When Max saw her first picture, she smirked. “Bad,” she said. “Really bad.”
She loved them. Hers were the only ones that did anyone justice.
After we got over the initial shock, we all agreed that a couple of Prairie’s glamour photos weren’t horrible. In fact, they were pretty good. The ones in focus anyway. She looked radiant. Sparkling, at least, with all the sequins. We took a few minutes to vote on our favorite, the one we’d sneak to Hugh.
A rush of air blew through the bathroom door as someone opened it. Max charged over to wedge it shut with a shoulder. “Hey, I need to go,” some girl yelled.
“Go away,” Max growled. “It’s a private party.”
“We can put the picture in Hugh’s lunch box,” Lydia said. “He always brings his lunch.”
In an insulated, zip-up lunch box with matching Thermos. You get the picture.
“N-no.” Prairie’s eyes filled with terror. “We c-can’t do it at school. I d-don’t want anyone to see my picture. I mean, anyone besides Hugh.”
Lydia tapped an index finger on her lips. “Maybe we could find out where he lives and send the picture to him.”
Prairie said, “I know where he lives.”
We all stared at her. Her face flared. In a tiny voice she said, “Hugh’s my next-door neighbor.”
Okay, granted, the Solanos were not bosom buddies with their next-door neighbors. The Crotchety Crockerds on the south scolded me once in public when I accidentally left my Barbie bride doll in their driveway. Old man Crotchety crushed it flat with his classic Chrysler. Then he had the gall to holler at me when I started screaming, “Murderer! Murderer!” We hadn’t spoken to them for six years.
To the north side loomed a hash house. At least that’s what Dad called it. More people came and went at midnight than the drive-up window at Wendy’s. So I can understand how Prairie and Hugh had never once talked, even though he’d moved in next door to her the summer before fifth grade.
Still, it was weird. She said Hugh and her brother Sun were friends, and that Hugh came over after dinner sometimes to surf the Internet with Sun. Imagine having your one true love in the same house. Close enough to smell his sweat. Which Hugh had plenty of.
We decided to stick Prairie’s picture in an envelope and address it to Hugh. Anonymous like. Then, after school, Prairie’d slip the envelope in the Torkersons’ mailbox.
We offered to help Prairie deliver the photo, but she said no thanks. I think she wanted us as far away from Hugh’s house as possible. Which was fine with me. If we got caught, she’d hate us forever. Prairie wasn’t worried, though. She said as soon as Hugh came over to surf the Net, she could sneak out and do it. I wondered if she really would.
Lydia said, “Do you mind if I take the other pictures home tonight? My mom wanted to see how they turned out.”
The bell rang, and we scrambled. Hastily Prairie stuck the stack of photos back into the envelope and handed it to Lydia. I should’ve protested. As leader of the Snob Squad, it’s my duty to protect our reputations. Maybe not our current reputations, but any future ones we might acquire. I should’ve offered to stash the pictures until school was out. Or have Max stash them. Nobody’d mess with her. But I didn’t. I just let Lydia drop them in her book bag. Bad move.
Chapter 15
The catastrophe occurred during language arts. First hour. As we got up to fetch our books from the book rack, Lydia, renowned klutz of the cosmos, tripped over her chair, bounced off my body, and butt-crashed into Melanie Mason’s desk. Which tipped over backward, taking out the desk behind it and knocking Lydia’s book bag to the floor. Where the photo envelope flew out and skidded across the rug. Guess where? Straight onto Ashley Krupps’s fat feet. As if in slow-motion replay, I watched Ashley pick up the package, open it, and drop her jaw to shriek.
Naturally everyone had to see what the ruckus was about. Lydia threw a hyper hissy fit, but not before the photos had made it around the room—over our outstretched hands and behind our backs. Everyone whooped.
I’ve never been so embarrassed. I take that back. The time my lunch sack ripped and a hundred malted milk balls bounced out was pretty humiliating. Especially since most of them rolled to a stop under Kevin Rooney’s Reeboks.
