The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,31

going out with a seventh grader, and I said there’s no way that’s true.” Gretchen scratches her head as she sucks on her Popsicle, the red color sticking to the edges of her lips. Somehow she manages to get it all just on her lips, dying them a permanent bloodred. The rest of us have it smeared around our mouths. Like kids.

We are kids, I remind myself. But like my therapist says, sometimes kids don’t get to stay kids for very long.

Brynn bites into her Popsicle, the sight making me wince. My teeth are super sensitive, and I always have to roll anything cold around in my mouth, warming it up before I take the leap of actually biting down. Brynn goes in like the Popsicle is her enemy, chomping off half of it with one bite.

She catches me looking at her and rolls her eyes. We’re going to have to hear about David Evans and who he may or may not be going out with until someone interrupts Gretchen. Maddie is too invested in painting her toenails to be much help. Her Popsicle is about to drip onto my new bedspread, but I don’t care.

I am waiting on something much more important to happen.

“Felicity!” Mom’s voice sings out. “Your guest is here!”

Everyone else, Mom announced as your friend.

Gretchen breaks off, and all the girls look at me with questions on their faces. This is the group. Our group, the one that formed at the beginning of this school year with pinkie promises and matching hoodies and a group-text conversation that has been going on for months. We’re all here. No one is missing.

Then Tress is in the doorway, a sleeping bag tucked under her arm, unlaced boots flopping on her feet. She’s got a smudge of dirt in the hollow under her neck, a fading bruise across her upper arm. There’s a scab covering most of one knee, a chunk of dead skin that almost falls off when I give her the biggest hug ever.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say in her ear, quiet, just for us.

“Hey,” she says back. She’s stiff in my arms, but the stiffness eases out when I don’t relent in my squeezing. Tress melts a little, just like a Popsicle, once I’ve warmed it up a bit.

“Oops,” Maddie says from behind us. “I think I made a mess.”

“You can’t think you made a mess,” Brynn says. “You either did or you didn’t.”

“I made a mess, then,” Maddie says agreeably.

“I’ve got it,” Brynn says, hopping up. She slips past us, reaching out one hand to awkwardly clap Tress on the shoulder. “Hey, Tress,” she says casually.

“Hey,” Tress says back, stiffening again.

Still on the floor, Gretchen’s eyes narrow at Tress’s sleeping bag, still tucked under her arm. “Is this a sleepover? The invitation didn’t say it was a sleepover.”

Under my arm, Tress goes still as stone.

“I need somewhere to stay,” Tress says, at the same time that I say, “Of course it’s a sleepover!”

It’s definitely not a sleepover. Mom wouldn’t even consider it, in case I had a seizure. In case Maddie and Gretchen and Brynn see me pee my pants and twitch and roll on the floor like an insane person. A person who has something wrong with them. A person who no one will want to marry, because then their kids might have it, too.

Gretchen eyes me, sucking hard on her Popsicle. “If she’s staying over, then I’m staying over,” she finally says.

“Well, yeah!” I say, because like Mom said, we want to make sure everybody is having a good time. I’ll be sure to bring that up when I break the news to her.

“’Kay,” Gretchen says, reaching up to scratch her head again. “I’ll text my dad.”

Brynn comes back with wet paper towels and wipes down Maddie’s arm—which is dripping with red Popsicle water.

“Hey, we’re staying the night now,” she tells Brynn, who shakes her head.

“Can’t,” Brynn says. “I’ve got volleyball camp in the morning.”

“Oh,” Maddie says quietly, and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. Without Brynn here to rein her in, Gretchen will go after Tress any chance she gets. And Maddie—I know—will follow the leader.

That just leaves me. I tighten my arm around Tress, pulling her against my side.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say again.

Chapter 24

Tress

Sixth Grade

I stomp down hard on the shovel, accidentally cracking carrots as I do. But Zee won’t care. Zebras aren’t all that picky about their food. Not like how Gretchen Astor always asks