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—”
“Bitsy,” Alicia corrected. “And Mary Bryan Richardson.”
“—but other girls. Other Bitches. One from each grade, four total. And always the most popular girls in school.”
Inwardly, I groaned. She was acting as if this were privileged information, when anyone at school could have told me the same thing.
“When I was a freshman, the Bitch in my grade was Jennifer Mayfield,” Rae said. “We all wanted to be her. We were so jealous we could spit. Although …” She paused dramatically. First she eyed Alicia, then she eyed me. “We never did. Spit, that is, or anything else that wouldn’t be considered proper worshipping behavior. And you want to know why?”
I checked Alicia’s reaction. Her legs were drawn to her chest, with her arms around her knees. Her black hair hung in bone-straight chunks. She jerked her chin, as if to say, Ask, you fool. Aren’t you even paying attention?
“Why?” I said.
Rae tapped her thigh with violent purple nails. “Haven’t you noticed that whenever they enter a room—your Bitches, my Bitches, whoever—everything stops and then starts up again, with them at the center of things?”
“Yeah,” I said, like so?
“And haven’t you noticed that even if you want to, you can’t not like them?”
“Because no one would want to. Because they’re …” I struggled for the right word, but couldn’t find it. “Cool,” I finis
hed lamely.
“No,” Rae said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But that’s not why you like them.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
I closed my eyes. Conversations with Rae were always like this. They went on and on and when they finally ended, the payoff was zilch. Don’t jam your hands in your front pockets, or else.
I opened my eyes. I raised my eyebrows at Alicia, who raised hers right back.
“Fine,” I said to Rae. “Then why do I like them, if it’s not because they’re cool?”
“Because you have to. Because they make you.”
“And how do they do that?”
“I don’t know. But they do.”
“Uh-huh. Mind control? Voodoo? Invisible puppet strings?”
Rae regarded me with disdain. “Crack jokes if it makes you feel better. But the world is a hell of a lot bigger than you think. All sorts of things go on that you know nothing about.”
Alicia scooted closer. “Finish telling her about Jennifer Mayfield.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”
“Well, like I said, Jennifer was tapped to be a Bitch,” Rae said. She got to her knees and stretched her body, reaching for the brush on Alicia’s dresser. She grasped it and sat back down. “But it fell apart.”
“What do you mean, it fell apart?”
Rae tugged at the tangles in her hair. “She pissed them off. Or else she just wasn’t good enough. She never figured it out.”
“Did she care?”
“Did she care? She only switched schools in the middle of fall semester. She only ran away with her tail between her legs and never came back. Uh, yeah, I’d say she cared.”
Okay, I could get that. I was starting to care, too. “So what does that have to do with Bitsy and Mary Bryan and Keisha?”
“Everything,” Rae said. “Because Jennifer let things slip before she left. And the Bitches aren’t all they appear to be. That’s all I’m saying.”
“But Bitsy and Keisha and Mary Bryan weren’t around when you and Jennifer were in high school. They’d have been in, like, elementary school.”