True colors, p.1
True Colors, page 1
Text copyright © 2024 by Abby Cooper
All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@astrapublishinghouse.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Astra Young Readers
An imprint of Astra Books for Young Readers, a division of Astra Publishing House
astrapublishinghouse.com
ISBN: 978-1-6626-2061-4 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1- 6626-2060-7 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023031634
First edition
For Benny—AC
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Acknowledgments
If I were a dessert, I’d be a Funfetti cake.
Some people, like my best friend Tabitha, think vanilla is boring. Too basic, too plain, too why would you ever in a million years want vanilla when there are so many other more exciting flavors?
Not that she’s calling me boring, basic, or plain. Tab knows better than anyone that I am anything but.
For the record, I think vanilla is melt-in-your-mouth delicious.
Anyway, Funfetti isn’t just vanilla. What really makes it special is the way it’s not only covered in rainbow sprinkles on top, but also has them baked right into the batter. It’s bright. It’s bold. It’s a forkful of fun. A slab of satisfaction. A hunk of heck yes.
Basically, it’s happiness on a plate.
And that’s me. Not especially vanilla or rainbow-y (at least, not right now), not even super fun all the time. Just happy. Always. No matter what. Even when I get a stomachache from eating too much Funfetti. Though I’d rather not have one of those.
I push my plate of cake away and lean back in my tall stool. “Okay, I really need to be done now.”
“Tell it to your dad!” Tabitha’s long blonde waves dance as she laughs. My best friend used to remind me of a dandelion (in a good way, not a you-remind-me-of-a-weed way), but now, after a major summer growth spurt, she’s blossomed into the brightest sunflower. “He’s the one who keeps bringing out more.”
She’s right. The number of plates in front of us makes it look like ten people are eating at the front counter, not four.
“Whoa, let’s not make any rash decisions here,” our friend Asha says between mouthfuls of fresh cherry cheesecake. She and Eloise turn and wave to my dad, whose flushed, flour-covered face occasionally peeks through the window between the kitchen and the rest of the bakery. “Keep it coming, please, Mr. Werner!” Asha calls, and we all laugh.
Everybody around us laughs too, even if they don’t really know what they’re laughing at. Laughter is highly contagious around here. Same with joy, smiles, and every other good thing.
While Asha, Eloise, and Tab finish this round of treats, I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window directly in front of us. As usual, it’s a beautiful day. Lots of people are out, and everyone smiles and waves as they walk by. The sunlight streams in, giving my friends a yellow glow. I have a yellow glow, too, but in a slightly different way. I smile at the blue sky, the blossoming flowers, and the leaves on the trees that are just starting to change color for fall. There’s something special about nature here, something different. When trees sway in the breeze, they look like they’re dancing. When flowers bloom, they all bloom together, as though the thousands of them that line our streets are creating a picture only they can make.
I shift my gaze toward the center of town. Color Me Delicious is on Main Street, but it’s set slightly back, leaning gently against the giant hill that separates Serenity from the city. You can see a little bit of everything from here: the town square, where kids splash in the giant fountain and people of all ages play at the Ping-Pong and board game tables and in the bounce houses and ball pits; the perfectly wide, square sidewalks, inscribed with inspiring phrases like Negativity-free zone and Live, laugh, love; and some of the other businesses, like the buffet-style restaurant, the general store, and the enormous Serenity library, where you can not only borrow books, art, games, and tools, but pretty much anything you could ever want or need, too.
Most houses are behind Main Street, but there are a handful at the end. It looks like everyone is having another great day. Mr. and Mrs. Reilley are reading on the porch in front of their house. In front of the house next door, all five Sharp kids are playing tag. Everything is as it always is. Predictable, positive, perfect Serenity. Except, at the little white house next to that, the one on the corner …
“Whoa,” I blurt out. “What’s going on over there?”
My friends practically drop their desserts. Clearly, this is serious.
“No one’s left town lately,” Tabitha says, but it comes out like a question.
Asha’s dark curls bounce as she shakes her head. “Not that I can think of.”
“Nope,” Eloise agrees.
“Then how …”
She doesn’t finish the question. It just hangs in the air above us like one of the bakery’s totally majestic twinkle lights.
Kids aren’t supposed to know there’s a massive wait list to live in Serenity, but Mom and Dad have been talking about it all the time lately, which means I know, which means my friends know, too. There are about one thousand of us who live here, which means enough jobs for every adult who wants one without having to go into the city. Plus, the daycare or school never gets too crowded. Or the bakery, of course. Nobody likes a crowd, especially when fresh desserts are at stake.
Since no one has moved out lately, whoever this family is—these three people including a girl who looks around our age who I just saw standing beside a van that said MAEVE’S MOVERS–they must be really special.
“Well, this is great,” Asha says after a minute. “The more the merrier.”
