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A L S O B Y L AU R E N MY R AC L E Bliss Rhymes with Witches ttyl ttfn l8r, g8r bff Eleven Twelve Thirteen Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances

(with John Green and Maureen Johnson)

How to Be Bad,

(with E. Lockhart and Sarah Mylnowski)


A L S O B Y L AU R E N MY R AC L E Bliss Rhymes with Witches ttyl ttfn l8r, g8r bff Eleven Twelve Thirteen Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances

(with John Green and Maureen Johnson)

How to Be Bad,

(with E. Lockhart and Sarah Mylnowski)


Nine

really—but no bright lights flash and no prize bells go ding ding ding! Why? Because none of the squeals is directed at her. Because she is un-squeal-worthy. She’s the new girl, and though she can feel people checking her out, not one person bothers to say “hello.” Everybody here is so snobby. “Can you, um, tell me where Mr. Emerson’s class is?” she asks a tiny Asian girl with pigtails. The last girl Violet asked ignored her. The last girl wore an insanely huge headgear, the newfangled kind that doesn’t go

V

around the wearer’s head, but instead is held in place

iolet hates this school. The hall is crowded

with a forehead brace and a chin brace. She looked like a

and everyone is squealing. The squeals make her

medical experiment, that girl, but still she deemed Violet

feel like a pinball being bounced back and forth. Modessa! You highlighted your hair—it looks adorable!!! Do I have food in my teeth? For real, do I? Oh. My. God. Been to Salvation Army recently, KatieRose? My guinea pig had babies!!!!! Don’t be mean. She has to wear it because of her religion. Hold up! Wait for me! Violet is bounced around by the squeals—pummeled,

unworthy of a simple response. Will this teeny pigtail girl in her bright yellow peasant blouse do the same? “You’re in Mr. Emerson’s class?” the pigtail girl says. “Lucky!” So Violet is visible. Her ribs open to let more air in. “Why?” she asks. “Is he nice?” “Omigod, super nice. He’s missing an arm, though— just so you know.” 57


Nine

really—but no bright lights flash and no prize bells go ding ding ding! Why? Because none of the squeals is directed at her. Because she is un-squeal-worthy. She’s the new girl, and though she can feel people checking her out, not one person bothers to say “hello.” Everybody here is so snobby. “Can you, um, tell me where Mr. Emerson’s class is?” she asks a tiny Asian girl with pigtails. The last girl Violet asked ignored her. The last girl wore an insanely huge headgear, the newfangled kind that doesn’t go

V

around the wearer’s head, but instead is held in place

iolet hates this school. The hall is crowded

with a forehead brace and a chin brace. She looked like a

and everyone is squealing. The squeals make her

medical experiment, that girl, but still she deemed Violet

feel like a pinball being bounced back and forth. Modessa! You highlighted your hair—it looks adorable!!! Do I have food in my teeth? For real, do I? Oh. My. God. Been to Salvation Army recently, KatieRose? My guinea pig had babies!!!!! Don’t be mean. She has to wear it because of her religion. Hold up! Wait for me! Violet is bounced around by the squeals—pummeled,

unworthy of a simple response. Will this teeny pigtail girl in her bright yellow peasant blouse do the same? “You’re in Mr. Emerson’s class?” the pigtail girl says. “Lucky!” So Violet is visible. Her ribs open to let more air in. “Why?” she asks. “Is he nice?” “Omigod, super nice. He’s missing an arm, though— just so you know.” 57


Violet blinks.

It really is a pinball game, Violet thinks.

The pigtail girl waves it off like it’s no big deal.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” the headscarf girl cries from her

“Car accident. Really sad. Just don’t stare, and you’ll be good.” She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Katie-Rose.

A third, beanpole-ish girl—still standing and not

I’m in Ms. Perez’s class, blech. Not blech ’cause of Ms.

sprawled on the floor—glares at headscarf girl. Then she

Perez. She’s actually super-nice, too. Blech because . . .

directs her attention to the pretty blonde girl. “Milla,” she

well . . .”

says, “are you okay?”

Katie-Rose lets her sentence trickle off in a mean-

“I’m fine,” the blonde girl says, looking dazed. Her

ingful way, and Violet suspects she’s supposed to say,

backpack has spilled open. Her stuff is all over the floor.

“What? Tell me!”

People step over it, or try to. Some pause briefly. Some

But Violet is stuck on the arm thing, which does seem like a big deal. Katie-Rose might think it’s not, but

laugh. Some scrunch their foreheads with concern, or with relief that it wasn’t them.

Katie-Rose still has two arms—one of which is hovering

“Nice, Spazaman,” Beanpole says to the girl in the

in front of Violet like a pale white fish. Violet shakes it,

headscarf. “I see you didn’t take coordination classes over

but as quickly as humanly possible. Since when do fifth

the summer.”

graders shake hands?

The girl in the headscarf blushes. Katie-Rose, Violet

“So . . . Mr. Emerson’s room?” she repeats.

notices, seems to be inching away from the scene of the

“That way,” Katie-Rose says, gesturing exuberantly.

crime. She’s certainly not waving her hand and saying,

She whacks a girl wearing a headscarf, who stumbles backward and crashes into a pretty blonde girl. Both girls—headscarf girl and pretty blonde girl—go down. They go down hard. 58

sprawled position.

