Текст книги "Rhymes with Witches"

Автор книги: Lauren Myracle

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

I scooped the remaining orange slices from my sauce and slid them onto her plate. “Here.”

She grinned. “Thanks.”

Bitsy nudged my elbow. “What’s this, pet? A friend of yours come to visit?”

I glanced up to see Alicia walking toward us with a wavering smile. I looked beyond her at the drama table. Tommy Arnez was shaking his head, his face flushed. His friend pushed his shoulder and laughed.

“Hi, guys,” Alicia said in a wobbly voice. “Can I sit with you?”

It was the first time I’d been around her since the lip balm incident, and I was hit by an unreasonable annoyance. No, she couldn’t sit here. She should go back to her own table where she belonged.

But I said, “Uh, sure. Of course. But … why aren’t you sitting with Tommy?”

“He’s helping Bryan rehearse his lines for Our Town,” she said. “I didn’t want to mess them up.”

“Lovers’ spat, eh?” Bitsy said. She seemed perkier than she had all meal.

“No,” Alicia said. She pulled her chair in beside me, so close that her leg brushed mine. I inched my chair farther to the left.

“But something’s going on,” Bitsy said. “I can tell.”

Alicia hesitated, then blinked two times. “We’ve got a date for tomorrow night.”

“Do you now?” Bitsy exclaimed. She selected a French-cut green bean and waved it in the air. “Go on.”

Alicia started telling us detail after pathetic detail, all in a nasal, wheedling voice, and I squeezed my napkin into a ball. Gone were the warm fuzzies from our chat outside Hamilton, replaced with an urgent desire for Alicia to shut the hell up and stop embarrassing me. I knew I wasn’t being fair—this was Alicia, not some toad, slimy with need—but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want her touching me.

“But it’s not like you’re a couple,” I said.

Alicia blushed. “I never said we were. I said we have a date, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but it’s, what, to some performance-art thing?”

“So?”

“So?” I laughed. If she would have let it go, then I would have, too. But no. She had to ooze in where she wasn’t wanted. “You said that part of their act involves a tampon dispenser.”

Her blush deepened. “I told Jane she was going to change if she hung out with you all,” she said. “And now she has. She’s just acting this way to impress you.”

“Oh please,” I managed. My face went hot, and I felt blindsided by her disloyalty. “Why don’t you tell them what you really told me? How I should stay away from them because they’re—” I clamped shut my mouth. I’d almost said “witches.” Witches, bitches, I had an insane desire to smack the whine right out of her. I shoved my hands beneath my thighs.

Alicia glared at me. “Anyway, it’s for poems,” she said. “It dispenses poems.”

“Poems in a tampon dispenser,” Bitsy said lightly. “How clever.”

Alicia squished up her mouth, not knowing if Bitsy was making fun of her. And then all at once her shoulders slumped. “It’s not like I had anything to do with it,” she said.

Mary Bryan’s eyes met mine. I knew I should feel ashamed, but I didn’t.

“Well, I think it sounds really fun,” Mary Bryan said. “First dates are exciting no matter what you do.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Alicia said.

“And if things go well, maybe he’ll ask you to the Fall Fling,” Mary Bryan went on. “It’s only two weeks away, you know.”

“The Fall Fling,” Rutgers Steiner said, diving back into the conversation. “Now there’s an example of authentic social intercourse. Do you agree, Callie, or do dances fall into your category of ritualized teenage cannibalism?”

“The Fall Fling isn’t a dance, Rutgers,” Callie said. “It’s an event. Which you would know if you had your finger on the pulse of actual high-school dynamics.”

Off they spun into another argument. Alicia scooted back her chair.

“Call me tonight?” she muttered.

“Sure,” I muttered back.

“Bye,” she said to the others. “I didn’t … I mean, I hope I wasn’t …”

“No worries, luv,” Bitsy said. She smiled breezily and took a sip of Perrier. “I just hope you and Timmy work things out.”

“Tommy,” Alicia said.

“Tommy. Right.”

Alicia took her tray and left.

