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  “Right,” said Dad. “Good one.”

  “It snows a lot there?”

  “You betcha,” he said. “Sometimes four to five feet at a time.”

  Fiona huffed. “Lucky.”

  “And it can get down to fifty degrees below freezing. Talk about weather that’s not ordinary. It’s extraordinary.”

  “Extraordinary.” Fiona said it real slow. She knew the word because she got it wrong on Mr. Bland’s vocabulary test a couple of weeks ago. By the looks of it, you would think “extraordinary” meant extra ordinary. Like extra ketchup. Extra large. Extra snowy. But it really meant the opposite of ordinary. It was another one of those lying kind of words.

  • • •

  At school the next day, Mr. Bland still didn’t have Milo’s books. Fiona had to do more sharing.

  “Hey, Florida. What’s with the Halloween costume?” Milo whispered during their history lesson.

  Fiona looked at the flared jeans and striped T-shirt she was wearing. “Huh?”

  “On TV last night,” said Milo. “I saw your weather report.”

  “Oh, that. It’s called a tutu,” said Fiona. “I take ballet. And it’s Fiona, not Florida.”

  Mr. Bland tapped the chalkboard. “Who can tell me what the word ‘declaration’ means? Anybody?”

  Fiona pulled at her eyebrow. She had discovered that if she could pull out just one hair, Mr. Bland wouldn’t call on her. But if she pulled out two, or even three hairs, she was going to get called on for sure. She yanked. One hair.

  “Cleo,” said Mr. Bland.

  “It means an announcement,” she said. History was Cleo’s best subject. She had the kind of brain that was good at remembering dates of wars and names of presidents, which was all history seemed to be, anyway. Fiona’s brain was not so good at remembering those kinds of things.

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Bland. “An announcement. A formal statement about something important.” Mr. Bland picked up a pile of papers from his desk. “Who is our classroom courier this month?” Leila Rad raised her hand. “Oh, right, Leila. Would you please pass out these worksheets?”

  Fiona took a worksheet from Leila and chewed on her Thinking Pencil.

  “Whatever,” whispered Milo.

  “Are you still talking to me?” asked Fiona.

  “What does a tutu have to do with the weather?” He made a face when he said the word “tutu” like he had just bit into cauliflower.

  “I’m the snow angel.” Fiona explained how she was an angel in The Nutcracker and how on the night of the performance there was a huge snowstorm, and how she went on the air IN A TUTU to report on it to keep her dad from getting into trouble. She smiled, remembering.

  “That’s dumb,” he said. “Does it ever even snow here?”

  “It is not dumb,” said Fiona, trying hard to keep her voice low. “And I just told you that we had a big snowstorm. So Y-E-S it snows here.”

  “No talking,” said Mr. Bland. “You’ve got about ten minutes to get started on the worksheet before we move on to a Declaration of Independence video.”

  “A few inches, big deal,” whispered Milo.

  “Shush,” said Fiona.

  “This place is nothing like Minnesota.”

  Fiona was just about to ask Milo why he doesn’t go back to Minnesota if it’s so flat-out great, when she remembered what the Bingo Broads told her about kicking him with kindness. Or keeping flies away from your food while the bees are busy with their honey. Or something like that.

  Fiona started kicking. “So,” she said quietly, “Minnesota must be a whole lot better than here, huh?”

  Milo raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it gets colder than zero there?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I saw on TV once where it was so cold that some guy’s toes fell right off,” said Fiona. “When he left the house, all of his toes were on, but when he got to work half of them were off.” She wiggled her toes. “I forget where it happened, but it was probably Minnesota. Pretty cool.”

  Milo shrugged. He looked like he wasn’t familiar with toe-losing weather. Maybe it wasn’t Minnesota after all.

  “Sometimes it gets so cold that spit freezes as soon as it hits the sidewalk,” said Milo.

  “Gross.”

  Milo rolled his eyes. “One time, on a real cold day, my friend back home could get his spit to bounce. It’s not gross. It’s great.”

