Judith Bellwood deliberately tripped me in math class.

I saw her white sneaker shoot out into the aisle. Too late.

I was carrying my notebook up to the chalkboard to put a problem on the board. My eyes were on the scrawls in my notebook. I’m not the neatest writer in the world.

And before I could stop, I saw the white sneaker shoot out. I tripped over it and went sprawling to the floor, landing hard on my elbows and knees. Of course all the papers flew out of my notebook and scattered everywhere.

And the whole class thought it was a riot. Everyone was laughing and cheering as I struggled to pull myself up. Judith and her pal, Anna Frost, laughed hardest of all.

I landed on my funny bone, and the pain vibrated up and down my whole body. As I climbed to my feet and then bent to pick up my notebook papers, I knew my face was as red as a tomato.

“Nice move, Sam!” Anna called, a big grin on her face.

“Instant replay!” someone else shouted.

I glanced up to see a triumphant glow in Judith’s green eyes.

I’m the tallest girl in my seventh-grade class. No. Correct that. I’m the tallest kid in my seventh-grade class. I’m at least two inches taller than my friend, Cory Blinn, and he’s the tallest guy.

I’m also the biggest klutz who ever stumbled over the face of the earth. I mean, just because I’m tall and slender doesn’t mean I have to be graceful. And believe me, I’m not.

But why is it such a riot when I stumble over a wastebasket or drop my tray in the lunchroom or trip over someone’s foot in math class?

Judith and Anna are just cruel, that’s all.

I know they both call me “Stork” behind my back. Cory told me they do.

And Judith is always making fun of my name, which is Byrd. Samantha Byrd. “Why don’t you fly away, Byrd!” That’s what she’s always saying to me. Then she and Anna laugh as if that’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.

“Why don’t you fly away, Byrd!”

Ha-ha. Big joke.

Cory says that Judith is just jealous of me. But that’s stupid. I mean, why should Judith be jealous? She’s not nine feet tall. She’s about five-two, perfect for a twelve-year-old. She’s graceful. She’s athletic. And she’s really pretty, with pale, creamy skin, big green eyes, and wavy, copper-colored hair down to her shoulders.

So what’s to be jealous about?

I think Cory is just trying to make me feel better—and doing a lousy job of it.

Anyway, I gathered all my papers together and shoved them back into the notebook. Sharon asked if I was okay. (Sharon is my teacher. We call all the teachers by their first names here at Montrose Middle School.)

I muttered that I was fine, even though my elbow was throbbing like crazy. And I copied the problem onto the board.

The chalk squeaked, and everyone groaned and complained. I can’t help it. I’ve never been able to write on the board without squeaking the chalk.

It isn’t such a big deal—is it?

I heard Judith whisper some crack about me to Anna, but I couldn’t hear what it was. I glanced up from the problem to see the two of them snickering and smirking at me.

And wouldn’t you know it—I couldn’t solve the problem. I had something wrong with the equation, and I couldn’t figure out what.

Sharon stepped up behind me, her skinny arms crossed over her ugly chartreuse sweater. She moved her lips as she read what I had written, trying to see where I had gone wrong.

And of course Judith raised her hand and called out, “I see the problem, Sharon. Byrd can’t add. Four and two is six, not five.”

I could feel myself blushing again.

Where would I be without Judith to point out my mistakes to the whole class?

Everyone was laughing again. Even Sharon thought it was funny.

And I had to stand there and take it. Good old Samantha, the class klutz. The class idiot.

My hand was shaking as I erased my stupid mistake and wrote in the right numbers.

I was so angry. At Judith. And at myself.

But I kept it together as I walked—carefully—back to my seat. I didn’t even glance at Judith as I walked past her.

I kept it together until Home Ec. class that afternoon.

Then it got ugly.