“Sorry,” I said. I glanced up at Keisha, Bitsy, and Mary Bryan, and the rage I’d felt began to drain out of me. Now I felt shaken by my own reaction. “She isn’t always such a toad.”

Mary Bryan frowned. Bitsy laughed. Keisha said nothing at all.

On Saturday morning I IMed Bitsy for party fashion advice. I was too chicken to call her in person, but I needed her input. Plus, I wanted the thrill of IMing Bitsy McGovern. Of knowing I actually could.

It’s your coming-out party, she IMed back. Wear something sexy.

So I did. I wiggled into my shortest denim skirt, which I’d bought in a moment of summer madness and had never worn. It covered my crotch and not much more, and if I’d seen it on another girl, I’d have tsked with jealous scorn. But hell, I had good legs. More importantly, I was a Bitch. The knowledge unleashed me.

“Another party?” Mom said when I jogged downstairs.

“Yep,” I said, moving quickly behind the sofa so she wouldn’t comment on the skirt. “It’s my coming-out party.”

Mom looked confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said. Bitsy’s horn beeped from the driveway. “So … bye! See you when I see you!”

The party was in an abandoned warehouse that somebody’s brother had rented or something like that. I didn’t get all the details, and when we got there, I didn’t care. It was a huge open space, like a barn, and the cheerleaders had decorated it with strands of silver star lights and red Chinese lanterns. Velvet cushions were piled in the corners, and along one wall sat a gold brocade sofa with dark green throw pillows. A rent-a-hot-tub bubbled away in the center of the room, and a full bar was set up ten feet away. Kyle Kelley held court with a bottle of Tanqueray and a lemon. When he saw us, he raised the bottle in salute.

“It’s amazing,” I breathed.

Mary Bryan seemed pleased, as if it were a present she was responsible for.

“They did a nice job,” Keisha acknowledged. She wore a pale sage dress that matched her eyes, and she looked like a creature from a fairy tale. Compared to her I was a vamped-up club girl, but I hardly cared.

“Knock ’em dead,” said Bitsy. She used her thumb to soften my sparkly eyeshadow, which she’d applied for me in the car. “You’re the belle of the ball.”

Raven Holtzclaw-Fontaine: I’m just really happy for you. And I’m not just saying that.

Me: Yeah? Hey, thanks.

Raven: Just be careful, that’s all. It’s so emotional. No matter how exciting it is, it’s so emotional.

Me: Uh … okay.

Raven: Take me, for example. Like how I got an art scholarship to RISD, right? But I’m not going to let it go to my head, even though it is one of the most prestigious design schools in the country.

Me: You got a scholarship? That’s awesome!

Raven: Wow. That is so nice of you to say so. I mean, I thought you might be all full of yourself, but you’re not. And I’m not going to be either. Unless I’m forced to.

Me: You’ll do great. I know it.

Raven: Listen, do you think I could paint your picture sometime?

Elizabeth Greene: Everyone sees me as just this kick-ass cheerleader, but there’s more to me than that, you know? And this internship I’ve been offered could be the opportunity of a lifetime. Only, a year is a really long time. And Antarctica’s friggin’ cold, there’s no getting around it.

Me: That’s true. I do think it would be cold.

Elizabeth: Plus there’s only this one research guy in the lab I’d be working in, and he’s ancient. He has one of those tubes in his neck to speak with, but apparently he’s not much of a conversationalist.

Me: Jesus. Don’t you think you’d get lonely?

Elizabeth: I think he’s self-conscious.

Me: Well, I guess you just have to ask yourself if it’s worth it or not.

Elizabeth: Oh my god.

Me: What?

Elizabeth: Nothing, you’ve totally put it in perspective, that’s all. Because you weren’t afraid to take on a whole new life, were you?

Me: I never … huh. I mean, I guess I wasn’t, was I?

Elizabeth, hugging me hard: You’re my hero, Jane. I’m going to go for it. I am!

Pammy Varlotta: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Pammy: Great party, huh?

Me: Man, it really is. I didn’t know parties like this even existed—you know, before I hooked up with Bitsy and Keisha and Mary Bryan.

Pammy: I know what you’re saying. I mean, not that I’m claiming to be in your shoes or anything. Is it awesome, being a Bitch?

