Текст книги "Rhymes with Witches"

Автор книги: Lauren Myracle

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Also by Lauren Myracle

The Internet Girls series

ttyl

ttfn

l8r, g8r

Eleven

Twelve

Kissing Kate

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Myracle, Lauren, 1969–Rhymes with witches / Lauren Myracle.

p. cm.

Summary: High school freshman Jane believes that she would do anything to be popular until she is selected to be in the school’s most exclusive clique and learns that popularity has a price.

ISBN 0-8109-5859-7

[1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Cliques (Sociology)—Fiction. 3. Witchcraft—Fiction. 4. Conduct of life—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.]

I. Title.

PZ7.M9955Rh 2005

[Fic]—dc22

2004023447

paperback ISBN 978-0-8109-9215-3

Originally published in hardcover by Amulet Books in 2005

Copyright © 2006 Lauren Myracle

Designed by Jay Colvin

Published in 2006 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

115 West 18th Street

New York, NY 10011

www.abramsbooks.com

For Laura,

the original Bitch,

who couldn’t be a bitch if she tried

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

beg

speak

roll over

about the author

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Tobin Anderson for inducting me into the world of the weird. Thanks to Laura Pritchett, Todd Mitchell, and Jack Martin for helping me make the weird even weirder. And thanks times ten to Susan Van Metre, who tempered weirdness with vulnerability, spookiness with humanity. Susan, you are the cat’s meow.

I so shouldn’t have worn this thong. It was hiking up my butt, and there was nothing I could do about it because there was no way to subtly reach up and yank it out. “They’re comfortable,” Mom had said. Then, “Well, they do take some getting used to. But Jane, if you don’t want panty lines …”

Thanks, Mom. This was the wedgie from hell.

“I’m thinking maybe board shorts and a red tank top,” Alicia said.

I shifted on the hard cafeteria chair. My new dress, the one that demanded no panty lines, wrinkled under my thighs.

“If I can find black board shorts,” Alicia went on. “Or board shorts with enough black in them to count as black. We all have to wear black and red, did I tell you?”

“Go Devils,” I said.

Alicia speared a spaghetti noodle. She twirled it around her fork. “You’re being stupid, you know. They have spots for five freshmen. You could sign up after lunch and still have—”

She was interrupted by a high-pitched yowl as a rangy butterscotch-colored cat bolted from the kitchen. It leaped over one table and skidded down another, sending a plate of spaghetti crashing to the floor. Cries erupted as people jerked out of its way. Chairs screeched.

“Get out! Get out!” one of the cafeteria ladies shrieked, brandishing a spatula. “Filthy overgrown rodent!”

The cat bounded through the wide double doors. The cafeteria lady flung her spatula, and the cat jumped sideways and tore down the hall.

“And stay out!” the cafeteria lady yelled. She stared after it, her face flushed and her hairnet slipping out of place. She stomped back to the kitchen to the applause of the student body.

“Jesus Christ,” Alicia said. “You’d think we could have one day—one day—without those cats breaking a frickin’ plate. But nooo. The whole damn school is possessed, I’m not even kidding.”

“They’re cats, Alicia. Not spinning-head girls from The Exorcist.”

“They’re diseased. Why doesn’t someone call the Humane Society?”

I raised my eyebrows. Mr. Van Housen, the principal, had called the Humane Society, as well as Animal Control. He’d sent out e-mail after e-mail explaining the difficulty of capturing feral cats once they’ve taken over a given territory, e-mails that Alicia had received along with everyone else.

“Whatever,” she said. “But it’s driving me insane.” She stabbed a fresh noodle and demanded, “So will you? Sign up after lunch?”

“I’m not trying out for cheerleading,” I said.

“But why? I know you’re convinced you’re this big loser, but you could at least try out.”

My skin grew warm. “I’m not convinced I’m a loser. Who said I’m convinced I’m a loser?”

“Hmm. Would that possibly be you, Jane?” She assumed a hangdog expression. “‘I am worthless and alone because my daddy abandoned me. Boo-hoo-hoo.’”