  “Oh, that’s what I meant.” This was the first time Fiona ever had a conversation about spit, and she didn’t know what to say about it. Then she thought for a moment and came up with: “I really love spit.”

  Milo gave her a look.

  Fiona changed the subject. “I heard that it snows four feet at a time there.”

  “Sometimes more than that.”

  “I mean, whoa,” said Fiona, making her voice sound extra impressed. She couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought he might have even smiled just then. Fiona could hardly believe it, but this kicking thing was working. “You must have had off from school all the time.”

  Milo just looked at her. “Why do you say that?”

  It took a lot for Fiona to not say duh. “You know,” she said, “because of all the snow there.”

  Milo’s smile disappeared. “No. We’re so used to the snow that we hardly ever have off from school,” he said.

  “Truth?” she said. Fiona never imagined there was a place where everything didn’t stop when it snowed. “We have snow days here even when there is only a couple of inches on the ground. And sometimes they close school even before it starts to snow.”

  Milo crossed his arms. “So what? Big deal.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Who cares?” said Milo.

  “Don’t you like to have off from school?” asked Fiona.

  He shrugged and turned away, mumbling something again.

  “What?” Fiona didn’t know what she said wrong, but all this kicking with kindness was making her grouchy. She was ready to give Milo one more kick—a real one—when Mr. Bland said, “Let’s move on to the Declaration of Independence video. We need our classroom electrician. Milo?”

  Fiona’s cheeks burned as she watched Milo plug in the TV and DVD player and press the buttons on the remote control. She stuck her hand up in the air and waved it at Mr. Bland.

  “What is it, Fiona?”

  “Can I turn out the lights?”

  “It’s up to Milo to pick an assistant electrician for that task, if he wants,” said Mr. Bland.

  At least a gazillion other hands shot up into the air, including Cleo’s and Harold’s. Fiona kept her hand up and waved it back and forth at Milo.

  Milo looked around the room and scratched his chin just like a villain from a whodunit on TV. His eyes stopped on Fiona. He smiled. She smiled back and waved even faster at him. “I pick Harold,” he said.

  Fiona dropped her hand in disgust. “Fine,” she declared, trying to put lots of splinters on the word and hoping that Milo felt every one of them.

  • Chapter 4 •

  You were right, Fiona,” said Harold as they got off the school bus. “Electrician is the best job.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “You were only the assistant electrician.”

  “I know, but I got to turn off the lights,” he said. “And turn them back on again.”

  “So?” said Fiona. “I turn lights on and off all the time at home.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay at your house until my grandma picks me up?” Harold asked, following Fiona up the walkway to her house.

  “I told you a gazillion times that it’s fine,” she snapped. “Didn’t I?”

  “Oh, Boise Idaho,” said Harold. “Somebody ate a bowl of Nasties today.”

  Fiona scratched her head again. Her brain felt itchy from all the mean words that were swirling around trying to get out.

  “Milo said he’s going to start a club at school,” said Harold.
/>   Fiona bit her lip and kept walking.

  “Milo and his older brother started an explorer’s club when they lived in Minnesota,” he said. “Don’t you think that would be buckets of fun?”

  She pressed her lips together tight and climbed the steps to her front porch.

  “Harold Chutney, explorer and adventure-seeker,” he said, looking up into the sky like he was watching himself on a giant movie screen. Then he pulled at his hair with his hands, forcing it to stand straight up. Like Milo’s. “Can’t you see it?”

  Fiona couldn’t see it. Not at all. She put both hands on Harold’s head and pressed until his hair was flat again.

  “Ow!” said Harold.

  “Milo. Milo. Milo!” she yelled. “Who flat-out cares about Milo Bridgewater?” Then she opened the front door and marched inside.

  “Jeez Louise, Fiona,” said Harold, following her. He put his finger up his nose. “You didn’t have to yell.”