“Absolutely,” Tabitha agrees. “I’m going to paint them something tonight. Maybe a picture of a beautiful sunny day.”
“No way,” I joke. Tabitha has painted so many beautiful, sunny days she could open her own museum.
Eloise grins. “Finally, I won’t be the newest anymore!”
We laugh at that. Eloise’s family came here three years ago, but everyone still calls them new.
My friends start brainstorming how we can welcome the new family. I try to chime in, but a silly little lump has built a home in my throat for no reason. Even if it’s unusual, it’s great that a new family is moving in. Who doesn’t love a new friend?
It’s just the “unusual” part I’m a tiny bit stuck on. This seems really sudden. There’s a process, after all. People have to do an application, an interview, a tour. By the time new families actually move in, we’ve usually met them at least once. But I’ve never seen these people before in my life. It’s probably fine. It’s just that unusual things—along with unexpected and unpredictable things—don’t really happen here. It’s kind of the whole point.
Tabitha squeezes my wrist. “Are you okay?”
My heart pounds a little faster. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Asha and Eloise exchanging a look. They’re probably wondering the same thing—and thinking how weird it would be if my answer was no.
I force a smile so big that there’s simply no room for a lump in my throat, or for the bad feelings that come with it. Because it is no big deal, and I am very okay. I’m more than okay, actually.
“Yeah, totally good.” I gesture to the colorful rings of air outlining my body from head to toe. “You know how the colors get goofy sometimes, but just ignore them. I’m fine. Excited. Happy!”
And it’s true. I’m super happy, just like everyone else. There’s no reason not to be. That’s what I need to focus on—not the itty-bitty fearful feeling that comes with meeting new people, even here.
Because just like a Funfetti cake can’t hide its sprinkles, I can’t hide the way I feel.
THE SERENITY WAY
STRONGLY ENCOURAGED GUIDELINES FOR RESIDENTS
• Always assume positive intent
• Treat your fellow citizens with kindness and respect
• Take care of one another
• Go with the flow
• Look on the bright side
• Make it a great day
• Never underestimate the power of positive thinking
• A good attitude goes a long way
• Show y our gratitude and smile
• CHOOSE HAPPINESS
I get asked if I’m okay six more times before the bakery closes at five.
It’s so kind and thoughtful of people to check in on me, even if it’s also a tiny bit embarrassing.
Okay. It’s actually a lot embarrassing.
At least people understand that. Embarrassment, I mean. Everyone gets embarrassed from time to time, even though they don’t need to, since it’s not like people laugh at each other or make fun of each other or are mean to each other in any way.
It’s my other feelings that are the problem.
Mom and Dad are always saying that my colors are awesome, beautiful, and a whole bunch of other nice things. And they are. They totally are. Whenever I have a feeling, a color that sort of matches it appears in a haze around my body, and the stronger I feel something, the larger the ring of that color becomes. There are so many that it’s impossible to remember which color stands for which feeling based on color alone. That’s where the flavors come in. When I think about how I feel with each color, along with Dad’s awesome, ever-changing menu, it’s easy to get inspired.
It’s less easy to stay happy the way I’m supposed to.
Lately, a few more colors have been coming out than usual. They come out at random times, too, like when I’m not even doing anything. Like now, as I wait for Mom and Dad to finish up for the day, a layer of the color I call anxious apricot edges out around me. Seeing the color appear around my body where everyone can see it makes me feel even more anxious, and the layer thickens. That’s been happening a lot lately, too, and it’s so annoying. It’s bad enough I get anxious—but then to become even more anxious about the fact that I’m feeling anxious? Seriously, haze?
“Hey, sweets.” Mom sneaks up behind me and plants a kiss on the top of my head. As usual, her pale face is dusted with a mix of freckles and joy, and her cinnamon-sugar-colored hair (same as mine) is pulled into a ponytail with more bounce than Dad’s jiggliest Jell-O. “How was your day?”
“Great,” I tell her as Dad approaches. They both listen eagerly as I tell them about how before we came to the bakery, my friends and I picked perfectly crisp apples from the trees by the river and cleaned up some garbage the wind had blown onto the bike path.
My parents comment on how wonderful that sounds. Then it’s my turn to check in.
“How was your day?” I ask Mom.
“It was fantastic. I got to spend time with Mrs. Vallejo’s book club, which was great. The golfing club stopped in to try the new putting green in the back. They were big fans. I’m thinking we should give anyone who scores a hole-in-one a free coffee or cocoa.”
Dad grins in that extra-jolly way of his. “I love it. One small question, though. Wouldn’t the people who miss the shot be disappointed?”
Mom rubs her chin. “Good point. Maybe everyone who tries gets a prize?”
That’s the slogan of our summer fair, and it always works out really well.
