Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,11

lands way at the back of the room, last row, corner seat. Alix.

I don’t think there’s anyone who isn’t waiting to see what happens next. Ambrosia does that to people. I’m not sure how. She’s not even pretty in the usual way. But if she’s in a room, it’s impossible not to be aware of her—the high cheekbones; her close-set eyes that look right into you; the expensive, clinging black clothing; the perfectly manicured nails. You know that she knows things, grown-up and sophisticated things that you want to know about. Next to her, even the Double Ds, who can pass for at least nineteen, resemble sad, wilted flowers. As Ambrosia weaves through the rows of desks and chairs, I study the way she moves, like if I could pick it apart, figure out the formula, the relationship between the swing of her arms and the length of her step, the exact angle of the tilt of her head, I could understand the power behind everything she does. Maybe then I could get a little bit of that power myself. As she gets closer to me, I feel her, like an air conditioner on high, and then the temperature returns to its normal state as she slides past.

“You,” she commands, pointing a red dagger of a nail. “Wake up. What good are you asleep?”

Alix has her head on her desk. She stirs. She moans. She digs her fingers into her scalp, scratches, and sends a flurry of sand from morning surfing onto her arm. “Go away.”

“Wake up!”

Ambrosia spins, a startling 180-degree turn, and now I’m looking into the point of the same red-nailed finger. “You, too, wake up.”

What does she mean? My eyes are open. I am awake. But then she claps her hands, and in that instant, just for that instant, I swear: my hearing does seem sharper and colors more vibrant than usual. Every part of me, even my toenails, pulses. The space in my head expands and I have the strangest thought: I wasn’t awake before. That wasn’t awake. I’ve never been awake. But now? This is awake. Super awake!

The feeling, that amazing feeling, disappears as suddenly as it came over me.

How did she do that? What did she do?

I inhale sharply, the edges of my nostrils flaring. How do I become awake like that again?

So that’s how it happens, the formation of the least likely project group ever concocted under free will at Hunter High. Members include perpetually pissed-off Alix, aloof and worshipped Ambrosia, Meg the socially lame, and Raymond the brain. I insist on him, even though Ambrosia tries to ignore my suggestion. I find the courage to say, “No Raymond, no me,” and she relents.

One more member: Stephanie is sitting alone until Ambrosia leads her over by the hand. I make a space for her on the other side of me, and the five of us close into a tight circle.

“Meg will be our secretary and take notes,” Ambrosia announces. “She’s got elegant handwriting.”

I didn’t even think she knew my name, so I don’t know how she knows about my handwriting, and it makes me self-conscious, but secretly thrilled that she’s noticed anything about me. Plus, my handwriting is one of the things that I’m most proud of, not that I’ve ever told anyone that, not even Raymond, since it’s such a lame and pathetic thing for someone my age to feel superior about.

Ambrosia crosses her legs, slides the black pearl on her necklace back and forth on its thin gold chain. “Our topic should be theater.”

She is not someone you argue with, or question. On the top of a notebook page I write: Topic: theater. The letters roll out of the pen evenly, with style, elegant.

“But what exactly about theater?” she continues. “Let’s brainstorm. When I say ancient theater, the first thing that comes to your mind is…”

Alix stretches, makes a loud yawn. “Action. Write it down.”

Me: “Masks. Comedy and tragedy, happy, sad.”

Stephanie takes a sip from her stainless-steel water bottle. “Ancient plays are political. People stood up for what they believed back then.”

From Raymond: “Deus ex machina.” He watches me write it down, correcting the spelling. “It literally means god from the machine. There was an actual crane on stage. Sometimes the plot got so convoluted that an actor playing a god appeared out of the blue and helped a character get out of a jam.”

“Cool,” Alix says. “Everyone could use a god machine once in a while.”

“Definitely,” Raymond agrees. “It comes