My Best Frenemy by Julie Bowe Page A

“Not a real one. ”
    Ms. Stevens picks up the rubber mouse. It has dried cheese sauce on its tail. “Ida, why would you put a toy mouse in your macaroni? ”
    “I didn’t, ” I say.
    “Then who did? Quinn? ”
    I bite my bottom lip. And shake my head slowly. “Quinn didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “Not since the kickball incident. ”
    Ms. Stevens leans back in her chair. “Ida, ” she says. “It’s important that you tell me the whole story so we can set things straight. ” She runs her finger along the edge of her desk, drawing an invisible line from one point to another and back again. Her mouth is a straight line too. It’s not a frown line, but it’s not a smile line either. “Who put the mouse in your macaroni?” she asks again.
    I try to think up a story to tell her. One that’s partly true and partly not. Like Stacey sometimes tells. The kind of story that will keep me out of trouble with the other girls.
    But I’m not as good at making up stories as Stacey is.
    “Ida, ” Ms. Stevens says again. “I’m afraid that if you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll have to call your parents and give you detention. I know Mrs. Kettleson won’t settle for anything less. And, frankly, I won’t either. ”
    Ms. Stevens keeps talking, but I’m not really listening. What will my mom say when she gets that phone call from Ms. Stevens? What will she think? And my dad . . . This is just one more example of how not responsible I am.
    Having my parents mad at me feels almost as bad as having my friends mad at me.
    Maybe even worse.
    Ms. Stevens puts her hand on the telephone. “I’ll give you one more chance, Ida. Who put the mouse in your macaroni? ”
    I shut my eyes to keep the tears inside.
    “It was Randi,” I say so softly, it’s like I only breathed it. “But she only did it because of the game. ”
    “What game? ”
    “Truth or dare, ” I say. “We’re all playing it. ”
    “All? ”
    I open my eyes and nod. “All the girls. ”
    Ms. Stevens taps her fingers on the phone like she finally found what she was looking for.
    She picks it up. And punches three numbers.
    “Mr. Crow?” she says. “It’s Ms. Stevens. I have a little . . . situation I need to clear up. Would you please send all the girls from your class down to my office? Ida is already here. ”
    Ms. Stevens sets down the phone and says, “Thank you, Ida. ”
    “You’re welcome,” I reply, even though I’m not feeling very welcome at all.
    In fact, I feel like the most unwelcome girl in the world because I know what I’ve done.
    I’ve spilled the beans.
     
     
    “I’m sorry, ” I say to Stacey for the millionth time as we walk to my bus after school. “I didn’t mean to tell on everyone. It just spilled out. ”
    “It’s okay, ” she says back, for the million and oneth time. “I’m not mad at you. No one is. ”
    I sigh. Each time she says it, the words feel like they get wrapped tighter and tighter around my words. Like a rubber band you wrap around your finger until the tip turns purple.
    “But we had to apologize to Mrs. Kettleson, ” I say. “And to Mr. Crow. And we can’t play truth or dare at school anymore. And it’s all my fault. ”
    “It’s no big deal, ” Stacey says, stopping by my bus.
    Kids bump past us and climb on. I glance up and see Jenna watching us through a circle in the frost on her window. She glances away.
    “I should have just told Ms. Stevens that I put the mouse on my tray and started yelling about it all by myself. Then nobody else would have gotten into trouble. ”
    “You’re not a yeller, Ida,” Stacey says. “She would have figured it out. ”
    I sigh and glance up at the bus again.
    Jenna glances away again.
    I turn to Stacey. “Call me later? ”
    “Um . . . ” Stacey says, “I better not. ”
    “Why? ”
    “Well, I’m not mad at you, of course, but some of the other girls might be a little . . . upset. And if they found out I called you, it might make