I put down my garlic bread. Alicia was not nearly as clever as she liked to think she was.

“I’m kidding,” she said. Her face showed her regret, although only for an instant. Being real with each other wasn’t something Alicia and I knew how to do very well. “But how are you going to, like, rise above it if you never even make the effort? I’m serious. Don’t you ever just want to be more than who you are?”

A new disruption sent ripples through the crowded cafeteria, saving me from having to answer. It was the Bitches, Crestview’s elite, strolling majestically through the doors. They filed in according to rank: first Keisha, who was a senior; then Bitsy, a junior; then Mary Bryan, a sophomore. A lull fell in the hum of eating and talking, and then conversations swelled back up. Brad Johnson’s laugh rang out, shouting, Look at me! Look at me! Sukie Karing smiled hard and waved. “Over here!” she called. “I saved you guys seats!”

“They’re not cheerleaders,” I said. “You don’t have to be a cheerleader to be cool.”

Alicia snorted. Still, she straightened her spine as Bitsy passed. So aware, all of us, of being in their presence. I watched as they waltzed into the food line, then I gloomily regarded my spaghetti, knowing they’d emerge with fettuccine alfredo.

Alicia sagged into her usual slump. “That’s because they’re beyond cheerleader-cool,” she said. “The usual rules don’t apply.”

“Well, that’s not fair,” I said. But it was a half-hearted complaint, because to complain about something, you had to not like that thing, and I liked the Bitches as much as anyone. Liked them—ha. Craved them, yearned for them, wanted to be them. Bought this stupid dress to impress them, for god’s sake, not that they’d ever notice. So really, the complaint was less about them and more about me.

Keisha walked out of the food line with her loaded tray, and Tommy Arnez quoted loudly from Casablanca.

“I came for the waters!” he cried. He and Curtis MacKeen started a Casablanca riff, their voices growing louder and their Bogart impressions heavier, and Keisha rewarded them with a smile.

“So will you at least come watch next Monday, when we do our official auditions?” Alicia asked. “I need someone to cheer me on.”

I turned back to her. “I thought the cheering was your job.”

She scowled, Oh aren’t you funny.

“Of course I’ll come,” I said. “I’ll clap like crazy.”

Keisha, Bitsy, and Mary Bryan dropped down by Sukie Karing, and Mary Bryan tore open a packet of cheese and sprinkled it onto her carbonara. Not fettuccine alfredo, but carbonara. I could see the pancetta.

“I just hope I can do a split by then,” Alicia said. “I am so inflexible it’s not even funny.” Her eyes drifted to the Bitches, then made their way back to me. She sucked on her Diet Coke. “So what’s your big news? Before homeroom you said you had something to tell me.”

“I did?” I said. “Huh. I can’t remember.”

“Liar,” she said. “Did it have to do with your dad? I bet it did, didn’t it? Did he send you another dippy gift?”

As a matter of fact, he had. He’d mailed me a souvenir from Egypt, the latest stop on his quest to find himself. I wadded up my napkin.

“Because you really can tell me,” she said. “I won’t say anything mean. I promise.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said. I tossed my napkin on my tray and stood up. “I’ve got to finish my Spanish.”

“Nerd,” she said.

“Spaz,” I said.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder. A lump in the bottom bumped my hip. I took my tray to the conveyor belt, then headed past Mary Bryan and Keisha and Bitsy toward the door. Easy now, I told myself. Stomach in. Chin up. Expression alert, indicating rich inner life. Three, two, one—smile!

Oh god, did I have oregano stuck in my teeth?

Mary Bryan smiled back at me. At me. At easy, breezy me. I floated out of the room as my thong climbed up my butt.

During Spanish, I reached into my backpack and closed my hand around Dad’s present. A small brown teddy bear, just right for an eleven-year-old, wearing a shirt that read I LOVE CAIRO.

“We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit—how ’bout you?”

