Queenie Jean Is in Trouble Again

By Christine Read

The chaotic, confusing, funny, and inspiring story of ten-year-old Queenie and her mission to fit in and make friends at her new school while figuring out how to manage her ADHD.

When ten-year-old Queenie and her family move from small-town Ontario to a glitzy suburb of Vancouver, she is desperate to fit in and make a best friend for the first time in her life. With her creativity and bubbly personality, Queenie arrives at Western Canada Preparatory School ready to win over her classmates and conquer the world. But even before the first bell rings, she finds herself in trouble.

From always being late to talking out of turn to never being able to focus, Queenie stands out like a sore thumb, especially among the cool girls she wants to impress. Hardest of all, she has a secret. She’s been diagnosed with ADHD, and she hates how different it makes her feel. After struggling to navigate her new world, dreaming up ill-advised schemes to make the other kids like her, she must face her greatest fear of all: making a speech in front of the whole school that will show everyone her true self.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heritage House
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781772034806

Christine Read

Hailing from small-town Ontario, Chris Read has worked as a piano teacher, camp counsellor, waitress, math tutor, chartered accountant, finance director, treasurer, and executive director. She is married and a mother to two grown children, one of whom has ADHD. After many years of working for and with not-for-profits and charities, Chris decided to return to her roots and wrote a humorous book for kids about a girl with ADHD. She lives with her family and their Labrador retrievers in a rural seaside community outside Vancouver and travels far and wide, as often as she can. She is a member of CANSCAIP and SCWBI.

Book preview

1

The Night

Before

the night before I start a brand-new school in a brand-new city, hoping to make some brand-new friends, my hair is a disaster. And it’s all because of my Terrible, Awful Older Brother.

"Dad, please, please, please remember, I don’t want my hair too short on the very first day of grade 5! I sit cross-legged on the bathroom counter staring out the window at the amazingly green Stanley Park and the ocean, all indigo and sparkly in the sunshine. We had just moved to West Vancouver, and our house is on a mountain. Shouldn’t we try peanut butter or olive oil just one more time?"

Queenie, relax and sit still. Snip, snip.

I turn around to glare at Dad. His eyes twinkle behind his dirty glasses, and he grins his goofy grin.

Trust me, he says. I know what I’m doing. Cross my heart. You know we tried all kinds of things to get rid of the gum, but nothing worked, so cutting is the only solution.

I’m still a tiny bit nervous because tomorrow is a Very Important Day.

Snip, snip.

Maybe we should ask Mom, I say. Mom is the cautious, practical one in our family. She’s also a lawyer, so she’s super smart.

Your mother is busy making dinner right now, Queenie. I can do this, I promise. Snip. Snip.

Okay, but Dad, I only want the gum out. Do NOT touch the rest! I’m trying to grow my hair long. And I wouldn’t even have this problem if my Horrible, Awful Brother—

Queenie!

"Well, if Sean hadn’t tackled me when it was my turn to use the TV remote, then we wouldn’t have wrestled, and then his ginormous wad of bubble gum wouldn’t have ended up in my hair.

Queenie, I’ve almost got it. Just . . . don’t . . . budge. Snip, snip.

I focus again on the emerald-green trees below and spot the ultramarine nose of a cruise ship gliding across the ocean. The ship gets bigger and bigger, so I jump up on my knees and press my nose to the window. I gotta get a better view. Wow, look at that! It’s humongous and super colourful, and—

queenie jean! Dad yells.

I freeze and shut my eyes tight, and then slowly, carefully, slide back down from the window onto the counter.

Dad takes a couple of deep breaths, and mumbles, I told you to be still. Snip. Snip.

I open my left eye a teensy bit and make myself look down. There are great big chunks of reddish-orange hair all over the place, but no neon-pink gummy-gunks anywhere!

Oh my gosh! Dad, what have you DONE? I shriek.

Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. I just have to fix it here . . . Snip. . . . and here . . . Snip, snip. He grabs the back of my head before I can look in the mirror again.

The scissors snip and snap. Again and again.

Dad! I just want the gum out! Mom, help! mom!

Just sit still, Queenie. Relax. Just sit still, Dad repeats. Snip. Snip.

dad is wrecking my hair! I wail. Tears flood my eyes, and my nose starts to run.

Queenie, what’ve you done now? You’re always such a drama queen! Sean’s voice roars down the hall and footsteps clomp toward the bathroom. Then his voice is close, like right at the bathroom door. Mom, you better get up here quick!

I wrench myself out of Dad’s hands to see if Sean is joking, but he’s not. His mouth hangs wide open. He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair until it sticks straight up. Even Coco, our ginormous chocolate Labrador Retriever, is upset. She moans and barks and barks and moans—without taking her eyes off me.

Mom marches up the stairs, huffing and puffing. I’m right in the middle of making chili for sup— Mom catches her breath. Dave, what have you done?

everyone stop! Dad roars, waving his scissors around in the air. Queenie wouldn’t sit still. But look, I can still fix this!

no! Don’t do anything else, Dad. Just leave me alone! With tears streaming down my face, I race to my room and slam the door. I stare into the mirror on my closet door and grab a hand mirror so I can see the full disaster. It’s even worse than I imagined! A ginormous blob of bright pink bubble gum clings to the side and back of my head. Orangey-red hair sticks straight out all around it, some short bits, some medium bits, some long bits. I grab my craft scissors in one hand, the bubble-gum-knotted hair in the other, and start chopping, here and there.