Me, laughing: God, is that all anyone can talk about? It’s like every single person has to bring it up.

Pammy: But … you brought it up, not me.

Me: What? No, I didn’t.

Pammy: Yeah, you did. Just now when you talked about hooking up with Keisha and everyone.

Me: Oh.

Pammy, wistful as hell: You’re sooo lucky. And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person, that’s what everyone’s saying. So … is it awesome?

It was awesome, especially when I steeled my nerves and approached Nate Solomon over by the bar.

“Um … hey,” I said, smoothing my skirt over my thighs. If this Bitch thing was really working—really and truly and not just pretend—then Nate would respond.

He stayed focused on the task at hand, which was stabbing a hole into the bottom of his beer can with a pen.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

His eyes strayed to me, and the beer slipped from his hands. Foam fizzed from the gash.

Mike Miller chortled. “Beauty, man. Smooth move!”

Nate turned red, and my head buzzed with the unrealness of it. He dropped his beer because of me. He was blushing because of me.

“Shut up,” he told Mike, bending down and snagging the can. He pitched it into the trash.

I giggled, and Nate grinned self-consciously. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped toward me. My body tingled.

“You’re Jane, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You, uh, want to shotgun a beer?” He gestured at Mike, who, having pierced the bottom of his can, was now pressing the hole to his mouth and guzzling away. “When you pop the top, it comes pouring out.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We have pony beers, if you’re not ready for full-size.” He ducked behind the bar and produced a beer in a six-ounce miniature can. Then he plunked a really big beer beside it, twice the size of a normal beer. “Or we have tall boys, too. Want to try?”

“No thanks,” I said. “But I’ll watch you.”

“Yeah? All right, cool.” He grabbed the tall boy, and Mike tossed him the pen. With sure aim, he punctured the aluminum. He drew the hole to his mouth, popped the top, and chugged.

“Rock it!” called Mike.

“Dude!” cheered another guy.

Nate’s throat was long and taut as he swallowed. When he lowered the can, Schlitz glistened on his upper lip.

“Ice bonus,” Mike said. He strode to the bar and slapped Nate a high five.

Nate wiped his mouth with his forearm, then checked to make sure I’d been watching.

My skin warmed with excitement.

But the best part of the evening came later, after most everybody had left or passed out. Mary Bryan steered me to the back entrance of the warehouse, and we went outside into the cool night air. Keisha and Bitsy, too. Just the four of us. An iron ladder scaled the brick wall, and I followed Mary Bryan when she started climbing.

“Ooo, I can see Jane’s knickers,” Bitsy said as she climbed up behind me.

“Shut up,” I said. Me, to Bitsy. I was heady with glory.

On top of the roof, we leaned against the metal housing of the air conditioning unit and reviewed the evening. Trucks rumbled by on a nearby thoroughfare, their headlights jogging over street signs. Occasionally they made the building shake.

“That was a very good time,” Mary Bryan said.

Keisha wrapped L’Kardos’s jacket more tightly around herself. “L’Kardos told me he loves me,” she said softly.

“Keisha!” Mary Bryan squealed. She gasped and grabbed Keisha’s hand.

“Took him long enough,” Bitsy grumbled. But she reached over and wiggled Keisha’s knee. “That’s fantastic, Keisha. He’s dead yummy, and you know I don’t lie.”

“That’s great,” I said shyly. I thought about Nate’s strong arms, but kept them to myself. “He seems really nice.”

Keisha smiled. She rested her cheek against his jacket.

“Well, nothing nearly so exciting for me,” Bitsy said. “Keisha gets a big romantic moment, and what do I get? A grope on the sofa and Brad’s tongue down my throat.”

“Ew,” Mary Bryan said.

“Not to worry. I gave him the boot.”

“Bitsy!” Mary Bryan exclaimed. “Are you serious?”

Bitsy shrugged. “I’m well shot of him. Anyway, I’ve got my sights on Ryan Overturf. Talk about yummy. Did you see those trousers he had on?”

“‘Those trousers’?” Mary Bryan teased. “Anyway, no, because Pammy Varlotta was using them as a cushion for most of the night. I’d say you’ve got your work cut out for you, Bitsy my luv.”

