“I think you should have a talk show,” I tell her. “Mel in the Morning. What do you think?”
“Hah.” I hear her bumping around back there. “I think you need to call your mum.”
“Duh,” I say. I know I need to call Mama. Why does everyone have to keep telling me to call Mama? “But it’s five A.M. No way I’m calling Mama at five A.M. She’d tan my hide!”
“You need to call your mum,” she says again, sounding sad.
She’s silent for a long moment, so long I figure she’s drifted off. Waffle breathes beside me, safe in the crook of my elbow. Her bitsy head is tucked beneath her bitsy wing, and her bitsy yellow body puffs out with each teaspoon breath.
“Jesse?” Mel says.
“Yeah?”
“You pray, right? To God?”
“’Course.”
“And you, like, ask Him for help?”
“I guess. So?”
“So, you can ask us for help too, you know. Your friends. Vicks…and me.”
“I know,” I say defensively. Like, what kind of idiot doesn’t know how to ask for help?
Well. My kind of idiot, obviously.
But then I realize I do know. I didn’t used to, maybe, but now I do.
“You’re not alone,” Mel says sleepily. “Vicks and I, we’re here.”
Next thing I know, it’s morning and it’s bright out and I’ve got a stiff neck and a dented-in gut from the gearshift. And as much as I don’t want to disturb the peace, I can’t stay in this cramped position forever. Waffle stirs when I move, pulling her head from under her wing and shaking her cotton ball of a body. She pecks at a freckle on my forearm, and I make a note to track down a Miami pet store before we drive back to Nice ville. Waffle needs food, and not just potato chip crumbs. I’ll get her a water bowl, too, and a duck toy. Do they sell duck toys at pet stores? What would a duck toy even be?
Mel and Vicks aren’t here—the backseat is empty—and for a couple of seconds I’m confused. Then I remember: Vicks. Brady. The squat brick dorm we’re down the street from.
The fact that Vicks isn’t back yet is good, I think. At least, I hope it’s good. I hope it means they’re snuggled like puppies in his dorm-room bed, and I consider it a sign of the new-and-improved me that although the word sin flares into my mind, I blow it right out and let it evaporate into the air.
God is bigger than that. There is indeed a chance that He is.
I push myself up and squint out the windshield. Mel is standing with her back toward me in the half-filled parking lot, doing Pilates or some other rich-girl version of what the rest of us call stretching. Her skinny fanny pokes to one side, then the other, and I’m filled with love for that goofy girl. I’m so glad to know her—in fact I can’t imagine not knowing her—and I wonder if maybe there’s room for two best friends in my heart.
On the dashboard is Mel’s cell phone, and under the phone is a note scrawled on a napkin. “Call her,” it says, underlined three times and with a squillion exclamation points thrown in for good measure.
I exhale. Just ’cause she’s grown on me doesn’t keep her from being irritating as heck.
I scoop Waffle up and gently place her in her box. I get out of the car, careful to be super-quiet with the door so I don’t attract Mel’s attention. I extend my arms above my head, and it feels good. Oh, my spine. Oh, my knotted neck. Sleeping in the Opel isn’t the same quality experience as sleeping in the Black Pearl, that’s for sure.
I lean through the open window and grab Mel’s phone from the dash. I flip it open. I flip it shut. I walk to the front of the Opel and perch my butt on the bumper. If I call Mama—no, when I call Mama—what am I going to say?
My gut clenches, but I push through it. I will say what I need to say, that’s what.
I’ll say that I love her, and that I’ll go with her to her surgery.
That I’ll be there for her, and she sure better be there for me. Forever.
That entering wet T-shirt contests is trashy, and humiliates me, and could she please not ever do that again?
I’ll tell her I’m sorry I ran away, sorry I stole her car, sorry about so many things. But I’m keeping my duck. Her name is Waffle. And—oh yeah—I almost got eaten by a gator.
I bite my lip, imagining Mama’s reaction to that one.
Maybe I’ll leave that part out…and hope that she doesn’t ask about the huge gashes on the door.
Two figures appear at the far end of the parking lot, and my heart leaps when I see that it’s Vicks and Brady. They’re holding hands! Yay! Mel spots them and breaks out of her Pilates move. She squeals and claps, and Vicks shakes her head as if Mel is an embarrassment to the parking lot and the planet. She’s grinning, though.
Vicks gives Brady a squeeze, then goes over to Mel. The two of them say some stuff I can’t make out, Mel gives Vicks a happy hug, and then they turn toward the Opel. They take in the phone in my hand. Mel’s eyes go wide, and Vicks nods before giving me a big thumbs-up.
I shake my head, ’cause I haven’t actually dialed yet. Guess I need bravery lessons from little Mel. She and Vicks must read something into my gesture that’s more than I intend, ’cause they start toward me, wearing twin expressions of concern.
“What’s going on?” Vicks calls when she’s close enough.
“Oh, no,” Mel says. “Did something bad happen?”
“No, no, nothing bad happened,” I say. I hear my words, and a skittery giggle burbles up, ’cause shoot, more bad things happened in the last two days than I can count.
But we came through them, didn’t we?