Eventually Mrs. Jonas intervened. Even though she stifled a guffaw when she caught a glimpse of the pictures, she got them back to us. So much for the glory of glamour photos. By recess we were all the laughingstock of Montrose Middle School. So what else is new?
“Harley looks sick,” I said during science. We’d just finished putting him through his paces. At least Max was trying to finish. Every couple of seconds Harley would stop and lean, like the Tower of Pizza. Where is the Tower of Pizza? I’d like to live there. Anyway, Harley looked like he was ready to faint. Can a rat faint? As if in answer to my question, Harley shivered all over and flopped flat.
“He’s just beat,” Max said. “Give him a break.”
“Maybe we should splash cold water on his face,” Lydia suggested.
We all stared at her. The stares turned to glares.
“Look, I said I was sorry about the pictures, okay?” Her eyes welled with tears.
My eyes dropped. Next to me, Prairie took a deep breath. Her hand reached up to grasp Lydia’s limp shoulder, and she said, “It’s n-not your fault. Any one of us c-could’ve done it.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t,” muttered Max.
I shot her a warning look. She folded her arms.
“At least you weren’t posing like some airhead on Baywatch,” Lydia snapped.
“True,” Max said, which only made Lydia feel worse.
“W-well,” Prairie piped up. “At least I don’t have to leave my picture in Hugh’s mailbox now.” She sighed. The memory of what had happened in class resurfaced, and we all shuddered. After Melanie handed the pictures to Kevin, he smiled and passed them on. To Hugh. Hugh’s eyes grew big as black holes before he fixed them on Prairie. If I’d had a shovel, I would’ve dug her a hole to crawl in. Right behind me.
“Hey, it’s over, okay?” I said. “We’re ruined. Big deal. We have a lot of experience at this. As long as no one sells our glamour photos to the National Enquirer, I think we still have a future in high school.”
Max snorted.
“Thank you, Jenny,” Lydia said. “So, does anyone have a notebook I can borrow the rest of the week until the science fair on Saturday? I better document the fact that Harley’s sick.”
“He’s not sick,” Max said. “There, look, he reached the end.”
It was true. On his own, Harley had followed my trail of stale spice cake crumbs to the end of the course. Suddenly he leaned, rocked unsteadily, and rolled right into the siren’s green button.
The blare registered about a bejillion decibels in the confined science lab. Anyone within earshot was instantly hearing impaired. A bunch of girls screamed. Everyone else covered their ears. I hollered, “Tornado! Take cover!”
Just as we’d practiced since kindergarten, everyone hit the deck and rolled under the tables, covering their heads. Except us. We just stood there and hyena-howled at the goons. Revenge is so sweet.
Later that afternoon, I confronted Ashley about Lydia’s notebook. For some reason I felt it was my responsibility to get it back. Maybe I was afraid Lydia would try and there’d be a brawl in the bathroom. “Hey, Ashley,” I said casually as we passed going to and from the pencil sharpener. “I believe you have something that belongs to us.”
She blew off her shavings. “Such as?”
“I think you know.”
I thought I could do the blank, though obviously guilty, look better than anyone, but Ashley’s was good.
“If you don’t give it back, I’m telling Mr. Biekmund.” She just looked at me. Then her eyes crossed, and she imitated a moron. Very realistic. She sniffed the air and said, “I think I smell a rat. A big, fat one. And I don’t mean the one in the cage.” She puckered her nose and waddled away.
> I almost stabbed her in the butt with my pencil. I should have. How much lead does it take for lead poisoning?
As soon as Mom and Dad left for their marriage counseling, Vanessa and I ordered a pizza. Mom’s curried corn quesadillas didn’t exactly stick to the ribs. Ever wonder where the expression “food to die for” came from? Now you know.
While we channel surfed, we stuffed our faces. Okay, I stuffed mine. But it was the first time in a long time that Vanessa actually ate more than three bites.
We settled on Nick at Nite, which was having a mini-marathon of back-to-back Brady Bunch reruns. Out of nowhere, Vanessa said, “I bet Mom and Dad are going to get a divorce.”
I froze, a pizza slice poised midair on its way to my open mouth. “What do you mean?” I managed to croak.
