Addie on the Inside Read online

  Addie

  on the Inside

  Other Books by James Howe

  Novels

  A Night Without Stars

  Morgan’s Zoo

  The Watcher

  The Misfits

  Totally Joe

  Edited by James Howe

  The Color of Absence: Twelve Stories About Loss and Hope

  13: Thirteen Stories That Capture the Agony and Ecstasy

  of Being Thirteen

  Sebastian Barth Mysteries

  What Eric Knew

  Stage Fright

  Eat Your Poison, Dear

  Dew Drop Dead

  Bunnicula Books

  Bunnicula (with Deborah Howe)

  Howliday Inn

  The Celery Stalks at Midnight

  Nighty-Nightmare

  Return to Howliday Inn

  Bunnicula Strikes Again!

  Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

  Tales from the House of Bunnicula

  It Came from Beneath the Bed!

  Invasion of the Mind Swappers from Asteroid 6!

  Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom

  Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb II

  Bud Barkin, Private Eye

  The Amazing Odorous Adventures of Stinky Dog

  Bunnicula and Friends

  The Vampire Bunny

  Hot Fudge

  Rabbit-cadabra!

  Scared Silly

  Creepy-Crawly Birthday

  The Fright Before Christmas

  Pinky and Rex Series

  Pinky and Rex

  Pinky and Rex Get Married

  Pinky and Rex and the Mean Old Witch

  Pinky and Rex and the Spelling Bee

  Pinky and Rex Go to Camp

  Pinky and Rex and the New Baby

  Pinky and Rex and the Double-Dad Weekend

  Pinky and Rex and the Bully

  Pinky and Rex and the New Neighbors

  Pinky and Rex and the Perfect Pumpkin

  Pinky and Rex and the School Play

  Pinky and Rex and the Just-Right Pet

  Picture Books

  There’s a Monster Under My Bed

  There’s a Dragon in My Sleeping Bag

  Teddy Bear’s Scrapbook (with Deborah Howe)

  Horace and Morris but mostly Dolores

  Horace and Morris Join the Chorus (but what about Dolores?)

  Kaddish for Grandpa in Jesus’ name amen

  Horace and Morris Say Cheese (which makes Dolores sneeze!)

  Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part 2

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Part 3

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Part 4

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Part 5

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,

  real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places,

  and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance

  to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by James Howe

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event.

  For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers

  Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  The text for this book is set in Gotham.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Howe, James, 1946–

  Addie on the inside / James Howe. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Outspoken thirteen-year-old Addie Carle learns about love,

  loss, and staying true to herself as she navigates seventh grade, enjoys

  a visit from her grandmother, fights with her boyfriend, and endures

  gossip and meanness from h
er former best friend.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-1384-9 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-2381-7

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Identity—Fiction. 3. Self-acceptance—Fiction.

  4. Grandmothers—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.

  6. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.5.H69Ad 2011

  [Fic]—dc22 2010024497

  To Zoey

  Prologue

  Who Do You See?

  The poems that follow

  are written in the voice of

  Addie on the inside.

  But this poem is written

  from me to you,

  writer to reader.

  I want to ask you:

  Who do you see

  when you think of me?

  Am I young or old,

  wise or a fool,

  teacher or friend?

  Who do you see

  when you think of you?

  Are you an outsider,

  cool, distant, angry,

  swimming against the current,

  or are you in the flow?

  When they tell you,

  This is who you are,

  do you say yes or no?

  Who do you see

  when you look at them?

  You know the ones I mean:

  the others, the olders,

  the youngers, the ones

  who are not you, not

  like you or your friends,

  who wear the labels

  you give them until

  they give them back,

  saying, I believe these

  belong to you.

  Who do you see when a girl

  like Addie walks down the hall,

  sharp-eyed, tall,

  when a girl like Addie

  raises her hand in class

  for the hundredth time

  offering opinion as fact

  and outrage as opinion,

  wearing her attitudes

  more comfortably than her

  less than awesome clothes?

  Who do you see

  when you look beyond

  the skin and the surface,

  when you drift to sleep,

  when you are the person

  no one else knows? Who

  are you on the inside?

  Don’t answer these questions.

  Not yet. First, open your eyes,

  your mind, your heart.

  See.

  —James Howe

  Addie

  on the Inside

  This Purgatory of

  the Middle School Years

  You Are Who They Say You Are

  They say in the seventh grade

  you are who they say you are,

  but how can that be true?

  How can I be a

  Godzilla-girl

  lezzie loser

  know-it-all

  big mouth

  beanpole

  string bean

  freaky tall

  fall-down

  spaz attack

  brainiac

  maniac

  hopeless nerd

  *bad word*

  brown-nosing

  teacher’s pet

  showing off

  just to get

  attention—

  oh,

  and did I

  mention:

  flat-chested

  (that’s true)

  badly dressed

  (says you)

  social climber

  (such a lie)

  rabble-rouser

  (well, I try)

  tree-hugging

  tofu-eating

  button-wearing

  sign-waving

  slogan-shouting

  protest-marching

  troublemaking

  hippie-dippy

  throwback

  to another

  time and place?

