CHAPTER 3
I tried to ignore the bodies jostling against me, as I let my eyes skim the list, searching for Frasier. Danziger, Dell, Evans, Falk, Fossen, Frost, Garrison—
What?
No, no, no. That could not be right.
“Well?” Jenny said, moving around behind me. “Are you there?”
I ignored her and started over, this time running my finger down the list, one name at a time. And I started with “A”—just in case the folks down there in the gym weren’t real clear on how to alphabetize. No Frasiers. For that matter, no Beths or Elizabeths. Not from A to F. And not from F to Z.
The gymnasts in my stomach stopped flipping, morphing suddenly into solid, lead bricks. Bile rose in my throat, and I was certain I was going to be sick. Oh, God, I really was going to be sick!
I clapped my hand over my mouth and sprinted for the door, shoving people aside and ignoring their protests. Jenny pounded after me, slamming into the girls’ bathroom just as I shut myself up in the handicap stall.
“Beth? Beth! What happened?” Jenny was pounding on the door, but I wasn’t answering because I was too busy holding my stomach and trying not to barf. “Holy crap, Beth! Are you okay?”
This time, Jenny’s voice came from above me, and I looked up to see her peering over the side of the stall, obviously standing on the toilet next door.
I took a few deep breaths. “Yeah. I just—bad tuna fish, maybe.”
“Mmmm.”
I almost asked what she meant by that, but her head disappeared, and I remembered too late that I hadn’t actually touched my sandwich. I opened the stall door, and there she was again. I pushed past her toward the sink and splashed water on my face, all the while telling myself I was being pathetic. Unfortunately, my earnest little talk with myself wasn’t making me feel any better about being a total abject failure.
“It’s Ladybell,” Jenny said gently. “She probably hates you. I mean, she has to have read all those editorials you wrote last year.”
I nodded in agreement, hardly able to believe I’d ruined my chances for college by calling the drill team a robotocized group of Stepford Teens. I mean, sure, now I saw the error of my ways. But back then I’d had no idea I might actually want to join the cult.
“She shouldn’t have taken it personally,” I said. “I was only trying to incite the masses.”
“Authority figures hate it when you incite the masses,” Jenny said knowingly. Honestly, I think she had a point.
I drew in a breath, then smoothed my Tisch sweatshirt and wondered if that was as close as I’d ever get.
“Nobody in New York cares about drill teams,” Jenny said, trying to be kind. “And your transcript’s so full up they probably wouldn’t have even noticed one more extracurricular anyway.”
I shrugged, but it was halfhearted. Jenny was trying to be nice, but I knew the truth: the Nirvana That Is Tisch notices everything. They have to. The school is highly competitive. And it’s the little things that make the difference. If I didn’t have drill team, I’d have to figure out something else. But what?
I had no idea, and right then I didn’t have the energy to think about it. I’d think about it tomorrow after my ego had (hopefully) recovered a little.
“We’ve got class in fifteen,” Jenny said. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.
I started for the door, but Jenny held me back, then proceeded to doctor my face with the contents of her makeup kit. She says she doesn’t care about the fake ideal of beauty foisted upon us by Madison Avenue, but she still carries half of Sephora in her purse. She wiped off my smeared mascara, added some blush, and passed me a pot of lip gloss. I dabbed some on and reluctantly agreed that I didn’t look quite as pale, forlorn, and despondent. That’s the miracle of modern cosmetics—it totally erases all real emotion and makes women presentable to the world as happy little Stepford beings. (Okay, yes, I was still feeling surly about not getting called back.)
I reached out to grab the door, only to jump back as it was shoved forward, revealing Tamara McKnight in all her haughty, head-cheerleader glory. “Oh, hey,” she said. “I thought I might find you in here.”
That caught my attention. Because as far as I know, Tamara’s never had a reason to look for me in her life. Well, except when she wants something published in the school paper.
“Um?” Okay, granted, that wasn’t the most articulate of responses, but she caught me off guard. Plus, I wasn’t exactly myself right then.
“Am I supposed to stand here all day?” Her cool blue eyes bored into me. Man, I thought, does she really hate me that much? But when I looked again I saw nothing but bland indifference. “Move over and let me in.”
“Moving,” I said. I stepped to the left, planning to go around her and out the door, but she put her arm out, blocking my path.
I gritted my teeth and told myself that she couldn’t help being a bitch. She’d been overcome by the peroxide fumes from dyeing her hair since age five. “What do you want, Tamara?” I asked. “I’m really not in the mood.”
“I guess not,” she said, then stepped toward me. Since I’m all about personal space, I took a step backward. Behind her, the door swung closed, and there we were, Tamara, Jenny, and me, trapped in the girls’ bathroom. How cozy.
Tamara glided to the mirror—honestly! The girl glides!—and started to check her perfect makeup on her perfect skin. I half considered making a dash for the door. But I was curious now and stayed put. “What do you want?” I asked again.
She squinted at the mirror, then worked the edge of her finger at a microscopic little smudge of mascara. “I hope you aren’t too bummed. That you didn’t get called back for the drill team, I mean.”
“Right,” I said. “Like you even care.”
I heard Jenny make a little popping sound as she sucked in air. This was not the way I usually talked, even to people I consider the walking brain-dead. I’m nice. Everyone at Waterloo knows it. But today, I wasn’t feeling it.
“God, Beth,” Tamara said, actually deigning to turn away from her reflection and look at me directly. “What bug crawled up your butt?”
I was about to tell her that it was a bug named Tamara when the door opened again and Stacy Plunkett marched in, her raven hair pulled back in a clip. Stacy’s all about her hair. Jenny managed to find out that Stacy’s mom actually flies with her to some salon in Manhattan for haircuts. The story had been one of the most popular on the Waterloo Watch blog, and when someone asked Stacy about it in World Literature class, she just looked down her nose at them and said, “Well, of course it’s true!”
Me, I usually end up at Supercuts.
“Come on, Tam,” Stacy said. “What is taking so long?” Even though she was clearly irritated, she still managed to look bored. Actually, Stacy went through life looking bored. She’s dating Chris now, but before they hooked up, I’d have to say that she’d had more dates in her almost-eighteen years than I expected to have in my entire life.
Still, in my moments of late-night angst, I sometimes practice Stacy’s particular brand of ennui in the mirror. So far, I haven’t quite gotten it right. I figure that’s okay, because for all I know, the look causes some sort of brain degeneration. After all, Stacy’s actually dating Chris Freytag. And if that’s not evidence of diminished capacity, I don’t know what is.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Tamara said, more to herself than to me or Stacy. Why I was still standing there, I don’t know. She wasn’t talking to me anymore. But I’d been blessed with an audience with Queen Tamara, and once blessed, you don’t walk away until dismissed. Or some such nonsense.
“Just get on with it,” Stacy said. Her gaze shifted pointedly toward me. “Ask,” she repeated.
That got me curious. “Ask what?”
“Just chill, Stace,” Tamara said.
I held up a hand in a surrender gesture. Queen Tamara or not, this was getting old fast. “You guys have fun. I’m going to Latin.” I turned and headed toward the door.
“I know why you didn’t make the squad,” Tamara said.
I stopped walking. “I’m listening,” I said to the door.
That’s when she dropped the bomb, igniting a flash of both fury and awe the likes of which I’d never really experienced before. “Because I told Ladybell not to let you on.”