Speak Your Mind

By Allyson Kennedy

Middle school is bad enough. It's worse when you're the shy kid.

Victoria Harding has been called many names during her time at Grahamwood Junior High: Loner. Stalker. Teacher's Pet. Kids have even joked that she's formed an evil plot against the school, because you can never trust the quiet ones.

But Victoria is armed with nothing but her vivid imagination, content within laying low in her own little world, where she's able to battle against the school's dragons and trolls with her quick wit and confidence. If only that could become her reality.

Victoria finds peace in silence, but her social anxiety is deafening. When her new neighbor, Aiden, comes knocking on her door, all Victoria wants to do is stay within the comfortable confines of her castle, alone with her daydreams and mystery books. But Aiden has another plan, and does the one thing few have ever done for her: listen.

Perfect for fans of Flipped and Restart, Speak Your Mind is an upper middle grade novel for shy tween readers who just want to be heard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allyson Kennedy
• Release date: Nov 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393469056

Allyson Kennedy

Allyson Kennedy is an author from eastern North Carolina whose main goal for writing is to honor God without sugarcoating the realities of the world. In her time as an indie author, she has written contemporary fiction books for middle graders and young adults, and non-fiction for Christian authors. When she's not writing, Allyson enjoys watching movies with her husband, shooting arrows with her recurve bow, and reading, of course.

Book preview

Chapter 1:

Miss Unfortunate Disaster

You know how when you reach the age of thirteen that older people start telling you about their awkward stage, that horrid seventh grade year? Coming out of the sixth grade at Grahamwood Junior High, I envisioned myself rising over the obstacle like a mighty horse jumping over the last hurdle to win its greatest victory yet. However, although victory sounds a lot like my name, my seventh grade year has become an epic failure.

My name is Victoria Harding, and this is the story of my seventh grade tragedy.

Eight o’clock a.m.: I head straight for PE, first period with Coach Jackson. Trudging past the judging eyes of my classmates, my gaze remains in place on my sneakers. I duck into the locker room to find all the change-out benches are occupied, except for the one in the darkened back corner. Stepping over the other girls’ bags littering the aisle, I drop my bookbag on it. The bench collapses under its weight.

I guess it can’t deal with the weight of this school either, I think, struggling to pick up my things.

Haha, check out Miss Total Victory! 

It is the chant of a thousand nightmares, the ringing in my ear that never ceases its daily presence. Of course, they had to see that. If you haven’t already guessed, Meredith Waters and her best friend, Shaniah King, find it hilarious to make jokes out of my name every time something goes wrong. I’ve let it pass for years, but on the inside, I’m screaming, I hope no one likes your duck-face selfies on Instagram!

On the outside, I am timid, shy, and silent as a Sunday morning. However, there’s also the little voice inside my head... and it’s ruthless.

After changing into my gym uniform, I force myself out of the sanctuary the locker room offers and take a brick wall to the face. No, not literally, but a basketball bounces at my feet. My bottom lip emits a throbbing pain, and I taste blood.

Nice catch, Harding! Eric Reese smirks, dribbling the ball away and shooting it off his hand into the basket. I flee into the now empty locker room to the sink in the back. Cupping water in my hands, I rinse my mouth, and spit a pink-tinted pool into the basin. The mirror reveals my glasses are hanging crooked on my nose. I take a moment to bend the legs back into shape.

Yeah, he better act like that now, because when he’s forty he’ll be living outside in a cardboard box, working here as a part-time janitor.

Taking a deep breath, I head back into the gym. Coach Jackson steps in front of me, crossing his arms. Why are you late to class? 

I... I wasn’t late. My mouth was bleeding because Eric hit me with a basketball, I peep, cowering behind my mass of brown curls.

Reese! Front and center, young man! 

Eric jogs up, flipping his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. What’s up, Coach J? 

Did you mean to hit Vanessa in the face with that basketball?

Eric’s haughty stare shifts from me to Coach Jackson, and back again. Snitch. 

That’s ten more sprints for you today at practice, Reese, Coach yells at Eric’s back as he rejoins his friends.