Dad’s eyes light up. “That’s why Mom is the brains of this operation,” he tells me, and I giggle. Mom is really great at her job. Not only does she always come up with new ways to bring people together at the bakery, she also makes it feel cozy without putting you to sleep and bright without making you need sunglasses. It’s lively without being too loud and homey without being your actual house. And of course, it’s the best-smelling place not only in Serenity, but probably the entire world, too. Though that part is thanks to Dad.
“How was your day?” I ask him.
As Dad shares about the things he baked today, my mind can’t help wandering back to the new family we saw moving in. I shouldn’t still be wondering about them. Really, my friends and I shouldn’t have even wondered about them at all—it’s not that nice to think that much about someone else’s personal business. Plus, wondering usually leads to worrying, and we don’t want any of that. If a family gets to jump ahead to the top of the wait list, they must be a special new ingredient to the recipe of Serenity that we didn’t even know we were missing. There’s no way they’re going to judge me. They might be concerned about me, but they won’t be angry. They won’t be upset that I’m bringing the whole vibe of Serenity down. And they’re not going to tell others that maybe I’m not the best fit for this town, that maybe the town would be better off if I were no longer living here.
A thin but noticeable layer of worried watermelon ekes out into my haze. Mom and Dad swap the kind of look that makes my heart feel like it’s going splat onto the floor, a pancake that’s had a failed flip. Their eyes look the way others’ voices sound—like they care about me a lot. But if I can still feel any type of bad way in a town like this, with family and friends like mine and access to any dessert I want, anytime I want it, then there must be something seriously wrong.
Mom wraps an arm around me. “Maybe we should schedule a check-in with Dr. Ishizuka,” she suggests.
I nod. We haven’t seen Dr. Ishizuka in a couple of months, which is a pretty long time to not see someone who’s been your therapist your whole life, even back when you lived in the city. Hopefully she’ll be able to get me in fast the way she always does. “You are the brains of this operation,” I tell Mom.
By the time we walk home, my haze is the happiness trifecta (pumped-up pineapple, beaming lemon bliss, and banana-cream-life’s-a-dream) once more. Dr. Ishizuka doesn’t have her own office for nothing. If anyone can help me get this haze under control, it’s her.
Then, the next time someone asks if I’m okay, my answer will be an enthusiastic, indisputable yes.
My friends and I skip into Serenity School the next day like it’s a normal Monday. And it is: it’s a bright, beautiful sunny day outside, the school halls are as bright, friendly, and inviting as ever, and a whole week of wonderful possibilities lies ahead.
But right away, I know something is different.
We usually ease our way into the day, taking our time to put our stuff away, greet teachers and friends, and eat breakfast, but today Ms. Thelen, our principal, has us go straight to the auditorium for an all-school gathering. This is good: all-school gatherings are only ever for good news, special announcements, or a combination of the two.
But an all-school gathering means one other thing, too: that almost two hundred kids and dozens of adults can easily watch my haze. A few guys in my grade, Jayden, Kade, and Ty, already are.
I bite my lip and settle into a soft, fuzzy chair. Here I go again, being ungrateful. People who ask if I’m okay are just showing that they care. That’s what I need to concentrate on: the caring, not the staring. Anyway, today after school, I’ll convince Dr. Ishizuka to tell me exactly what to do to get my haze to stop having these totally uncalled-for mini-freak-outs, and everything will be fixed.
Bouncy, upbeat music echoes from the speakers on both sides of the stage.
“Good morning, Serenity students,” Ms. Thelen announces in her big, cheery voice once the song fades out. All the teachers have cheery voices here, but Ms. Thelen’s is the best. Maybe that’s how she got to be principal. She can even make the lunch menu sound exciting. Even Chef Ellis doesn’t get as excited about the food as she does, and he’s the one who makes it.
Ms. Thelen continues, “Today I have the privilege, the honor, the absolute joy to introduce you to three new members of our Serenity community, two of whom will be attending our very school.” I suck in a big breath as she gestures to the people I saw moving in.
“Please give a warm Serenity welcome to Ms. Stella Scott, her daughter, Rayna, and her son, Benny. While Ms. Scott films her documentary, Rayna will join our sixth-grade class, and Benny will be part of the four-year-old explorers.”
“Documentary?” I whisper to Tabitha, but she just shrugs. I thought I heard Mom and Dad saying something about a documentary while we all got ready this morning, but I assumed they were talking about the new videos the board uploaded to our tablets over the weekend. Most people don’t really care about getting new movies to watch, though, so we don’t get them that often. But now we’re going to be in one?
As confused colors appear around me, most people stand up and applaud. Then someone bursts out into the Serenity anthem, and it’s not long before everyone else chimes in. I know I should join—it’s the friendly, welcoming thing to do—but it’s like an invisible layer of molasses has glued me to my seat. Tabitha is still sitting, too. We lock eyes for a second, then both focus back on the stage, like neither of us wants to get caught, even by each other, doing what we’re doing. Or not doing, I guess. But she must change her mind, because a second later, she stands after all.
