by Beth Reekles
“Way to make an entrance,” Carter says.
“How many people saw that?” I mumble, shaking my head at myself as he sets down the bowl and I add the grapes and the apple.
“Pretty much the whole class. Miss Augustan isn’t here yet, though, so you’re safe.”
I pick at the grapes, shifting them so that they sit better, before I follow Carter back to his seat. I take the easel next to his.
“How’s your first day so far?” he asks me.
“Um, okay, I think.”
“Made any friends?”
“I think so. There’re some girls in my homeroom who seem nice. Tiffany and Melissa?” I say their names like a question, because I want him to tell me about them.
“Whoa … wait.” Carter turns his whole body to face me. “Tiffany? As in, Tiffany Blanche?”
“Um, I think so … Dark hair, really pretty …”
I trail off, because Carter looks shocked. And slightly confused. There’s no other way to describe that expression: wide eyes, furrowed brow, mouth half hanging open, like he’s deciding whether or not to say something to me.
“Why? What’s—”
Before I can finish asking my question, and before Carter can say anything about Tiffany, someone claps their hands together, and a musical voice rings out, “All right, class, settle down, settle down! Another new year lies ahead, and I’m expecting great things from you all!”
Miss Augustan is tall and willowy, with long wavy hair. She’s wearing jeans and a paint-flecked white T-shirt—her clothes don’t really scream teacher.
She looks around with a big smile, taking everyone in, and pauses at me. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Name?”
“Madison. Um, I mean, Madison Clarke.”
Miss Augustan nods. “Do you do much Art? Photography? Photoshop?”
“Not really. I guess I liked it in my old school, though.”
“Good enough for me,” she says brightly. “Welcome to my class, Madison. Okay, everyone, we’re going to break y’all in easy this year. I set up fruit bowls and vases. Paint them. Draw them. Abstract, watercolor, pastels, pen—anything at all! Whatever and however it strikes your fancy! But at the end of this double period, I want your interpretation of one of those displays on that canvas!”
There’s a heartbeat of silence before the class bubbles with conversation and the clatter of pens and pencils and paints being taken out.
I look at the small desk beside my easel. There’s a paint palette of about a dozen colors, a couple of black pens, varying grades of B and HB sketching pencils, a couple of paintbrushes and an eraser. My hand lingers over them before I pick up a pen.
I don’t start to draw, though; I twirl the pen around in my fingers a couple of times, and then I turn in my seat to look at Carter, who’s drawing a green curve with a pastel.
“So,” I say pointedly. “About Tiffany?”
Carter sighs. His hand pauses, but he doesn’t turn toward me. “Tiffany Blanche,” he tells me, “is more or less the Queen Bee of the school. If she were a senior, that would be indisputable. She’s …” His mouth twists like he’s finding it hard to pick the right words. “She’s … bitchy, but most of the time she puts up a front as a nice person. Like, she smiles at everyone in the corridor, but you know it’s a front. Which is the worst part, because then you feel bad for hating her. But she’s got her place in this school and that’s where she likes to stay, just like the rest of them. The rest of us,” he corrects.
I know what he means, and I nod. But then I reply, “She seemed really nice when I spoke to her. I mean … she was talking to me.”
“Then you’ve got your place now too,” he responds, not unkindly. He gives me a small smile to soften his words.
“If she was talking to you,” he carries on, “then I’d suggest you don’t talk to me. One of her minions might see you.” His ominous tone makes me throw my head back and giggle. But he just stares at his canvas, slowly forming an apple, without even a hint of humor in his face.
“What’re you talking about?” I ask, a little nervously.
Carter shrugs. “Do you need me to bring out the dictionary definition of ‘minion,’ or are you okay on that?”
“No,” I say, frowning in confusion. “I just—I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand?” he says. “Like I said, if you want to be friends with Tiffany, stop talking to me.”
“But why?”
“I don’t think you really need me to answer that, now, do you?” Finally he turns his head, and the look on his face is still grave, but there’s something sad about it. Almost pitiful. “You’re a smart girl, Madison.”
