About Average Read online

  Jordan Johnston

  is average.

  Not short, not tall. Not plump, not slim. Not blonde, not brunette. Not gifted, not flunking out. Even her shoe size is average. She’s ordinary for her school, for her town, for even the whole wide world, it seems.

  But everyone else her age—on TV, in movies, in her sixth-grade class—is remarkable. Tremendously talented. Stunningly beautiful.

  Jordan feels doomed to a life wallowing around somewhere in that vast, soggy middle. So she makes a goal: By the end of the year, she will discover her great talent in life. By the end of the year, she will no longer be average. She will find a way to become extraordinary, and everyone will know about it!

  For Tara Howard

  —A. C.

  Contents

  Chapter One: Certainty

  Chapter Two: Prettiness

  Chapter Three: Furious

  Chapter Four: Three Minutes

  Chapter Five: Two Good Things

  Chapter Six: Heat and Numbers

  Chapter Seven: The Weather Business

  Chapter Eight: Late Bloomer

  Chapter Nine: Slightly Wicked

  Chapter Ten: Niced

  Chapter Eleven: Forts

  Chapter Twelve: Updrafts

  Chapter Thirteen: Guts

  Chapter Fourteen: Winning

  Chapter Fifteen: In their Bones

  Chapter Sixteen: On the Brain

  Chapter Seventeen: Velvet and Steel

  Chapter Eighteen: SOS

  Chapter Nineteen: Applause

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CERTAINTY

  It was a sunny spring morning, but there was murder in the air. Jordan Johnston was killing Pomp and Circumstance. Actually, the whole elementary school orchestra was involved. It was a musical massacre.

  But Jordan’s violin was especially deadly. It screeched like a frightened owl. Mr. Graisha glared at her, snapping his baton up and down, side to side, fighting to keep all twenty-three students playing in unison. It was a losing battle. He glanced up at the clock and then waved both arms as if he needed to stop a freight train.

  “All right, all right, stop playing—everyone, stop. Stop!” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and smiled as best he could. “I think that’s enough for this morning. Don’t forget that this is Thursday, and we have a special rehearsal right here after school—don’t be late. And if you have any free time at all during the day, please practice. We are not going to play well together if you can’t play well by yourself, right? Practice!”

  Jordan put away her violin carefully. She loved the instrument, and she was very good at putting it away. She was also good at polishing the rich brown wood and keeping the strings in tune, and keeping the bow in tip-top condition. It was playing the thing that gave her trouble.

  But she was not going to give up on it.

  She had given up on so many things during the past eight months. The violin was her last stand, her line in the sand. She was bound and determined to become a gifted violinist—instead of a scary one.

  She was still a member of the sixth-grade chorus, but she didn’t feel that was much of an accomplishment. Every other sixth grader was in it too.

  Jordan wasn’t shy about singing. She sang right out. She sang so loudly that Mr. Graisha had taken her aside one day. He was in charge of all things musical at Baird Elementary School—band, orchestra, chorus, everything.

  “Jordan, you have great . . . enthusiasm. But it would be good if you didn’t sing louder than all the other kids around you. The audience needs to hear them too, don’t you think?”

  Jordan got the message: Your voice isn’t so good.

  She almost always sang the correct notes, she was sure of that. She wasn’t a terrible singer—just not good enough to be the loudest one. Her voice was about average.

  Her friend Kylie had a gorgeous voice, high and sweet and clear—but she was so timid. Kylie barely made a squeak during chorus practice, and she hardly whispered at concerts. It drove Jordan crazy.

  She wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and shout, “Kylie, if I had a voice like yours, I would already live in Hollywood—no kidding, I would be a star by now! What is wrong with you?”

  Jordan was a careful observer of all the talented kids at her school—the ones who got the trophies and awards, the ones who were written up in the local newspaper, the ones who were obviously going to go on and do amazing and wonderful things all the rest of their lives. They were the gifted ones, the talented ones, the special ones.

  And she was not one of them.

  After her violin was tucked safely into its bulletproof case, Jordan began putting away the music stands. She carried them one by one and stacked them over in the dark corner of the stage next to the heavy folds of the red velvet curtain. When all twenty-three stands were arranged neatly, she folded the metal chairs and then stacked each one onto a rolling cart. She also tipped Mr. Graisha’s heavy podium up onto its rollers and wheeled it over to its place next to the grand piano.

  It was already warm in the auditorium, and she leaned against the piano a moment. Moving that wooden podium always made her feel like a weight lifter, and she didn’t want to start sweating so early in the day. It had been hotter than normal all week long.

  Jordan had volunteered at the start of the school year to be the orchestra stage manager. She arrived early for each rehearsal and set up the chairs and the music stands. Then, after rehearsal, she stayed to put them all away again.

  She didn’t do this to get on Mr. Graisha’s good side—the only sure way to do that was to be a super-talented musician. She just liked helping out. She also liked the stage to be orderly. She knew how to arrange the chairs and music stands correctly, and she understood how to put everything away again, just right.

