The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,7

the bells and whistles: heated seats, satellite radio, entertainment centers for the kids in the back. Gretchen’s mom had worried that it was still too much, but the Civic had passed. Like her dad said—as long as you keep the money out of sight, you’re allowed to have it.

Brynn Whitaker is sprawled on my bed, a separator between her toes, her tongue half pushed out between her teeth as she concentrates on painting them. “You’re sticking with the clown thing?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

The package described my Halloween costume as a “sexy clown.” Brynn said there was no such thing, but she’s going as a taco, so her opinion doesn’t weigh very heavily with me.

“I like the bells,” I tell her, and I do feel a little validated as I slip the jester’s cap on.

It’s cute, the purple and pink ends each tipped with a silver bell. They ring when I toss my hair over one shoulder, the curls tickling the bare skin between my shoulder blades. There was not a lot of fabric in that package, for it costing thirty bucks. What there is of it is thin as hell, and it sticks to me like water. I can even see the dimple of my belly button, which is only a few inches above where the skirt fans out into slashes, each of those carrying their own bell.

Brynn glances up from her toes, her skeptical expression falling away. “Fuck. You are a sexy clown.”

“Yep,” I agree. I know I am. People will be looking at me, which is nothing new. But they’ll be able to hear me, too. The bells will signal my entrance and exit, everybody’s eyes and ears full of Felicity Turnado. And maybe I can even feel good about myself, for one fucking second.

“Help me out?” Brynn asks, lifting her taco costume from where it’s propped in the corner. She’s wearing one of my leotards under it—a bright green one from when the dance studio did Peter Pan—and when her arms pop out the side and her head comes out the top, she’s the most awkward thing I’ve ever seen. And she’s thrilled.

“Ridiculous,” I tell her as she spins, apparently happy as she floats in bulky foam. “How am I going to get you into the car?”

“I’ll ride in the back,” she says. “Unless you’re too sexy to drive.”

Both our phones go off at the same time, the ringer we set for the school announcement system—“Fuck School,” by the Replacements—filling my bedroom.

“What the hell?” Brynn asks, echoing my thoughts.

It’s a Friday night. Everybody’s big plans are to head to the football game, then out to the Allan house. There’s no reason for the school to be calling.

“Oh my God, you don’t think they know about the party, do you?” Brynn asks, eyes wide above her tulle lettuce.

“Right,” I say, picking up my phone. “And they’re using the all-call system to warn us off. You’re a genius.”

I accept the call, as does Brynn, so Principal Anho’s voice is in stereo when she says: “Due to reports of a sharp increase in the flu within the district, the health department in coordination with the superintendent and myself have decided it is in the best interest of the public’s health to cancel this evening’s football game.”

“Awww . . .” Brynn’s face falls. I can’t imagine her disappointment at not being able to show her taco outfit to the whole town.

“We’ve still got the party,” I remind her. “And now we’ve got it sooner.”

I cut off Anho as she goes on about a possible mandatory curfew if the outbreak worsens, but Brynn leaves her phone on long enough for us to hear her cough, a wet throaty sound that definitely brought something up with it.

“Ew,” Brynn says, upper lip raised in distaste. She’s holding her phone farther away from herself now, like she’s afraid she can catch something through the speaker.

But I’m still stuck on the last thing Anho had mentioned—the possibility of a curfew. Cops in Amontillado tend to leave us alone. They know we’re drinking, but they don’t make a big deal out of it as long as we stay in the same place long enough to sober up. If the town council institutes a curfew, though, turning a blind eye won’t be something we can count on anymore.

A blind eye. I shudder, thinking of Tress’s grandpa and his dead white eye.

“Gross,” I say, without thinking.

“Yeah,” Brynn agrees, still holding her phone at arm’s length. “I think Anho