Yeah, I highly doubt that.

Great. Just great. I broke a bench, got a bloody mouth, got called the wrong name and now I’m a snitch... and it’s only first period. Just call me Miss Unfortunate Disaster.

Chapter 2:

Band and Spam

After that horrible experience, I suffer through math and then head off to third period: band class. I’m in this class completely by force. When I began middle school last year, I was talked into taking the elective after my friend Claire said she was planning on signing up. We suffered through it together and were going to quit this year, but after she moved two weeks before seventh grade started, I decided to stay where I was familiar. So now my only friend lives four hours away and I’m stuck with this stupid clarinet, since my parents paid four hundred dollars for it.

Since most kids quit band class after their first year, the remaining few are quite strange. For starters, one of the clarinet players dyed her hair aqua blue with black streaks to match her favorite pair of Converse. Another is a germaphobe who constantly lathers his hands in strong smelling, headache-inducing, hand sanitizer. I’m just glad he sits in the back of the class with the percussion section, while I’m assigned to the front row. Lucky me.

Clarinets, that’s an A, not an E!  G, not an F!  When are you ever going to learn your notes?

My band teacher used to teach orchestra at a local college, and apparently thinks we are supposed to play on the same level. But guess what lady, we’re in the seventh grade!

She can’t blame me though. Most of the time, I pretend to play, moving my fingers to the correct places but not blowing any air into my clarinet. If I actually tried, I’d sound like a goose. I never learned how to play it right last year, so it’s best to go on unheard.

Um, Ms. Harrison? I’m having a problem with my instrument! A boy named Bobby snickers, holding up his trombone.

For the love of Mozart, not again! Our teacher stalks back to the third row.

Bobby Whitley is yet another strange child who wants to take this class, although he spends more time cramming Spam meat into his instrument rather than learning how to play it.

Ms. Harrison grabs a couple rubber gloves and reaches down into the barrel of the trombone. After five minutes of attempting to retrieve the lunch meat, she calls to request an appointment with the instrument specialist tomorrow.

Throwing her cell phone into her purse, she glowers at the clock. "Forty-nine times you’ve done this so far. Forty-nine times, Bobby!" She slams her hand on her conductor’s podium.

Woo, someone sure is a spitfire. I’m glad her spit isn’t actually on fire, though, because it just landed on my face.

You can spend the rest of the day in Chill Out. The rest of the semester too, if you wish!

Bobby bounces up from his seat, growling while he slings his bookbag over his shoulder and leaves the room.

The bell rings overhead, slicing the tension. Instrument cases clang shut in a hurry to escape Ms. Harrison’s fury. She steps in front of the door, holding a stack of papers.

Not so fast. This class really needs to shape up. She passes Germaphobe a worksheet. Fifty questions on Beethoven, due tomorrow. Come back with a willingness to improve your craft, or you can join Bobby. Speaking of—she licks her fingers, pulling two sheets from the stack and thrusting them toward me—go take him a copy, please.

Perfect. I didn’t think it could get any worse. However, as usual, I’m completely wrong. My next location: Detention.

Chapter 3:

Location: Detention

So, as ordered by my enraged band instructor, I force myself to navigate the halls in search of the detention room. I have no clue why she asked me to deliver Bobby’s work for him there, because I’ve never been sent to detention before. My pulse hammers in my neck at the thought of entering that dark lair. I’ve never even been in trouble at school before, but I guess that’s a good thing, until people start calling me a teacher’s pet.

Pacing up and down the nearby halls, I spot a room with a ticked-off penguin crossing his wings on the door, labeled Chill Out. For some strange reason, our principal prefers to call detention this to make it sound less threatening. I don’t care what they decide to call it... that room still freaks me out. My hand trembles as I summon the courage to turn the doorknob and peek into the room.

Ugh, why did she send me here? Does she really think I’m the best delivery person for the school’s felons? I’m not even liked by the non-felons.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the loose knob with too much force, causing me to stumble into the classroom. Said felons smirk at one another, igniting my cheeks either from embarrassment or fear for my life.

