was probably more those blue eyes. All through the second and third grades I couldn't seem
to stop myself from following him, from sitting by him, from just wanting to be near him.B
y the fourth grade I'd learned to control myself. The sight of him—the thought of him—stil
l sent my heart humming, but my legs didn't actuallychase after him anymore. I just watche
d and thought and dreamed.Then in the fifth grade Shelly Stalls came into the picture. She
lly Stalls is a ninny. A whiny, gossipy, backstabbing ninny who says one thing to oneperso
n and the opposite to another. Now that we're in junior high, she's the undisputed diva of
drama, but even back in elementary school she knewhow to put on a performance. Especially
when it came to P.E. I never once saw her run laps or do calisthenics. Instead, she would
go into her"delicate" act, claiming her body would absolutely collapse from the strain if
she ran or jumped or stretched.It worked. Every year. She'd bring in some note and be sur
e to swoon a little for the teacher the first few days of the year, after which she'd beex
cused from anything that required muscles. She never even put up her own chair at the end
of the day. The only muscles she exercised regularlywere the ones around her mouth, and th
ose she worked out nonstop. If there was an Olympic contest for talking, Shelly Stalls wou
ld sweep theevent. Well, she'd at least win the gold and silver— one medal for each side o
f her mouth. What bugged me about it was not the fact that she got out of P.E.—who'd wan
t her on their team, anyway? What bugged me about it was thatanyone who bothered to look w
ould know that it wasn't asthma or weak ankles or her being "delicate" that was stopping h
er. It was her hair. Shehad mountains of it, twisted this way or that, clipped or beaded,
braided or swirled. Her ponytails rivaled the ones on carousel horses. And on thedays she
let it all hang down, she'd sort of shimmy and cuddle inside it like it was a blanket, so
that practically all you saw of her face was her nose.Good luck playing four-square with a
blanket over your head.My solution to Shelly Stalls was to ignore her, which worked just
dandy until about halfwaythrough the fifth grade when I saw her holding hands with Bryce.M
y Bryce. The one who was still embarrassed over holding my hand two days before thesecond
grade. The one who was still too shy to say much more than hello to me.The one who was sti
ll walking around with my first kiss.How could Shelly have wormed her hand into his? That
pushy little princess had no business hanging on to him like that!Bryce looked over his sh
oulder from time to time as they walked along, and he was looking at me. My first thought
was that he was telling me hewas sorry. Then it dawned on me— he needed my help. Absolutel
y, that's what it had to be! Shelly Stalls was too delicate to shake off, too swirly tobe
pushed away. She'd unravel and start sniffling and oh, how embarrassing that would befor h
im! No, this wasn't a job a boy could do gracefully. This was a job for a girl.I didn't ev
en bother checking around for other candidates—I had her off of him in two seconds flat. B
ryce ran away the minute he was free, but notShelly. Oh, no-no-no! She came at me, scratch
ing and pulling and twisting anything she could get her hands on, telling me that Bryce wa
s hers andthere was no way she was letting him go. How delicate.I was hoping for herds of
teachers to appear so they could see the real Shelly Stalls in action, but it was too late
by the time anyone arrived on the