I was all set for eighth grade. My brand-new binder was filled with fresh paper; I had inserted neatly labeled dividers, one for each subject, among the paper; and a pencil case containing pens, pencils, an eraser, a ruler, and a pack of gum was clipped to the inside front cover. My lunch money was in my purse, the photo of Cam Geary was folded and ready to be displayed in my locker. (That was what the gum was for. You're not allowed to tape

things up in the lockers of Stoneybrook Middle School, so a lot of kids get around that rule by sticking them up with bits of freshly chewed gum.) The only thing about me not ready for eighth grade was my age. I had the latest birthday of all my friends and wouldn't turn thirteen for several more weeks.

Starting eighth grade seemed like a breeze to me. I'd been a chicken when we'd begun sixth grade, and I was going to be one of the youngest kids in the school. I hadn't been much better when we'd started seventh grade the year before. But now I felt like king of the hill. The eighth-graders were the oldest kids in school. We would get to do special things during the year. We would have a real graduation ceremony in June. After that, we would go on to the high school. Pretty important stuff.

But I couldn't decide whether to be excited or disappointed about the beginning of school. When we reached Stoneybrook Middle School, Stacey and Claudia and I just looked at each other.

Finally Claudia said, "Well, good-bye, summer."

Then Stacey started speaking in her Porky Pig voice. "Th-th-th-th-th-th-th-thaf s all, folks!" she exclaimed, waving her hand.

Claudia arid I laughed. Then we split up.

There were three eighth-grade homerooms, and we were each in a different one. I went to my locker first, working half a piece of gum around in my mouth on the way.