She turned to me. “I mean d-i-v-o-r-s-e.”
She couldn’t spell any better than me. “They can’t,” I said. “They’re in marriage counseling. It’s against the law or something to get divorced while you’re getting help.”
“What help?” Vanessa said. “They argue all the time, in case you haven’t noticed. They hate each other.”
“They do not!” The mozzarella in my stomach melded into a hard cheese ball. “They hate us.”
Van met my eyes. She blinked back to The Brady Bunch, who were having a pleasant family discussion during dinner. Alice, the maid, carted in a luscious-looking chocolate cake. Maybe that’s what we needed. A maid.
“They’ll work it out,” I said. “They always do.”
“I don’t think so,” Vanessa countered. “Ever since Mom went to work and Dad lost his job, things have changed.”
That’s it! That’s when everything changed. But why? I answered my own question: “Because they’ve lost the romance. But they can find it again.”
“What?” Vanessa curled a lip at me.
My face flared. I must’ve said that out loud. “Nothing.” Quickly I added, “Everyone changes. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. Change is good. Through change people grow.”
She widened her eyes at me like I was a raging retard. “Who taught you the facts of life?”
“You did.”
“I got it wrong.” She turned back to the Bradys. A commercial came on, and she said, “I hate to tell you this, Jenny. You’re living in a dreamworld. Wake up. I want you to be prepared for the worst.”
Why does everyone always say that? Why can’t we be prepared for the best?
Just then the garage door sounded. A few seconds later, car doors slammed and the back door opened. Dad’s voice echoed through the kitchen, “I’m just saying I think it’s a waste of money. We’re paying a bloody fortune for this guy to sit and stare at us for an hour every week.”
“You’re not paying a penny,” Mom snarled. “The cost of all this counseling is coming out of my insurance. Since I’m the only one working.”
The sofa creaked. I glanced over to see that Vanessa had curled into the corner of the couch, hugging her knees. Her eyes were transfixed on the TV. I’d had about as much of The Brady Bunch as I could stomach. Speaking of stomachs…I tossed my half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box, closed the cover, and escaped with it to my room for a brain-numbing blast of heavy metal music and mozzarella.
Chapter 16
The next morning as Lydia, Max, Prairie, and I were heading for class, someone shouted, “Hey, guys. Wait.” That someone was Hugh. We all stopped and turned. Hugh smacked right into my back, almost as if he meant to. Weirdo. Something sharp, his slide rule probably, stuck in my spine. Go ahead, I thought, add physical pain to my emotional and psychological distress.
“Sorry,” Hugh mumbled.
“Want to get off my foot?” I said.
He stepped back. “I, uh…” He gulped. “Do you mind if I talk to… to Prairie?”
“No,” Lydia said. “Go ahead.”
Bunching up Lydia’s polyester sleeve in one hand and Max’s canvas camouflage jacket in the other, I said, “He means alone.”
“Oh,” Lydia replied.
I yanked Lydia and Max ahead. Prairie smiled gratefully at me.
We couldn’t hear them, but we did see Hugh write something down and nod before he plodded off. Prairie just stood there, gaping. We bustled back to her.
“Well?” Lydia attacked her. “What did he want? Did he ask you to the dance?”
“N-no.”
“Well, did he mention the glamour photos?”
“Y-yes.” Prairie’s eyes filled with tears.
Lydia squeezed her arm. “Did he say something about them? Something mean?”
“N-no.” She sniffled. “He thought they were b-beautiful.”
“He must need an emergency eye exam,” I mumbled.
Lydia said, “What else did he want? What did he write down?”
Prairie bit her bottom lip. “He wanted J-Jenny’s phone number.”
They all looked at me.
“Huh? Why would he want my number?”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Why else?” she snarled. “He’s going to ask you to the dance!”
I heard Prairie tell Mrs. Jonas she wanted to skip science and spend the whole day in the resource room, catching up on assignments. Quickly I rushed over to the pencil sharpener so that I could talk to her before she left. So that I could tell her I wasn’t interested in Hugh Torkerson. Get real. But when Prairie saw me waiting there, she deliberately went out the long way, through the back door.