Whoops and cheers assaulted me as I walked across campus after class. Clusters of freshman girls, each group with their own senior leader, bounced and leaped and yelled. I searched for Alicia and spotted her on the courtyard of Askew Hall. With her pale skin and inky black hair, she was an easy target. The other girls were doing a step-cross-step kind of movement, but Alicia crossed when they stepped and stepped when they crossed. Her tongue jammed against her lower lip, making it bulge. She did that when she concentrated.

She rammed the girl beside her, and my face heated up for no good reason. It wasn’t me who had rammed Chelsea Olsen. It wasn’t me who appeared to be nursing a wad of chew.

Stop it, I scolded myself. Be nice. With Alicia, I was always trying to be a better friend than I was.

Footsteps clipped behind me, and I turned to see a breathless Mary Bryan. Mary Bryan! Her cheeks were pink and her honey-blond hair was slipping from her ponytail. Her striped T-shirt stopped above her belly button, revealing an inch of tummy above her low-slung jeans.

“Jane,” she said. “Hey! I was looking for you.”

I glanced behind me, even though she’d said my name as clear as could be. “You were?”

“Where are you headed? I’ll walk with you.”

“Uh, I’m just going to the library. I have a report due for English.” This wasn’t true. Really I was just going to hide out until three when Mom picked me up. I would hole up in one of the carrels and reread the Ramona books I loved back in sixth grade.

“Ugh,” Mary Bryan groaned. “Hate English reports. My last one was on that play Pygmalion, which, I’m sorry, totally sucked.”

“That’s the one with the ‘Rain in Spain’ song, right?” I asked. My nerves made me blabber. “Where that professor—what was his name? Oh yeah, Henry Huggins. And he turns a street urchin into a lady and then falls in love with her?”

Mary Bryan’s lips came together, and my stupidity hit me like a blow. Mary Bryan was a sophomore. She’d never said more than “hi” to me, and now, when she did, I gave a show-offy speech about a play she probably hadn’t even finished.

“Close,” she said, “only you’re thinking of the musical, which is My Fair Lady. In the play, they don’t fall in love.”

“Oh.”

“And it’s Henry Higgins, not Huggins,” Mary Bryan said. “For what it’s worth.” Idly, she dipped one finger under the waist of her jeans and scratched her tummy. “Anyway … you want to hang out sometime?”

Her words barely made it past my embarrassment. And when they did, they made no sense. Again I swiveled my head to see who she was really talking to.

“Gooooo, team!” the wannabe cheerleaders cried.

“Team!” echoed Alicia, one beat late.

“Um,” I said. My brain was jammed. “Um …”

“I’ll call you,” Mary Bryan said. She checked out the cheerleading girls, who pinwheeled their arms and flung themselves in the air. Her eyebrows edged higher as Alicia landed wrong on her ankle. “Shit!” Alicia cried, audible even from here.

Mary Bryan pulled out of it. “Okay,” she said. “Got to motor.” Over her shoulder she said, “Love the dress, by the way. See ya!”

plainjain: omg, u will not believe who talked 2 me after school. who came up and talked to ME, on purpose. go on, guess.

malicious14: who?

plainjain: mary bryan richardson!!!

malicious14: wtf?

plainjain: and get this: she asked if i want 2 hang out sometime.

malicious14: haha, very funny

plainjain: she did, i swear. it was extremely freaky.

malicious14: did she have u confused w/somebody, u think?

malicious14: jk

plainjain: oh god, maybe she did. except she did use my name, so what’s that all about?

malicious14: she probably felt sorry for u. she was probably like, “oh, there’s that poor sad freshman who’s always slinking off to the library.”

plainjain: fyi, i didn’t even go to the library. i was going to, but i changed my mind.

malicious14: why, cuz u were in a fog of post-mary bryan delirium? listen, jane, she might have SAID u should hang out, but she didn’t really mean it. u know that, right?

plainjain: gee, thanks

malicious14: i’m just saying. anyway, i’ve g2g. i twisted my ankle during cheerleading practice, and i’ve gotta put more ice on it. everybody gave me those fake pity looks, when really they were just glad it wasn’t them.

plainjain: bastards

plainjain: hey, maybe it was my dress, cuz mb did mention she liked it. u think that’s it?

malicious14: mb? ur calling her mb now?

plainjain: i bet it was my dress.

malicious14: ur pathetic. bye!

