1
Seventh grade. Math class. 9:48 a.m. I sit by the window and look out at Hillside, New Jersey. It’s dreary. Overcast, gray clouds, rain-pelting-the-pane-so-hard-it-could-break-it dreary. Most people hate days like this. It means no outdoor lunch, postponed soccer practice, canceled trips to the mall with your clique.
Me? I like the rain.
A stormy downpour might be uncomfortable for a little while, but it’s tough, and after all is said and done, it washes away the—
“Maya Mendoza, are you paying attention?”
I swing my gaze over to Ms. Bergman at the front of the class. She’s got the kind of ticked-off look that tells me she’s been calling my name for a while. And yeah, maybe she has, but she can’t honestly say I wasn’t paying attention.
I’ve noticed that Taylor Lee and Tyler Lawrence are passing love notes to each other; Perry Schumaker is reading the latest Spider-Man comic behind his textbook; and judging by her posture and how she keeps shifting her weight, I suspect Ms. Bergman’s new shoes are one size too small. Lastly, I seem to be the only person in here that realizes my former best friend, Jordan Freedman, still hasn’t returned to class after she asked to go to the bathroom. That was thirteen minutes ago.
So, am I paying attention?
“I’ve been paying attention my whole life.”
Ms. Bergman sighs and points her marker at the dry-erase whiteboard. “In that case, can you tell me what the square root of two hundred and fifty-six is?”
“I said I was paying attention, not that I’m a math genius.” It’s only after a smattering of snickers breaks out around me that I realize I kinda just sassed Ms. B. Not my intention, but for a girl on the outs around here, the positive feedback is nice. Ms. Bergman doesn’t get the chance to call me out because the loudspeaker crackles with the start of the day’s midmorning announcements.
“Good morning, Marlowe Middle School, this is Principal Spade here, reminding you to swing for the fences! But before we get started, I want to say that this morning we apprehended two students in possession of Legends cards. The students have been dealt with and their cards have been confiscated, but let this be a reminder to all of you that Legends cards are no longer allowed on school property!”
I raise my hand but don’t wait for Ms. Bergman to call on me. “I need to take a leak. May I go?”
Ms. Bergman only points to the loudspeaker and presses her other pointer to her lips to shush me.
“But it’s an emergency, Ms. B. We all know what Spade’s going to say, anyway.” I clear my throat and then talk over Spade’s announcements, giving my best principal voice impression and matching him word for word:
“Legends cards have become an illegal currency in our school, with students using them to gamble and trade for goods and favors. This is a warning to all students: If I catch you with Legends cards—you’re in big trouble.”
Mr. Spade and I stop talking at the same time. He’s been saying the exact same thing for weeks now.
Ms. Bergman seems unimpressed with my flawless recall. Over the loudspeaker, Mr. Spade takes a sunnier tone and rambles on about the upcoming bake sale. But I keep looking at Ms. Bergman and put both hands together in the universal sign of prayer, hoping to appeal to her humanity. Do I actually gotta pee? Nope. But how can she deny me this one simple request?
“Make it quick,” Ms. Bergman finally says.
And just as she asked, I dash out of there.
In the hall I fish a beat-up pack of Pop Chew from my pocket. I smack the packet against my palm until a stick of gum shakes free. Third period is usually when my craving for Pop Chew kicks in, and the hallway is the only place I can pop and chew in peace. I wander the halls of Marlowe Middle, making sure to duck when I pass any door with a window. Ms. Bergman isn’t the only teacher who has my number. I have about five minutes to find Jordan, so I keep my eyes peeled for the one person who ever wanted to be my friend. Until she didn’t.
The hallways are noticeably empty. I pass a bulletin board cheerily decorated with orange, red, and yellow leaves, but all it does is remind me that summer’s over. Another bulletin board demands I change my mindset if I want to get the most out of this year. There’s a bunch of sign-up sheets for clubs I don’t wanna join and, at the end of the hall, a poster for the upcoming school musical. I don’t know what a Fair Lady is, and I don’t care to find out.
Then I see her.
