to me last week after her wedding reception was finished and the guests were almost gone. See, she was furious that we missed her wedding. When I tried to explain that the camp counselors had forgotten that Matt and I were supposed to be dismissed early, her temper exploded. And when Mom explodes, her fists fly everywhere. Fortunately, she tries to hide that side from Roger, who still thinks she’s perfect. So when he came looking for her, and saw us together – me holding my face – Mom told him I had run into a doorway. He was a happy groom and believed her. He thinks I’m a big klutz anyway. After that, he escorted her back to the main reception area, and then they drove away for their honeymoon.

And now they were home again. And the house was not yet ready.

Shame and anger filled me. With Mom, though, anger only feeds more anger, so I pushed my feelings aside and went to greet her.

I joined Becky and the others on the lawn. I really couldn’t help smiling when I saw Mom get out of the car – she looked so fresh and happy. It seemed contagious.

She blew kisses to us – blew kisses – and I knew that an alien was inhabiting her body. My mother is not naturally affectionate, and rarely hugs or kisses any of us kids. Her week with Roger must have done wonders. I hoped this new phase would last.

My smile began to fade when I saw what was in the back seat of the car – The Girls. While Mom snatched Becky up in a whirlwind hug, Matt and I stared at The Girls. They looked miserable. They got out of the car and stood staring back at us.

The older one, Erika, had short black hair with streaks of purple and green, black fingernails, a pierced nose, and wore combat boots. Her sneer made me cringe. She was your typical rebellious seventeen-year-old, the kind that my mother always warned me against becoming. Mom would never stand for that kind of attitude – or would she, since Erika was not exactly her daughter?

The other sister, Margaret, seemed harmless. She was twelve years old, slightly pudgy, wore pastel colors, and clutched her little purse with white knuckles. She kept her eyes glued to the ground. I realized that she was more afraid of us than we were of her. Probably she felt outnumbered – after all, there were four of us and two of them.

Welcome home, I said, trying to break the tension. I smiled at Erika and held out my hand to take her suitcase.

She glared down her nose at me. Her posture made me feel positively ant-like. Which one are you again?

Um, I’m Margaret, I said.

The other Margaret looked at me when she heard her name. I saw the parents exchange glances, and I wondered what it could mean.

Matt heaved a suitcase out of the trunk. You’re home kind of early, he said to Mom. Didn’t you like Florida?

It was wonderful, she beamed. We just thought you kids might want to get to know each other before school starts.

Gee. A whole week. We’ll be best friends by Sunday, muttered Erika.

Mom did not hear her.

Well. Let me show you your room, I suggested. Becky, why don’t you take Margaret up to hers?

Matt and Peter helped Mom and her boyfriend – now her husband – unload the car. I felt kind of awkward around him. In the first place, he was so tall! He was easily six foot three. He seemed nice enough, though. He had spent some time at our house while they were dating, and he liked to play the guitar. He had a really great voice, too, a rumbling sort of bass. It was one of the things that had first attracted Mom to him. Plus, he smiled a lot.

I led Erika up to our bedroom. She seemed upset that we would be sharing a room, even though I had taken special care to make her side as nice as I could. Besides, it was a large room, big enough for three or four beds, like maybe they did back last century when the farmhouse was being used as a farmhouse. But her expression clearly said that no room would be large enough for both of us. I crossed my fingers for luck.

I also hoped, judging from her black fingernails and the Pentagram on her tee shirt, that she wouldn’t be the kind of person that offers sacrifices to Satan as part of a ritualistic plea to reunite her divorced parents. Maybe I should put a picture of the Virgin Mary in our room, just to be safe!

"So, you’re a