I shut down the computer and shoved back my chair. It was on wheels, so it rolled back several feet before ramming into the coffee table.

“Jane,” Mom warned from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” I said.

We went through this at least once a day, all because Mom refused to let me put the computer in my room. She did it for my own good, so that I wouldn’t become a raving sex maniac with the screen name “Foxxxie LaRue.” This, from my thirty-nine-year-old thong-wearing mother.

She walked barefoot into the den. “All done with your homework?” she asked.

“Didn’t have any,” I said. “But I found this awesome site called ‘jailbait.com.’ Grown-ups visit it, not just kids, and I can sign up to be penpals with someone in prison. That would be okay, right? I could, like, give back to the community.”

She sat on the worn sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit with me. Tell me about your day.”

I rose from the computer chair and joined her.

“So what’s new in Jane Land?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. She scooched over her legs, and I leaned against her. “Alicia’s trying out for cheerleading. She really, really, really wants to make it.”

“Do you think she will?”

“Um, that would be a big fat no, sadly enough.”

“Why not?”

“Because the more you want something, the less likely you are to get it. Anyway, she’s kind of a spaz.”

Mom stroked my hair. “Jane. You don’t truly believe that, do you?”

“I’m not saying it to be mean. She’s just not all that coordinated.”

“No, that you never get the things you want.”

I started to reply, then let my mind drift off as she traced circles on my scalp. It was like being little again, when she used to brush my hair after a bath. I’d smell like my special kid’s shampoo that came in the fish-shaped bottle, and after the tangles had been combed out, Dad would wrap me in a hug and call me his mango-tango baby.

Mom kept caressing. After several minutes, she said, “Phil called, by the way. He didn’t leave a message. He said it wasn’t important.”

“Okay,” I said. Phil was my best boy bud. My safety date, not that I ever went on dates with him or anyone else. He’d kind of had a crush on me since we met in seventh grade—he tutored me in science for extra credit—but the good thing about Phil was that we could go on being friends and never really deal with it. I knew Phil would always be there for me.

“And your dad called,” Mom continued. “He was sorry he missed you.” Her fingers slowed in my hair. “He’s flying to Zimbabwe tomorrow. He’s going to stay in a thatched hut.”

“Great,” I said.

“Jane …”

“Mom.”

She sighed. Now it was her turn not to reply.

I stared at the ceiling with its spiderweb of cracks. I listened to our breaths. Finally, I pushed myself up.

“Guess I better go to bed,” I said.

Mom smiled up at me, although her eyes were sad. “Love you, Jane,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Love you, too.”

Upstairs, I pulled the teddy bear from my backpack. I stroked its fur, then lightly touched its nose.

It wasn’t true, what Alicia had said about Dad. I didn’t feel abandoned, boo-hoo-hoo. Because Dad hadn’t abandoned us. That was giving him too much power. He’d just gone on a very long trip.

“Jane, your father needs some space to figure out who he is,” Mom had said when Dad left three years ago. “He needs to do a lot of thinking. Nobody can do the work for him.”

“But … what about us?” I’d asked.

“We’ll be fine,” Mom said. As in, case closed.

But another time I’d overheard her talking to her friend Kitty, who’d come over bearing beer and brownies. By that point half a year had gone by, and while Dad sent us checks to cover the bills, he still hadn’t come home.

“Carol, you need help,” Kitty had said. “Your gutters are in desperate need of cleaning, and the entire house could stand to be painted. Inside and out. Do you want me to send Dan over to take care of it?”

“No, thanks,” Mom said. “I can handle it.”