  Her best friend, Nikki Scanlon, had wanted to be the co-manager, but Jordan enjoyed doing the work herself. Also, by the time she finished putting things away three mornings a week, Jordan was sometimes by herself, alone on the big stage. She enjoyed that, too.

  And today, like the other times she’d been alone in there, she went to the center of the stage and looked out over all the empty seats.

  Baird Elementary School had once been the town’s high school, and the auditorium was in a separate building off to one side. It was a large room. Row after row of theater seats sloped up to the back wall.

  Jordan smiled modestly and walked to the front edge of the stage. Looking out over the crowd, she lowered her eyes then took a long, graceful bow.

  The people were standing up now, whistling and hooting and clapping like crazy. She smiled and bowed again, then gave a special nod to her mom and dad, there in the front row. She even smiled sweetly at her big sister, Allie, and her little brother, Tim. Of course, Tim didn’t notice. He was only four, and he was staring at the blue-and-red stage lights with one finger stuck in his nose.

  A young girl in a blue dress ran down the center aisle from the back of the hall, stretched up on tiptoes, and handed Jordan two dozen yellow roses—her favorite flower. With the bouquet cradled in one arm, Jordan took a final bow and backed away. The red velvet curtain parted for just a moment, and she slipped backstage.

  There were people asking for autographs, plus some journalists with their cameras flashing, and a crush of happy friends, eager to congratulate her and wish her well. It was wonderful, and Jordan savored each second, as she had so many times before.

  Brrnnnnnng!

  The first bell—six seconds of harsh, brain-rattling noise. It echoed in the empty auditorium. Outside behind the main building, kids whooped and yelled as they ran from the playground and lined up at the doors.

  The intruding sounds did
not touch Jordan’s joy and certainty. She felt absolutely sure that one day her moment of triumph would be real, a part of her life.

  But why would all those people be applauding her?

  She had no idea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PRETTINESS

  Jordan’s memory was a powerful force. A moment from the past would sneak up and kidnap her and then force her to think about it until she discovered something she didn’t know she knew.

  On this particular June morning, a thought grabbed her as she pushed open the heavy stage door and began walking to the main school building. She remembered a book she had read near the end of fifth grade.

  It was a famous one, Sarah, Plain and Tall, and for a couple of days there, Jordan had wished her mom was dead. Not really. But that’s what had happened in that story, and it caught her imagination.

  This dad lived with his daughter and son, and they all felt sad because the mom had died. But there was a woman, Sarah, coming to visit, and she might become the dad’s new wife—a new mom.

  It was deliciously sad. Jordan loved sad stories.

  Jordan also loved this woman in the book right away, this Sarah. She was plain, and she knew it, and she didn’t try to hide it from anybody. She even came right out and said it to the man who might become her husband: I’m plain. And tall.

  Jordan was plain too. That’s what this memory was forcing her to think about.

  But it wasn’t like being plain was some new discovery for Jordan. She had always known that. She was plain, but, unlike Sarah, she wasn’t tall. She wasn’t short, either.

  She was Jordan, Plain and Average.

  Being pretty and being tall were two of the ways Jordan did not feel special, and they both felt important. Especially prettiness.

  Her face was her face, and there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  Of course, she had seen TV shows about how women could change their faces. And sometimes a woman looked better afterward . . . sort of. Except she never looked quite like herself anymore.

  Jordan couldn’t imagine ever doing that. She had a smaller version of her dad’s nose, and she knew she’d miss that if it went away. Also her mom’s eyebrows. Jordan knew she wasn’t going to be famous for her beauty. And she was okay with that . . . until she started thinking about boys.

  There was one particular boy, Jonathan Cardley. He played cello in the orchestra. As Jordan walked toward the main school building that morning, she spotted him with his friends over near the playground doors.

  Jonathan had straight brown hair. Sometimes it hung down a little too far onto his forehead and covered his eyes, which she didn’t like. They were nice eyes, a greenish-blue color. He was taller than most of the other sixth-grade boys, and Jordan thought he always looked good, no matter what he was wearing. He looked especially good when he wore jeans and a white collared shirt, like today.

  Jonathan seemed to care a lot about prettiness. Most of the time he only talked to the nicest-looking girls—including Kylie, her friend with the gorgeous voice.

  But at least Jonathan knew who Jordan was. He even talked to her now and then. He would say, “Hey, Jordan—have you seen Kylie?”

  Kylie, Cute and Tall.

  Jordan wished that all the really pretty girls would disappear, one by one, until she was left as the cutest girl at school. Then Jonathan Cardley would be asking some other girl, “Hey, have you seen Jordan?”

  A lot of girls would have to vanish.

  Jordan pulled open the heavy door at the end of the walkway, took a left, and headed for the sixth-grade hall. It was a separate part of the school because all the sixth graders switched classes this year, just like they would next year at the junior high.

  Jordan wasn’t looking forward to homeroom today. She never looked forward to homeroom.

  Kylie would be there, same as always, but she wasn’t the problem. Ever since they’d become friends during fourth grade, Kylie had never said one mean word, never teased her about a single mess-up, never made her feel plain or untalented or awkward.

  Kylie, Kind and Cool.

