Chapter 1

I’m Ida May and you probably think that I’m skipping school, because it’s 9:00 on Wednesday morning and I’m not there.

Skipping school is something I hardly ever think about doing. Not unless my best friend, Stacey Merriweather, passes me a note during silent reading that says she is desperately craving fresh pineapple and maybe we should fly to Hawaii right away to get some.

I’m not crazy about fresh pineapple, like Stacey is. Not like Jenna Drews is, either. Jenna is crazy about anything that grows inside a prickly skin. But she would never skip school to get it because she is even more crazy about following the rules.

Still, me and Stacey might ask our teacher, Mr. Crow, if we could use the classroom computer to silently read about Hawaii. And while we were reading about volcanoes and tidal waves and hula dancers, we might secretly click over to the airplane ticket page and see how soon we could fly there. And how much it would cost to buy two tickets. Plus a pineapple.

But I’m not skipping school today, or even pretending to. I’m still in bed because it snowed a bunch last night and so my whole town, Purdee, Wisconsin, is under a puffy blanket, just like me. Today was supposed to be our first day back after the holiday break, but because of all the snow we get a bonus day off.

My mom brought me breakfast in bed to celebrate. Hot chocolate and gingerbread people. Me and George are sharing the cookies, but I get most of them since sock monkeys don’t eat much.

How about an arm, George? I ask, dunking a one-armed cookie into my hot chocolate until it’s soaked up to the neck.

George does not reply.

A head then? I ask, biting off the soggy arm.

Still no answer.

One stomach for sale, I sing, making the headless, armless gingerbread person dance in front of George’s black button eyes. Going once . . . Going twice . . .

George glances away.

I shrug and bite the cookie down the middle.

George isn’t as interested in cookies as he used to be, back when I was little.

I push off my blanket and pop two legs into my mouth. Then I set my mug on my nightstand, right next to a picture of me and Stacey Merriweather. We’re making goofy grins in the picture because that’s what best friends do when someone says, Smile for the camera, girls!

Stacey is my one and only best friend. Maybe if I was taller or wider or louder or prettier I would need more than one so I could spread myself around more. Like Brooke Morgan. She’s the prettiest girl in my fourth-grade class at Purdee Elementary. She’s also tall. And kind of loud. It takes a lot of friends to soak her up.

But not me.

And not Stacey.

We’re happy with one best friend each.

A gurgling sound comes from my dresser. That’s because a fish tank is sitting on top of it. It was a Christmas present from my grandma May. She lives in Tacoma, Washington, which is a long way from Purdee, Wisconsin, so she only gets to visit me once a year. That means I usually get good presents from her.

A little motor hanging over the side of the tank pumps bubbles into the water and a filter inside it sucks the fish poop out. I like the gurgling sound even though it took me a few days to remember it’s coming from my new fish tank and not from some creature living in my closet.

I got a goldfish too. It’s swimming around a pirate skeleton that’s leaning against a fake treasure chest on the bottom of the tank. The pirate skeleton has a hidden tube that pumps air through its bony arms, which lifts a jug to its mouth. The jug says RUM on it. Personally, I’d rather lift Choco Chunks to my mouth, but I don’t think pirate skeletons are much into chocolate.

There’s also a pair of old dentures on the bottom of the tank. They came from my dad’s orthodontist office, not my grandma. They’re kind of creepy, but sometimes I like creepy things. Like when me and Stacey go to the National Geographic website and dare each other to stare at the close-up photos of sand tiger sharks and anacondas and jumping spiders and cane toads. Stacey actually thinks the cane toads are cute. But not me. Sometimes their buggy eyes and shiny skin fill me up with so much creepiness, I’m in danger of peeing my pants.

Come and get it . . . um . . . fish, I say, sprinkling food into the tank. I haven’t thought of a good name for my goldfish yet.

Actually, he’s more of a splotchfish than a goldfish. That’s because he’s covered with white, black, and orange splotches. Like maybe the pirate skeleton got a little carried away with finger paints.

I tap on the tank and practice a few names on him. Here, Frank, I call.

My fish swims behind the dentures.

Charlie? I try next. Is that your name?

He swims to the far corner of the tank and nips at floating flakes.

How about Halibut? I ask.

No reply.

Lazibut?

Still no answer.

I sigh. Fish are about as talkative as sock monkeys.

I walk over to my nightstand and pick up a narrow box of oil pastels that’s sitting next to the picture of me and Stacey. Oil pastels are like crayons, only better. I got them from Santa, along with a pair of paintbrush barrettes.