Ha, Bomb Threat must have finally snapped! A snarky girl from my homeroom last year snorts, verbalizing one of my infamous nicknames.

A woman of about fifty years slaps her with a scowl before noticing me at the door. State your business here, she sneers from behind bulky, black reading glasses.

Um... Ms. Harrison asked me to bring Bobby his homework, I squeak.

Fine. Robert, come accept your assignments, the teacher responds returning her attention to one of those cheesy, three-dollar romance novels found on grocery store shelves.

Bobby drags his way to the front of the room and snatches the worksheet out of my hand. Thanks, Teacher’s Pet.

I nod and make my way back to the hallway. I am NOT a teacher’s pet! I absolutely detest her as much as I now hate to deliver assignments to Chill Out. All I know is that Bobby really needs to chill out, and I need a vacation. Today has been way too rough! Oh, but then there’s lunch fifth period...

Chapter 4:

Sir Sparks

Once my detention run is complete, I’m a couple minutes late for Social Studies, though Mrs. Barnes doesn’t notice as I slip into my seat. After reviewing last week’s lesson on the Holocaust, we’re declared free for fifth period: lunch.

The cafeteria’s animated snow-themed murals on each wall make me smile every time I enter it. The lunch staff contains the nicest employees at the school, and Miss Cheryl, who works at the cash register, knows my lunch number by heart. Eventually the niceness wears off when the dragons and trolls walk in. By these mythical creatures, I mean Eric, Mason, Meredith, and Shaniah. They seclude themselves to the largest lunch table and forbid all others from it. Most kids scrunch up together at smaller tables to sit with their friends. Yet, a loner like me has the ability to find their own permanent seat that no one will ever attempt to steal.

My seat is in the very back of the cafeteria, behind the snack machines. No one has ever noticed the table since the snack machines have been broken since the fourth grade. I am the only student who sits back here, but I don’t mind at all. It gives me time to, you know, think.

This has been one of the worst days ever! My inner voice whines. The spoonful of vegetable soup scorches my tongue.

And we were like, ‘Haha, total victory!’ From the middle of the lunchroom, Shaniah King flips her jet-black hair like she is a queen; Meredith Waters is convinced she is a queen. I, however, am the scorned peasant who sits in the tower every day and watches them trash my name.

.

Bound by words, I remain. Yet within my mind, I am never slain.

.

I am a long-lost princess locked away in a tower that touches the clouds. Holding me hostage are two evil dragons, the most disgusting creatures I have ever laid eyes on. They shout a sarcastic creed of Haha, total victory! and burn my every dream with the fire they breathe.

Down below are the two despicable trolls who keep the tower secure under lock and key. They take turns shooting basketballs into my only window with massive wooden catapults. Although I am alone in this small realm of mine, I am confident my prince is on his way as we speak.

Over the rising cliffs, riding a white horse gallops in Sir Max Sparks, the perfect vision of a knight in shining armor. He jumps off his steed, and as the evil guardsmen charge at him, he whips out his two-edged sword. He charges at the dark-haired troll, stabbing a hole in the basketball the troll uses to protect himself. Sir Sparks throws the deflated weapon aside, smirking when the cowardly trolls flee. The two she-beasts turn their sights on him, their flame breath glinting off his sword. A blaze of fire trails his steps as he seeks refuge. Putting distance between them, he gains the advantage, tossing the sword into the closest dragon’s neck. It releases a blaze, scorching the remaining dragon to death. Both fall to the ground in peril, rendering me free.

Without hesitation, Sir Sparks climbs the vines scattered over the masonry of the building and into the tower. Upon meeting, he tucks a loose curl behind my ear, allowing his hand to cup my chin. His mouth gravitates toward mine. Here we are, inches from true love’s first...

.

Ring!

Ring!

.

...And so ends my fairy tale. I gather up my belongings and head out the door, stopping to throw my trash away. Only one more period to go: Language Arts.