I didn’t spend four years as Jordan Freedman’s best friend not to know when she’s acting suspicious. And sure as my name is Maya Estella Mendoza, Jordan is acting as suspicious as they come. Not least because she’s currently standing in front of the Contraband Closet.
Some lady named Merriam Webster (pretty sure she wrote the dictionary) defines contraband as “goods or merchandise whose importation, exportation, or possession is forbidden.” Which is just a fancy way of saying “stuff that isn’t allowed in school.”
The Contraband Closet is full of anything and everything labeled a distraction in class. If you get something of yours stuck in there, you can kiss it goodbye forever. I’ve never set eyes on the inside of the closet myself, but rumor has it there’s things in there that go back to the time my parents were students here, which is, like, the nineties, which is, like, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. It’s the stuff of legend.
And right now, Jordan is sliding her library card into the closet’s doorjamb.
I check my watch. I’m coming up on three minutes— I need to book it back to class, because while Ms. B may not notice Jordan missing, she seems to always have her eyes on me. And yet. I can’t let a good mystery pass me by.
“Lose something?”
Jordan spins around at the sound of my voice, eyes wide like she’s just been caught by the school resource officer. But when she realizes it’s just me, her scared expression morphs into something a little more impatient. “Are you ever gonna stop snooping, Maya?” she asks.
The blow stings.
“That depends. You ever gonna stop asking questions you already know the answers to?”
Jordan rolls her eyes. “This is none of your business.”
“I’ll make it my business.”
“The last time you got involved in my business, the whole school found out!” Jordan snaps.
I take a step back, remembering the Incident. Guilt gnaws at my stomach.
“Sliding a card through the lock is the kind of thing that only works in movies. Old movies,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“It would work if there wasn’t gum stuck in there.” Something dawns on her. “Did you do this?”
I swallow my gum so inconspicuously a ventriloquist would be impressed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jordan rolls her eyes again. “Just go, Maya.”
While this whole interaction is on the wrong side of friendly, I don’t want it to be over yet. It’s the longest conversation me and Jordan have had since she stopped talking to me last year. “Did Kaylee Krudd put you up to this?” I ask after a beat. Jordan is the straight-and-narrow kind. Or at least she used to be.
Jordan and I met the first day of third grade. She was the new kid, and she managed to lose her lunch box only hours after the morning bell. Well, not lose, exactly. “Jason Redfield stole your lunch box,” I told her. I’d been a pretty shy kid, but I’d always been good at noticing things. “He wanted your Pop-Tart, so he raided your bag, then hid everything in the art supply closet when he thought no one was looking. He’s the worst. Don’t worry, though, I got it back,” I said, holding out the bag.
“Thanks,” Jordan said, sincere if confused.
“Definitely. And anyone with eyes should’ve seen that you moved your Pop-Tart to your book bag, anyway,” I added with a shrug.
Jordan offered me half of her Pop-Tart, which was indeed safely stowed in her book bag’s front pocket, and that was it—we were the best of friends.
Back then, Jordan was amazed by my crime-solving skills. She was kind of like the Watson to my Holmes. But now . . . this has her new bestie, Kaylee Krudd, written all over it.
Jordan won’t say, but she doesn’t have to. Her silence confirms my suspicions.
“Why do you want to get in there, anyway? It’s just a bunch of old junk,” I say, softening.
But when she opens her mouth, her words—like the alleged gum in the Contraband Closet doorframe—get stuck. She gazes guiltily over my shoulder, and I don’t have to turn around to know who’s standing behind me.
“Not so fast, sluggers,” Mr. Spade says. “Maya Mendoza. Jordan Freedman. What are you two doing out of class?”
I turn slowly, like I got a SWAT team ready to cart me off to the slammer. But the truth is, I’m not too worried about Mr. Spade. As far as principals go, he may be sharp, but I know just how to work him. If we play it cool, we can talk our way out of this mess, get ourselves back to class, and—
“I wasn’t trying to break into the Contraband Closet!” Jordan blurts out.
I close my eyes and let out a breath.
“All right, both of you,” Mr. Spade says. “Detention.”
Copyright © 2025 by Goldy Moldavsky. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
