A & L Do Summer (5 page)

Okay, maybe he scares me, too. Ferret is disgusting and annoying, but Buster is pure evil. From reading the police calls section of the
Cottonwood Creek Gazette
I know Buster's been busted for vandalism, assault, criminal mischief, and public intoxication. I've heard rumors that he's done a lot worse, and the crap he pulls at school is enough to convince me. I've seen him trip guys and elbow them in the gut just because they're within reach. Girls walk to class in pairs as protection against Buster cornering them in the stairwell for his idea of romance. Two weeks ago he aimed his truck at a squirrel crossing the street. I wouldn't be surprised if he goes after small children, too.

“Yeah, busted open,” Kong Chesterfield chimes in, punching his meaty right fist into the palm of his left hand. Having reached his conversational limit, Kong stops palm-punching to swat at a swarm of early-rising gnats.

Laurel and I catch each other's eyes, and my uneasiness comes out in a giggle. Kong's nickname came from his monstrous size, sloping forehead, and inept ball handling on the basketball court. Buster is close to six feet tall, but the top of his head barely reaches Kong's chin. Kong has never looked more like King Kong swiping at planes in his signature death scene than he does now.

Ferret pokes his head under Kong's armpit. “What are you laughing at, Ash Rot?”

Laurel lifts her chin. “Look in a mirror, Ferret, and you won't have to ask.”

Buster spits a stream of tobacco on the sidewalk. “Quit trying to distraction us, bitches. We know what you did.”

I pull up a confused frown, which isn't difficult. Buster has four-letter words mastered. If he ventures beyond that, you'll need an interpreter. But he's also infamous for slamming guys into their lockers because they
might
be looking at him funny. Which means I keep my mouth shut.

“As usual, I have no idea what you're talking about, Buster.” Laurel bats her lashes in wide-eyed innocence, which totally works—with her left eye. The right one looks a little guilty.

“Cut the crap,” Ferret says. “Last night we went to a lot of trouble to pull off the most awesome stunt in this loser school's history. And it went off smooth as snot.”

Not the best choice of words for a guy with chronic booger issues.

“We got everybody here early to watch Hammond walk into a mess of pigs.” Ferret gestures at the crowd of before-school loiterers, which—now that I notice—is larger than usual.

With my hand half-covering my mouth, I mutter, “A herd.”

“What?” Ferret shoves a wad of greasy hair behind his oddly tiny ear.

I lower my hand. “A group of pigs is called a herd, not a mess.”

Kong scratches his armpit. “It was supposed to be pigs and a mess,” he observes.

Ferret gives him a look that's half-frown, half-disbelief. “So the senior class is here bright and early to see Hammond get trampled by the three little pigs, and what do they see?”

“An exceptionally lovely sunrise?” Laurel suggests.

“Nothing,” Ferret snarls. “No pig crap, no pigs, no nothing.”

Buster shifts his chaw to his other cheek. “Which makes us three look bad in front of all our friends.”

Does the guy have a clue how many ways Laurel could go with that comment? Before she opens her mouth, I give her the “Don't You Dare Say What You're Thinking” look.

A smile creeps across Kong's face. “Except there is pigs, Buster. They're right here in front of us.”

Ferret snorts with laughter. It takes Buster a few beats longer to get the joke. Then he claps Kong on the back. “You're right, buddy. But nobody's interested in looking at their ugly faces.”

I shift my American history text to my right hand. Maybe I couldn't get all three of them, but I could shorten Ferret's nose by a couple of inches before Buster flattened me.

Laurel beats me to it. She pulls a can of pepper spray from her purse and aims it at Buster. “You butt crusts have brightened our morning, but now it's time for you to go. Walk away by the time I count three, or you'll be spitting pepper for a week.”

Buster puffs out his chest. “Come on, guys. Let's get outta here before people start thinking we're with these bitches.”

Bile rises in the back of my throat. Cissy Russell told half the junior girls that Buster tried to rape her at a party last winter. Being “with him” is close to the worst thing I can imagine.

Buster spews a gob of tobacco at our feet. Laurel and I jump apart, but brown drops land on our bare toes. My stomach tries to turn itself inside out, and I'm grateful I didn't have time for breakfast.

