The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,21

a nonprofit anyway so I shouldn’t worry too much about it.

Truth is, I can’t. I’ve got bigger concerns.

Like I literally have nothing to wear to school. I’ve been washing bras and underwear in the sink and hanging them out to dry, but that’s the only clean stuff I’ve got. Everything else is . . . a touch south of smelly. I find a pair of jeans that have Rue’s hair all over them but otherwise look okay. I shake them out, sending orangutan hair across my room.

I can hear the bus coming up the ridge, gears grinding as it makes the climb. In their pens, Zee and Dee, our resident zebra and ostrich, sniff the wind, finding the diesel fumes. I grab the least-rumpled T-shirt I can find and dash into Cecil’s room, snagging an old bowling jersey from the back of his closet. I slip it on and douse myself with body spray so that I don’t smell too much like mildew. I just catch the bus, find a seat by myself in the back, and jam my earbuds in. My hair is in a dirty ponytail because the well went dry last night, but combined with this weird-ass bowling jersey and my wrinkled shirt I might be able to pull off some kind of grunge vibe. Make this look like it’s all on purpose.

I definitely get a whiff of Rue when I walk into the school, so I go to the bathroom and try to dab hand sanitizer in a few different places. There’s a bunch of upperclassmen in there I don’t know, so I just get a handful from the dispenser and duck into a stall. There’s some whispering, a muttered “What the hell?,” followed by giggles.

Great. I wander into the atrium, hoping to spot somebody—anybody—I can stand with . . . or at least, near. I scan the crowd but don’t see any friendly faces—Gretchen Astor actually looks at me and starts laughing. The only thing she doesn’t do is point. Except, I’m sure she does, once I walk away. I stick my chin out and try to find a corner, preferably somewhere dark, before the bell rings.

There’s another whisper behind me as I pass, then a snort. I turn around, headed back to the bathroom to see if I’m bleeding through my jeans or something. I mean, I know I’m not making the cover of Vogue anytime soon, but I didn’t think my clothes were that bad.

“Hey,” a guy’s voice calls out. I don’t think it’s for me. It can’t be for me. I speed up.

“Hey!” he yells again, and there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and there’s a football player smiling at me. “Your shirt is ballin’.”

I search his face, scrutinizing it for any sign that he’s fucking with me. Weirdly, I don’t see any.

“Thanks,” I say cautiously.

“No, I mean, like, it’s ballin’.”

“Right, thanks,” I say again, backing away.

I duck back into the bathroom, against the crowd that’s headed into the halls. There are shouts as people reconnect after the summer break, a lot of hugging. But I’m in the bathroom, inspecting my underwear. Most girls just ask their friends to check their asses when they get up to dump their lunch tray. Me, I don’t have friends like that.

I’m not bleeding, so I don’t really know what the giggling was about. I’m taking off my pants to check the butt anyway, when the loudspeaker comes on, cutting through the chatter of the halls, right into the bathroom.

“Tress Montor, please report to the guidance office.”

“Seriously?” I ask my pants.

There’s already a line there, people wanting schedule changes or complaining about not having a study hall. Mrs. Febrezio spots me and takes my elbow, ushering me past them and into her office.

“Tress,” she says. “It’s seven fifty on the first day of school, and I’ve already had complaints from teachers about your shirt.”

“My . . . what?”

I must look baffled, because she drops the strict look. “Your shirt,” she repeats, searching my face.

“I . . .”

“Tress.” Her face softens a little a more. “Do you even know what’s on the back?”

I take off Cecil’s bowling jersey, and flip it around.

It’s got two bowling balls and one pin embroidered on it, arranged so that it looks like a cock and balls. Above that, where a last name should be, it just reads DICK.

“Ballin’,” I whisper to myself.

“Excuse me?” Febrezio’s sympathy disappears.

“Sorry, I . . .” I’m trying not to laugh. I bite the