Over the Top Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Alison Hughes

  Interior and cover illustrations copyright © 2021 by Laura Horton

  Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Running Press Kids

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  www.runningpress.com/rpkids

  @RP_Kids

  First Edition: August 2021

  Published by Running Press Kids, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Running Press Kids name and logo is a trademark of the Hachette Book Group.

  The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hughes, Alison, 1966-author. Title: Over the top / Alison Hughes.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Running Press Kids, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020046319 | ISBN 9780762473120 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780762473137 (ebook) Subjects: CYAC: Family life—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Parties—Fiction. | Theater—Fiction. | Moving, Household—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.H8731144 Ove 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020046319

  ISBNs: 978-0-7624-7312-0 (hardcover), 978-0-7624-7313-7 (ebook)

  E3-20210616-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: The Show-stopper, Jaw-dropper, Very Last House

  Chapter 2: Turret Bedrooms and Massive, Unwanted Mirrors

  Chapter 3: Conquer, Achieve, Succeed?

  Chapter 4: Enter Potential Mean Girl (Stage Left)

  Chapter 5: Luxury Lunch Recess Hideaway (I’m Being Sarcastic)

  Chapter 6: I Realize I Am Not Promposal Material

  Chapter 7: Managing a Sentence of Normal Conversation

  Chapter 8: When You Are a Glitzy Giant Fish, Swim Away from the Mean Girls

  Chapter 9: The Wise Man with the Animal Stickers Gives Advice

  Chapter 10: Not Quite the Grueling Ordeal I Had Feared

  Chapter 11: Birthdays: the Most Dangerous Day of the Year

  Chapter 12: A Roadmap to Humiliation

  Chapter 13: People Are Talking (About Me, Not to Me)

  Chapter 14: A Totally Unexpected Total Disaster

  Chapter 15: Divapalooza!

  Chapter 16: The Party Lasts Several More Years

  Chapter 17: And That’s (Finally) a Wrap, Folks

  Chapter 18: The Yellow Brick Road Reveal

  Chapter 19: Nowhere to Hide

  Chapter 20: A Smash Hit (Literally)

  Chapter 21: Freedom Takes Center Stage

  Chapter 22: No Place like Home

  Acknowledgments

  For My Family

  CHAPTER 1

  The Show-Stopper, Jaw-Dropper, Very Last House

  There was no getting away from it: the house was pink.

  It wasn’t a shade of coral or peach. It wasn’t pinkish. It was vivid, candy-floss, lip-gloss pink. Bright pink. Deliberately pink. In-your-face pink.

  That can’t be the house we’re thinking of actually living in. Oh, please no. That cannot be it.

  I swiveled around, searching up and down the pretty, tree-lined street. The only “For Sale” sign was in front of the enormous pink house. This was it.

  Dad slid our new van to a stop under a tree by the long driveway. There was a moment of silence as he cut the engine and the four of us looked out the windows. The house glowed through the trees like a giant, princess-themed bouncy castle.

  Because not only was it pink, it was also a sort-of castle. Two towers with pointed roofs poked up from the back of the house to frame the triple-car garage, and four enormous pillars held up a large, pink triangle above the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were massive, wooden, “none shall pass!” double front doors.

  “Ridiculous,” I muttered, crossing my arms and shaking my head. This house was supposed to be the best of the bunch. The realtor had promised us that the last house we were to look at was the most special house on her list. The show-stopper.

  “What’re those…? Ah, turrets,” said Dad, looking down at the paper the realtor had given us. “Built in 1993, though…”

  “A good year for moats,” I said sarcastically. “Wait, is there a moat?” I wouldn’t have put it past the owners of this house to have gone full-castle and built a moat with a drawbridge somewhere. A pink drawbridge.

  “Wow!” laughed Hero, bouncing in his seat. “A solid pink house! Weird! Let’s look!” My nine-year-old brother scrambled out of his seat and hauled open the van door.

  “I love it,” breathed Mom, giving Dad one of her painful, excited little arm squeezes. “A-dore it! It’s perfect. I don’t even think I need to look inside!” My dad gave her an amused look. “Oh, maybe just a peek.” She slipped out of the van and shrieked and waved at the realtor, who had just pulled into the driveway.

  “Erica! Erica! You angel! How did you find this place?”

  How did she find it, Mom? You could probably see this house from outer space.

  Dad turned to look back at me and raised his eyebrows. “Well, Diva? What do you think?”

  “Are you serious, Dad? Look at it. Will you look at this house? It’s ridiculous. Tacky! Like, beyond tacky. There’s not even a word for it. Do you want to live in Disneyland? Is that what you had in mind?”

  Dad raised both hands and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, okay, let’s not make up our minds before we’ve even seen the inside. Keep an open mind. Great neighborhood, great school right down the street, really good price for the square footage.”

  “It’s cheap because—”

  “Hey, I didn’t say cheap.”

  “—because nobody wants to live in a pink fake castle, Dad! Other than the people who built it, I guess. And Mom. And possibly—” I floundered for a few seconds “—circus people!”

