Chapter 1
Oh no. No, no, no, no. Not her. Please, God. NOT HER!
Anyone but her.
Five feet away from me, the most beautiful, popular girl in school howled in pain. Sloan “Selfie” St. Clair, the undisputed Queen of Cool, Goddess of Eighth Grade, was on the gym floor, writhing in agony—
Because of me. A lowly sixth grader.
“Owwwwwwwwww. Oooooh. Uggghhhhhhh.” She clutched her arm like I’d blown it off with a hand grenade. Her friends looked on in distress, and the gym teacher, Ms. Doyle, swooped in like a giant bird.
“Stay calm! Stay calm!” the teacher shouted. “Give us some SPACE, people!”
The girls around me gasped and looked nervous, like they could somehow be blamed for it, too.
I replayed the past two minutes in my head. We’d been playing volleyball, and a gym full of girls were yelling, “C’mon, Birnbaum! Hit a decent serve for once!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some Beautiful People—eighth graders—in the bleachers. What were they doing in our gym class?
I didn’t need the distraction. Besides being lousy at sports, I was somewhere between Misfit and Mathlete on the food chain. I gripped the ball in my sweaty hand. Don’t. Be. A. Total. Dork.
My stomach tensed as I wound up and—THOOMP!—whacked the ball as hard as I could. It veered sideways, hit an overhead light, and shot straight down. That was when I heard the scream.
“OWWWWWWWWWW!” Selfie wailed again, jolting me back to the present. She was on her back, clutching her arm and screaming. Someone whispered, “The ball hit Selfie, and she fell and hurt her arm! That girl did it.” I just stood there with my mouth open.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all people to clobber, why did it have to be an eighth-grade fashion icon who looked like she’d walked off the cover of Teen Vogue? The wild child who wore sunglasses inside and carried a jumbo coffee cup, Hollywood starlet–style, as if she’d been up too late the night before? Selfie had gotten her nickname from the pics she always took of herself: at a movie premiere, on the Tilt-A-Whirl, at a swim-up snack bar in Cancún.
Everyone had heard about …
Other rumors swirled around, too: She was offered a modeling contract. She had inspired a brand of blue jeans. She was dating a high school guy.
“You’re in BIG trouble.” Another popular girl, Roxxi Barron, wagged her finger at me. “Hitting an eighth grader. Now her arm’s probably broken.” She looked me up and down, taking in my untamed hair and no-name gym shoes. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Nobody,” I mumbled.
Who was I? An easy-to-ignore sixth grader at James A. Garfield Middle School—short and freckled, with red glasses, a flat chest, and a closet that looked like the sale rack at Value Village. Killing it in Model UN wasn’t exactly the path to popularity.
Ms. Doyle was still crouched next to Selfie as the girl’s sobs filled the gym. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward to apologize. “STAY BACK!” Doyle shouted, holding up her hand like a policeman.
Like a frightened mouse, I obeyed. There was nothing to do but stand there awkwardly. Roxxi kept shooting me dirty looks, as if the injury were a personal insult to all gorgeous, popular eighth graders.
“CLEAR THE WAY! CLEAR THE WAY!” Two uniformed ambulance guys burst through the gym doors, wheeling a stretcher. People looked shocked, panicked, and secretly thrilled. Nothing this exciting had ever happened in gym.
“You okay?” My best friend, Rosa Hadid, squeezed my arm. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, worried.
I shook my head.
“Try not to freak out.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”
The ambulance guys surrounded Selfie, poking, prodding, and asking questions. Her moans continued. Finally, one of them pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Possible right-side proximal to the scapula,” he said. “Rush the bus to Parkside.”
The hospital? Oh, God.
I tried to picture her there.
My stomach churned. Maiming the most popular girl in school was not the best game plan. At Garfield, it didn’t take much to get labeled radioactive. A roll of the eyes, a sarcastic giggle, a slide away from you on the school bus—any of these, done by the right person, could seal your fate for the next few years.
“What was the glam crowd even doing here?” I whispered to Rosa as the ambulance guys lifted Selfie onto a stretcher.
“Measuring the gym for Fall Frolic.” Rosa rolled her eyes. She disapproved of dances, pep rallies, or any event that involved cheesy themes and crepe paper.
The ambulance guys strapped Selfie in. Suddenly, they were flying across the gym. “COMING THROUGHHHHHHH!”
Her friends trailed behind, looking upset as the gurney crashed through the double doors. Roxxi glared back at me.
“You’re dead meat,” she hissed.
I believed her.
Copyright © 2017 by Holly Kowitt