Bitsy snorted. “What a butter cow.”

“Only Ryan really does seem to like her.” Mary Bryan giggled. “Guess you’ll have to wear a retainer and talk with a lisp like she does. Apparently that’s what he goes for.”

“Is that why she talks like that?” I asked. “She has a retainer?”

“It’s on the inside of her teeth so you can’t see it,” Mary Bryan explained.

“Don’t be mean,” Keisha said.

“What? Saying someone has a retainer isn’t being mean.”

Bitsy stretched, an expansive, hands-over-head movement that pulled her top up to reveal her tummy. She let her arms flop down. “I think I’m up to the challenge of Pammy Varlotta. If not, there are always other ways.”

“No,” Mary Bryan said, feigning shock. “Don’t tell me you’d break your fixation just for the sake of Pammy.”

“As I said, I highly doubt it will come to that.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “What fixation?”

“More like vendetta,” Mary Bryan said.

“Could we please not ruin the evening?” Keisha said.

“And did you hear?” Bitsy went on. “Stuart’s on probation from football, all because of some ridiculous complaint she made. Pompous slag.”

“Who?” I said, totally confused. “Pammy?” Then something clicked in my brain. Stuart, complaint, pompous slag … “Wait a minute. Are you talking about Camilla Jones? How Stuart harassed her that one day?”

“What do you know about it?” Bitsy asked.

I should have been warned by her tone. Instead, I was glad of the chance to contribute. “Well, not a lot,” I said, hoping to sound offhand. “But I was there, that’s all. And I went with Camilla to tell Mr. Van Housen.”

“So you ratted Stuart out?” Bitsy said.

My stomach dropped. I looked from face to face.

“Um … do you guys not like Camilla?” I asked. “Is there something I’m missing here?”

There was a pulse in the air. Mary Bryan’s eyes flew to Bitsy, and then she quick-laughed and said, “What? We like Camilla.”

“Except when she’s a right little prat,” Bitsy said. “Which is always.” To Mary Bryan she said, “You brought it up, so don’t act all innocent.”

“Hey, don’t put it on me!” Mary Bryan protested. “I have no problem with Camilla. I like her fine.”

Clearly, she didn’t. Clearly, none of them did. Which baffled me, given Camilla’s loner status. I was surprised they even knew who she was.

Then I thought about Camilla some more, how she was the one person who didn’t worship the Bitches like everyone else. Was that what this was about?

“Anyway, I didn’t rat Stuart out,” I said. “I just, you know, said that Camilla was telling the truth. That Stuart did what she said he did.”

Bitsy made a derisive noise. Mary Bryan ducked her head and fiddled with her hair. Keisha gazed at the rooftop, but as usual, she didn’t speak.

“Camilla was just standing there,” I explained. “He pinned her against a locker and …” I looked at each of them. “Come on, you guys. It was bad.”

Mary Bryan lifted her head. “It’s just … well, you were kind of right. Bitsy’s not really one of Camilla’s fans.”

I held out my hands, palms forward. “Neither am I, I swear!” I said. As the words spilled from my mouth, I realized they were true. Until this very moment I’d thought I liked Camilla. Sort of. I’d admired her, at any rate, for being true to herself in a dog-eat-dog world. Only now that admiration was gone, replaced with … ickiness.

Just like the ickiness I’d felt toward Alicia, that day in the cafeteria.

Oh, shit.

“Did one of you guys …” I started. “Bitsy, did you …”

Bitsy arched one eyebrow.

I decided I didn’t have a question after all. I had a heart-pounding feeling of having done something wrong, although I hadn’t, so I pushed forward with my story. “Anyway, Mr. Van Housen pretty much blew her off. He acted like she was a huge nuisance.”

“Yeah?” Mary Bryan said. She turned to Bitsy, like, Did you hear? Isn’t that great?

I tried to do better. “She was all whiney, like, ‘Wah, wah, wah, poor me.’ And Mr. Van Housen was all, ‘All right, girls. The matter will be taken care of appropriately.’”