And who knows? Maybe Vicks was on to something with her whole Old Joe bad-bottom appreciation ritual at the museum. ’Cause maybe, sometimes, a girl’s gotta be bad in order to figure out how to be good.
I punch in the numbers before I lose my nerve. I raise the phone. I hear the first ring.
Thanks, Old Joe, I silently pray. Long may you rock.
thank you!
We are grateful to the superhero team of agents who assembled to represent this project: Laura Dail, Barry Goldblatt, and Elizabeth Kaplan. Also, to our editors at other publishing houses who supported our suddenly insane writing and publishing schedules. Huge thanks to Farrin Jacobs, who has edited and advocated for us, fed us Indian food, read our gazillion e-mails, and generally dealt with the fact that three authors are more neurotic than one; as well as the rest of the folks at Harper Collins: Elise Howard, Cristina Gilbert, Colleen O’Connell, Dina Sherman, Sandee Roston, Melissa Dittmar, Jackie Greenberg, Kari Sutherland, Naomi Rothwell, Melinda Weigel, Crystal Velasquez, Anne Heausler, Dave Caplan, Sasha Illingworth, and Jen Heuer. Also thanks to Tamar Ellman and all our friends in foreign places.
Novelist Kristin Harmel took us to Epcot, filmed our hot tub adventures, and put us up in Orlando with great style and grace—plus muffins. Amber Draus was our Epcot guide extraordinaire. The helpful folks at Gatorland in Florida answered our questions and let us in free because it was research. Our gratitude to the people behind the Roadside America website and the book of the same title, which inspired and informed our story. The information on the Coral Castle and the World’s Smallest Police Station is accurate to the best of our knowledge; likewise the descriptions of the other sites in Vicks’s fictional Fantastical Florida—though Xanadu is now closed. We did relocate Old Joe Gator and added on an extra four feet to him for dramatic purposes. He actually resides in the lobby of the Wakulla Springs Hotel, where he has been known to wear a party hat on New Year’s Eve. Oh, and we invented the pirate hotel.
David Levithan and Rachel Cohn inspired this project with their wonderful collaboration Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, as did Patricia Wrede and Caroline Stevermer with their book Sorcery and Cecelia, with its fascinating note about their working process.
John Green, Maureen Johnson, and Scott Wester-feld kept Emily company during writing, and John answered all questions on college football–related issues. Leslie Margolis, B
ennett Madison, and Alison Pace hung out and wrote with Sarah. Amber Kelley and Julia Meier took care of Lauren’s kids—huge! (the help, not the kids)—and the ever-friendly Starbucks morning crew kept her hopped up on caffeine and sugar.
Thanks to the FOZ (Friends of Zoe) for helping us with the title: Terry, Samantha, Maia, Lucy, Jeanmarie, Rachel, Katherine, and Roni. And of course, Zoe Jenkin for administrating.
Thanks to our friends and family, always: Elissa and Robert Ambrose, Larry Mlynowski, Louisa Weiss, Aviva Mlynowski, John and Vickie Swidler, Robin Glube, Shobie Farb, Jess Davidman, Bonnie Altro, Johanna Jenkins, Len and Ramona Jenkin, Sarah Burnett, Jackie Owens, Laura Pritchett, Don and Sarah Lee Myracle, Eden Myracle, Mary Ellen Evangelista, Tim White, Jim White, Eric Myracle, Susan White, Ruth and Tim White, and of course Ivy, Al, Jamie, and Mirabelle.
Special thanks to Elissa Ambrose and Ruth White for being such badass first readers; and to Chani Sanchez, Jess Braun, Leslie Margolis, and Lynda Curnyn for their terrific insights.
A thousand thank-yous to our super-supportive and always-loving spouses: Daniel Aukin, Jack Martin, and Todd Swidler. You guys rock.
About the Authors
E. LOCKHART is the author of many YA novels, including WE WERE LIARS and THE DISREPUTABLE HISTORY OF FRANKIE LANDAU-BANKS. She was voted worst driver in her senior class in high school. Visit her at emilylockhart.com or on Twitter @elockhart.
SARAH MLYNOWSKI is the author of TEN THINGS WE DID (AND PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE), DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, BRAS & BROOMSTICKS, the New York Times bestselling Whatever After books, and more. Her books have been translated into 29 languages and optioned to Hollywood. Sarah has taken many road trips and gotten lost on every one of them. Find her everywhere at sarahmlynowski.com.
LAUREN MYRACLE is the New York Times bestselling author of THE INFINITE MOMENT OF US, SHINE, and the ttyl series, along with lots of other books for tweens and teens. Unlike her darling coauthors, Lauren is an excellent driver and has never gotten lost in her life. She is very happy that you’re a reader and is sending you a virtual high five.
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Copyright
Cover art © 2015 by PeopleImages/iStockphoto
Cover design by Alison Klapthor and Annemieke Beemster Leverenz
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HOW TO BE BAD. Copyright © 2008 by E. Lockhart, Sarah Mlynowski, and Lauren Myracle. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPUB Edition March 2009 ISBN 9780061852237
Version 03272015
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How to Be Bad Page 21