  Dad sighed. “Backs onto the river, which might be nice. Private. Nature. Come on, Deev, let’s at least take a look.”

  We walked up the long driveway, pausing at a huge, bronze-colored statue of a centaur in full horse-trot. The human part of the creature waved an enormous, rippling bronze flag, which had the house number engraved on it.

  “Daaad,” I wailed, holding out both my hands, presenting the statue to him. “Seriously? This? I actually have no words for this. Why this? A centaur? Why not a knight, if you’re going for a castle theme? Or a dragon. I mean, obviously, why a statue at all, but what is this even trying to say?”

  Dad was studying the sheet in his hand.

  “Yep, centaur comes with it. Jeez, says it’s nine feet tall!” Dad looked up at the centaur with new respect. “That puppy’d have set them back a bit, I bet.”

  “Again, why?”

  Hero came running to meet us. “Oh, good, you saw the horse-guy.”

  “Pretty hard to miss,” I said.

  “Isn’t he cool?” He paused to gasp in a brea
th. “I’ll call him Gary if we get the house.”

  Gary the Centaur. Why not? I stifled a hysterical giggle.

  “Why Gary?” Dad asked.

  “He just looks like a Gary,” Hero said. “You know. Just: Gary. Suits him. Could I climb up and ride this guy, Dad?”

  “Better not just yet,” smiled Dad. “But if we buy the place, off you go, cowboy! Gary will be your trusty steed. Let’s go have a look.”

  “C’mon, there are some huge trees around back. Great for climbing. And a spikey fence. Don’t climb that. It hurts. And the river is right past the fence, and there’s also a little kind of house right in the middle of the backyard!”

  “Garden gazebo,” Dad said, looking at the paper. “Sounds nice.”

  “Is it pink, too, ’Ro?” I asked dully.

  “Sort of. Actually, maybe more purplish.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Dad put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to the front door.

  “Courage, Diva,” he said. “Be brave.”

  “Pink overload,” I said, pretend-staggering. “So much pink. The glare. My eyes, my eyes…”

  Dad laughed, which cheered me up a little. He didn’t look so pale and tired when he laughed.

  “Ever heard of paint, Diva? Comes in lots of colors. The pink doesn’t have to be forever. C’mon, ’Ro, let’s show Diva around the place.”

  There were huge, iron lion’s-head door knockers attached to each massive door. Dad grabbed one by its gaping, fanging jaw and swung it experimentally. Thunk-thunk.

  “Heavy,” he said.

  “And pointless,” I said, indicating the doorbell.

  “Let’s just go inside already,” said Hero, pushing open the door.

  “Empty!” said Hero with satisfaction, kicking off his shoes. “I love the empty ones!” He sprinted a lap of the massive entryway, performed two awkward cartwheels, and took off down a hallway.

  “Diva! Deeee-va!” Mom was calling urgently from somewhere deep inside the house, her voice muffled by the wall-to-wall pink carpet. I looked at Dad.

  “Where—?”

  Dad tilted his head, listening.

  “I think… maybe thataway,” he said, pointing me down a long hall off to the right.

  I eventually found Mom in the family room off the kitchen. She was standing over by the window, a billowy curtain clutched in her hand, her other hand over her mouth.

  “Deeeee-va! Oh, there you are. What took you so long?”

  “I didn’t know where—”

  “Quick, come here! Come right this minute!”

  I ran over, glancing at Erica the realtor, who was talking on her cellphone several blocks away in the kitchen. “Are you okay, Mom? What—?”

  “Look at how beautiful that is,” Mom interrupted, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t it beautiful? I thought you should see this. You’re the writer. You appreciate atmosphere. Setting. See how the lawn leads into those gorgeous trees—” her hand waved gracefully “—and then it slopes right down to the river?” She squealed. “It’s just so, so…”

  “Beautiful?” Mom pretended not to notice my flat voice. I felt a little bit guilty. Because the view was beautiful, it really was. But Mom always made such a big deal of everything, that my reflex was always to make it smaller. And then I’d feel guilty, because she was genuinely enthusiastic about almost everything. Which was, once again, annoying. Vicious cycle.

  “Yes!” Mom sighed, clasping her hands theatrically under her chin. “Oh, I have a great feeling about this house, Princess! A really, really, super-great feeling.”

  My heart sank. Whenever Mom had “a great feeling” or a “great idea” about something, it meant trouble. The day-to-day hassles associated with “nice vibes,” “good karma,” or even “hinkies” I could deal with. But “great feelings” were booming warning bells.

  Dad wandered into the room.

  “Great basement. Lots of room, lots of storage. Hey, nice view here,” he said.

  “Nice!” Mom shrieked in protest, punching his shoulder playfully. “‘Nice,’ he says! Understatement of the century! It’s glorious! It’s magical! Right on the river like that…”

  “Hmm, could be damp,” murmured Dad, peering out. “Wonder what that might do to the house’s foundation?”

  “… and so private with all those lovely trees! And such a great neighborhood. Top of the line. Erica there”—Mom gestured over at the realtor—“tells me that the schools down the street are the best in the city. The best! In the whole city! Right down the street from our house!”