“Obviously you can’t,” Kitty said. “And you shouldn’t have to. Honestly, Carol, this is getting ridiculous.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mom replied. She was using her “marching bravely onward” voice, meant to keep pity at bay. “Yes, the house is falling apart. And yes, Carl should be here to take care of it—among other things, god knows. But I have to remind myself that things could be worse. At least he’s not dead.”

“Dead would be worse?”

Big silence. I could imagine the look Mom gave Kitty, because I’d received it often enough myself. But Kitty pressed on.

“Already you’re without a husband, and poor Jane is without a father,” she said. “Think what kind of damage that does to a kid.”

From my spot on the stairs, I’d felt a welling of shame. Damaged goods, was that how Kitty saw me?

“Well, Kitty, life is messy,” Mom said brusquely. “We don’t always get to choose what happens to us, do we?”

“No, but we do get to choose how to respond.”

I’d stood up, because I’d heard enough. Kitty was right: We did get to choose how to respond. And my response was to say screw it. Dad made his decisions, and I’d make mine, and nobody got to say I was damaged goods but me.

I still believed that, although believing it in my mind and believing it in my heart were sometimes two very different things. Because by staying away for so long, Dad didn’t exactly make me feel as if I was worth sticking around for.

I turned the teddy bear upside down. It had soft felt pads on the bottoms of its paws, a detail I would have loved if I were still eleven. I opened my dresser drawer and dropped in the bear. I closed the drawer.

In the middle of the night, my eyes flew open. A dream, or a corner of one, had jerked me from sleep. Something about cheerleading. Something about a boy. A boy in a raincoat.

Crap. It was Henry Huggins. Henry Huggins, from the Ramona books. He was Beezus’s friend, the one with the paper route and the dog named Ribsy. And when Ramona was in kindergarten, he was the traffic boy that helped her cross the street. One stormy day she trudged into a muddy construction site and got stuck, and Henry lifted her straight out of her boots to safety.

The next day, Bitsy approached me at my locker. She wore a plaid micro-mini and a white Oxford with the sleeves rolled up. Her white knee socks were scrunched around her ankles, and on her feet she wore clunky Doc Martens. Her hair was tied back in doggy-ears.

“Hello, luv,” she said.

My head jerked up, and I dropped my math spiral.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she said. “Can’t a girl say hello?”

I bent to retrieve my notebook, cheeks burning. Chatting with Mary Bryan was one thing—and far weird enough to last for several days. But Bitsy? Bitsy was a junior, a full two years older than me. And she was British. She used expressions like “brilliant” and “pet” and “you stupid cow.”

“Mary Bryan did talk to you, right?” Bitsy asked.

I nodded, focusing on her Hello Kitty hair elastics so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. She was scarily hip.

“It’s not a done deal, of course,” she said. “We do have to test you.”

“You do?” I felt like I was going to faint. I had no clue what she was talking about.

Bitsy tilted her head. “We’re extremely selective, pet. We have to be. But we think you’re the one.”

The one what? I wanted to say. But I was too busy hyperventilating. Anyway, where was Alicia? We always met at our lockers first thing in the morning. If Alicia were here, she could tell me if this was really happening. And what it meant. Where was she?

“Wear something semi-nice,” Bitsy said. “Not too tarty.” She took in my T-shirt and jeans, which I’d worn over my everyday Jockeys for Her. I’d reverted to my pre–shopping spree basics, but I’d chosen my faded Sesame Street shirt with care, thinking it was maybe retro-cool.

“But maybe a little tarty wouldn’t be bad, eh?” Bitsy laughed as she headed down the hall. “Friday night, then. Ta!”

Friday night, then? Friday night?! My only plans for Friday night were to curl up with a bag of popcorn and watch Survivor: Senior High. From last week’s preview, I knew that the challenge involved a three-legged race to the school’s infirmary while real gang members trolled the halls. There was supposed to be a twist, too. Something having to do with the team members’ bandanas.

But Bitsy, was she suggesting … ?

