𝒜 𝒮𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎

𝒥𝓊𝓃𝑒 12, 2009

Thousands of kids dream of meeting their favorite singers, actors, and sports players. I dream of meeting a particular tech genius. Science and technology have always fascinated me. So, when I discovered the fifth grade goes on an annual trip to the Stark Industries New York Facility, I was beyond excited. The anticipation for this day got me through the year, and I can't believe it's finally here. I couldn't sleep last night and barely touched my breakfast this morning. Some people eat when they're nervous, but not me.

The bus rumbles down the highway. My classmates sing the latest pop and rap songs to the dismay of the parent chaperones and teacher tagalongs. Each time they forget the lyrics, they switch mid-song to another, repeating the cycle that's been going on for the past twenty minutes. I ignore them and spam Y on my DS to release a barrage of fireballs at Bowser in Super Mario Bros. Since no one sits next to me, I take the liberty to stretch my legs and rest them on top of the seat in front of me.

My mind wanders as I play, thinking of meeting Tony Stark at Stark Industries. If he's there, would he demonstrate new tech? Give us a tour of his personal lab? I'd ask him a ton of questions about engineering and design. I could even tell him about the robot I built with my old friend Peter. Though, of course, before I start fangirling, I'd give him a warm hug and ask if he's alright after what went down in Afghanistan. The news reports that covered the story scared me half to death. I can't imagine what else he must've endured besides almost dying and having to build an Arc Reactor to keep him alive. That requires genius-level thinking, by the way.

"Hey, Bella!" Olivia rises from her seat in the back, her blonde hair tied into a tight, sleek high ponytail. How does that not hurt her?

"Picto," she says over the singing, waving her hot pink DSi.

The sight of it instills jealousy within me, but I nod with a slight grin. After saving my game, I remove the cartridge and hop into PictoChat.

Olivia sends a handwritten message that says, "Hello," the word surrounded by squiggles and dots to represent confetti. She drew everything with the rainbow pen, a feature exclusive to the DSi.

I frown at the burst of color Olivia used. She always shows off her new DS. I have a DS Lite. I can't take pictures, animate in Flipnote Studio, or mess with the sound app. It's not fair that she gets to have all the fun.

Instead of embarrassing myself by writing back in black ink, I use my stylus to drag letters from the keyboard to the blank space. I arrange for them to say, "Hello," and then add a square smiley face. Send.

ᴡᴀɴᴛ 2 ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴋɪʀʙʏ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴀʀ?

Olivia types out.

ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢᴀᴍᴇ.

"Sweet niblets!" Olivia replies with more rainbow doodles. She's as obsessed with Hannah Montana as I am with Harry Potter. We've all got something, I guess.

This trip has me bubbling with excitement, and I can't help but ask:

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛᴏɴʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ?

ᴘʀᴏʙ ɴᴏᴛ. ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ.

A pause, then she sends another message.

ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀꜰꜰɢᴀɴᴇꜱᴛᴀɪɴ. ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ.

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙ ʀɪɢʜᴛ.

I draw a little lightning bolt to match her artsy style.

No response.

I glance over. Olivia chats with other kids, asking them to play multiplayer with her on Kirby Super Star. My shoulders slump. Forgotten again.

The bus slows, pulling off the highway. Skyscrapers rise in the distance, a familiar sight that makes my chest ache. The last time I was in New York City, I was with Irene, the best foster mom I ever had. And now she's in jail. If I were old enough to visit her, I would. That woman changed my life, and I swear she would've adopted me if she hadn't hit that person with her car. I push the feeling away, focusing on the tour and hoping to meet Tony Stark. Maybe today will be my lucky day. I don't get many of those.

Mrs. Thompson stands at the front of the bus and braces herself by gripping the back of a seat. "We're entering the city now, everyone. I expect you all to be on your best behavior."

The usual chorus of groans and protests rises up. No one likes to be told what to do, especially a bunch of eleven-year-olds.

