YNK: You Never Know

By Jacquie Ream and Phyllis Emmert

WET (Who’d Ever Think)? Having called a shaky truce with her bullying rival the previous year, Frances Reed looks to an easier time in eighth grade. But who’d expect trouble from her best friend? Annie’s only trying to get Fran into the cool crowd. Surely she has Fran’s best interests at heart. Or does she? New hair, new

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jacquie Ream
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948963015

Jacquie Ream

Jacquie Ream was born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and was raised in San Bernardino, California. She attended college on writing scholarships (Pitzer, Claremont and Cal-State SB) completing her master’s degree in Creative Writing at the University of Washington. She has written one how-to-write book, KISS; a historical fiction novel, Forcing the Hand of God, and three children’s books, Bully Dogs and YNK: You Never Know. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband.

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YNK

(You Never Know)

Jacquie Ream

Illustrated by

Phyllis Emmert

Book Publishers Network

P.O. Box 2256

Bothell, WA 98041

425-483-3040

Copyright © 2011 by Jacquie Ream

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

LCCN 2010934508

ISBN10 1-935359-59-2

ISBN13 978-1-935359-59-3

eISBN 978-1-948963-01-5

Artwork: Phyllis Emmert

Editor: Julie Scandora

Cover designer: Laura Zugzda

Typographer: Stephanie Martindale

eBook: Marcia Breece

This is dedicated to everyone who has survived junior high.

Chapter 1

T&C

(Terms and Conditions)

Yeah, raining in Seattle, on the very day you’d hoped it wouldn’t. I tug my hood tighter, but long strands of hair are plastered across my face. Big, wet drops ping on the sidewalk as I slog the three blocks to Saint Mary’s, the same old route since second grade. Five years.

But it’s funny how your life can change from upside-down one minute, then right-side again. Just last year, it was the bully dogs that chased me almost everyday to school. Those dogs of my neighbor terrorized me. When I confronted Mr. Wessenfeld about his golden retriever, black Lab and cocker spaniel, I ended up with a job walking all Three Musketeers after school. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are a handful, for sure, but they mind me, most of the time, and I really do like them. And to be honest, I really like the twenty-five dollars I earn each week.

I gladly would have paid for some sunshine, since it is class pictures today. I get enough grief about how I look from Marcy, always quick with the zinger. She made my life miserable, especially during volleyball season, until I phoned her and asked her if we just couldn’t call a truce and agree to dislike one another. I am so dis-like her! I can’t understand what my friend Annie finds so enthralling about Marcy and her group. When Annie is at school, she is one of them, and after school she is her other self, the one I’ve known forever.

And there she is, huddled with Marcy, Ursala, and Sue, out of the rain beneath the eaves of the gym. Any other morning I would have gone to the front of the rectory and sat on the steps reading until the bell rang. But Annie has been staring at me for the last five minutes, and I can hardly ignore her as she waves at me.

Fran! Come here and see Marcy’s new charm! Annie is careful not to step away and get wet by a raindrop. It might run her mascara.

Oh, hi, Fran, Marcy intones. Got rain? She turns her celly with the heart-shaped charm, personalized with her name and embedded with a blue Swarovski crystal, at my face, then whips it away and starts texting.

Nice, is all that I can manage.

Annie, Sue, and Ursala are intent over their cellies, fingers flying over the tiny keyboards at an impressive rate. They’re all texting each other.

See ya, I nod at Annie and she looks up briefly to nod back as I go on my way.

I stand before the mirror in the girls’ bathroom and sop my hair with a paper towel. I say a silent prayer to thank God I, at least, had a hairbrush with me today. Fat lotta good it would do.

Dusty, the new girl in our class who got promoted to sixth grade at mid-term, walks in and leans over the sink to peer in the mirror at herself. Hmm. She flips away a few wet strands of her long, auburn, curly hair, misting me. Oh, sorry! She turns and faces me. I didn’t mean to get you wet!

That strikes me as funny and I burst out laughing. Please! I wouldn’t want to get any wetter! I dramatize, flinging my own dull brown locks around, spraying the mirror with droplets.

We both are chuckling as we unzip our backpacks, pulling out our blue uniform sweaters, which are, at least, dry. Hah! Great minds think alike!

Dusty and I are about the same in our reading group, only she’s a lot smarter than I am, especially in math and science, and she’s good at sports. But she never seems to care what others think about her; she’s nice to everyone, and everyone is nice to her. I’d like to know how she manages to go along her own way without ever getting stung by gossip. I snap my sweater smartly before pulling it over my head. I glance at Dusty and envy her naturally curly hair already fluffing out nicely. At least, you’ll look good for the pictures.

C’mon, Fran, you look fine. That’s the bell! Dusty swings her backpack onto her shoulder, barely missing me. Oh, sorry!

I cram my hairbrush into my backpack. It’s okay.

The longest hour is first class. We file in and put away coats and slot our cellies, except me, in a box with our name on it. My empty little cubby hole is between Sue’s and Tina’s, an obvious black void.

Annie turns to me before she takes her seat. Fran, she whispers, although I’m not sure why she feels it is necessary to whisper, call me later, okay?

Okay, I whisper back, on your celly?

She either pretends to ignore the sarcasm or doesn’t get it. Yes! She heaves a sigh. I wish you had your own!

Well, so do I! I shrug and take my seat, mulling over a strategy to put before my mother to convince her I need a celly, when our teacher, Mrs. Hammershaw comes bustling in the classroom with an armload of books and papers.

Just then, before she says anything, a celly is chiming the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine. Exasperated, she glares at Mike as he darts to the corner to silence his phone but not before he checks his incoming message.

She smacks down a pile of books onto her desk. Before we do anything else this morning, she walks to the front of her desk and leans against it, facing us, let’s have a discussion about etiquette. Especially, she looks pointedly at Mike, cell phones.

There is a collective groan. Mike’s neck reddens as he stares at a blemish on his desk.

"What I have