I couldn’t even say it in my head, that’s how ridiculous it was. But if not that, then what? What was Bitsy suggesting?

I felt pressure behind my knees—a swift double nudge—and my legs buckled. I smelled Alicia’s Obsession.

“Cute,” I said, turning toward her.

“What did Bitsy want?” she asked. “I saw the two of you talking.”

“Shit, Alicia, I have no idea. She just came up to me, out of the blue, and was all, ‘Hello, luv,’ and ‘We think you’re the one,’ and—” I broke off. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

“The one what?” Alicia said.

“I have no idea! That’s what I’m telling you! I mean, first Mary Bryan, and now Bitsy … it’s just strange, that’s all.”

“I’ll say,” she said. Her expression wasn’t happy. “I mean, last night when you mentioned Mary Bryan … but then I thought, ‘No. No way.’ Only now, if you’re telling the truth …”

“What?!!” I said.

Alicia frowned. “Rae said they’d be picking a freshman. She said they always do.”

Rae was Alicia’s karaoke-singing sister, who’d graduated from Crestview five years ago. She still lived at home.

“‘They’ who?” I demanded. “And how would Rae know?”

“Because Rae went to school here before we did,” Alicia said. Her tone said, idiot. “And there were Bitches back then, too.”

I sighed. I knew what was coming was one of Rae’s “back in the olden days” explanations, in which everything sucked because she was never homecoming queen or head cheerleader.

“Yeah, well, there’ve always been Bitches,” I said. “And there will always be Bitches. It’s just a fact of life.”

“Exactly,” Alicia said. “Only I didn’t believe it at first.”

“Believe what?”

She stared at me like I was a lab rat.

I turned to my locker and yanked out books. I knew it was going to be stupid, whatever Rae had told her, because it always was. Like not to let guys hug us from behind, because it was a sneaky way to cop a feel. Or not to put our hands in the front pockets of our jeans, because it might look like we were trying to cop a feel.

“Of ourselves?” I’d said when Rae laid that one on us.

“Keep your hands out of the cookie jar, that’s all I’m saying,” Rae had replied. She held up her own to show me, like Hey, I’ve got nothing to hide.

But stupid or not, I had to hear whatever Bitch-lore Rae had passed on.

“Fine,” I said to Alicia. “Whatever it is, will you please just tell me?”

The bell rang for first period. Alicia glanced down the hall.

“I’ve got a Spanish quiz. I can’t be late,” she said.

“Alicia,” I warned.

She turned back. She knew she had me. “Come over at five, after cheerleading practice. Rae can tell you herself.”

I ate lunch in the library. Me and Ramona, age eight. This was the one in which Ramona accidentally broke an egg in her hair and got called a nuisance by her teacher, and as I turned the page, my heart went out to her. My heart did not go out to Alicia, and if she wondered why I wasn’t in the cafeteria, it served her right. She could find someone else to eat with today. Like one of the feral cats, and she could go on and on to it about pikes and herkies and toe-touch jumps. I was just fine with Ramona, thanks very much.

A throat-clearing noise broke my concentration. I looked up, and there was Keisha. A senior. My heart started hammering.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I managed.

She gazed at me with her celery-colored eyes. Contacts, I was pretty sure, although some black people have green eyes. But I’d never seen anyone, black or white, with eyes that shade.

“Me and Mary Bryan and Bitsy, we hang together, right?” she said. “We’re tight. Like sisters.”

I nodded. My throat was dry.

“But we’ve got room for one more,” she said. “A freshman.”

I tried to keep my face blank, but my insides were knotting up because I had no idea what Keisha wanted from me. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, she seemed pissed. But why would she be pissed at me? This was the first time I’d ever spoken to her.

She pressed her lips together. “So Friday you’ll go to Kyle’s party with us. We’ll see how you fit in.”

My stomach dropped. So did my book.

“Kyle … Kelley?” I asked.

She frowned, like who else?