And then I get it: Tiffany’s pretty much the most popular girl in school, from the sound of it. Carter is probably not the kind of guy who hangs out with the popular crowd. And if I want in with the popular crowd, and Tiffany, then I don’t want to be around Carter.
But I don’t know anyone else in this class, and I don’t know if any of Tiffany’s friends are here. And anyway, I kind of like Carter. He seemed like a nice guy when I talked to him at the party.
So I say to him, “How exactly did you lose half of your eyebrow?”
He laughs a little, but there’s still that pity in his eyes when he shakes his head at me. “My fourteen-year-old cousin had a blowtorch and decided to get all up in my face with it.”
“Oh, ouch,” I reply, and turn back to my work.
After a couple of minutes Carter says, “You know, the blowtorch incident isn’t true.”
Slowly I turn my head and stare at him, my eyes narrowing a little. “I’ve fallen for your fake stories twice now.”
There’s a smirk on his face, and he laughs at me. “I know. I’m very convincing.”
“Are you ever actually going to tell me the truth?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not half as cool as the other stories. Plus, it’s damn hilarious when someone believes it. Like you did.”
“Ha ha.”
But then I laugh too, and we only stop laughing when Miss Augustan suddenly appears behind us.
“Some may say that laughter is the music of the soul,” she tells us, “but it’s not helping your productivity.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and she says, “Mm,” before wandering off to look at other people’s work.
Carter catches my eye, though, and I bite the insides of my cheeks hard. He snickers, and I concentrate on my sketch, trying not to laugh again. I don’t want to get into trouble on my first day. Face-planting on the steps in front of Bryce was bad enough
As I’m leaving class, someone cries out, “Madison!” and I whirl around to see Tiffany at the far end of the corridor, with a few other people. She waves me over with a smile, and I hesitate uncertainly, but then I head toward her.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m so nervous; Tiffany seemed friendly enough in homeroom. My palms turn sweaty, and my hands are trembling, but my chin is up and I put on a casual sort of smile, like I’m totally confident.
“Hey,” I say, mostly to Tiffany, since I don’t know any of the others. There’s a tall, lean guy with dark spiky hair, an arrogant look on his face. The other two guys have dark brown hair; one of them has an arm slung around a slim redheaded girl.
“Everyone, this is Madison,” Tiffany announces, waving one of her French-manicured hands in my direction. Seeing her pristine nails makes me very aware of my own bitten ones, and I curl my fingers up a little, self-conscious.
“Madison, this is Kyle, Adam, Marcus, and Summer.”
She points to each of them when she says their name. The redhead is Summer, and the guy with his arm around her is Marcus. Kyle is the one with black hair and the smirk, and Adam is the other guy. I now notice that Adam and Kyle are wearing identical letterman jackets—it tells me instantly that they’re football players or something for a school team.
“Hey,” they all say, in terrifying unison.
“Hi,” I reply, hitching my bag higher onto my shoulder.
I’m saved from an awkward pause when a voice that’s already all too familiar calls out, “Yo, guys, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Then, as he comes closer, he adds, “Aw, look at that, Mainstream—making friends already.”
Chapter 9
“Hey, Bryce,” Tiffany says, flipping her hair back.
“So you guys met Madison,” Bryce says, nodding at me.
“Yeah,” Summer says. “How’d you know her?”
“We met at the beach party,” he answers. “What’s up?”
Kyle says, “Nothing new.”
Tiffany says, “Ann-Marie Thompson totally hooked up with Jason Wills over the summer, even though she was still dating Sam. Like he was never gonna find out. They broke up,” she added, as an afterthought.
“I don’t suppose you guys know anyone else doing AP Physics?” I ask hopelessly, partly because I feel I should contribute to the conversation, and partly because I think it’d be nice to know somebody in the class.
Kyle and Tiffany laugh. “No way,” Kyle tells me. “Sorry, Madison, think you’re gonna be alone in a sea of nerds in that class.”