There’s a picture of a real artist on the back of the box. You know she’s a real artist because she’s holding an oil pastel stick up to a big easel like she’s getting ready to draw a really great picture. Like me and Stacey do sometimes. Under her photo it says: Arielle Lafayette, Award-Winning Artist, which is another clue.

Extra-Fine Quality Oil Pastels: 16 Colours is printed on the front of the box. Colours is not spelled wrong. It’s spelled artistic.

The box makes a nice sound when I slide it open. Like when you slide your arm into a new smooth shirt. There are sixteen sticks inside it. They make a very organized rainbow. Rouge for red. Jaune for yellow. All the sticks have artistic names.

I take out bleu clair, which is really just light blue. Then I pick up my sketchbook, find a clean page, and draw hills covered in light blue snow. You might think they should be white, but snow can be lots of different colors, depending on how you look at it. Once, when me and Stacey went sledding, it even looked like it was covered with silver sprinkles.

I’m hunting around for a pencil so I can draw me and Stacey sledding on the blue hills, when I find something else instead. A little book that has been sitting on my nightstand since the start of our holiday break. It has a purple cover with the word Journal printed on it in curly cursive letters. There’s a pen clipped to the cover. It’s also purple and when you press down on the tip, the whole thing lights up. I think they do that to make you want to write more.

I would rather draw than write, but I guess Jenna Drews isn’t aware of that fact or she wouldn’t have given me the journal and the pen. She was my Secret Santa at school. When I opened my gift from her at our holiday party I thought, Thanks a lot . . . ho, ho, ho, but then Jenna showed me how to make the pen light up, so I felt a little bad about not liking it at first. I said thank you to her and I mostly meant it.

Quinn, on the other hand, did not say thank you for the Secret Santa gift I gave to him. Even though Mr. Crow kept reminding us to say it. And even though I gave Quinn a mini basketball (which did not light up, but it did make burping sounds when you bounced it). Quinn bounced the ball like it was the best gift in the world, but when Mr. Crow gave him the reminder, all he did was glance at me and grunt.

Boys.

On the first page of the journal is a note from Jenna.

elda,

el hope you like this journal which el gave to you at our fourth grade holiday party.

el also gave you a pen.

Jenna Drews

Maybe I should tear out the first page, because who wants a used journal? But then I get another idea. I pick up an oil pastel stick and draw a picture of Jenna instead. It’s not a mean picture exactly, but I do give her a very rouge mouth. And I make her jaune braids curl up like Pippi Longstocking’s. Then I write: Jenna Drews, Boss of Fourth Grade under the picture, which is not being mean. It’s just being true.

Brooke should be next to Jenna because they have been best friends since kindergarten, but this is my journal, so I draw a picture of my best friend instead. Dark curly hair. Half-moon eyes. Big sparkly smile. I write: Stacey Merriweather, BFF under it.

You’re supposed to start with Dear Diary when you write in a journal, but sometimes I don’t like to do what I’m supposed to. Besides, no one in the world is named Diary, so what’s the point of writing to them?

Maybe I could write to a pretend person, like in a book. I glance at my bookshelf and see the new books my aunt Margo gave me for Christmas. Mostly chapter books, but a couple of little-kid books too. She gives them to me because of the good pictures.

One of the books is called Stellaluna, which is about a bat, not a person. Normally, I’m not a big fan of bats even though they are a tiny bit cuter than cane toads. But the pictures are good. The story is pretty good too, because even though Stellaluna is a bat, you can learn to like her.

Turning to a blank page, I make the purple pen blink against my chin.

I’ll write to Stellaluna.

Stella for short.

Dear Stella,

How are you? I am fine. This is the first time I have written to you so here is a little background information.

1. I am a girl.

2. I am 12 minus 3. (get it?)

3. I have bleu clair eyes.

4. I do not have freckles.

5. Or pierced ears.

6. I really want to get pierced ears, but my parents say I have to wait until I’m old enough to take care of them. I’m not sure how old that will be, but I know it will have double digits.

7. My best friend is Stacey Merriweather.

8. My second best friend is my sock monkey, George. Please don’t tell George he came in second.

9. My regular friends are Randi, Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene.

10. Jenna Drews (see page 1) is not exactly my regular friend. She used to be my enemy, but now she’s not exactly that either. I guess you could call her my frenemy.

11. I don’t Like writing much.

12. I don’t Like boys much either. Except for my dad. And Mr. Crow. Tom Sanders is okay too. He’s the only boy in my class who doesn’t burp on a regular basis.

13. And maybe I Like Quinn.

14. A little.

I put that last part in because you are supposed to tell secrets in a journal. Sometimes I do what I’m supposed to.

Chapter 2

Here’s the thing about snow days. They’re fresh and