Pack Your Bags, Maggie Diaz, page 1
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Illustrators
Copyright
After being majorly stressed out for the first half of the school year, I realized that seventh grade is a piece of cake. Sure, I had to get grounded, almost fail math, and try out a bunch of different clubs, but it all worked out perfectly.
Just like I planned.
Now I’ve got a phone and I’m no longer sharing my bedroom with my abuela and her stash of vitamins. I’m even allowed to hang out at the beach with my best friends, Zoey and Julian, without parental supervision (though my mom still watches my GPS location like a hawk).
My independence is all thanks to the golden ticket of my latest very shiny report card.
I recommend that anyone trying to get out from under their parents’ thumb make honor roll, if they can swing it. It worked like a charm for my sometimes strict but usually okay Cuban American parents.
“Magdalena! Get in here right now!”
Well … it mostly worked.
I slide into the kitchen in socked feet while wearing a mostly clean school uniform and find the kitchen in its usual weekday-morning chaotic state.
My baby brother, Lucas, is in his high chair at the table making an epic mess of his morning oatmeal. Dad is attempting to fry a bunch of bacon with only his left hand since his right arm is now in a sling thanks to a recent injury at work. Caro is working on some school assignment at the table. Now that it’s her second semester of eleventh grade, the only thing my annoyingly perfect older sister can talk about is applying to college. And that’s only when she isn’t going all intense drill sergeant on me as she “helps” me practice for next week’s track-and-field tryouts.
Abuela is pouring a round of Cuban coffee while listening to the radio report local news in rapid-fire Spanish. Mom is frantically searching the cabinets above the sink.
“I cannot find a single cup. Why can I not find a single cup in this house?” She spins toward me. Her hair’s a little frazzled—almost as bad as my own morning bedhead. “How many dirty cups are in your room right now, Magdalena?”
That’s two times she’s full-named me in less than two minutes. Not a good sign at any point, but especially bad on a frantic Monday morning. I hated it when Abuela moved in with us last summer and took over half my room and one of my bunk beds with all her minty medicine and old lady knickknacks. It was an invasion of privacy and major loss of independence.
But I’d never been so tidy.
Now that she is living in the tiny house Dad built for her in our backyard, my personal habitat is back to its natural, messy state.
My report card is the shiniest thing about me these days, but that’s okay. It’s what Mom would call work-life balance. If she wasn’t mad about the three cups with varying levels of water currently in my room.
“I’ll wash every single one of them,” I promise Mom.
“Maggie,” she whines as she continues her search for some kind of glassware or mug, but at least we’re back to Maggie instead of Magdalena.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I grin as I take it out and check the screen. I’ve had it for two months now, but I still get excited whenever I get a text.
Mom’s still on the hunt for a cup, but she doesn’t bother to open and look in our dishwasher, because for whatever reason, my family doesn’t use ours. It’s a place to store pots, pans, and all the plastic containers Abuela refuses to throw out and instead hand-washes before reusing.
Thankfully, she gives up the search and focuses on her tiny cup of strong Cuban coffee instead.
Mom’s a little tense seeing as how it’s her first day at her new job as an official accountant. She finished her degree in December and is going from the frying pan to the fire (as Dad jokes again before definitely burning the bacon, as evident by the rank smell in here) because it’s tax season. I’ve never heard of this season. As a kid from Florida, the only seasons I know about are summer, summer junior, that one intense cold front we get in January, and hurricane season.
I grab a slice of pan tostado and am about to add an extra dollop of butter when Caro suddenly shouts, “I am so over polynomial equations!” and startles all of us in the kitchen.
Seventh grade put a lot of pressure on me to figure out who I am. But according to Caro, it’s even worse in eleventh grade, because everyone wants to know who you’re going to become next.
“¿Polynomial … qué? Qué es eso?” Abuela asks. She’s wearing teal leggings and a very flashy and bright windbreaker jacket. Inspired by my journey through clubs and activities last semester, Abuela is now tackling several different hobbies and sports, in search of her own self-discovery. And she’s wrangling every retired old person she knows along the way.
Who am I to talk her out of it? My school club–hopping quest totally worked out. My grades have never been better, and it turns out that I actually do like running. Plus, I’m hanging out with my best friends all the time. My best friend Zoey is a killer flutist in band, and my other best friend, Julian, is an amazing artist who even got to design and paint a city mural across from my favorite bakery.
We’ve all figured out our extracurricular skills and now that we’re past winter break, my next big plan is to officially make the track team, keep my grades up to continue impressing my parents, have fun with Julian and Zoey, and have the best spring break field trip ever with my friends.
The seventh-grade spring break trip is a huge deal. It’s four days and will be my first time going anywhere without my parents. I’m daydreaming about possible locations when Mom shrieks, “My blouse!”