  When the words came out of her mouth, Fiona felt better and worse at the same time. Mostly worse. “Sorry, Harold.” She led him into the kitchen and pulled down a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. She stuck her finger into the jar, pulled out a glob of peanut butter, and put it in her mouth. Right away the peanut butter wrapped up her troubles in a tiny box and mailed it to the moon.

  Harold reached his finger toward the jar.

  Fiona held the jar out to him and then pulled it away. “Wait,” she said, staring at his finger. “You need a spoon.”

  “You look different today,” said Harold.

  Fiona looked at herself. “I do?”

  “And you smell a little different too.”

  Fiona sniffed her armpits. “Awesome!” She couldn’t wait to see what Mr. Bland had to say about her stink.

  She let Harold have the last spoonful to make up for the Nasties. “How do you know all that stuff about Milo?”

  Harold licked the spoon like a lollipop. “Are you going to yell at me again?”

  “No, Harold. Jeez.”

  “He told me at recess.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe we can be in Milo’s club.” Harold handed her the spoon and she laid it on the countertop.

  “I’m not sure I’m an explorer kind of girl,” said Fiona.

  “Oh, he’s not starting an explorer’s club,” said Harold.

  “But you said—”

  “That was in Minnesota,” said Harold. “Milo said he was going to start a different kind of club here.”

  “What kind?” asked Fiona.

  “A meteorology club.”

  “A what?” Fiona could not believe her ears. “But I’m the . . . but that’s my . . . he can’t . . .”

  The phone rang then.

  “Hello, Fiona sweetheart,” said Mom. “I was wondering if I’d get to talk to you. I thought you might be at ballet.”

  Fiona was still thinking about what Harold just told her. Electricity wasn’t enough for Milo, now he was going to take the weather away from her too? Mrs. O’Brien was right. Milo Bridgewater was stepping on her toes. Except that he wasn’t just stepping. He was flat-out dancing on them.

  “Fiona?” said Mom. “Are you there?”

  “Gah” was all that came out of Fiona’s mouth.

  “I was saying that I thought you might be at ballet.”

  “Ballet is over until it starts back up again, remember?” Having a mom who lived all the way in California meant she forgot the things that happened all the way on this side of the country.

  “Oh, that’s right. I think you mentioned that,” she said. “So what’s new, wonderful, and exciting in Ordinary?”

  “Nothing,” said Fiona. “Except for a new boy at school who is taking over everything. And he hates my guts. And my tutu.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Mom. “How could anyone hate you? You are lovely.” Which is what moms have to say because it is the law. Fiona knew it wasn’t always the truth. After all, Fiona had heard the nice things her mom said about Max.

  “You know what my mother always told me,” Mom said.

  “What?” asked Fiona.

  “Boys only pick on girls they like.”

  • • •

  “Why would someone be mean to some-one they liked?” Fiona asked Mrs. Miltenberger, as she watched her slide a pan of lasagna into the oven.

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. She closed the oven door and flung a tea towel across her shoulder. “Harold, honey, your grandma’s stuck at work, so you’re staying for dinner.”

  Harold gave her the okay sign and said, “What’s the million-dollar answer?”

  “If I knew that, I’d have a house in Tahiti.” Mrs. Miltenberger picked up the empty jar of peanut butter from the counter. “Rough day?”

  Fiona nodded.

  Mrs. Miltenberger looked her over. “When is the last time you had a bath, young lady?”

  “Four days ago,” said Fiona. “I’m done with baths until Mr. Bland picks me to be electrician.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, “but you’ve got a date with the tub tonight. There will be no dirty girls or boys in this house. No, sir.”

  Fiona huffed. Why were grown-ups always getting in the way of her plans?

  “Can I have a glass of milk?” yelled Max from the living room.

  “If you come in here and get it,” answered Mrs. Miltenberger.

  Max waddled into the kitchen on the heels of his flippers. “Milk me,” he said in his Captain Seahorse voice.

  “I thought you were Captain Seahorse, not Captain Seacow,” said Fiona, and Harold snorted.

