The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball

by Risa Green

  This book is for everyone who has ever been afraid to believe in something.

  Especially yourself.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2010 by Risa Green

  Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  Cover images © Masterfile; Digital illustrations/Alamy

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  teenfire.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Things About Me That Might, in Some Alternative Universe, Be Interesting Enough for the Committee of Tenth Grade Teachers to Pick Me for the AP Art History Trip to Italy

  I have the highest GPA in the tenth grade.

  I can recite the periodic table in alphabetical order to the tune of the disco classic “YMCA.”

  In fifth grade, I won a silver medal in the New York Times Crossword Puzzler contest, junior division. And I would have won the gold, if I had not been competing against a nine-year-old prodigy from Ohio who knew that a beast with twisted horns is called an eland.

  When I was five, I had an extra row of bottom teeth. Like a shark.

  I am so flat-chested that they do not make a bra in my size. Not even a training bra.

  I play a mean game of Rummikub.

  According to family history, I am a distant relative of Susan B. Anthony, the first women’s suffragist in the United States.

  I am most likely the only person under the age of forty who has attended a Barry Manilow concert.

  Did I mention that I have the highest GPA in the tenth grade? My God, am I boring…

  ***

  I jump nearly a foot off of my bed, startled by a roar of thunder.

  Lindsay and Samantha, my two best friends, are lying on the floor, flipping through last week’s issue of Teen People. But either a) they both have been cleverly hiding from me the fact that they are completely deaf, or b) they are simply too engrossed in the trials and tribulations of young Hollywood to have noticed that the sky almost just completely broke in half.

  Finally, after another heavy rumble, Lindsay drops the magazine and rolls over onto her back.

  “I’m so tired of this rain,” she complains to no one in particular. “I don’t understand how I’m ever supposed to get my driver’s license if it keeps pouring like this. My dad won’t let me practice if it’s even overcast outside, let alone if an eighth ocean is falling from the sky. I mean, enough already. It’s been almost a week.”

  Samantha grabs the magazine off the floor where Lindsay left it, and brings it close to her face to get a better look. I have no idea why she obsesses over these magazines the way she does. Samantha is effortlessly attractive and by far the best-dressed girl in the whole school, probably even the whole county.

  She has perfect, wavy dark blond hair, a tall slender body that most people would have to work out four hours a day and only eat wheatgrass to attain, and her mother’s entire designer wardrobe at her disposal. (Did I mention that her mother used to be a model? Did I also mention that Samantha totally inherited her legs?) Plus, she’s got an innate sense of style that most celebrities have to hire Rachel Zoe to achieve. I mean, have you ever seen anyone wear Commes des Garçons with Converse? (Actually, have you ever seen anyone wear Commes des Garçons? So. Weird.) But seriously, she could easily be in one of those magazines. Of course, if you ask her, she’ll say, “I hate the way I look.” She isn’t fishing for compliments either. It’s still something I’ve never figured out about her.

  “God, what is up with those lashes?” she asks aloud. “This model looks like she has spiders crawling out of her eyes.” Samantha puts the magazine back down on the carpet and turns to look at Lindsay. “FYI, it’s all our parents’ fault. If they hadn’t spent the ’80s running around with aerosol hair sprays and insecticides and Styrofoam cups, we wouldn’t have any of this extreme weather today.”

  “My dad probably did it on purpose,” Lindsay remarks. “I’ll bet you he only used products with CFCs in them, in the hope that one day his actions would prevent his future daughter from ever getting behind the wheel of a car.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” I say, half ignoring them—because Lindsay always complains about not having her driver’s license and Samantha always blames her parents for everything—but also because I am too busy staring at the fluorescent yellow flyer that Mr. Wallace gave to everyone in my AP Art History class today. At the top, it implores us to Pay Attention! And besides, there’s no point in telling either of them that chlorofluorocarbons were banned from aerosol sprays in 1978, or that Styrofoam has nothing to do with extreme weather patterns. They wouldn’t listen anyway.

  Suddenly, a flapping mass of paper hits me in the face. I look up from the handout that I’ve tacked to the bulletin board next to my bed.

  “Ow,” I say, rubbing my forehead and laughing in spite of myself. “Why’d you throw that magazine at me? And don’t blame one of your celebrity crushes.”

  Samantha arches her eyebrow. “You’ve been completely ignoring us since we got here, and I, for one, am starting to take it personally. What’s going on in that genius-girl head of yours?”

  With a sigh, I pull the tack out of the handout and hold it up for them to see. I do my best to appear nonchalant. “It’s a contest. Mr. Wallace announced it today in AP Art History. The district was given a grant to send five kids to Italy for two weeks this summer, so that they can study great works of art. And the district pays for everything. Plane tickets, hotels, food, even admittance to the museums.” The inside of my stomach dances around just thinking about it.