I nearly spill my juice as Dad yelps at the stove over the sound of angry bacon hissing and spitting oil.
Mom snatches up a paper towel, grabbing way too many in her panic. The roll starts to rapidly unfurl behind her before Abuela jumps forward and tears the sheets off. Mom doesn’t even notice as she quickly blots at the brand-new coffee stain spreading across her shirt.
“I’m going to be late now!” Mom races down the hall toward her room in total meltdown mode.
Dad switches off the stove and comes over to Caro and me. He quietly but seriously says, “I need advice.”
“Stop trying to cook bacon with only your left hand,” I tell him.
“It’s about Valentine’s Day. Your mom has been so stressed, I want to make sure I get her something really good this year,” he says with a big cheesy smile.
“Gross,” I say around a bite of toast.
“¡Qué romántico!” Abuela sings.
“That’s sweet, Dad.” Caro stops packing up her homework to smile at him. It’s that lovesick smile of hers. Now that she officially has a girlfriend cooler than her, she’s been all moony-eyed and listening to crybaby acoustic songs in her room all night. “Alex is taking me to an escape room.”
Dad looks impressed. “Fun!”
“Probably to escape you,” I tease.
Abuela takes the opportunity to tell us all about a recent episode of her current favorite telenovela where some dude took his lady love out on a moonlit horseback ride by the ocean.
“By moonlight? Sounds dangerous,” I say.
“No, it sounds romantic,” Caro argues wistfully.
Dad looks thoughtful, like he’s taking a mental note.
It’s official. Love is in the air at the Diaz house. I grab my backpack and race right out of there before I get infected, too.
Something else this formerly C-average student did not know before leveling up last semester is that there are many elite privileges that come with making the honor roll. That little certificate really opens up a whole new world to a seventh grader.
It’s not easy living the high life, but I’m happy to do it.
Okay, so I didn’t really get any of that (not even the perfect pancake … tragic) but I made a plan and it worked. I’m pretty sure I’m a magician or something. Or maybe I take after my abuela more than I thought and I’m a fellow bruja in the making.
I park my bike in my regular crowded spot and then head to breakfast with Zoey and Julian. I quickly scarf down some French toast sticks while Julian tells us all about the latest sketches for his comic and Zoey updates us on her little sister’s insistence that she’s actually a cat now. To her Haitian American parents’ total confusion, their youngest has been demanding to wear a fuzzy orange tail with her school uniform. According to Zoey, her little sister is wearing down her parents and the elementary school.
I can’t help but be impressed. “Like I’ve said,” I tell them, “a good plan always works.”
“You’re not the one who has to deal with a sister who won’t stop meowing,” Zoey grumbles.
“No, mine is just in love.” I complain about Caro’s moody midnight playlists. “She even called the radio and made a dedication.”
Zoey laughs, but Julian calls it sweet.
I roll my eyes. “She’s a total simp.”
“Look around,” Julian says. “Everyone is lately.”
To my horror, I notice that he’s right. As we head down the hall before first bell, I see red-and-pink heart posters and decorations on the walls among all the announcements, club sign-up sheets, and inspirational posters. One in particular catches my eye.
I spin toward Zoey and Julian. “Where do you think we’ll get to go?” When Caro was in seventh grade, her class got to go to Orlando. I’d love to go to some theme parks with my friends.
“Hopefully not the Everglades,” Zoey says.
“Nothing with heights.” Julian shudders. “And not Jungle Island again.”
“And nothing with airboats!”
We split at our usual spot since Zoey and Julian both have Mr. Jones for homeroom, while I’m stuck in Mrs. Delgado’s room. When I pass the woodshop, Mr. Santiago sticks his head out and smiles. “Ms. Diaz! Guess what the eighth graders are building this week?”
I breathlessly ask, “Skateboards?”
He laughs. “Be sure to sign up again when track and field is over.”
Woodworking was one of my favorite clubs last semester, and even though it turned out that it wasn’t my calling, I still had a lot of fun. But after doing cross-country, I can’t wait for the relays, hurdles, maybe even some high jumps. The only downside to trying out for the track team is that running has also always been Caro’s thing. And her name is still all over the trophies outside our school gym.
Soon it will be my name on those awards.
First bell rings and everyone scatters toward homeroom. I hurry to mine, duck into the room, and jump over Eddie’s backpack where he always leaves it in the aisle between our desks.
“Hey, Moody Maggie,” he says without turning around.
“Hey yourself, Eerie Eddie.” We both laugh as I settle into my seat.
Another upside to having tried out so many clubs is that way more people know my name these days.
It’s really nice to not have everyone referring to me as Caro’s little sister anymore.
* * *
My academic upswing is all thanks to tutoring twice a week after school and excellent organizational skills when it comes to my notes and disastrous binder.