It’s the way he says “nerds” that makes me frown a little. Like it’s a bad thing. Like he means it in a derogatory way.
“The worst thing about being in a sea of nerds is that I’m definitely going to flounder,” I say, instead of asking him what’s so bad about being a nerd. In my mind, “nerd” always has always seemed synonymous with “smart.”
They laugh, though. “Loving that pun,” Adam tells me, and the silent guy, Marcus, nods appreciatively. Even if I was going to voice my thoughts to Kyle, the bell rings, meaning the ten-minute break between classes is over.
Tiffany links her arm through mine. “Biology next, right?”
“Um, yeah. Right,” I say. To the others I add, “Bye.”
“I’ll see y’all at lunch!” Tiffany calls as we all start to head separate ways.
We’re halfway down the hallway when she sighs and says, “So. Bryce. What’s the deal with you guys?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“You know …” She laughs, and bumps my shoulder. “You guys talked at the party, and he walked you to homeroom this morning … And what was it he just called you then?”
I think for a second. “Mainstream?”
“Yeah, that. So what’s the deal? Do you like him?”
“What? Oh, no! No, we’re—we’re just friends. I mean …”
I trail off when Tiffany laughs again. She says, “All right, well, I’ll ask you this: do you think he’s cute? C’mon, be honest with me now.”
“Well … yeah. I mean, of course he’s cute.”
“He’s the star soccer player for the school, you know,” she informs me. “He’s on the football team too, but soccer’s the big thing here.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that’s cool.”
But in my head I think, Duh. Like I didn’t already guess he was Mr. Big-Shot Jock?
“He’s totally going to end up with a soccer scholarship too.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm, everyone says so.” She pauses. “And I think he’s pretty interested in you.”
We walk into a room I assume is our Biology classroom, and it looks like nearly everyone’s already there, but the teacher hasn’t started yet. Tiffany guides me toward a lab bench with a couple of empty spaces, and I sit down next to a girl who’s doodling in her notebook. Out of the corner of my eye I see her glance up at us, then shuffle over to make a little more room.
I laugh in response to Tiffany. “Yeah, right. I barely know the guy. He’s not interested in me.”
Tiffany smiles like she’s holding on to a secret that only she knows. “Whatever you say, Madison, whatever you say.”
I give a careless kind of laugh. Meanwhile, my mind races, trying to process everything. Because a) Tiffany, one of the most popular girls in school, seems to be my friend. And she introduced me to her friends, which should mean that b) I may actually be part of the elite clique, and that’s something I’d never even have considered before. I just wanted to make friends here, and not be miserable and lonely. Being one of the popular crowd wasn’t part of my plan.
And then there is the small matter that c) Bryce, who from the sound of things is Mr. Popular and quite possibly considered the cutest guy in school, could be interested in me. At least, according to Tiffany. And that seems totally crazy to me. He’s out of my league.
I’d like him to be interested, of course.
But I don’t think he is.
And frankly, I’d rather not get my hopes up.
For the next forty minutes Tiffany tells me everything and anything about all her friends. She, Summer and Melissa have been best friends since third grade.
Marcus, who I met earlier, is the “strong, silent type.” And totally loved up with Summer—they’ve been dating for fifteen months now. “It’s so totally adorable,” Tiffany gushes. The last of the guys they usually hang out with is Richard. “But everyone calls him Ricky.”
The teacher shoots us a glare before carrying on explaining the PowerPoint presentation about natural selection we’re supposed to be taking notes on. Mine are disjointed and I know I’ve missed some stuff as I listen to what Tiffany’s telling me.
I’d wanted to try and focus on my schoolwork here, but right now I don’t really care that I’m not paying attention. I’m flattered Tiffany wants to be friends with me—it seems like an easy pathway right to the summit of the high-school social hierarchy. I don’t want to mess it up. And they seem like nice people, taking me in without question like this. Besides, it’s not like I can afford to turn down the offer of friendship. And I know better than anyone that it’s best to stay on the right side of the popular kids.
