Just Right Jillian: Chapters 22–34

She pulled on her robe to make sure she stayed pristine while she did my hair.

Hair buns, brains, and a yellow cape. I flung it around my shoulders and ran back to the kitchen.
"Oh. Superhero today?” Mama asked, noticing my new accessory.

My heart stopped when I saw her slumped against the counter.

“Daddy! Daddy!” I heard his bounding feet, and then I saw him.

The receptionist rushed him to the back so a triage nurse could assess her.

Daddy helped her onto one of those rolling beds—a gurney—and other nurses wheeled her back to a small room.

The triage nurse returned the scarf to me.

They talked to Mama, who was groggy but awake.

My stomach lurched like when I'm riding Acrophobia at Six Flags.

"I'm the reigning champion. I still have the highest score this year. I know excellence when I see it.”

"I never thought to ask for an exception,” I said. "To be exceptional.”

The almost-chicks are still absorbing the yolk and their own guts! So gross and impossible to picture. Everything outside must be sucked inside. Only then can they hatch. Ms. W. says it's vital. They must absorb their guts or they will die.

“Why do they need more humidity?" asked William.
“Their membranes need to stay moist. Otherwise the chick may be trapped and unable to get out."

“See?” Ms. W. said, pointing to the condensation inside the dome.
“That's a lot of water,” said Marquez.

"Even though you missed a round, Jillian, your last place is pretty respectable," Shelby joked.

I dug through my yarn baskets to see what colors I had. I plopped out some red, of course, a yellow one and a silvery white. I got to work on the first one when I saw the frayed triangle paper.

She says kids have to tell advocates all the details if you want a smooth path.

She looked elegant. Standing tall and graceful even in her T-shirt and jeans. Calm, cool, and collected.

We explained our dilemma. She nodded and wrote down the fifth grade teachers in the order she thought we should visit.

“Momentum!” yelled Marquez. “Let's go before you get nervous again.”

When I came down for dinner, I was surprised to see Mama in the kitchen, ladling soup.

“Stop being such a chicken, Weaver!”
It was so outrageous. Mr. Kline turned to shush him.

“Are we ready?” asked Mr. Kline to settle us down.
Everyone said some version of “Yes, sir,” and the round resumed until we had our top two.

There were six finalists. Two each from third, fourth, and fifth grades. Representing fifth grade? Rashida, my foe, my worthy adversary, my friend.

She was the favorite to win. I had a decent chance at second.

Rashida had been a spunky fourth-grader when she won the whole thing last year, so she was proof this was anybody's game.

I would not become invisible.
"Jillian?" Mr. Kline acknowledged me.

Today she wore rainbow-colored rhombus earrings.

My hand shook as I pushed the key into the lock and barged into the house.

The chickens are escaping today. I'm sad, but they shouldn't be in cages. “They need to roam and roost,” said Ms. W.