  “Let me see,” Lindsay demands. She gets up from the floor and flops down next to me on my bed, taking the flye
r. I peer over her shoulder, rereading it for the millionth time today as she reads it aloud to Samantha.

  Pay Attention!

  An Unforgettable Summer Experience!

  Five lucky students will be chosen to travel to Italy with Mr. Wallace, where they will study works by the great Italian masters in Rome, Venice, and Florence.

  To be eligible to apply, you must:

  Be a student in AP Art History, with a grade of at least an A-.

  Write an essay explaining why you should be chosen to go on this trip.

  Applicants will be judged on their essays, as well as on their personalities, outside interests, and strength of character, as determined by a Committee of Tenth Grade Teachers.

  Applications are due to Mr. Wallace by 5:00 p.m., next Thursday!

  “So what’s the problem?” Lindsay asks brightly. “You’ve never gotten anything less than an A in your life, and you’re great at writing essays. Of course they’ll pick you.” She hands the flyer back to me with a sigh. “That is so cool,” she says, shaking her head wistfully. “The smart kids always get the best stuff.”

  “Trust me,” Samantha says, “it’s not that great. My parents have dragged me to Italy five times, and the place is so overrated. I mean, really, you’ve seen one Jesus picture, you’ve seen them all. Although, I will say, the boys are totally hot.”

  I smile. I’ve got to hand it to Samantha, she’s got the blasé, I’m-a-rich-kid-whose-parents-totally-ignore-me thing down pat. She even got herself kicked out of boarding school just to get back at them—something to do with a missed curfew, condoms, and a banana, though the story changes a tiny bit every time she tells it—so now she’s stuck going to Grover Cleveland High with the rest of us lowly peons.

  I’ll never forget the first time that Lindsay and I met Samantha. It was seventh grade, the first day back from winter break, a few minutes before first period. Lindsay and I were in the girl’s bathroom right outside of the foreign language classrooms. We always met there in the morning to compare outfits and catch up on anything that had happened between the time we got off the phone or computer the night before and the time we got to school in the morning. The bathroom was on the far side of the school, away from where all of the homeroom classes were, so most days Lindsay and I had it to ourselves. But when we walked in that morning, we were surprised to find a girl we’d never seen before.

  I sucked my breath in when I saw her: she was wearing a long, sheer black tunic with strips of black fabric hanging from the sleeves, layered over a bright green tank top and jeans, with three-inch purple wedges. Her blond hair was long and tousled in a good way, and there were gold necklaces of different lengths in a mess around her neck. She was gorgeous and perfect and like nothing I’d ever seen before, at least not in person. Lindsay and I just stared at her as she hunched over the sink, applying black eyeliner and seven coats of mascara to her already long lashes, the delicate strips on her sleeves hanging precariously over the wet sink.

  “My mom wouldn’t let me wear eyeliner this morning,” she explained, her mouth slightly open in that I’m-trying-not-to-poke-myself-in-the-eye way that people have when they’re putting on makeup. She looked us over in the mirror, and I remember feeling self-conscious about my straight brown hair that just hung there, about the jeans that my mom had bought for me at the Limited Too, about the big red zit in the middle of my forehead. But she wasn’t looking to be judgmental. She seemed to be looking for something else.

  “Do you want some?” she finally asked, holding two eyeliners out toward us.

  They were Chanel. I knew you weren’t supposed to share eye makeup with other people because of the risk of transferring bacteria and getting an infection, but I also knew that if we said no, she would walk out of the bathroom and our chance of becoming friends with this beautiful eccentric girl would be gone forever. Lindsay and I glanced at each other, and then we each grabbed an eyeliner and joined her at the mirror. She smiled. Actually, it was more of a smirk.

  “I’m Samantha,” she said. “And you should know—I’ve never been good at sharing until right now.”

  The three of us have been inseparable ever since.

  Two

  So I take it you want to be one of the lucky five?” Lindsay asks with a smile, revealing the giant dimple in her left cheek that she hates.

  I sigh. “I would kill to be one of the lucky five. Do you have any idea how good this trip would look for college? Plus, I’d get to go to Italy without my parents. How cool is that?”

  Samantha shrugs. “It would be cooler if you didn’t have to go with dorks from AP Art History. So what are you going to write about for your essay?”

  This is the problem. I’ve been staring at that flyer the whole day, trying to think of a compelling reason for the Committee of Tenth Grade Teachers to pick me. But, so far, I haven’t been able to come up with anything even remotely interesting about myself. Except for maybe the thing about my two rows of teeth. People always wanted to see them. I even thought about turning it into a business opportunity and charging fifty cents to take a look. It was that cool. At least, it was until I had to get them pulled, and then it just sucked.

