Trauma Queen (9 page)

Jada: “I don't. I don't even want to look at her.”

Ashley: “But don't you want to tell her off?”

Jada: “Why? So she can go running to her mommy?”

Hey, don't worry about that!

Ashley: “No. So she can understand how you feel.”

Jada: “She totally ruined my life, okay? There's nothing to understand. And honestly, you guys? As far as I'm concerned, Quinn doesn't even exist.”

When I hear the name
Quinn
, I gasp. (I mean, of course I'm relieved that they're not talking about
me
, but Quinn? Excuse me? Ruining Jada's
life
?) Then to cover up the gasp, I cough. Then I clear my throat.

The bathroom suddenly gets quiet. Maybe three seconds later, there's whispering.

“Helloooo?” Ashley calls loudly.

I freeze.

“Yoo-hoo. We know you're in there.
Hello?”

I yank off the chicken-pox shirt and pull on my Wile E. Coyote tee. Then I sort of shuffle out of the wheelchair stall like,
Yawn, I just woke up.

“Oh, hi,” I say casually. I pretend to clear my throat again, but this just makes me sound like Mr. Hubley, so I stop.

“Marigold?” Jada is staring. “Was that you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Were you listening to us?”

“What? No,” I say, my brain scrambling for an explanation. How could I possibly be hanging out in the wheelchair stall and not hear a single word of their conversation?
Improvise,
I hear Mom's voice say.
Just see where it takes you.
“I was meditating. I always meditate before homeroom.”

Megan laughs. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yes. I do a ton of yoga. It centers me.”

They stare.

“And grounds me. And helps me
. . . (focus!)
focus.”

Ashley points at my chest. “Like on getting dressed?”

“What?”

“Your top is inside out.”

“Oh.” I look down. “Whoops.” Another wardrobe fiasco, and I can't even blame this one on Mom.

“That's really, really embarrassing,” Ashley points out. “You should be so glad we noticed.”

“I am. Thanks a lot.”

“Because two days in a row . . .” She looks at Megan, who shakes her skinny head like,
Yeah. What a loser
.

My eyebrows spring into action.

“Listen, Marigold,” Jada says, fixing me with her hyper-sympathetic brown eyes. “In case you
did
overhear our conversation, and I'm not accusing you of spying or anything, you should probably know we were talking about Quinn Rieger.”

“Okay,” I say quickly. I pretend to be flicking my hair out of my face, but actually I'm wiping sweat droplets before they start running down my nose. “Thanks for telling me. But it's actually none of my—”

“You two had lunch together yesterday,” Ashley interrupts. “Don't you remember?”

They were watching where I sat? “Oh, right. I did. She doesn't say very much.”

“That's what you think,” Megan says.

“Anyway.” Jada smiles at me sweetly, “You just moved in and you don't really know anyone yet. So trust us on this: Be incredibly careful.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say. Flick.

“Don't feel sorry for Quinn,” Ashley says. “And make sure you don't tell her anything superpersonal.”

Megan nods. “And no matter how innocent she acts or what she says—”

The bathroom door bangs open. It's Layla. When she sees us, she grunts. Then she marches into the middle stall and slams the door.

Ashley and Megan give each other a look, but Jada just keeps smiling at me. “We can talk about this later,” she says. “We'll save you a seat at lunch.”

“Thanks.” That's it, I have GOT to stop using this word. “But I sort of made plans today,” I add desperately.

“Okay, so tomorrow,” Jada says, like she's writing it on her mental calendar. “Well, you guys, it's almost homeroom; we'd better go. Don't forget your top, Marigold.”

Then
poof
, the three of them are gone.

I let out a long, overdue breath and catch myself in the mirror. Not only is my tee inside out, but my jeans are unzipped, and my hair is all mussed and staticky from pulling clothes over my head. I look like an electrified zombie, which leads directly to the question: Why does Jada want me to eat at her table? So she can tell me more scary things about Quinn? What if I really, really don't want to hear them?

The middle stall door bangs open.

Layla looks surprised. “You're still here.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say.

“Why? Don't you want to run after them?”

“What for?”

“To join the pack.”

“Excuse me, but I'm not a dog.”

“I didn't say you
were a
dog
,” Layla says, squirting soap on her hands. “I just meant Jada never travels alone.” She rinses carefully, then rubs her hands dry on her ripped jeans. “So? You're going to sit with them tomorrow? And the day after? And the day after that?”

This is so insane I have to laugh. “I don't plan my lunches three days in advance. Why are you asking?”

She shrugs. She checks her mascara in the mirror. “I
think your shirt looks cool like that,” she says.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Inside out is ironic.”

Great. Now my cheeks are burning. “It's not supposed to be ironic. It's Wile E. Coyote.”

“Oh.” She runs her hands through the orange streak in her hair. “Then you actually like cartoons.”

“Just classic Looney Tunes. And
The Simpsons
. Why? Is that okay with you?”

“Hey, like whatever you want.” She turns and looks right into my eyes, almost the way Mom does. “Quinn didn't do anything wrong,” she says seriously. “So don't believe what Jada tells you.”

“She didn't tell me anything,” I protest, but Layla is already gone, kicking the door open with her pointy black boots.

