The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,34

get blackout drunk for another extra hour. I didn’t even think about asking him to drive me into town, and I would’ve walked the whole way if Ribbit’s mom hadn’t spotted me hiking down the road with my backpack and sleeping bag. I’d grabbed the bag after Cecil yelled at me that a girl who doesn’t pull her weight doesn’t need a bed to sleep in at night. I’ve been locked out for less, and slept in the stable more than once when Cecil was in a mood. If I can stay at Felicity’s, at least I won’t smell like an ostrich in the morning.

Aunt Lenore gave me a ride to Felicity’s house, a little line in between her eyebrows. She told me to have a good time when I got out of the car, Cecil’s old boots slapping against the Turnados’ paved walkway. Cecil took most of my stuff to Goodwill when I moved in with him, said he didn’t have the kind of room that Mom and Dad did and that I didn’t need most of that stuff anyway. What I needed was to learn not to be spoiled.

I guess one of the things that spoiled me was having my own shoes, because Cecil traded all of them to some guy at the bar who forgot to get his kid a birthday present in exchange for a bottle of whiskey. So now I have on his old boots, the dried mud and probably more than a little animal shit tracking all over Felicity’s bedroom carpet. Which, I notice, is new.

April—Felicity’s mom—was weird with me, one hand on my shoulder as she guided me to Felicity’s room, like I didn’t know the way. Then Gretchen had mentioned invitations. I didn’t get one of those. I got a text last night, last minute.

I’m standing here, wearing an old man’s shoes, holding a sleeping bag I’m not supposed to have, staring down a bunch of girls I don’t really like. And despite the weight of Felicity’s arm across my shoulders, something is being made very clear to me.

I don’t belong here.

Chapter 25

Felicity

Sixth Grade

We’re friends again.

It happened slowly, starting with the fact that no one had brought any sleeping bags—breaking the news to Mom that this was now a sleepover had not been awesome—and so we ended up making a pile of blankets on the floor of my room. We’re cuddled in, a bag of Doritos passing between us, wiping cheesy fingers on whatever we can find.

Mom had carried Tress’s boots outside with a wrinkled nose, and I had given her a pair of my pajamas. She’s almost like us, now, with the right clothes on and that scab on her knee covered. Almost. There’s still something about her eyes, and how she’s being too careful, watching Gretchen like she’s waiting for her to attack.

Which she hasn’t done . . . so far.

Brynn’s mom picked her up about an hour ago and me, Gretchen, Maddie, and Tress had torn through a package of cookies and a case of soda that Dad had slipped into my room, with a wink and a thumbs-up. I’m guessing Mom is lying on the couch downstairs, her mouth a thin, flat line as she crosses her fingers and prays I don’t have a seizure in front of everyone. Either that or worrying about the soda rotting my teeth out of my head. She always says my smile is my best feature. I guess if I didn’t have seizures maybe that would be my best feature instead.

It might rot my teeth, but the sugar is helping us all get along. We’ve got the giggles, and Tress has even loosened up a little bit.

“Hey,” she says, bumping me with her elbow. “Do your impression of Mr. Stephens.”

“Oh . . .,” I say, my stomach bottoming out a little bit.

“Do her what?” Gretchen asks.

“She can do Mr. Stephens,” Tress says. “She’s, like, really good at impressions.”

It’s true, I am. But it’s not something I do for just anybody. Last time Mom caught me mimicking our mailman, Dad in a laughing fit on the couch, she told me it wasn’t nice to make fun of people.

“I’m not making fun,” I insisted. “I’m just—”

“Pretending to be a sixty-year-old man?” Mom asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s weird, Felicity.”

Maybe it is weird, I don’t know. I’d kept my impressions just for Tress since then, but now Maddie and Gretchen are looking at me expectantly.

“All right,” I say, standing up. A cascade of cookie crumbs