“She’s a—what’d you call your friend the other day?” Bitsy said. “A toad. A slimy, bug-eyed toad.”

“I know,” I said. “I mean, if she would just … be less aloof or something. But she doesn’t even make the effort.”

Bitsy’s mouth twisted. “Everything she gets, she deserves.”

Mary Bryan stared at her fingernails.

“Next time stay out of her way, right?” Bitsy said.

I nodded. “Sure. Of course.”

“And if she gives you any problems, come to me. I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother you.”

“Leave it alone, Bitsy,” Keisha said.

“I’ll leave it alone when I want to leave it alone,” Bitsy shot back.

“Guys,” Mary Bryan pleaded.

“What, now you’re going to get on my back, too?”

“Just … stop. Okay? This is Jane’s night. We don’t want to spoil it with things that don’t even matter.”

Mary Bryan turned to me and smiled unconvincingly. “Did you have fun? Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“Um … yeah. It was awesome.”

“For real?” Mary Bryan said. “You’re not just saying that?”

I pushed Camilla from my mind, because despite it all, the glow from the night still remained. I wasn’t going to let her ruin it. “Well, I don’t want to sound stupid, but …”

“You won’t sound stupid.”

I blew out my breath. “It was just really nice, because I think everyone liked me. Even when I acted like an idiot.”

No one spoke. It was as if they were letting my words float down around them.

“Yeah,” Keisha said at last. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Mary Bryan leaned against me. She rested her head on my shoulder.

“Well done, you,” Bitsy said, her venom gone. “Well done, our Jane.”

I dreamed about second grade, when Mom signed me up to be a Junior Bird Girl. We made thumbprint owls and microwaved s’mores. On the last day, to symbolize flying from the nest, we were blindfolded one by one and led into a circle of fellow Bird Girls. I folded my arms over my chest as I was passed from girl to girl, feeling their small hands on my shoulders and back. First they whispered bad things about me: You’re too skinny. You smile too much. You suck at math. Then came the good things: I like your barrettes. You’re kind to animals. Your hair is so soft. I remembered their fluttering touch. The sensation of taking flight.

“Hey, Janie-girl. What’s up?”

It was Phil, calling way too early the next morning. I held the phone away as I stretched, then brought it back to my ear.

“Hey, Phil,” I said. “You woke me up.”

“Want to go to Memorial? Have a picnic?”

“Right now?”

“It’s eleven o’clock. I’m starving.”

“You woke me up.”

“Fifteen minutes, then?”

I rubbed my hand over my face. I arched my back and pointed my toes. “Make it twenty.”

I brought the milk. He brought the Krispy Kremes. Breakfast of champions—or in this case lunch.

“So what’s kickin’?” he asked, tossing me a still-warm doughnut.

“‘What’s kickin’?’” I repeated.

“Nate Solomon said he saw you last night at some fancy party.” He made his voice sound mocking. “He said you were hot.”

I tried to hide my reaction, but I couldn’t help smiling.

“For real? Are you shitting me?”

“He was like, ‘Sorry you weren’t there, dude. Sorry you’re such a loser, dude.’”

“Oh, he did not. I think Nate is very nice.”

“Apparently he feels the same way,” Phil said. “You’re the flavor of the season. You’re the new black.”

“Please.”

“Seriously, what’s the story?” He licked a smear of glaze from his thumb, pretending he didn’t really care, but his eyes gave him away.

I tried to calm down, although inside I was jumping all around. But Phil was not the person to share it with.

“Well … I guess it’s because I’m a Bitch,” I said.

“No you’re not. Don’t even say that.”

“No,” I said. “I’m a Bitch, like Keisha and Bitsy and Mary Bryan. They ended up picking me after all.” I grinned, filled with goofy joy. “Last night was my coming-out party.”

“Oh,” Phil said. He didn’t seem terribly happy. “But in reality you’re still plain old Janie. Right?”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I just meant that Nate’s never drooled over you before. So why should he drool over you now?”

“You’re kind of digging yourself into a hole, pardner.”

“He’s never even mentioned you before.”

I looked down, unsure how to proceed. We were coming close to talking about something that we really didn’t need to talk about, and I didn’t mean the whole mysterious popularity thing.