I'm usually an expert at imagining disaster, but all morning long, whenever I wonder what Quinn could have done to
totally ruin Jada's life,
I draw a blank. And not because of what Layla said about not believing Jada; because somehow I know in my stomach that Quinn is innocent. I keep peeking at her—the way she tucks her wispy hair behind her ears, the way she chews on the cap of her pen, the way she looks up from her desk every once in a while, like she's afraid to catch people giving her the evil eye. But no one is ever looking at her; no one is even talking to her except Layla, and in class Layla is not what you would call chatty.

And then I watch Jada, laughing loudly, talking loudly, surrounded not just by Megan and Ashley, but by a rotating bunch of fashionista girls, and also a few of the jockiest boys. There's no way, I tell myself, that Quinn could be terrorizing Jada. Because just look at them: Alpha Girl and Outcast. Popular, Powerful, Pretty Girl and Girl Who Looks Like She's Going to Puke.

And I think:
Whoa. Now I'm sounding just like Mom
. Deciding who's right and who's wrong, who's good and who's bad, based on zero information, on how my stomach feels. I should stay out of this war, because I can't possibly have any clue what's going on. Also (no:
mainly)
because my only goal at Crampton Middle should be to keep a low profile, not make any enemies, and ride out what's left of the school year.

So at lunch I get a tray and park it smack in the middle of four girls from my gym class. They smile in a nice way and ask how it's going, how do I like Crampton so far, and isn't it gross how much the gym teacher sweats? Then they start talking about some TV show I don't watch. I'm thinking okay, well, who cares if I'm in the conversation, at least I've got camouflage, like a black-and-white horse hanging out in a herd of zebras.

But all of a sudden this fifth girl runs over and drags them off to a different table. Which means now I'm sitting here, exposed, surrounded by four deserted seats. And three tables away, Jada and Ashley and Megan and maybe ten of their closest friends are eating pizza, laughing their heads off. I'm pretty sure they haven't spotted me yet, but it's probably just a matter of time.

“These taken?” someone demands. I look up. Layla is standing in front of me, scowling, not even holding a tray. Incredibly, Quinn is right behind her, balancing a small leaning tower of Tupperware containers.

“I don't think so. They were taken a minute ago,” I add, as if that matters.

They sit. Quinn tucks her wispy hair behind her ears and starts disassembling her tower. Layla rests her chin on her knuckles. She's wearing silver thumb-rings, and I see her ears have, like, six studs per lobe.

“You fixed your top,” she announces.

I don't answer.

“It was better before. When you couldn't see the picture, it was kind of mysterious.”

“I thought you said it was ironic.”

“Ironic, mysterious. Whatever. So how's your lunch?” She narrows her smudgy eyes at my sandwich.

I shrug. “It's okay.”

“That's it? That's, like, your complete review of our four-star cuisine?
”

“It's turkey. There's not much to say about it.”

“Yeah, there is. Sure there is. Be poetic.
It tastes like old socks. It tastes like belly button lint. It tastes like warmed-over sewage with a subtle splash of Windex—”

“Layla,” Quinn says softly. “Leave her alone, okay?”

“Hey, I'm just trying to make conversation. Why does she always have to be so snarky?”

Me? This girl is like the Supreme Goddess of Snark, and she's calling
me
snarky?

“It's just a school sandwich,” I say in a jokey way. “What do you want me to say:
This sandwich reminds me of Paris, the long walks we took in the rain, that little café near the park . . .
?”

Layla guffaws. “Yeah,” she says. “That's exactly what you should say.”

For some strange reason now I feel proud of myself, like it's a huge big deal I made her laugh. I nibble on my flabby bread crust and watch Quinn stir the food inside the containers, then carefully unfold a napkin. It's fascinating, like a Japanese tea ceremony, which I know about because Dad photographed one once.

Quinn notices I'm staring at her. “I'm vegan,” she explains, like she's apologizing. “That means—”

“She eats veegs,” Layla interrupts. She sticks her fingers into one of the containers. “Yum, yum. Zitty.”

“Ziti,”
Quinn corrects her. “With tamari sauce. Use a fork, Layla, okay?”

“I hate forks.” She pops a drippy ziti into her mouth. “In fact, I've decided that from now on I'm anti-utensil.”

“Really?” I say. “Why?”

“Why not? They didn't use them in the Middle Ages.”

That's so illogical I have to smile. “Who's talking about the Middle Ages?”

“I am,” Layla says. “The Middle Ages
rock
.” She grabs one of Quinn's carrot sticks and points it at my chest. “Want to join my Jousting Club?”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm starting one this spring. It'll be much, much funner than all that regular after-school crap.” She smirks. “So? Are you signing up?”

“Not if you joust with greasy fingers.”

“Hey, I never said I was anti-napkin.”

All of a sudden someone barks, “Yo, Bananas, move over.” And takes over the empty space next to me before I can say,
Don't call me Bananas
or
There isn't any room,
Brody
. Ethan sits down too, across from Brody, who shoves his tray in the middle of the table, like he owns it.

Then he gobbles a giant bite of cheeseburger and grins so you can see smears of ketchup on his teeth.

“Okay, that's it,” Layla announces. “I have just now officially
become a vegan.”

“Actually, I don't think they had vegans in the Middle Ages,” I say.

Everyone looks at me.

“Hey, Bananas speaks,” Brody says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Awesome.”

“Of course she
speaks
, you salivating carnivore,” Layla says. “She's a poet.”