Sometimes life stinks. Like most of the time, if you believed Vanessa. Which I was beginning to. Prairie hated me. And I didn’t blame her. I blamed Lydia. “This is all your fault,” I told her on the way to the science lab. “You just had to play Cupid. Stupid, stupid Cupid.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Lydia flared. “You’re the one who was flirting with Hugh.”
I shoved her against the lockers. “I was not!”
Max stepped between us. “Cool it,” she said. “You’re gonna get us busted.”
Lydia stretched her neck out around Max’s arm. “This was all your idea, Jenny.”
“My idea!”
“You’re the one who thought up Herd a Nerd.”
“Well, you had to take glamour photos.”
Lydia clucked. “That was Max’s idea.”
We both glared up at Max.
“Shut up,” she growled. “It’s all our faults. We shoulda just butted out.”
I took a deep breath. “Max is right. We never should’ve gotten involved in Prairie’s love life. All for one, and one for all. What a crock.”
Lydia hung her head.
“Look, it’s my fault, okay?” I said. I was their leader. I was responsible.
Lydia must’ve taken it the wrong way. “So you are interested in Hugh. You admit it.”
“I do not!” I cried. “And I’m not flirting with him, either. God. Tork the Dork?”
“He’s not that bad,” Lydia said. “In fact, the more I get to know him, the more I think he’s not all that dorky.”
“Maybe you’re interested,” Max said.
Lydia sneered at her. “I’m not, believe me. But I think Ashley is. For real.”
We all considered that scenario. Scary scene.
“Question is,” Lydia said, “is he interested in her?”
That might be Lydia’s question. Mine was, Why is he asking for my phone number?
What Prairie missed during science class was Harley hip-hopping through the obstacle course perfectly, from start to finish, without a fleck of food for reinforcement. Three times in a row he set off the siren. After the second run, the whole class watched and cheered Harley on. Except Ashley and Melanie, of course. They scowled at us from the PC center. Hugh and Kevin joined everyone else in fawning over Harley. A couple of times I thought I caught Hugh trying to inch closer to me, but I kept a wide berth. They don’t call me Wide Bertha for nothing.
The Beak Man said our project was excellent. That it actually gave our school a chance at a
prize. Then he asked if we couldn’t disconnect the siren because it was giving him a major migraine.
After school we joined forces to look for Prairie. To talk to her, to try to convince her that I wasn’t a threat. That Hugh couldn’t possibly be interested in me. And if he was, he was blinder than I thought.
When we turned down the A-wing hallway, we spotted Prairie outside the resource room. She was just standing there, staring up at the wall. “Hey, Prairie,” I called. “We missed you at science. You should’ve seen Harley, the wonder rat. He ran the obstacle course three times.” Maybe if I pretended everything was normal, it would be. Denial, I know. It didn’t work with my parents; I don’t know why I thought it would with my friends.
Prairie didn’t reply. Didn’t even turn our way. Great. She hated me.
As we got closer, Max said, “Whatcha doin’, Prayer?”
She sighed, a heavy sigh, full of resignation. We gathered around her. Our eyes followed hers to the wall.
My stomach lurched.
The poster read,
Sixth-Grade Spring Fling
Friday, May 15
We’re puttin’ on the Ritz (so bring a box of crackers).
Just kidding.
Shirt and shoes required.
“Oh, brother.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Who thought up that stupid slogan?”
No one answered.
Prairie sighed again. So did I. She met my eyes. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, Lydia said, “Oh, figures.” She pointed down the hall. There were Ashley and Melanie, taping a poster to the A-wing window. After they finished, they had to walk by us to get out.
Ashley stopped to sneer. “Not that you’d care,” she said, “but we’re having a live band come and play at the dance. The Eight Anchovies.”
Where had I heard that? Lydia’s fiery eyes met mine. Now I remembered. The survey. Before Lydia could splutter a curse, Ashley added, “Me and Mel asked Hugh and Kev to the dance. Since we’re teammates and all. Oh, by the way, no fourth graders allowed.”