  “I have no idea,” I admit. “Let’s face it, you guys—I’m boring. I’ve never had anything happen to me. My parents aren’t divorced, they’re not immigrants, and both of them have medical degrees. Nobody in my family has ever had a debilitating disease. I’ve never had an eating disorder, a crack addiction, or autism. I’ve never broken a bone. Not even a toe or a finger. I don’t have exciting hobbies. I mean, what do I like to do? I like to read. And do crossword puzzles. And Sudoku. And last summer, did I do community service in Africa, or volunteer at Children’s Hospital? No. I did normal things. I worked at Gap Kids. I went to a Barry Manilow concert. I—”

  “That’s not normal,” Samantha and Lindsay interrupt at the same time.

  I purse my lips while they giggle. “Whatever. I’m telling you, I am the most boring, normal, regular girl with the most boring, normal, regular life ever. I mean, look at me.”

  I glance at myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door and take myself in: straight, super-fine brown hair that refuses to hold a curl (or a style) no matter how many layers I have cut into it; thin, unexciting lips; plain brown eyes; a regular, normal-sized nose; and, of course, an average height, thin, curveless body. I’m not being modest either. I know I’m not ugly or unattractive. There’s just nothing special about the way I look. I have no defining characteristics, like Samantha’s hair, or Lindsay’s dimple.

  I turn back to them. “The truth is, the only reason I even want to go on this trip is because I feel like it might make me a little bit more interesting, so that when I apply to colleges, I’ll at least have something to actually write about and not have to make up a bunch of BS. But it’s not like I can say that.”

  Lindsay and Samantha both nod in agreement. I love that they don’t argue with me or try to convince me that I really am interesting. I’m not being sarcastic either. I really do love that about them. Honesty is the mark of a true friend.

  “Well, at least you’re not tortured every day by Megan Crowley,” Lindsay offers, trying to cheer me up. “I’d give anything to be boring enough for her to leave me alone.”

  Megan Crowley is what Hollywood or certain clueless grown-ups would call a “mean girl” or a “queen bee.” Translation: she’s an insecure bitch who makes fun of other people so that nobody will make fun of her. And Lindsay just happens to be her favorite target.

  It all started when we were in third grade. You see, back then, Lindsay used to be kind of mean too. Which is hard to believe, because now she’s, like, the cheeriest, most harmless person on the planet. Samantha can’t even picture it, not even if she closes her eyes and tries really, really hard. She says she just can’t get past the dimple, or maybe it’s the peace-loving hippie vibe that L
indsay gives off, but either way, I see her point. It is tough to imagine. And yet, it’s true. Lindsay was mean. Not to me—we’ve been best friends almost since birth—but, you know, to other people.

  If I had to psychoanalyze the situation, I would say that Lindsay was probably going through some sort of sibling jealousy phase brought on by the births of her two younger sisters when she was four and seven, respectively, which then manifested in the form of meanness toward other girls at school, since school was the only place where she was able to attract attention anymore, even if it was negative attention. But that’s just my opinion.

  Anyway, back in third grade, Megan Crowley peed in her pants at Charlotte Reese’s birthday party, and tried to pass off the huge wet spot on her crotch as spilled water. Everyone probably would have believed her too, only Mean Lindsay was sitting next to her when it happened, and she knew that Megan didn’t spill any water. But rather than just letting it go, Mean Lindsay yelled out, “She did not spill water! She peed in her pants! I saw it happen.” And then Megan Crowley burst into tears and Charlotte Reese’s mom had to take Megan upstairs to shower off, and Megan had to borrow a pair of Charlotte’s underwear and a clean pair of Charlotte’s pants. Which would have been bad enough, except that Megan is really tall, and Charlotte Reese is what people politely call “vertically challenged,” and so poor Megan looked like she was wearing lederhosen for the rest of the afternoon.

  Meanwhile, somewhere around fifth grade Lindsay totally mellowed out and became, like, the Nicest Girl Ever, while Megan has morphed into a full-fledged villainess/varsity cheerleader (which, I think an argument could be made, is really the same thing). And when you take into account the fact that Megan has never forgiven Lindsay for the pee incident, well…if you have ever watched any teen movies at all, then you know that this is not a good combination.

  To make a long story even longer, what happened was that, in eighth grade, Lindsay accidentally passed gas in the girl’s locker room after gym class, and she had the unfortunate luck of being right next to Megan when it happened. Instead of ignoring the perfectly human function the way any polite person would do, you guessed it, Megan made a whole big deal about how disgusting and gross Lindsay was, and she began calling her Fart Girl. And the name stuck. So now, even though it’s been two entire years since it happened, whenever Lindsay walks into a room, Megan inevitably comments, “Watch out everybody, it’s Fart Girl.” Ha, ha…not.