me about it, but I don’t know what Dave’s problem is, and thinking about him only makes me feel gross inside. I tell the annoying classmates to shove it, and Madame Guil otine gets mad at me. Not because I told them to shove it, but because I didn’t say it in French. What is wrong with this school?
At lunch, I’m back in the bathroom stal , just like my first day.
I don’t have an appetite anyway.
In physics, I’m grateful we don’t have a lab, because I can’t bear the thought of St. Clair finding a new partner. Professeur Wakefield drones on about
black holes, and halfway through his lecture, Amanda gives an exaggerated stretch and drops a folded piece of paper behind her head. It lands at my
feet. I read it underneath my desk.
HEY SKUNK GIRL, MESS WITH ME AGAIN & I’LL GIVE YOU MORE THAN A SCRATCH. DAVE SAYS YER A SLUTBAG.
Wow. Can’t say anyone’s ever cal ed me that before. But why is Dave talking to Amanda about me? That’s the second time Amanda has said
something like this. And I can’t believe I’m being cal ed a slut for just kissing someone! I bal up the note and chuck it at the back of her head. For better or worse, my aim is so abysmal that it hits the back of her chair. It bounces and catches in her long hair. She doesn’t feel it. I feel the slightest bit better. The note is stil stuck in her hair.
Stil there.
Stil th—whoops. She shifts, and it fal s to the ground, but Professeur Wakefield chooses this moment to walk down our aisle. Oh, no. What if he finds it and reads it aloud? I real y, truly don’t need another nickname at this school. Next to me, St. Clair is also eyeing the note. Professeur Wakefield is almost to our table when he casual y slides out his boot and steps on it. He waits until the professeur strol s away before retrieving the paper. I hear him uncrumple it, and my face flushes. He glances at me for the first time all day. But he stil doesn’t say anything.
Josh is quiet in history, but at least he doesn’t switch seats. Isla smiles at me, and incredibly, this singular moment of niceness helps. For about thirty seconds. Then Dave and Mike and Emily huddle together, and I hear my name thrown around while they look back at me and laugh. This situation,
whatever it is, is getting worse.
La Vie is a free period. Rashmi and St. Clair sketch for their art class while I pretend to bury my nose in homework. There’s a tinkly laugh behind me.
“Maybe if you weren’t such a little slut, Skunk Girl, you might stil have friends.”
Amanda Spitterton-Watts, the biggest cliché in school. The pretty mean girl. Perfect skin, perfect hair. Icy smile, icy heart.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
“You.”
“Excel ent. Thank you.”
She tosses her hair. “Don’t you want to know what people are saying about you?” I don’t answer, because I know she’l tell me anyway. She does.
“Dave says you only slept with him to make St. Clair jealous.”
“WHAT?”
Amanda laughs again and struts away. “Dave was right to dump your sorry ass.”
I’m shocked. Like I’d ever sleep with Dave! And he told everyone that he broke up with me? How dare he? Is this what everyone thinks of me? Oh my God, is this what St. Clair thinks of me? Does St. Clair think I slept with Dave?
The rest of the week, I flip-flop between total despair and simmering rage. I have detention every afternoon, and every time I walk down the hal s, I
overhear my name spoken in hushed, gossipy tones. I look forward to the weekend, but it ends up being worse. I finished my homework in detention, so I
have nothing to do. I spend my weekend at the movies, but I’m so distraught that I can’t even enjoy it.
School has ruined cinema. It’s official.There’s nothing worth living for.
By Monday morning, my mood is so foul that I have the reckless courage to confront Rashmi in the breakfast line. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
“Excuse me?” she asks. “You aren’t talking to me.”