“No, really, it was me! My fault, so sorry!” “Quin, hush,” Milla says to Beanpole. She turns to the girl in the headscarf. “Yasaman, I’m fine.” Ahhhh, Violet thinks, matching names with faces. 59


Violet blinks.

It really is a pinball game, Violet thinks.

The pigtail girl waves it off like it’s no big deal.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” the headscarf girl cries from her

“Car accident. Really sad. Just don’t stare, and you’ll be good.” She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Katie-Rose.

A third, beanpole-ish girl—still standing and not

I’m in Ms. Perez’s class, blech. Not blech ’cause of Ms.

sprawled on the floor—glares at headscarf girl. Then she

Perez. She’s actually super-nice, too. Blech because . . .

directs her attention to the pretty blonde girl. “Milla,” she

well . . .”

says, “are you okay?”

Katie-Rose lets her sentence trickle off in a mean-

“I’m fine,” the blonde girl says, looking dazed. Her

ingful way, and Violet suspects she’s supposed to say,

backpack has spilled open. Her stuff is all over the floor.

“What? Tell me!”

People step over it, or try to. Some pause briefly. Some

But Violet is stuck on the arm thing, which does seem like a big deal. Katie-Rose might think it’s not, but

laugh. Some scrunch their foreheads with concern, or with relief that it wasn’t them.

Katie-Rose still has two arms—one of which is hovering

“Nice, Spazaman,” Beanpole says to the girl in the

in front of Violet like a pale white fish. Violet shakes it,

headscarf. “I see you didn’t take coordination classes over

but as quickly as humanly possible. Since when do fifth

the summer.”

graders shake hands?

The girl in the headscarf blushes. Katie-Rose, Violet

“So . . . Mr. Emerson’s room?” she repeats.

notices, seems to be inching away from the scene of the

“That way,” Katie-Rose says, gesturing exuberantly.

crime. She’s certainly not waving her hand and saying,

She whacks a girl wearing a headscarf, who stumbles backward and crashes into a pretty blonde girl. Both girls—headscarf girl and pretty blonde girl—go down. They go down hard. 58

sprawled position.

“No, really, it was me! My fault, so sorry!” “Quin, hush,” Milla says to Beanpole. She turns to the girl in the headscarf. “Yasaman, I’m fine.” Ahhhh, Violet thinks, matching names with faces. 59


Beanpole equals Quin, and the headscarf girl is Yasaman.

school’s bell at all, and the congestion in the hall clears.

Blonde falling girl equals Milla.

Soon the only people left are Milla, Quin, Violet, and

She goes over it again: Quin, Yasaman, Milla. And Katie-Rose, the teensy pigtail girl who’s to blame for this collision. Only . . . where is she?

“Oh my God, look,” Quin says, snatching and smoothing an escaped piece of paper. “Our logo—it could

Violet glances around. Katie-Rose has dematerialized.

have gotten crumpled!” It doesn’t look like anything

Yasaman gathers Milla’s strewn belongings. Her eyes

special, just a printout of a panda bear with words

are so dark that Violet can’t make out her pupils, and she’s got the most amazing lashes Violet has ever seen. Thick, lush eyelashes that brush her brow bones when she glances at Milla. “I . . . I don’t know what happened,” she explains. “I was just walking along, and . . . I think somebody bumped into me?” “Yeah, uh-huh,” Quin says. “What happened is that you’re a spaz, Spazaman.” She elbows Yasaman out of the way. “I’ll help Milla get her things. You can go.”

underneath. “But it didn’t,” Milla whispers. She seems embarrassed that Quin’s making such a scene. “Shhh.” As for Violet, she feels stupid and doesn’t know why she’s still standing there . . . except she kinda wants to tell Yasaman it’s okay? Don’t make friends with the class outcast, whispers a voice in Violet’s brain. You’ve got enough problems already, wouldn’t you say? Yasaman hovers for another moment, then takes

Quin shoves notebooks and glitter pens into Milla’s

quick steps down the hall and disappears. Quin and

backpack while Yasaman awkwardly gets to her feet.

Milla stand up. Quin swoops back down for one last item,

She wants to help Milla, Violet can tell. But Quin

a sparkly pink bracelet, and hands it to Milla.

said no. The bell rings, high and tinkly and not like Violet’s old 60

Yasaman.

“Geez, Milla, you carry around so much crap,” Quin says, and Violet finds Quin’s change in tone interesting. 61


Beanpole equals Quin, and the headscarf girl is Yasaman.

school’s bell at all, and the congestion in the hall clears.

Blonde falling girl equals Milla.

Soon the only people left are Milla, Quin, Violet, and

She goes over it again: Quin, Yasaman, Milla. And Katie-Rose, the teensy pigtail girl who’s to blame for this collision. Only . . . where is she?

