Congratulations to Cathy Lepik, first-place winner in the Children’s/Young Adult Fiction category of the 94th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. Here’s her winning story, “The Order of Ordinaries.”

(See the winning entry list here.)

[See the complete winner's list]

After weeks of covert sleuthing and surveillance, I, Birch Barton, have come to an improbable but inescapable conclusion: My new next-door neighbor is a shapeshifter. Yes, the seemingly ordinary Dusty French—who might be dusty, but definitely isn’t French—has the unique ability to turn himself into a furry feline.

“Let me get this straight.” My best friend, Gabby, holds her half-eaten breakfast bar in mid-air as she pedals down the tree-lined street, quiet as usual in the already-warm morning hours. “You think Mr. French shapeshifts into a cat?”

Dang, it does sound a little out there. “I’m one hundred percent positively almost sure,” I say, repping confidence. “A bobtail to be exact.”

“And you’re basing this all on the fact that you’ve never seen him and his cat together?”

“That’s not all I’m basing it on, but don’t you find it odd?”

She shakes her head. “This is one of your better ones, Birchie.” The fact that she isn’t buying it doesn’t surprise me. Gabby’s been the more sensible one for as long as I’ve known her, which is basically my whole life.

“Dude, you can’t make this stuff up,” I say.

“You’re right.” She nods and takes a second to swallow. “I can’t make this stuff up, but you sure can. Sounds a little like the talking tree, am I right?”

“I never said the tree actually talks.” Okay, so being able to feel and sense the life in a tree is a tough one to prove. But I’ve got hard evidence of Mr. French the shapeshifter. “Here, pull over.” I angle my tire to the shoulder of the road and fish my phone out of my school backpack which is weighing me down like I’m the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“You really should get one of these.” Gabby pats the basket attached to her handlebars. It sits, silently mocking me, holding her stuff like a personal assistant. For the record, Mom actually bought me one, but let’s face it, a guy with a basket? Might as well walk around with a “kick me” sign taped to my back.

“Don’t change the subject. Check this out.” I scroll to the pic and hand her my phone.

She squints at the screen. “What am I looking at?”

“Right there. The cat on the limb.” I point to a fuzzy orange blob.

“Cats are known to climb trees, you know.”

“I know but”—I swipe left—“check it out…literally two minutes later. I went to the bathroom and came back to this.”

She leans in closer.

“It’s Mr. French.” I hear the excitement in my voice. “In the same spot where the cat was.”

Gabby squiggles her face in consideration. “Okay, so a grown man sitting in a tree is odd. But maybe he just likes to climb trees like you do.”

It’s true, I love a good climb.

She hands me the phone. “I don’t think it proves he can turn into a cat. Or maybe it’s the cat who can turn into a man?”

Interesting. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Come on, I’m not going to be late on the first day of school.” She pushes her pedals and takes off.

I shove my phone back into the side pocket, stealing a glance around. The sunlight is reflecting off the dewy grass and, for these few minutes, the otherwise dull town of Everdale, Texas, sparkles and shines.

“Gabs, you’re not taking me seriously.” I double pump to catch up. “Did I mention, they have the same Dreamsicle-colored hair? And—get this—the cat wears shoes. Shoes! I mean come on.” I feel my eyes widen. “What’s that about?”

“Oh my god.” She flashes me a warm grin. “I’ve missed my Birch.”

And I’ve missed everything about Gabby. Two weeks at summer camp and two weeks at her grandmother’s equals ten years in feels-like time. But now she’s home and—despite her going on and on about some guy she met at camp—things can get back to normal, the way they’ve always been. Me and Gabby against the world.

I do a double-take at her as we ride along, noticing she’s taller than before she left. I check to see if her seat is raised, but it’s not. “I think you’ve grown a foot.”

She kicks out a leg and wiggles her Converse. “Really? Last I checked, I only have two.”

“Ha ha.” Not bad for Gabby humor. “But seriously, what’d your abuela feed you?”

She makes a swoony face. “Gallo pinto, empanadas, mangos, papayas, avocados, patacones—” She rubs her stomach.

“Okay, okay.” I hold up a hand in surrender. “What I’m hearing is Costa Rica’s got nothing on Taco Bell.”

She tilts her head sideways. “Well, it is hard to beat the Cheesy Gordita Crunch."

“That’s what I’m saying.”

She finishes her bar and tucks the wrapper into a pocket of her weightless backpack as she pedals. “Can you believe Nik has never had the Bell? As in ever!”

Ugh. The camp guy again. Thankfully, he was only visiting Texas for the summer and is back where he belongs, on the other side of the planet. “There’s something wrong with that guy."

“Birch! Watch out!” A black cat darts between our bikes and crosses in front of mine before disappearing into a hedge. Gabby screeches to a stop, so I do too.

“Oh no.” She’s out of breath. “You have to circle back to where the cat crossed and count to thirteen.”

“Gabs. It’s just a cat.” I give her a calming smile. On rare occasions, I get to play the role of the sensible one. For the record, I don’t consider myself superstitious, only sorta-stitious. I mean, I don’t go around walking under ladders or opening umbrellas inside—duh, that would be asking for it. Gabby, on the other hand, happens to be megastitious.

“Just. A. Black. Cat?” Her eyes grow bigger with each word.

“Well if I have to, you do too,” I say.

“Nope, it came from behind me and went in front of you. It’s all yours.”

“No time,” I say. “This backpack’s killing me.” Truth.

“Okay, but don’t blame me. It’s your bad luck. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

Then—oh no, not again—as we resume our trek, I feel it. The eyes-on-me sensation I’ve had way too often lately. Like someone’s got me in the center of their crystal ball, watching my every move. My skin prickles as I swing my head side to side, trying to find any sign of the watcher. But like all the other times, there’s no one. Just a squirrel or two and a bird or three.

I haven’t mentioned this to Gabby yet. And given the black cat drama, now’s not the time. I shake my head as if it will loosen the weirdness gripping me.

“You okay?” Gabby’s eyebrows practically touch her hairline.

“What? Oh…um…yeah, I’m good,” I say, but my voice says otherwise.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. But when it comes to black cats, you can’t play around.”

I nod and force a flat grin as we enter the bike lane on the main road that leads to school. If only I were playing with black cats instead of a pair of invisible eyes.

Gabby’s outside, waiting for me at lunch like always. She makes it to our table first because she brown bags it. I, on the other hand, get the great displeasure of waiting in the smelly cafeteria line for the unidentifiable entrée du jour.

As I near our table, I notice three birds perched in the mesquite tree that sits in the middle of the patio. One large crow shares a branch with two small doves. The doves are close, but facing in opposite directions. Kinda odd, but it makes me smile.

I set my tray down and hold my arms out wide as I take my seat across from Gabby. “Look at me. Still in one piece.”

She scoffs. “The day is long, Birchie. The day is long.” She bites a carrot stick and flashes serious chestnut-colored eyes my way.

I kick off my shoes like I always do and pull my socks off. Aw, yeah. I rub my feet into the grass as a warm sensation floods me. Weird I know, but I’ve always been like this.

“Gettin’ that good ground feeling?” she asks.

“You know it,” I say, opening my milk carton.

Gabby leans to look around me and cocks her head sideways. “What the heck?” Her face flashes in confusion before it fills with an awed grin.. She drops her carrot and pops up like a jack-in-the-box. “Nik?”

I turn to see a tall kid with wild black hair, holding a cafeteria tray and sauntering toward us.

“Nik!” Gabby squeals and runs to him, hugging him like he’s a soldier home from war.

Nik? The guy who’s supposed to be in Greece?

“What are you doing here?” She squeals again so loud I want to cover my ears. He says something inaudible.

She links her arm through his and escorts him to our table. My and Gabby’s table. Her face is lit like the sun. I squint to prevent blindness.

“Birch, this is Nik,” she says with too much excitement. “The one I told you about?”

I fake an “I dunno” face.

“The one from camp?” she prods.

How could I forget? His name seems to have taken over her word bank. She clicks an impatient tongue at me and turns to Mister Tall-Dark-and-Not-Supposed-To-Be-Here towering over her.

“Nik, this is Birch.” She waves toward me.

“Hey Birch, nice to meet you.” He sets his tray on the table and holds out his hand like I should shake it. What are we, thirty-year-old businessmen?

I take a bite of a chicken nugget, aware of Gabby’s eyes sending me don’t-be-a-jerk signals.

Nik drops his hand and takes a seat next to her. “You’re all she could talk about at camp.”

I could say the same thing about him, but why risk coming across as welcoming? “I thought you were from Portugal or Spain or something.”

“So you do remember me telling you about him,” Gabby says.

My cheeks burn.

“Greece.” Nik doesn’t skip a beat. “My dad had business here for the summer. That’s why I was at camp. And he liked it, so”—he shrugs—“we bought a house and here I am.”

Oof. It feels like I took a medicine ball to the stomach.

Gabby goes in for a side hug, pulling Nik close. “That’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it’d be fun to surprise you,” Nik says.

Fun? “Gabby hates surprises.” I lift another nugget to my mouth but set it down, suddenly full. “Ouch!” I say in response to an under-the-table blow to my shin.

“Ignore him. Birch is just in a bad mood.” She’s talking to Nik but glaring at me. “So where’d you move?”

He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s a new build near Stieber Ranch.”

There’s only one new house near the ranch. “Wait. You live in the glass castle?” I say.

“The what?” Nik asks.

“That house is sorta famous,” Gabby says through a mouthful of PB&J.

“Oh.” Nik nods. “The whole sustainable, LEED-certified thing.”

The what now? “I think it’s because of the takes-up-a-whole-block thing,” I say.

“Yeah. It’s not really my taste, but nobody asked me.” Nik sounds annoyingly apologetic.

“I think it’s awesome,” Gabby says. “I saw on the news it has a green roof, all kinds of solar stuff, and a spring-fed pool with a waterfall.”

Nik nods and runs his hand through his thick hair. It lifts and falls in slow motion like he’s in a shampoo commercial. I feel my puffy blonde curls frizz and shrink in envy.

“The waterfall is pretty cool,” he says. “You guys’ll have to come for a swim.”

I’d rather swim with sharks.

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