But my mind refused to accept it. Kyle Kelley was a senior who threw legendary parties whenever his parents went out of town, and afterward there were stories of guys throwing up or girls doing lap dances or couples screwing around in Kyle’s parents’ bedroom and then passing out with half their clothes off.

Freshmen didn’t go to Kyle’s parties. Certainly not freshmen like me.

“Are you guys …” I started. “I mean, please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you, like, playing a joke on me?”

I was amazed by my nerve. Pricks of sweat dinged under my arms.

“We don’t play jokes,” Keisha said. “It’s not our style.”

Ok-a-ay, I wanted to say. But why me? Why, of all the freshman girls, would you possibly want me? I wasn’t in the popular crowd. I wasn’t in the one-day-might-be-popular crowd. I was a dork who couldn’t even pull off wearing a thong. I was Ramona, six years later, only instead of egg in my hair, I had—

Shit. I slapped my hand over the cover of my book, now splayed on the desk, which showed eight-year-old Ramona straddling her bike. Keisha inclined her head to see the title, and I slid Ramona to my lap.

“So,” I said. “Uh …”

She straightened up. “Be ready at eight. We’ll swing by and pick you up.”

I gave her my widest smile. “Great. Fantastic.”

“And don’t be nervous. Just be yourself.”

“Right. Um, thank you so much.”

She looked at me funny, then strode from the carrel. My body went limp. They wanted me—maybe—to be one of them. They wanted me to be a Bitch.

“Rae!” Alicia called. She rapped hard on the bathroom door to be heard over the shower. “Jane’s here. We want to talk to you.”

“What?” Rae said.

“We need to talk to you!” Alicia said.

“I’m in the shower! I’m doing a mayonnaise rinse!”

Alicia scowled. “Come on,” she said to me, marching down the hall. In her room, she flopped onto her bed, leaving me the option of the floor or the padded stool pushed under her vanity. I chose the floor.

“So … how was cheerleading practice?” I asked.

“Terrible,” she said. “My voice cracked in the middle of ‘Our Team Is Red Hot.’”

“Oh. Well, I bet no one noticed.”

“Yeah, right. If you’d been there at lunch, you could have helped me practice—”

“In the cafeteria? With everyone watching?”

“—but noooo, you had to pull one of your stupid disappearing tricks because you were being a pouty-pants. I really could have used your support, you know. You’re the only person who knows how important this is to me.”

I was. It was true. Under Alicia’s grouchy demeanor was a great ache of need, and I felt bad for letting her down.

“Anyway, one day you’re going to be so busted,” she said. “You’re not supposed to have food in the library.”

I sighed. A Nutrigrain bar here and there was not going to ruin civilization.

“Or maybe you were off being cool with MB,” she accused. “Were you?”

“No,” I said. “Although if you would hush for a minute, I’ll tell you what did happen.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Rae asked, strolling into the room. She wore a T-shirt and panties, the front of which was damp from her pubic hair. I quickly raised my eyes to her face, which was just as startling, but in a different way. Rae was a permanent makeup artist, and as part of her training, she’d had permanent makeup applied to herself so she’d know what it felt like. And because she’d wanted it. So now, even though she’d just stepped out of the shower, her face looked perfectly made up.

Well, not perfectly. That was the startling part. The trainer who’d done the initial application had been too conservative for Rae’s taste, so Rae had waited until she had her certificate and then she’d given herself a touch-up. Now her eyeliner was dark and thick, extending past her lids like catwoman. And she’d always thought her lips were too thin, so she’d gone back with the tattoo gun to make them look fuller. Now her lips were super-sized. And very, very red.

“We’re talking about the Bitches,” Alicia said to Rae. “Tell Jane what you told me.”

Rae turned and took me in. It was like being sized up by a damp mannequin. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” I said.

Rae walked across the floor and sat down with her back against Alicia’s bed. She flipped her wet hair over her shoulders. “Well,” she began, “they’ve been at Crestview for freaking ever. Not Keisha and Triscuit or whoever—”