Snip, snip.

And there and here, trimming the longer bits.

Snip. Snip.

I may never, ever, forgive my dad.

By the time I finish with the scissors, my hair is super-short. I wipe the snot from my face onto my sleeve and throw the scissors across my bedroom. I open the door. Mom and Dad’s voices drift quietly from the bathroom, so I sneak closer to listen.

David, what were you thinking? You know Queenie overreacts to every little thing, especially when she’s nervous.

I peek through the slightly open door to see Mom shaking her finger at Dad.

I know, but I thought if I could fix her hair, she’d stop freaking out. Dad rubs the bald spot on top of his head and rakes the short brown hair out from the sides of his head. He looks like a mad scientist.

Mom, Dad, are we going to eat dinner anytime soon? Sean whines from the main floor.

Dinner? My stomach rumbles. I’m starving! I blurt, pushing the bathroom door wide open.

Mom and Dad look at each other and smile.

Coming, Sean! Mom calls and hurries downstairs to the kitchen.

All okay, Queenie? Dad asks.

I nod. It’s hard to stay mad at my dad, especially when it’s dinner time and I’m famished.

---

later that night, while getting ready for bed, all I can think about is my hair disaster. How could this happen the night before school? How can I meet my classmates for the very first time tomorrow looking like a weirdo with super short, crazy, orangey-red hair? I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling for what seems like forever.

Good night, Queenie. Mom says. I hadn’t even noticed her come into my room, but she’s standing beside my bed. She leans over to kiss me on the forehead, tucking her shoulder-length light-brown hair behind her ears.

I won’t be able to do that for a long time because my hair is so short.

Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine, Mom says.

I don’t know, Mom. I just . . .

Remember last week, when we met with your new teachers and the principal? They said there are lots of nice kids in your class.

But I wonder. . .

Yes, Queenie?

Do you think I’ll find one nice girl, someone who’ll be my BFF?

You will.

But it didn’t happen in grade 4, and you said it would then. And not the year before or the year before that. But what about Marina and Ashley?

They lived down the street, so they don’t count. Besides, they thought I was too babyish.

Well, those girls were quite mature for their age. There was also Alisha—

She only hung out with me when nobody else was around.

Grandma and Grandpa always love spending time with you. Coco does too.

But they’re far away now, and Coco is a dog.

There’ll be somebody, Queenie. This is a new beginning for all of us. Just try to be patient. Mom smiles, giving me a hug. Even if patience isn’t really your thing.

I hope she’s right. I hope there’s a nice girl who’ll be my BFF, and I’ll fit in, and I’ll have the best school year ever.

But Mom doesn’t always get me, so she’s probably wrong.

I go to sleep with all my fingers and toes crossed.

2

The Fresh

Beginning

the next morning the yell-fest starts.

Queenie Jean, let’s go! Mom shouts.

Queenie, hurry up! We gotta go now, or I’ll be late! Sean bellows.

I’m just brushing my teeth, but Coco is in my way! As I drop my toothbrush in the sink and grab my towel, I accidently step on her great big tail. She starts howling.

Despite what Mom said last night, I didn’t sleep much because I kept worrying about today. Whenever I closed my eyes, I had terrible, awful dreams about kids at school pointing at my hair and laughing their guts out. Even the teachers and other grown-ups were laughing at me.

I smash my lucky faded-purple baseball hat on my head. It’s soft and cozy and should hide the worst of my hair catastrophe. There might be some strawberry jam on my white button-down shirt and some spilled milk on my school tie. Whatever. At least my ugly peagreen-and-grey kilt looks clean, but I leave the horribly itchy green school sweater behind, because it’s too hot.

Western Canada Preparatory School—or WCPS— is a great big building high up on the mountain, way above our house in West Vancouver, so Mom has to drive us. Sean sits in the front seat beside Mom, and I’m in the back. I swear dive-bombers are zooming around in my stomach.

There are so many cars on the road, it takes forever and ever to get to school. Mom, you’re driving too slow. We should be there by now, I moan.

Almost, Queenie. Then she starts her usual lecture. Remember, try not to get into trouble at this new school. Remember to breathe when you feel yourself getting upset. Grade 5 is a very important year. Your dad and I chose WCPS because it has smaller class sizes. There are more teachers and teacher’s aides, and they provide extra help for kids like you. But it’s a private school, so the teachers might be stricter. . .

Mom drones on with the same speech she made at breakfast this morning, and so many times yesterday, and at least a hundred times a day, every single day, all summer long. Even last year, she told me grade 4 would be a Very Big Year and warned me not to get into trouble.

At least Sean, who’s sitting in the front seat beside Mom, doesn’t say anything. He’s probably got his ear-buds in, listening to music on his phone. I just zone out and start worrying again.

Our car slows down. We’re finally on the street where our school is, but there’s a humongous line of cars in front of us. My knees wiggle and jiggle and jump up and down all on their own. I want to start making friends right now.

So why wait? Bye, Mom! I grab my brand-new neon-orange backpack and scramble out of the back seat.

Queenie, what’re you doing? Don’t be an idiot! Sean groans.

"Queenie! You’re not supposed to