Once the teacher turns back to the projector screen, Tiffany rolls her eyes and carries on, lowering her voice only a little. “Of course, we’ll hang out with the rest of the jocks—and the rest of the squad, but—”
“What squad?” I interrupt.
She arches her eyebrows slightly. “Oh, did I forget to mention? Cheerleading squad. Every Tuesday. Coach managed to free up the afternoons.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. Of course they’re cheerleaders. “Can I take a wild guess here and say you’re head cheerleader?”
Tiffany laughs loud enough to have the teacher turn around. “Miss Blanche, please.” Then he goes back to teaching.
“Sadly, no. Seniors only. Ditto for co-head cheerleader. But I’ve got a pretty good shot at it next year, Coach told me.”
“Cool.”
I’m really glad Tiffany is being nice to me, but it makes me anxious. Like, what if I do something to mess it up? I’m not the best person when it comes to social skills. I cannot afford to screw this up.
I know there’s that reputation popular people have: that they’re shallow, and conceited, and self-centered. But I know it’s not always true; Jenna wasn’t like that. Not everyone fits the mold. I’m giving these people the benefit of the doubt.
Ambling out of the Biology lab, Tiffany leads the way to the cafeteria. There’s the usual hustle and bustle of kids trying to grab their food and get a seat. There are two lines, one at each side: one for salad and sandwiches, the other for a hot meal—looks like today is taco day.
Tiffany heads for the salad line. I’m not surprised that this is the shorter of the two. I stand there too, but I’m not hungry—all the anxiety that’s been building up has made my stomach feel unsettled. I know I should eat something, though, since I was way too nervous for breakfast, so when we get to the counter I grab an oatmeal cookie and a banana.
Tiffany, much to my surprise, has a can of (full-fat) soda, a BLT sandwich and a Three Musketeers bar. She turns to me and says, “Don’t tell me that’s your lunch.”
“Um, yea
h.”
“Seriously?” She goes kind of bug-eyed when I nod my head.
“Well, what about you?” I say, nodding at hers. I would’ve thought—and call me stereotypical—that the future captain of the cheerleading squad would at least eat a healthy lunch.
“Oh, this?” She laughs. “This is nothing. Seriously, my metabolism is so high, I could eat a Big Mac every lunch time and keep this figure. Well—with a little exercise. But that’s totally covered anyway.”
“Lucky,” I say—and I say it enviously, but if she notices she doesn’t let on; instead, she just laughs good-naturedly. I start to think she’s really not the horrible, conceited kind of popular girl. She’s nice.
“Summer! Marcus!” she hollers, holding her tray in one hand and waving across the cafeteria with the other.
I recognize a guy from earlier—Kyle—coming over. Bryce joins us, along with Melissa, and some guy I haven’t met yet. I think he’s Richard—or Ricky, I suppose—since he seems to be the only guy I haven’t been introduced to yet.
I follow them all across the huge cafeteria, feeling like the black sheep in the herd. I know people are looking over—at me. I hate it. I’m itching to get out my iPod—but I don’t want them to think I’m antisocial or anything.
As we all drop into seats—with me on the end, opposite Ricky and next to Melissa—I get the feeling that this lunch hour is going to seem very long. I fiddle with the strap on my bag, and keep tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m totally flattered and more than a little excited that I’m at the “cool table” with the popular kids, practically one of the elite. But I have no idea how to act, what to do, what to say, and it feels so surreal. Dreamlike. It’s just not right.
I mean, come on. I’m Fatty Maddie. The outcast, loner, weirdo girl from Pineford. I can change the way I look, but seriously, things like this are only supposed to happen in movies. They don’t actually happen in real life. I’m literally expecting Ashton Kutcher to jump out and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.
“Madison?” someone prompts as I nibble my cookie.
I jump, realizing they’ve all been talking and I’ve not been listening. “Huh? Sorry—totally zoned out.”