"Bella, get your feet down from there. That's extremely rude."

I take my feet off the bench in front of me before my classmates can catch me in the act.

The singing ends and evolves into trading Sillybandz. I ignore them again, pressing my forehead against the window as Manhattan consumes us in a maze of concrete and glass.

Then a Sillyband hits the back of my head.

I whip around, Tommy grinning at me, another Sillyband looped around his wrist. He holds up a neon pink one. "Hey, orphan girl. Trade you for your blue?"

I pluck the red band out of my hair, tempted to fling it back at him for that "orphan girl" comment. Instead, I hand it back. "Not a chance, Reynolds."

"Your loss," he says with a shrug, turning to pester another kid.

Further down the aisle, a group of girls gathers, doing each other's hair like always. One of them, Mary Beth, twists strands of hair around and around into what's supposed to be a fishtail braid. I wrinkle my nose, correcting her technique in my mind. She'll end up with a knotted mess if she keeps braiding like that.

"Braid expert, want to join?" Kylie asks, glancing back at me. My class has considered me the braid expert ever since I showed up with a perfect crown braid at school. Everyone thought it was a headband, but when the girls accepted it was my natural hair, they all made an appointment with me to teach them at recess. I'm still the only one who's mastered it. Tying my hair into two braids each night has perfected my braiding abilities.

I hold up my DS in a way that Olivia can't see from behind me and show them I'm in the middle of a Mario level. Satisfied with the excuse, they return to botching each other's hair.

After a few more minutes, Mrs. Thompson stands up again. "Everyone, look to your right. You can see the Empire State Building between some of the buildings."

My classmates sitting on the left side of the bus rush to the right side—my side, jostling and shoving to get a glimpse.

Mary Beth stumbles and grabs my shoulder to steady herself. "Sorry, Bella." So much for personal space.

I grit my teeth as elbows dig into my ribs, and hot, smelly peanut butter breath washes over me. Someone didn't listen to the peanut allergy rule.

At last, the crowd disperses once we drive past the Empire State, leaving only Mary Beth hovering at my elbow. She twists a strand of my hair around her finger, an eager smile on her face. "Can I braid your hair? I've been practicing."

I hesitate. Having my hair tugged and pulled doesn't sound pleasant, but Mary Beth means well. She's no hair stylist, but at least her braids won't end up too terrible.

"Knock yourself out," I say. "But no fishtails."

Her face lights up, and she sits next to me. She gathers sections of my hair and weaves them with quick, clumsy fingers. I wince at a few sharp tugs but stay still, letting her work.

"I liked it better when it was red," she says.

"A lot of people would disagree with you." I dyed it because of all the slurs and teasing targeted at my ginger head. I've been called a witch, told to return to Ireland—I'm not even Irish—and nicknamed "Carrots." The bullying stopped after a couple of girls at the group home helped me dye my hair brown. At least the bullying based on my hair color.

"My mom would never let me dye my hair," Mary Beth says. "When I turn sixteen, I want to dye it blue—Wait, no! Purple. But just the ends, though."

"Just the ends? If you're gonna choose a wild color, you might as well go all the way."

"I like the way you think, Bella Palmer." Again, a lot of people would disagree with her.

I hate to think this, but what if Olivia's messages, Tommy hitting me with a Sillyband, and Mary Beth ruining my hair are all signs that today won't go as planned? What if something bad happens? A bunch of fifth graders running around cutting-edge labs filled with advanced technology and equipment? How could things not go wrong?

I shift my eyes to the window and admire the skyscrapers. Rich-looking people walk by with their leather handbags, pressed suits, and polished shoes. Maybe today won't be so bad after all. I'm in the greatest city in the world, about to tour Stark Industries, and I've made a "friend" happy. What more could a girl ask for?

Well, except to meet Tony Stark. But I can be patient. My time will come.

𝐸𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝑒𝓍𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓅𝓉