Previously in this series.

Your peer group has associate members.

You have something called a Kid Kit filled with toys that you present to children with regularity, but it isn’t creepy.

You hide candy in absurd places in your bedroom, but you do not have an ant problem.

Each of your adventures starts with a recap of who your friends are, what they look like, and their job in your organization.

You and your friends run a weird, complicated, under-the-table small business, but only one of you is “bossy.”

Your parents are divorced or widowed and if they aren’t, you feel left out.

Everyone in your hometown seems totally comfortable leaving their kids in the hands of an 11-year-old.

Your hometown appears on no map.

Your achievement in school, excellent or terrible, seems to have no impact on your available time for part-time work.

You think your friends are really cool and stylish, but you are wrong, because you are in 8th grade.

You take great pleasure in listing every article of clothing you’re wearing, as well as every article of clothing each of your six closest friends are wearing.

Your shyest friend has a dreamy boyfriend with a southern accent. Nobody understands why, including said boyfriend.

You have been in literally every extracurricular activity your school has to offer, but never for longer than two weeks.

You find yourself oddly attracted to the supernatural and situations that could be described as mysterious. On some more memorable locations, you’ve even helped the police solve seemingly inexplicable crimes. And you’re not even in high school yet.

You frequently embark on cross-country and even transatlantic trips that are sponsored by your school. Your middle school.

You had your first fulfilling romantic relationship when you were 13.

You haven’t aged past 13, and you never will.

The only people you know who practice a religion are Jewish or could be loosely described as “New Agey.”

The pre-teens you know who like to read are only into Marguerite Henry, definitely NOT Sweet Valley or Boxcar Children or Harry Potter.

You face off against some older girls in a trivia about neighborhood children contest. You consider your extremely detailed level of knowledge a win.

You’re extremely good at one thing. Just one.

Getting your ears pierced was a transformative experience.

In general, the worst people you know are older siblings and high school students.

You envy your friend who has her own phone line.

Your sense of style could be described in a catchy two-word phrase, or as regional to a specific city or state, or both.

You find yourself involved in short-term but intense romances whenever you leave your hometown, and you never regret any of them.

At least fifty percent of the children you know—and there are many—could be called precocious, and often are.

You spell “love” as “luv” unironically, and everyone around you seems cool with it.

You dot your lowercase “i”s with hearts. This is also not ironic.

Your friend Stacey briefly hangs out with some dirtbag teens, but she gets wise to it.

You think liking horses makes you unique but it actually just makes you 11, and it’s a miracle your older friends aren’t more condescending about it.