  And Kylie had been nice to her when they’d been on the sixth-grade soccer team back in September and October, and then during basketball season, too. Of course, Kylie had been a star on both teams—Kylie, Strong and Skilled.

  No, the problem with homeroom wasn’t Kylie. The problem was . . . someone else.

  Jordan did not want to even think the name.

  Because this had been a good day so far. Yes, it was too warm, but it was bright and sunny, and it was one day closer to summer vacation. And the best part of the day so far? She had managed to avoid that person during orchestra practice. Now, if she could just make it through homeroom without any contact, then they’d be in different classes until gym.

  As Jordan went toward the sixth-grade hall, she made herself walk more slowly. She also planned to stop into the girls’ room. She wanted to arrive at homeroom just as the bell rang. She did not want to spend one extra second anywhere near her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FURIOUS

  It was hard to believe that one medium-size sixth-grade girl could express so much anger without saying a word. But it was happening. Jordan Johnston was radiating massive waves of negative energy, a huge force field of harsh, burning rage. And on this beautiful June morning, it took almost everyone in her homeroom completely by surprise, especially Mrs. Lermon.

  Because normally, Jordan Johnston was a dear. She was also a sweetie, a love, a treasure, and a little darling. All her teachers said so, and they’d been saying so ever since first grade.

  Jordan was a love because she never broke any rules. She was a treasure because she usually had a smile on her face. And she was a little darling because she always worked up to the very best of her abilities. Her grades were never great, but she earned those grades cheerfully, with good old-fashioned hard work.

  That had always been part of Jordan’s charm—nothing seemed to come easily for her, but she worked hard anyway. She kept focused on her own business, and she didn’t demand a lot of attention.

  Mrs. Lermon secretly wished she could clone Jordan, because if even half of the other children were even half as sweet, then the whole school year would be so much . . . nicer. Mild and pleasant, quiet and orderly, careful and attentive—that was the Jordan Johnston all her teachers knew.

  Not today. The clouds of bitterness and anger on her face were startling, almost frightening—which Kent Donley learned the hard way. He needed to borrow a pencil, so he tapped her on the shoulder.

  Jordan spun around, her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Uh . . . never mind,” Kent whispered, backing away to a safe distance.

  Imagine a sweet little goldfish that has always swum happily around and around in its bowl, and then one day a boy reaches down to drop it a pinch of breakfast, and the thing suddenly has razor-sharp teeth and leaps up and tries to bite off his arm.

  That was how Kent felt. It was quite a shock, and Mrs. Lermon saw it all.

  After the Pledge and the announcements and attendance, homeroom was quieter than usual. Jordan sat there in the third row, staring straight ahead, her lips pressed together into a tight line. She was like a steaming volcano, a cauldron of hot lava. Plenty of people were curious, but no one wanted to risk getting scorched, not even her teacher. They all left her alone.

  If her friend Nikki had been around, she’d have pulled Jordan out of her foul mood. She was good at that. She never let Jordan take things too seriously. She’d have tickled her or made faces or stood on her head—anything to make her laugh a little. But Nikki was down the hall in Mr. Stratton’s homeroom, so Jordan seethed and simmered for the whole sixteen minutes.

  When the bell for first period rang, Jordan sat still while the room emptied around her. Then she stood up, jerked her book bag to her shoulder, and headed for the door.

  Mrs. Lermon felt like she ought to say somethin
g helpful to the poor child.

  “Jordan . . . ?” she began.

  Jordan turned, and her fierce scowl stopped the teacher cold.

  Mrs. Lermon gulped. “Um, have a nice day, okay?”

  Jordan started to say something back, but she caught herself—which was probably a good thing. She clamped her jaw shut and stalked out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THREE MINUTES

  In the history of Jordan’s day so far, only about three minutes have not yet been accounted for. Three minutes is not a long time, but sometimes it’s long enough to change a goldfish into a barracuda.

  Those three missing minutes were spent in the girls’ room, the stop Jordan made just before homeroom. Marlea Harkins was in there. Lindley, Kathryn, and Ellie were there too, but they were not the problem. The problem was Marlea. She was that someone else, the person Jordan had been trying to avoid all morning.

  And what did Marlea do when Jordan went into that bathroom? Well, first, there was something that had happened two days before.

  On Tuesday morning Jordan had been cleaning out her notebook during homeroom, getting rid of some old papers. She had dumped a thick stack into the recycling bin.

  Marlea had been watching, and she slid over to the bin and gathered up all that paper. She wanted to look through it to see if Jordan had thrown away anything that might be . . . interesting.

  And she had found something.

  What Marlea had found . . . well, there was something else that had happened two months earlier during a social studies class.

  On that particular April afternoon, Mrs. Sharn had pushed the button on the DVD player. The screen had lit up, and sound filled the classroom—thundering hoofbeats, clanging swords, and the piercing call of a trumpet. A narrator began talking, and all the kids in the room started taking notes about the Peloponnesian War—everyone except Jordan Johnston.

  Jordan was fighting a battle of her own that afternoon. She was working on a list—actually, three lists on one sheet of paper: Thing I’m Great At; Things I’m Okay At; Things I Stink At.