  Max cocked his head. “I don’t get it.” He took the glass from Mrs. Miltenberger with both hands and gulped it down.

  “So,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. She sat down at the kitchen table across from Fiona and Harold. “Where were we?”

  “A question that costs a million big ones,” said Harold.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “A long time ago, when I was a sweet young thing—and don’t look so surprised because as I said, it was a long time ago.”

  Fiona and Harold looked at each other. Fiona forced her eyebrows to lower, and Mrs. Miltenberger continued. “Anyway, when I first met Mr. Miltenberger, rest his soul, I wouldn’t give him the time of day. I’m not exaggerating. He would ask me for the time, and even though I always wore the Timex that my mother and father had given me for a high school graduation present, I wouldn’t tell him.” She smiled and then tapped her chin with her finger. “I wonder whatever happened to that watch.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell him what time it was?” Fiona asked. “Didn’t you like him?”

  “Did I like him?” repeated Mrs. Miltenberger. “He was the only boy that could make strudel as good as my mother’s and knew how to do his own laundry.”

  “My grandma showed me how to make strudel,” said Harold.

  “And you’re a catch,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, with a wink.

  “Then why were you mean to him?” asked Fiona. “To Mr. Miltenberger, I mean.”

  “What are you all talking about?” asked Max, wiping away his milk mustache with his bare arm.

  “Amore,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “Huh?”

  “Love,” she said.

  “I’m out of here,” said Max, handing the empty glass to Mrs. Miltenberger and waddling away.

  “Wait a second,” said Fiona. “Love? Gross! I’m in fourth grade. Nobody is talking about . . . I can’t even say it. L-O-V-E. Yuck.”

  • Chapter 5 •

  Fiona had to stand on her head and sing “On Top of Spaghetti” twice all the way through to get Mrs. Miltenberger’s gross-out L-O-V-E talk out of her brain. Bleck. And she had to stay in the bathtub for a gazillion years until she passed Mrs. Miltenberger’s stink test.

  Fiona hoped that Harold had gotten it all wrong about Milo’s club. After all, Harold got confused about things almost as
much as Fiona did. Like the one time when he thought that dust bunnies were a real kind of rabbit that lived under the couch. She figured he could be wrong about this, too.

  But at school, a gigantic poster hanging on the back of the classroom door proved that Harold could be right some of the time.

  Fiona had heard people on TV say that when they got mad they saw red. Just like bulls did when they saw a red cape. Until now, Fiona had wondered if that was real. But the more she looked at Milo’s poster, Fiona was certain. She had the urge to snort and stomp her feet and charge. . . . Did her itchy brain mean that horns were growing?

  It didn’t help that everybody in Mr. Bland’s classroom was talking about joining Milo’s stupid club. Fiona couldn’t figure out why they were suddenly interested in meteorology. They thought that meteorology had to do with outer space before she had set them straight.

  Besides, it was Fiona’s dad, not Milo’s, who was the chief meteorologist at the news station. And it was Fiona, not Milo, who was on TV giving weather reports. Nobody seemed to care about the weather before. But now, all of a sudden, Milo from Minnesota was the weather superstar?

  Fiona didn’t talk to Milo all morning. And Fiona was glad that his books finally came in, because she was all done with sharing.

  “The world has really gone mixed-up,” Fiona said to Cleo in the lunch line. “I feel like a fruit smoothie.”

  Cleo walked up and down the line checking to make sure everybody had their lunchboxes and milk money. “And did you see what his poster says?” Fiona said when Cleo came back to the front of the line. “The part about the costume?”

  Cleo nodded. But Fiona could tell she was more bothered about being line leader. Fiona looked at Milo at the end of the lunch line. He was talking and laughing with Harold and Leila Rad and others.

  She scratched her head. And then she marched right over to him. “What’s the part about ‘no costumes allowed’ supposed to mean?”

  Harold picked at the tip of his nose. “Hi, Fiona.”

  She growled “hi” back and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s supposed to be about me and my tutu, isn’t it?” she said to Milo.