Chapter 5:

Freedom of Speech

For most of my career at Grahamwood Elementary/Junior High, I’ve loved learning about the written word. This year, though, it’s questionable. Most of my teachers adore my essays and say my writing skills are on a ninth grade level, but Ms. Markovich is the one exception. Every one of my essays is crossed with the rudest criticism and foul grades.

Once, my Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Barnes, even bragged to her about my essay discussing the child labor element in Oliver Twist. Ms. Markovich read the first two sentences and claimed it was pollution of the mind, as she’s a big environmentalist. Funny how she could care less about the hostile learning environment she’s created. Whatever. I know my writing is good enough, even if she—the wannabe Tinkerbell with a pink dragon tattooed on her neck—doesn’t think so.

Nevertheless, a wave of joy splashes onto my day of intense drought when I enter the class. It just so happens Max Sparks (who you have previously met as Sir Sparks), sits two rows away from me in this class. Max is also my crush, ever since we sat beside one another in fourth grade. He’s not popular, though I see that as an advantage, considering I’m also at the bottom of the school’s food chain.

Ms. Markovich bursts into the classroom with her choppy brown hair styled into a matted mess. Get out your journals! she screams like a banshee. The whole class jumps with fright and searches their bookbags for their Language Arts journals. She says journal entries boost our self-esteem for writing. I think they destroy the already limited amount of confidence I have, considering she trashes every one of my entries.

Today’s journal entry should be exactly five sentences and should reflect your progress throughout your school day.

Ha! The most progress I’ve made today was keeping myself from going to the nurse when the basketball hit me. But, if I could change the assignment a bit...

.

Dear Journal,

Today has been an absolute disaster. I’ve been called so many names today, you would think I was the school’s legendary dork princess. However, I believe I made a bit of progress when Mrs. Barnes complimented my work on my Theodore Roosevelt essay. I’m glad I have at least one teacher who respects my efforts as a student. Maybe tomorrow will be better for everyone.

.

-Victoria Harding

.

I set my pencil down beside my journal and wait for my hate-crazed teacher to come catch a glimpse of it.

Oh, Meredith! That’s wonderful that you want to get an early start on your math homework! Ms. Markovich chimes, patting Meredith’s shoulder.

Meredith’s drawn-on eyebrows scrunch together. "Huh? I wrote I don’t want to do it."

Oh. Ms. Markovich reads it again. "You must’ve meant ‘I won’t do my math homework when I get home.’ Next time, use ‘w-o-n apostrophe t’ instead of ‘w-a-n-t’. Nevertheless, great job!"

And she says she doesn’t favor her yearbook staff, I think, rolling my eyes.

Ms. Markovich eventually makes her way to my row and reads my journal entry in silence. When she reaches the fourth sentence, her unplucked eyebrows raise with disgust. "What do you mean at least one of your teachers respects your efforts?!"

. 

Dear Lord, please don’t let the dragon scorch me, especially in front of Max. Amen.

. 

Um... I meant that Mrs. Barnes always tells me when I do a good job. Other teachers don’t do that, I mutter, urging another silent prayer heavenward.

.

Please Lord, don’t let her do it. Don’t let her yell at me again.

.

Ms. Markovich curses under her breath, thinking I can’t hear the name she called me. Her face turns a dark shade of red, the color almost as distracting as her doppelganger dragon tattoo sneering down at me. She rips the page from the journal’s binding and tears it up into what seems like a million pieces. She kicks them around the floor, the pieces fluttering under other students’ desks. Now pick up that pollution of the mind.

In my own world, I want to diminish this self-righteous teacher’s pride. Perhaps running her over with a military tank? Getting an elephant to sit on her? None of these solutions satisfy my current taste for revenge. However, my timid outer shell does as the dictator asks, crawling over the classroom floor scrounging up the pieces to what I thought was a decent journal entry.

Again, snickers, outrageous laughter, and the never-ending chant of Haha, total victory! cloud my ears. It seems as though my life has hit rock bottom. It seems as though I’m a helpless baby sparrow plummeting to earth from the safety of her mother’s nest. One day, though, I will tell the wicked fiends off in