Chapter 1
I watched in horror as my veggie tortilla roll-up flew through the air and exploded onto three eighth graders.
“AAAGGGGHHH!” they howled.
Everyone jumped up. The cafeteria “cool” table looked like a crime scene. Roxxi, a major eighth-grade diva, seemed to be dripping blood, which was actually salsa. Her perfect white shirt was trashed.
“You—you—” Roxxi pointed at me, sputtering. “Sixth grader!”
At James A. Garfield Middle School, it was about the worst thing you could call someone.
“DON’T YOU DARE INSTAGRAM THIS!” Roxxi warned the crowd.
People held up phones anyway. Roxxi and her friends—all Fashion Club members—gasped and wiped avocado goop off leggings, shirts, and boyfriend sweaters. I tried to help scoop up the wreckage.
How could I have been so stupid?
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “So sorry!”
“She was EAVESDROPPING,” Roxxi snarled as shredded lettuce fell from her hair.
“Ohhhh!” An outraged murmur spread through the group. I crawled under the table to scrape up black beans with my bare hands. “Who is she?” someone asked. The name Becca Birnbaum was unknown to them.
Roxxi swung her head under the table. “Get up here! I want to talk to you!”
Ugh. I sat on the bench. Roxxi stood over me.
“Listen, twerp,” she said through gritted teeth. “What we say about prom is none of your business.”
I nodded, looking at the floor.
“Why do you care, anyway?” Roxxi’s voice dripped with mock sweetness. “You think someone’s going to ask you?”
The other girls broke into laughter. It was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
They were right—I had been eavesdropping. But not for the reason they thought.
It had all started in the lunch line, which snaked around the cafeteria table claimed by the most popular eighth graders. The “cool” crowd. As I got closer, I overheard …
“She could get anyone.”
“Why won’t she tell?”
“Probably some jock, or—”
I smiled. They were dishing the new hot topic: Who was Sloan “Selfie” St. Clair taking to prom? She was the most drop-dead beautiful, glamorous girl in school. Everything about Selfie—her mansions, her boyfriends, her Swiss summer camp—was the subject of gossip. Apparently, she had some big-deal date lined up for prom, but no one knew who it was.
I half listened as the line moved along. Various cute guys were mentioned: soccer players, country clubbers. And then …
“How about that guy Dinesh?”
My head snapped up.
“You know, the kid from India.”
I leaned in farther.
Someone said something I couldn’t hear. I moved over another inch.
WHOOOOOAA!
I lost my balance. My lunch tray flipped over, and the food went flying.
That’s when everyone screamed.
Getting back to my usual lunch table was a huge relief. My best friends, Rosa Hadid and Preston “Prezbo” Bollinger, had seen the whole thing. They gave me support, sympathy, and half a sesame bagel.
“Just ignore ’em,” Rosa said between pita bites. “Creeps.”
“Even if you were eavesdropping…” Prezbo shrugged. “So what? It’s not like you were releasing a deadly virus to destroy humanity. Or building an army of killer robots.” He watched a lot of movies.
“What were they saying that was SO interesting?” Rosa asked slyly.
No way was I mentioning Dinesh.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you know. Prom stuff.”
“Prom.” Rosa made a face. “The word makes me want to barf. If I have to hear any more about Selfie’s stupid date…” Rosa hated cheesy school activities and things that were too girlie. She preferred her souped-up bike, old army jacket, and flame-covered drum set.
Prezbo sucked on a chicken leg. “Prom’s a joke.”
“It’s for morons,” Rosa said.
They waited for me to trash prom, too.
Silence.
“Wait a minute…” Rosa moved closer, squinting at me. “Don’t tell me you actually … want to go?”
Copyright © 2020 by Holly Kowitt