Buster swaggers away with Kong knuckle-dragging in his wake. Ferret lags behind. Buster is their evil leader, Ferret's the oversize mouth, and Kong is the brainless muscle. Put them together and you've got a swaggering, foul-mouthed, bullying Buttferk.

“This isn't the end of it.” Ferret raises his upper lip to show off his pointed little teeth. “You can't mess us up like that and get away with it.”

“Oh, I'm pretty sure we can,” Laurel counters. “Your parents made a mess of you, and nothing happened to them.”

I clear my throat. “Well, actually, something did happen to Ferret's parents. They got saddled with him for the rest of their lives.”

“Excellent, Aspen!” Laurel and I bump fists.

Ferret's so mad his eyes are crossing. “Laugh it up, tree scabs. But when my buds and I decide all the ways we're going to get even, we'll see who's laughing.” He favors us with a parting snarl before he turns and hurries after Buster and Kong.

I watch him go with a queasy feeling in my stomach. “So, do you really think Buttferk will be out for revenge?”

“If they are, I hope Ferret posts their plans on Facebook.” Laurel sends a puff of air into her bangs. “Being stalked is exactly the kind of drama we need to get us noticed.”

“Yeah, I'm hoping for that, too. When the police find our bloody corpses, they'll just check your news feed and know exactly who to arrest.”

Don't ask me how the morning passes. I shuffle from class to class in a sleep-deprived haze. The absolute second I get home, I'm going to hit my bed and not move a muscle until tomorrow.

Which makes this the worst possible day to have gym class.

Normally I don't mind gym, although I'm required to gripe about it like everyone else. We're two weeks into an archery unit, which—in spite of my stringy arms—I don't suck at. But a person in my semi-comatose condition should not be wielding anything that resembles a lethal weapon. Laurel and I hang at the end of the line of shooters, where we plan to stay until the period ends.

Eyes closed, my face lifted to the warm sunshine, I'm wondering if it's possible to sleep standing up. I scoot my feet apart for balance and let myself sway from side to side.
I'm lying in a hammock by the ocean, letting the gentle salt breeze rock—

“God, Aspen, you look like Death's ugly stepchild. I mean it. I bet the Grim Reaper has lighter circles under his eyes.”

So much for the ocean breeze. When I open my eyes, Laurel is studying me with a horrified expression. “Thanks, Laurel. I thought I couldn't possibly feel worse, but you just pushed me past that barrier.”

“Hey, Piedmont, come here.” Tessa Chandler, one of Cottonwood Creek's party girls, hooks a thumb at Laurel. She's lounging on the grass under a tree, filing her nails. “We need to talk.” Tessa's the only high school student—male or female—with smaller boobs than mine. That should make her one of my favorite people, but it doesn't.

Laurel nudges me, and we head over.

“Not her, just you,” says Tessa's best friend, Wynter Green. People make fun of my name, but they let her slide. Just shows how much you can get away with if you're popular.

Laurel stops in her tracks. “No thanks. If you want to talk to me, Aspen comes, too.”

Tessa and Wynter look at each other with raised eyebrows.

“That's
your
problem.” Wynter's nostrils twitch like somebody passed gas. Her dark brown hair and eyebrows are tiger-streaked with platinum, and her eye shadow matches. Her boobs look like grapefruit halves poking out of her pink V-neck tee.

Tessa spreads her fingers to better admire her talons. “Bring her if you have to.” I've always envied her olive skin and wavy blue-black hair, but no torture has been devised that would make me admit it.

Before I can say, “I'd rather stick my tongue in a food processer than talk to those two sluts,” Laurel has my arm in a vise grip and is dragging me over. She thinks Tessa and Wynter stand at the pinnacle of the popularity pyramid. Manny tells me they're more familiar with the horizontal position.

Once we arrive at their magic tree house, I notice that the popularity princesses have made themselves a mat out of opened textbooks. Last year I spilled one drop of Pepsi on my algebra book and had to pay a two-dollar fine. Twenty bucks says they'll wiggle out of paying for all those broken spines.