“Oh my God, look,” Quin says, snatching and smoothing an escaped piece of paper. “Our logo—it could

Violet glances around. Katie-Rose has dematerialized.

have gotten crumpled!” It doesn’t look like anything

Yasaman gathers Milla’s strewn belongings. Her eyes

special, just a printout of a panda bear with words

are so dark that Violet can’t make out her pupils, and she’s got the most amazing lashes Violet has ever seen. Thick, lush eyelashes that brush her brow bones when she glances at Milla. “I . . . I don’t know what happened,” she explains. “I was just walking along, and . . . I think somebody bumped into me?” “Yeah, uh-huh,” Quin says. “What happened is that you’re a spaz, Spazaman.” She elbows Yasaman out of the way. “I’ll help Milla get her things. You can go.”

underneath. “But it didn’t,” Milla whispers. She seems embarrassed that Quin’s making such a scene. “Shhh.” As for Violet, she feels stupid and doesn’t know why she’s still standing there . . . except she kinda wants to tell Yasaman it’s okay? Don’t make friends with the class outcast, whispers a voice in Violet’s brain. You’ve got enough problems already, wouldn’t you say? Yasaman hovers for another moment, then takes

Quin shoves notebooks and glitter pens into Milla’s

quick steps down the hall and disappears. Quin and

backpack while Yasaman awkwardly gets to her feet.

Milla stand up. Quin swoops back down for one last item,

She wants to help Milla, Violet can tell. But Quin

a sparkly pink bracelet, and hands it to Milla.

said no. The bell rings, high and tinkly and not like Violet’s old 60

Yasaman.

“Geez, Milla, you carry around so much crap,” Quin says, and Violet finds Quin’s change in tone interesting. 61


With an audience, Quin was mean to Yasaman and

bright. It’s on the floor, by the wall. She walks over. She

sweet as pie to Milla. With her audience gone—all

puts down her bag and squats.

except for Violet—Quin no longer treats Milla like a precious doll. “All this crap,” Quin goes on, “and except for our logo, none of it’s the slightest bit practical.” She laughs. “If you

Huh. It’s a tiny wooden turtle, painted orange and red. It’s cute. When Violet places it on her open palm, its head wobbles. She closes her fingers over it, and it grows still.

got stranded on a mountain? You’d totally die.” “I have a Tootsie Pop,” Milla says. Her eyes flit to Violet. “A Tootsie Pop,” Quin repeats. “Yay.” When Milla doesn’t respond, Quin snaps her fingers in front of Milla’s face. “I’ll see you at break,” Quin says to Milla, and it’s the spookiest thing how she honestly doesn’t acknowledge Violet at all. “That’s when we’ll start recruiting.” Milla bites her lower lip, then nods. She goes one way, and Quin goes the other. Now Violet’s all by herself. Lovely. She’ll be tardy on the first day and have to explain to her one-armed teacher why she couldn’t be bothered to be on time. She hitches her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, then pauses, spotting something small and 62

63


With an audience, Quin was mean to Yasaman and

bright. It’s on the floor, by the wall. She walks over. She

sweet as pie to Milla. With her audience gone—all

puts down her bag and squats.

except for Violet—Quin no longer treats Milla like a precious doll. “All this crap,” Quin goes on, “and except for our logo, none of it’s the slightest bit practical.” She laughs. “If you

Huh. It’s a tiny wooden turtle, painted orange and red. It’s cute. When Violet places it on her open palm, its head wobbles. She closes her fingers over it, and it grows still.

got stranded on a mountain? You’d totally die.” “I have a Tootsie Pop,” Milla says. Her eyes flit to Violet. “A Tootsie Pop,” Quin repeats. “Yay.” When Milla doesn’t respond, Quin snaps her fingers in front of Milla’s face. “I’ll see you at break,” Quin says to Milla, and it’s the spookiest thing how she honestly doesn’t acknowledge Violet at all. “That’s when we’ll start recruiting.” Milla bites her lower lip, then nods. She goes one way, and Quin goes the other. Now Violet’s all by herself. Lovely. She’ll be tardy on the first day and have to explain to her one-armed teacher why she couldn’t be bothered to be on time. She hitches her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, then pauses, spotting something small and 62

63


Lauren Myracle *really* likes tweens and pre-tweens; she’d rather sit at the “kids’ table” than at the boring grown-up table any day. She’s written squillions of yummy books, including the bestselling Internet Girls series and the Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen series, and she is SO SUPER EXCITED about Luv Ya Bunches that she can hardly stand it. Why? Because at last she wrote a book that blends the thrills of instant messaging with the goofy, wonderful madness of fifth grade. And plus there is bobble-head turtle drama! And muddy milkshakes!! And cute yellow video cameras that capture everything!!!! (And, um, yes. She is a spaz, that Lauren. She hopes you like her anyway!) Visit her on the web at laurenmyracle.com, and come hang with Milla, Violet, Yasaman, and Katie-Rose at LuvYaBunches.com. Unless you have, like, homework to do. Or you have to clean out your cat’s litter box. Blech, hate cleaning out the litter box . . . Mwah!


Luv Ya Bunches: Book One (Preview)