  I saw Dad look down at Mom’s radiant face, and his own face softened. He smiled at her and she slipped her hand into his.

  I looked away. There should be a word, I thought, for the cringey feeling kids get when they see their parents cuddling in any way. It’s a feeling similar to, but not the same as, the feeling they get when they see their parents (or any adults) dancing.

  I’ll have to remember those two feelings to add to my book, I thought.

  My newest writing project was my biggest one yet: I was writing a dictionary of new words to describe commonly felt thoughts and feelings that have no word for them. At least in English. Like, for example, the feeling you might get when your family is about to buy a house that is so embarrassing that “tacky” or “ridiculous” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

  My language arts teacher at my old school gave me the idea. When school ended last fall, I said there should be a word for the feeling of the last day of school.

  “You know, sort of a happy feeling, but sad, too, where everything’s packed up and the class looks different and the windows are open because it’s almost summer and there’s that smell of dry weeds and cut grass and there aren’t any rules, and things are changing…”

  Mrs. Katamba had listened, smiling, leaning her tired face on her hand.

  “You have a real gift for words, Diva. I know exactly what you mean. Well, there’s your new writing project! Coming up with words for those situations or feelings we all recognize, we all know, but can’t express.”

  “That’s way too big a project,” I said. “That’d be basically a dictionary. I don’t think I could do it, Mrs. Katamba. I can’t even think of a word for that feeling I just described.”

  “Well, don’t worry about that now. Think of the feelings first,” Mrs. Katamba said. “Write the feelings. The words can come later.”

  It was an amazing idea. Because I’ve often thought there should a word for things like that weird feeling you get in your stomach when the bus beside your bus moves, and you thought it was your bus that was moving but it wasn’t. Or a word for that feeling when a friend’s lunch looks way more delicious than yours does. Or a word for that feeling of being free and semi-important and alone in the school halls if you get picked to take something down to the office. Or for that panicked pause where something on the floor might be a gigantic bug, but it turns out to be a snarl of hair or something. Or for that helpless, uncertain feeling when you should be telling your friend they have food on their face, but you don’t want to embarrass them, and then it’s gone on too long and…

  The more I thought about it, the more potential words there were. My feelings list just kept growing. It was already March, and I was still discovering all the feelings. The words would come later.

  I turned away from my hand-holding parents and wandered into the kitchen. It even had countertops of pale-pink stone. These people were absolute monsters for the pink. They must have gone on some pink-themed shopping spree, buying every single pink thing in the city, leaving other pink-loving people to grudgingly buy other colors. Where do you even find pale-pink stone? I ran my hand down the cool, smooth surface.

  The feeling of wandering in a giant, empty house, I thought. The feeling of missing your old, cramped house, your old school, your old friends, the way things used to be.

  Mom bustled over to me, her round face smiling.

  “Let�
��s go and check out our bedrooms, Princess!” she said, pulling me over to a sweeping staircase.

  CHAPTER 2

  Turret Bedrooms and Massive, Unwanted Mirrors

  We climbed the stairs, the plush carpet muffling our footsteps.

  “Not sure about all this pink, Rosie,” Dad said, looking down at the carpet. “No pun intended.”

  Mom giggled.

  “It does suit my name, doesn’t it? Rosie in a pink house. Like it was meant to be! Anyway, the carpet isn’t pink, Mike. It’s champagne. Just a whisper of pink. Perfect for a prin-cess.” She sang that last word and twirled around to wink at me.

  “Whoa! Whoa, there, princess,” I said, bracing myself on the railing and putting out a hand to steady her. “Let’s just get you up this endless staircase without you breaking your royal leg or something.”

  A wall of mirrors met us at the top of the staircase. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall.

  Not good. I sneaked a look at my reflection, then looked away. This little princess is not looking so good.

  That feeling of always seeming to notice yourself in a mirror and then wishing you hadn’t because you look much worse than you ever thought you did. Another one to add to the list.

  I imagined having to face my full-length reflection every single time I ran up or down these stairs. To have to look, in full-length detail, at my thin, gangly body, my oddly freckled face with those wicked purple smudges under my eyes that never went away no matter how much I slept. To constantly see the frizzy dark curls escaping from my ponytail every single time I went to and from my room. I looked away from the mirror. This pink house was diabolical.

  Mom stopped and posed in front of the mirror, running a hand through her thick, curly, shoulder-length black hair.

  “Well who are those gorgeous folks?” she laughed, wiggling her plump fingers in a little wave at the mirror. “Especially this one! This gorgeous girl here!” Mom spun me to face the mirror.

  I stood awkwardly, expressionless, with Mom’s smiling, dancing face by my shoulder.

  I don’t believe you anymore, Mom. I am not gorgeous. I have never been gorgeous. I never will be. I am a plain, odd mixture of your short, chubby Indian-ness and Dad’s tall, skinny white-ness. I am not brown or white, I am not “lovely butterscotch” or “delicious caramel” as you always say. Hero is. I am just a washed-out beige.