I used my sneaker to nudge his high-top. His crappy, tattered high-top. “Come on. Aren’t you happy for me?”

“I just don’t get why hanging out with Mary Bryan and Keisha and Bitsy would make such a difference.” He finished his milk and crushed the carton. “Why does it even matter who you hang out with?”

Oh, Phil, I thought. You really mean that, don’t you?

I decided to try a different tactic. I let my voice take on a playful tone and said, “Anyway, I’ve noticed you making new friends, too.” I raised my eyebrows. “Oz Spencer? Hmm? Does someone have a little bit of a crush on someone?”

He looked at me as if I were nuts. “Oz? She’s in my physics class.”

“She’s nice,” I said.

“Yeah, I agree, but I don’t have a …” He sighed. “On Friday, Mr. Lesmeister made her tie a sweatshirt around her waist. You could see her thong because her pants were so low, and the guy behind her wasn’t getting any work done.”

I thought of my failed thong attempt. At least Oz had the guts to go for the glory.

“And were you that guy?” I teased.

“No,” he said. “It was Matthew Lyons.”

He seemed frustrated, and I felt bad. I let the joke go and flopped back on the quilt.

He lay back beside me. His jeans, super dark like those a cowboy might wear, stretched alongside my just-the-right-bit-faded ones. We gazed at the sky.

“Listen, Janie,” he said. “I am happy for you. I guess it’s just weird having all these other people figure out what I’ve always known.”

I turned my head. “Phil, that is the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

He nodded, like yeah, he knew. Then he said, “The Fall Fling’s coming up.”

I got a nervous feeling in my stomach. “Yeah …”

“You probably won’t want to now that you’re, you know, upper crust, but—”

“Phil.”

“You think you might want to go with me?”

I blinked. On the one hand, no, I did not want to go with him. I wanted to go with Nate. Not that Nate had asked me, but he could. And now that I was a Bitch, he actually might. Which made me realize—holy shit. Phil had never asked me to anything like this before, so why now? Was he only asking me because I was a Bitch? Even if he didn’t know it, was that the deep-down reason?

I didn’t like where that was going, and anyway, no. Phil was Phil. He liked me just for being me. As for Nate, well, crushing on him was one thing. The thought of making it real—or taking a step toward maybe making it real—was way too scary.

A decision blossomed within me, and I knew it was the right thing to do. I faced Phil and was floored to see that he’d turned a bright, painful red.

“Phil …” I began.

He didn’t meet my eyes. “It wouldn’t have to mean anything.”

“Well, duh. What I was going to say was sure. Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I rolled over and gave him an awkward hug. Surprised, he hugged me back.

plainjain: hey, mb. wazzup?

bayBdoll: nmjc. u?

plainjain: normal ol’ sunday. i’m avoiding homework and mom’s making fried chicken. mmm.

bayBdoll: lucky u. sunday nite chez moi is pretty much fend-for-yourself nite. then again, so is every other nite.

plainjain: ouch

plainjain: wanna come here?

bayBdoll: that’s ok, my brother said he’d make burritos. but thanks.

plainjain: no prob

plainjain: so i was kinda wondering what bitsy’s deal is. that is, if ur ok talking about it. if not, that’s totally fine.

bayBdoll: about camilla, u mean?

plainjain: yeah

bayBdoll: well … it’s complicated.

plainjain: oh

bayBdoll: if i tell u, do u swear not to tell bitsy?

plainjain: OF COURSE

plainjain: it’s just that she seemed so pissed last nite, like totally out of the blue.

bayBdoll: yeah, well, they have a long history.

bayBdoll: camilla lives in bitsy’s neighborhood, did u know that?

plainjain: really? i thought camilla was, like, poor.

bayBdoll: u’d think so, with all her anti-establishment bullshit and those leotards she always wears. but no. she’s rich as sin. that’s not why bitsy hates her, tho.

plainjain: then why?

bayBdoll: cuz … ah, shit. cuz camilla saw something she wasn’t supposed to, over the summer.

plainjain: did it have to do with

plainjain: u know

bayBdoll: what?

