Just Right Jillian: Chapters 1–8

I finished working the problem while she scribbled the answer. I laid my purple pen on the desk with no fanfare.

Rashida reached into the huge bag of assorted treats and noisily swirled them around.

There was no such joy for me. No flick of the hair. No chomping on my chosen treat. No crunchy milk chocolate and caramel swirls, Instead, my throat was thick with envy.

The thought did cheer me a little, and she smiled when she saw me perk up. But she still couldn't coax it out of me.

When she was around—which was all the time, since she lived with us for a spell before she died—I always felt like me, Jillian.

But she did her own thing her own way. Burning sage and whispering jokes while pretending she couldn't hear half the time.

I rolled over and looked at my weaving space. The table, the loom, the baskets of yarn sitting on the floor.

Everyone rushed in and crowded around to see. Everyone except me. I lingered behind, not really wanting to be in the middle of everything.

“Later,” said Ms. W., dry and firm, eyes unblinking.
That was our cue. No more standing around and pointing at things.

She spoke at full volume now, her deep voice, steady and melodic, like an empty glass jar. You know when you wet your fingers and trace the rim? She sounds like that. Daddy calls it contralto.

Ms. W. is the champion of the chickens—she's hatched the most for three years running.
“The other teachers say I'm lucky. Either that or I pick the best incubator and leave them with the quirky ones.”

If you assume things will go well just because they always have, you may be in for an unhappy surprise.

Soon enough, the snarky voices began gossiping about other people.

She pivoted to leave, but I had to ask my question.

After all the giggles, she drew an arrow on the day’s agenda, flip-flopping math and science.

Today’s assignment was a writing prompt. We had to write what we knew about chickens and what we wanted to learn during the unit.

“Well, so the embryo doesn't get stuck to the egg membrane."

We drew what we saw and labeled the pieces in our journals—shell, membrane, albumen, yolk, and bull’s-eye.

Mama always said I needed to work on poise. You're poised when you're calm, cool, and collected under pressure.

Slouching and balling up your face when something is scary means you're probably not calm, or cool, or collected. It means you're not confident.

I trudged over to our table and squeezed in beside Marquez and Shelby.

Ms. W. pushed her sparkly spectacles up her nose and swiped a few times on her tablet.

Everyone turned and looked at me, confused. Rashida, the farthest away, leaned forward to register her surprise, too.

I mumbled about a tool applying a force, like a lever or a pulley.

“But sometimes there is only one right answer," Jake insisted.

I bit the back of my tongue. No teeth grinding. No tears. Neutral face.

Their band, Human Revolution, doesn't plan to be famous, but sometimes they play real gigs at clubs around town.

That’s his favorite warm-up song. I heard his soothing baritone floating up through the house.

At Keet’s I could buy beads and new yarns or even take weaving or jewelry-making lessons. We hadn't been there in ages, but this morning Mama said she wanted me to get some inspiration, get my creative juices flowing again.

Her optometrist could squeeze me in, but only if we came right away.

A smiling lady with funky lime green boxy glasses and a big, curly bush of hair waved me back.

I kept blinking, waiting for him to blow air into my eyes. I guess he figured that out because he told me to relax my shoulders and stop gritting my teeth.

When it was all over, he announced that I am nearsighted, with astigmatism. It means I need help seeing things far away; and even close up it's not "crisp."

I knew she liked the brown ones better. She kept going on about how they were neutral and versatile. They would blend in and wouldn't clash with anything, and wasn't that great?

I'm not as perky as those glasses. What would people say? They were so bright and cheerful sitting there on the shelf.