  How can I be all that?

  It’s too many things to be.

  How can I be all that and

  still be true to the real me

  while everyone is saying:

  This

  is

  who

  you

  are.

  Every morning I wake up worrying

  and not about crushes

  or acne or whether

  I should stuff my bra

  so people will know

  I’m wearing one.

  I worry about

  global warming and

  polar bears dying and

  war and

  more and

  more and

  more.

  I worry about

  injustice and

  how to make the world

  a better place,

  because I contend

  that if you are not part

  of the solution,

  you are part

  of the problem.

  I worry about

  the rights of minorities

  and I worry about

  all the people

  who love people

  that the people who hate them

  don’t want them to love.

  I worry about

  my parents and

  I worry about

  my friends and

  I worry about

  people I don’t even know

  who have lost their homes

  and their jobs and have

  nowhere to go and

  I worry about

  what happens to

  all of their pets and

  I worry about

  the economy and

  the national debt.

  I worry about

  the animals that are

  going extinct

  and the animals that are

  abused just so we can have

  a new scent of perfume

  or a new kind of shoes.

  I worry how in the world

  the world will ever be okay. Then

  I turn off my alarm

  and get on with the day.

  Rush Hour

  Morning. Toast. Butter. Jam.

  Eggs? No thanks. I am

  gathering up my homework,

  they are blowing on their tea.

  Grandma’s coming for a visit.

  That’s nice, I say. Is it

  for a weekend or a week?

  Backpack. Keys. Other shoe.

  A week or maybe more. Dad

  shakes his head at bad

  news in the paper. Cereal?

  Only if there’s Special K.

  Why did I wear black pants?

  Mom asks after a chance

  encounter between both her legs

  and both the cats.

  Look at the time. Dishes. Sink.

  Feed the cats. Quickly drink

  the last of the orange juice.

  Grab a sweater.

  Joe’s at the door. Let’s go,

  he calls out, and I know

  I’m forgetting something.

  Where’s my kiss? calls Dad.

  Peck on the cheek. Money

  for lunch. Mom says, Honey,

  remember what we talked about.

  I’ve no idea what she means.

  I will, I say, and I’m out the door,

  the cats pushing ahead, off to explore.

  Joe says something that

  makes me laugh.

  Sidewalks. Curbs. Friends wave

  at us from the next street. They’ve

  got backpacks. Toast. Butter. Jam.

  Who knows why I’m happy.

  I just am.

  Becca Has Something to Say

  My best friends are

  Joe

  and

  Bobby

  and

  Skeezie,

  and even though I have other friends,

  these three are my best, oldest, truest,

  and forever o
nes.

  This morning, between English and art,

  in the three minutes when the hall

  is like a race being run by animals

  sprung from their cages, when it’s all

  you can do to get to your locker

  and get to your class,

  Becca Wrightsman takes the time

  to point out that my best friends are

  all boys. “Really, Addie,” she says,

  “that’s so gay.” She smiles

  as if she were my best and oldest

  and truest and forever friend

  before shouting, “Tonni, wait up!”

  I stand there as she and Tonni

  knock their heads together, laughing,

  stand there as the other kids stampede by,

  roar past, as bells ring and doors slam shut

  up and down the hall,

  stand there until I am the only one,

  saying to no one at all:

  “It is not.”

  “That’s so gay”

  is an expression I hate.

  Do you mind if I change it

  to “that’s so straight”?

  The Good Samaritan

  Becca Wrightsman says to me—

  out of nowhere at all—says to me,

  “I can fix your look.” This

  is in the hall just before French.

  Excuse me?

  “Really, Addie.” Twirling her

  hair. “You need a makeover.

  For starters you should wear a

  bra.” Dropping her voice,

  raising her eyebrows. “Even if,

  you know, there’s nothing

  there.”

  Excuse me?

  “And you could use some

  blush and then there’s your

  hair, that’s going to be a

  challenge. But you know me,

  I love a challenge. Oops,

  there’s the bell. Gotta run.

  TTFN.”

  Excuse me:

  I do not know you

  and I am wearing a bra

  and nobody says TTFN

  and now

  I am late

  for French.

  Who is Becca Wrightsman

  with her skintight jeans

  and her pouty-pouty lips

  and the way she moves her hips

  that made Jimmy Lemon

  collide with Jason Kline so

  they both dropped their backpacks

  at the very same time?

  (I am so not kidding.)

  With her perfect little purse

  and her perfect phony tan

  and the way she waves her hands