bayBdoll: OH. no, not that. it was something personal.

bayBdoll: look, i’m just gonna tell u, but like i said, u have to promise not to tell.

plainjain: i promise. u know i do.

bayBdoll: i’m serious. bitsy would kill me.

plainjain: mary bryan, i swear i will never say a word.

bayBdoll: bitsy’s dad took off, ok? he ran off with some floozy. and instead of telling bitsy to her face, he stuck a note on the windshield of her car. can u believe that?

plainjain: omg, that’s terrible

bayBdoll: only bitsy found the note before he left, and i guess she and her dad had this big scene in the driveway. bitsy lit into him for being such a bastard, and he gave back as good as he got. apparently he said all this stuff about not wanting kids in the first place and how he’d never signed on for changing the nappies of a 16 yr old.

plainjain: jesus. and i thought MY dad was bad.

bayBdoll: anyway, they were both pretty much shouting their heads off, from what bitsy told me.

plainjain: and camilla heard?

bayBdoll: and camilla heard.

plainjain: crap

bayBdoll: she’d walked over cuz of the noise, and bitsy spotted her at the end of the driveway. only here’s the worst thing. i guess by that point bitsy had moved from shouting to … well, groveling.

plainjain: BITSY?

bayBdoll: hard to imagine, isn’t it?

plainjain: forget hard. try impossible. i didn’t think bitsy knew HOW to grovel.

bayBdoll: well, “grovel” isn’t the word bitsy used, obviously, but that’s the sense i got. there were tears involved, i do know that.

plainjain: how?

bayBdoll: cuz when bitsy was telling me about it, her lips got all tight and she said, “but i DIDN’T cry. i NEVER cry.”

plainjain: which of course means that she did

plainjain: poor bitsy

bayBdoll: so that’s the great drama. i would just steer clear of the whole camilla situation if i were u.

plainjain: no shit

bayBdoll: hey, i gtg. i’ve got a freakin huge english assignment.

plainjain: yeah, ok. only can i ask one more thing?

bayBdoll: what?

plainjain: that other stuff. the bitch stuff. god, i feel retarded even saying it. but blah, blah, blah, the little stealing ritual and all …

bayBdoll: oh god. we’re going there again?

plainjain: no. no, never mind.

bayBdoll: jane. r u happy being a bitch?

plainjain: mary bryan! u KNOW i am.

bayBdoll: then don’t worry about it. just enjoy the fact that life is good.

plainjain: ur totally right

bayBdoll: of course i am. and now, gbye!!!

One of the feral cats sprayed Alicia’s locker. It stank to high heaven, and on Monday morning everyone made “pee-ew” sounds and waved their hands in front of their noses. “Piss Girl,” they called Alicia, and it didn’t matter that it made no sense.

“What’d you do, Piss Girl?” Stuart Hill taunted. “Leave some chicken guts in there?”

“Shut up,” Alicia said. “I didn’t leave anything, you asshole.”

“Not even your books?” Stuart said. He guffawed as if he were actually being funny. “Not even a chewed up pencil for your nasty old tomcat?”

The janitor shooed them away. He doused Alicia’s locker with Odor-Out, aiming his spray nozzle at the slats and seams as well as the smooth gray exterior.

“Wait!” Alicia cried, but the janitor took no notice. When she opened her locker, a sodden spiral slipped to the floor along with her cheerleading Pep Manual. The stench of cat pee wafted into the air.

I strode toward the other end of the hall. I hoped Alicia hadn’t seen me, but two yards from the stairwell, I heard her call, “Jane, where are you going? Jane!”

My heart felt sick. I let the flow of students carry me forward.

During Algebra I thought of one of my Ramona books, of a scene in which Ramona was doing a kindergarten worksheet. Only instead of “circle cat, cross out bird,” Ramona substituted the name of a despised fellow kindergartner, Susan of the boing-y curls. As in, “circle Ramona, cross out Susan.”

It wasn’t that I despised Alicia—god, no. It wasn’t even on purpose, despite the guilt that was making me feel swampy and wrong.

Still, there it was, crazy or not: circle Jane, cross out Alicia.