It’s all for the greater good, even though I’m pretty sure that the back pain from carrying all this stuff around will outlast anything I learn in algebra.
Not to mention that my English teacher is making us write way too many essays this semester. Talking about anything for five paragraphs is torture, let alone writing a compelling narrative essay about being the new kid in school when I’ve never even moved to a different city. My introductory paragraphs are never any match for my wandering thoughts and repetitive sentences.
Enough to say, it’s a relief to make it to lunch.
As great as lunch is, the cafeteria can be a lonely place, so I’m super grateful for the certainty of our table again. Not only have I learned time management and study skills, I also don’t get all in my head or insecure about my friends anymore. I never want to fight with either of them again. And we won’t because we communicate now.
Like I said, I’ve totally leveled up.
Zoey stops to chat with Maya and some of her other band friends before coming to sit beside me, and I wave at Eerie Eddie, who still likes to sit alone. He gave me refuge last semester and even shared his quesadilla once. Julian brings over his wild pack of art kids before they leave to get in line.
Julian digs into his food with fewer table manners than usual. He has four older teenage brothers and says that if he doesn’t eat fast enough, he doesn’t eat at all. But this is messy even for him.
“Sometimes I forget that you’re a boy.” Zoey pushes her own lunch aside and pulls a book out of her bag.
“Sorry,” he says around a huge bite. “I can’t be late for the new student orientation.”
I frown, confused. “You’re not a new student.”
He pushes his now-empty tray toward Zoey’s abandoned one. “I volunteered to give the new kid a tour.”
“Really?” I ask. “Why?”
“Out of the goodness of my heart.”
Zoey looks up from her book wearing the same confused expression as me. Julian laughs. Aside from us and the art kids, he’s not super social or all that interested in extracurriculars.
“Ms. Pérez offered my name to the guidance counselor because the new kid is joining art club. Plus, it’s getting me out of health class.”
“Nice!” I say. I did some volunteering with the Future Leaders club and it was pretty cool. Getting approval to leave class was always a thrill. I’d never felt so important or more part of the school.
But between track and tutoring, I don’t have time to be in all those clubs again. Still, though, I’d do just about anything to get out of health class. We already talked about our changing bodies in fifth grade, but we’re back to it again.
Julian dashes off toward the front office, leaving me and Zoey alone for the last ten minutes of lunch. I plan on letting her read. Honestly, I do. She’s mentioned before how annoying it is that other kids don’t always respect the sanctity of silent reading.
But I cave after thirty seconds. “Where do you think the field trip will be to?”
Zoey turns a page. “I have no idea.”
“Let’s brainstorm!” I grab a pen and my napkin. “Maybe somewhere on the west coast of Florida this time.” I write that down. “They’ve got cool beaches, I guess. But what’s in Tampa? Do they have sharks? My mom says everyone’s got sharks now.”
“I have to finish this before the end of the day so I can get my extra credit report done.”
If honor roll students really did get perks, Zoey would be queen. Nothing—and I mean nothing—has ever threatened her straight-A streak.
“It’s cool,” I say. And it is. As much as I like talking to my friends, I’ve learned to be okay with the quiet. My favorite speed reader turns to the next page and I get to work scribbling down my ideas for the most perfect spring break field trip ever.
Monday, after school. Track-and-field tryouts, day one.
Today is the first day of tryouts. We have to meet everyone out on the field after school. Coach Schwartz said to be there by 3:10 or ELSE. I’m guessing the ominous or else simply means we won’t be picked, but still. It’s a little dramatic.
I make it there by 3:07. Because I. Am. Ready.
I’ve been running for weeks now. Long distance. Sprints. In the mornings and sometimes even after dinner. My nosy old neighbors who sit out on their porch, drinking their coffee and gossiping while playing their card games and dominoes, love shouting my times out to me.
And if that wasn’t enough, there’s also Caro’s very aggressive workout (torture) plan that she has subjected me to since December.
Coach Schwartz has nothing on my type-A sister.
The track is busy with everyone who’s trying out—including all three grade levels—but as the week progresses, we’ll be split up for all the different events. There’s the 800-, 400-, 200-, and 100-meter races (who knew I’d have to do math to run), along with team relays and the high and long jumps. Last semester, I really liked cross-country, but as much as I might like running … track and field feels way more complicated. I’m relieved that today is meant for beginners. Because today is the mile run. The bread and butter of this whole adventure. Or better yet, pan tostado.
I take off. And as I get going and feel that burn in my leg muscles and lungs, my nervousness about tryouts disappears. It’s just like cross-country. I smile as I pick up speed. I can do this. Seventh grade isn’t even over yet, and I’ve already figured out my thing! My passion! I’ve figured out this huge part of my identity before the due date! The certainty of knowing I’m good at something is a total thrill. Just like Julian has art, and Zoey has band and her amazing grades, I have running.
