CHAPTER 2
My stomach lurched again as I wondered for the eightygazillionth time if I’d gotten a callback. I had to have made it. I was Beth Frasier, current class valedictorian (and I intended to stay that way, despite the fact that Clayton Greene was one measly little grade point behind me). I was the newspaper editor. I could dissect frogs, conjugate Latin verbs, and recite from memory every one of the Best Picture Academy Award winners. I’d taken first place in the State Science Fair for two years running, and I repeatedly beat my brilliantly geeky father at chess. I did not fail. And I really, really, really didn’t want to be proven wrong by a grown woman named Ladybell.
Honestly, why was I doing this to myself? The uniforms were goofy, and did I really want every guy in school staring at my rear?
Okay, let’s not answer that one. Just so I can keep an ounce of dignity.
At any rate, as soon as Ladybell left, Jenny and I started forcing our way across the caf, which sounds a lot easier than it is, considering the student-to-square-foot ratio. I stopped and looked around, searching for a linear path to the bulletin board. That’s when I saw Clayton Greene. I stiffened, then immediately relaxed. So what if he was there? I mean, it wasn’t as if we were graded on lunch. And he had to eat, too, right?
I told myself that the funny feeling in my stomach came from unexpectedly seeing my GPA nemesis. What else could it be? Then I tapped Jenny’s back and told her to move on. She told me that she couldn’t because someone had spilled a tray and was bent over trying to pick up bits and pieces of congealed green Jell-O salad. Gross.
Since we were stuck, I let my eyes turn back to Clayton. This time, I told myself I was simply reconnoitering. After all, we were fighting for the valedictorian slot, right? It was my academic responsibility to keep an eye on him.
He was sitting at a table with some other kids, but he didn’t look like he was with the other kids, if you know what I mean. Instead, he was hunched down, a book open in front of him and his lunch all but ignored.
While I was scoping out Clayton (all for the purpose of protecting my class rank), Chris Freytag and Ennis Walker approached his table. They’re both on the football team, they both date cheerleaders, and they’re both completely obnoxious. (And, yes, I realize that the idea of joining the drill team and doing dance routines to support these obnoxious cretins is a bit hypocritical, but I had my transcript to think about.)
Actually, it’s a miracle I recognized them at all. They both were wearing oversized burnt-orange sweatjackets emblazoned with a picture of Bevo, the University of Texas’s longhorn mascot. The jackets had hoods, and they had them up, covering their heads and hanging over to even cover their faces. Honestly, they looked like someone you’d see in a movie about South Central Los Angeles. Not in the cafeteria at Waterloo High.
I figured Ennis and Chris would pass right by Clayton’s table (they’re not exactly buds, if you know what I mean), but I was wrong. They stopped right across from Clayton, who didn’t even look up. I smiled at that. Clayton might be my nemesis and a major geek, but he’s as cool as they come.
Turns out, though, that they weren’t interested in Clayton. Instead, Ennis accidentally-on-purpose dropped his Jell-O salad on Richie Carter’s head. Richie’s on the debate team and usually stars in the school musical. He’s a nice guy, not one of “the” popular kids, but not shunned either.
He’s also gay. Not that he advertises it, but everyone knows. Nobody cares. Well, except maybe for Chris and Ennis. But they’re brain-dead jocks; the phrase “minding their own business” really wasn’t all that familiar to them.
“Aw, man,” I heard Ennis say, as green goo dripped down Richie’s neck. “Sorry about that, dude.”
“Come on, Ennis,” Chris said. “He’s not worth it.”
“Not worth it? But look how funny he looks,” Ennis said. “And isn’t ‘queer’ another word for ‘funny’?”
“Just like ‘Ennis’ is another word for ‘asswipe,’ ” Richie said, sending a wave of shocked whispers coursing around the room.
“Whoa!” Jenny said.
“He’s going to get his face smashed in,” I said. Richie’s a nice guy, but I was thinking common sense wasn’t his strong suit. Not if he was provoking Chris and Ennis.
I started in that direction, then stopped as Clayton pushed his book aside. “Hey, Ennis,” he said. “You’ve got some of that Jell-O on your jacket. Hang on, I’ll get it for you.”
And as a confused Ennis looked down at his pristine burnt-orange jacket, Clayton got up, walked around the table, grabbed an uneaten bowl of Jell-O off Richie’s tray, and dumped it all over Ennis’s front.
Ennis jumped back, hissing with rage. Honestly! The dude was hissing! And even with the shadows from the hood, I could see that his whole face shifted, like he was going to explode with anger. And I’m certain I’m not imagining it, because I saw Clayton jump, too. Then Clayton grabbed Richie’s arm, pulled him up, and started to drag him out of the caf.
“You better haul ass, Clayton-queerboy,” Ennis said. “This ain’t over.”
He jerked Chris’s shoulders, and they both headed out the way they came, shoulders hunched, their backs and heads covered in burnt-orange sweatshirts.
“Whoa,” Jenny said.
“Homophobic scum-sucking jerks,” I muttered. “But man, I have to give Clayton his props. Did you see Ennis’s face?”
“He was pissed.”
“He was livid. But he also looked like he was on drugs or forgot to use his Proactiv or something.”
Jenny cocked her head. “You know, I never see Ennis in first period anymore. Hungover? Strung out? Maybe the Waterloo Watcher should look into that. If he’s using, it would be the Watcher’s civic duty to report that to the masses.”
She smiled, and I did, too. Because we both knew that even if Principal Phillips heard about the whole gay-baiting thing, Ennis would only get detention. But drug use? Well, that could cost Chris or Ennis their precious football.
We moved on then, toward the bulletin board, but I could tell Jenny’s mind had drifted to her blog.
“What are they doing skipping classes and still playing football anyway?” I said, since my mind was still on the jerks.
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Coach Dunne probably hired tutors so his precious players could get their beauty sleep.”
We both had a good laugh at that, because Chris and Ennis might be football gods, but they are so not beautiful.
After that laugh, though, I really did forget about Chris and Ennis. Because we’d reached the bulletin board. And all I could think about now was not throwing up.