They leave us standing while Tessa files her nails and Wynter adds another coat of lipstick. Just as I'm about to execute a quick turnaround and kick dirt in their faces, Tessa speaks.

“This is the situation,
Laurel,
” she says, using an orange stick to push back her cuticles. “When you started school last fall, Wynter and I were somewhat interested. Your look isn't awful, and—since you're from Chicago—we thought you had more potential than the bumpkins who've lived here forever.” Tessa flicks her eyes toward me.

“Unfortunately,” Wynter takes up the narrative, “you disappointed us with your poor choice of friends.”

Hmm. Who can they be talking about?

It's Tessa's turn again. “Until last week, when we read your post on Facebook …”

Am I the only person in school who didn't see Laurel's cyber Pig Proclamation?

“… and we thought you were getting it together.” Tessa sticks the tip of the orange stick in her mouth, which seems borderline gross to me. “Pigs in Hammond's office would have been too perfect.”

Wynter adjusts her bra to give “the girls” more exposure. One more adjustment and their pink noses will be getting sunburned. “But, after all the hype, you disappointed us again. Although,” she pauses for effect, “I heard that a trash can outside the teachers' lounge was crammed full of shredded toilet paper this morning. And one of the senior girls stepped in a gross pile of stuff in the elevator. Almost like something went on here last night.” She locks eyes with Laurel. “Do you know anything about that?”

Laurel is so eager to please that she's practically wagging her tail. “Well, actually, we—”

“Heard that rumor too,” I cut in, “but it doesn't have anything to do with pigs.” I search for a plausible story. “This morning I overheard two of the custodians saying a bunch of sophomore girls sneaked in Saturday morning and TP'ed the teachers' lounge. The girls were on their way out of the building when Principal Hammond stopped them and asked what they were doing.” I can't believe this total BS is coming out of my mouth. “Of course, one of them broke down and confessed, and they had to clean it all up.” Laurel is gaping at me like I've sprouted another pair of arms.

Wynter leans back on her elbows and studies me from under her fake eyelashes. “You're saying nothing at all happened last night?”

“Not as far as I know.” I hope my quivering stomach doesn't come up with a different story.

Wynter looks at Laurel again. “I don't know anything either,” Laurel says glumly.

“So, instead of partying with us this summer, I guess you and Poplar”—Tessa twitches her upper lip at me—“will be sitting in her backyard watching the grass grow. Unless, of course, you find a way to convince us that you're ready to move up to the big leagues.”

Laurel's eyes are bright. Her overeager expression reminds me of Carmine hoping for a treat. “Now that you bring it up, I'm sort of planning—”

“Her name's not Poplar,” Wynter interrupts. “It's UnPoplar. Which she totally is.” She and Tessa laugh.

Without waiting for Laurel, I stomp over to the archery line. Getting my hands on a lethal weapon is looking like a good idea after all.

FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, I'M PEEVED AT LAUREL BECAUSE
she didn't stand up for me when Tessa and Wynter dissed me. I'm even more pissed off that she hung around talking with them for at least five minutes after I walked away. So after school I go home instead of hanging out at her place like I usually do.

With the stress of school behind me for today, mind-numbing fatigue sets in. As I open the front door—so, so softly—I can almost see the dotted blue lines along the floor and up the stairs to my room. All I have to do is follow the path to fourteen hours of absolutely essential sleep.

Not daring to breathe, I swing the door shut gently, gently. It closes with a click so faint that radar couldn't pick it up.

Mom bursts out of the family room like a jack-in-the-box.

“Hello! I'm glad you're home.” She waves a limp rag in greeting. In her other hand she's holding a spray bottle of all-surface cleaner. After we cleaned all weekend, what can possibly be dirty?

“Carmine has been scratching at the back door ever since I got home from work an hour ago. Your dad said he rolled in something and can't come in until you give him a bath. So hurry up before he scratches all the paint off the door.”

Any other time I'd try to talk my way out of it, but lack of sleep has stupefied my brain. Mom won't leave me alone until I give Carmine his imaginary bath. “Okay. As soon as I change.”

My foot is moving toward the bottom step when she says, “While you're walking Carmine, you'll need to drop by Miriam Simmons's house and give her an invitation to Manny's party.”