Chapter Text
It started with a harmless game. Smash or pass was a game that almost every boy in ninth grade had played at least once. But it was Logan started the whole charade. It wasn't unusual though, because Logan started all the trends, being the most popular guy in eighth grade at Westbrook Junior High. Sometimes I thought even the school if it wasn't for Mark Windham. Even girls in ninth grade liked him. Aside from 40 percent of the school's crush, resident jock, and "the man", Brett was one thing and one thing only to me: lab partner.
Back to the story though, Brett and his posse, or the Brett Band as I like to call them, were goofing off in science as usual, playing Smash or Pass. As I did all our work (it didn't bother me because his work would've lowered our grade with his work ethic.) and he sat around lazily, all was well. Until Collin Gardner looked at me for more than two seconds and whispers to Logan. Jason and Adam lean in too. My heart picks up the pace as I continue our work while sneaking glances at the group. It couldn't be happening in less than ten seconds, but Brett stares me down, turns around, and violently shakes his head. It feels like I have been slapped in the face, punched in the stomach, drop-kicked to the ground. Any kind of pain that happened suddenly. Jason leans back throwing his head as he laughs, knocking into the encapsulated chemicals. The green chemical seeps into my hands, turning them a bright turquoise. Mrs. Zimmerman rushed over.
"Now what do you call this? She points to my itching hands. Logan, in all his glory, gives an answer.
I open my mouth, ready to report both of them and to receive my well-earned sympathy. But no words come out.
"Th-they, h-he," I point fingers and blubber, but my anger was getting the best of me.
"She knocked over our project and I was trying to help her," Logan.
"Go to the nurse," she taps my shoulder. As I sulk down the hallways, I plan to get revenge on them and anyone who sided with them.
The nurse said my hands would return to their normal color and that the itching would stop. That wasn't what was bothering me though. If someone other group of guys had ruined my experiment, grade, and hands at the same time, would the class have reacted differently? Was it just that "it guy" aura that surrounded Brett and everyone close to him that held them at a higher level than everyone who did and didn't worship them? I ponder this as I make my way to the cafeteria.
The cafeteria is a large room set out with 5 bustling lunch lines and rectangular tables scattered all over the room. In the center of it all, the lays one table that is a circle. The outcast table. But only the most popular kids and sports teams that sit at that table. I'd never seen anyone try to sit at the table, but I doubt it would go well. As I arrive at my usual table there is no one I need to talk about this with more than my best friends. The four of us have been a group for as long as I can remember, well, third grade. There was Rebecca Goldstein first, who had dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes, she was a total babe, and she knew it. She had a great body too, but to be fair, playing tennis for two hours a day twice will do that for you. Then there was Kat Hansen, a little crazier than the rest of us, but we loved her for it. Kat had short light brown hair with blonde highlights and vibrant green eyes. She didn't really care much about appearance though, and often dressed weirdly. After Kat there was Georgia Michaelson, my best friend in the group. Georgia was the practical one, the one who kept us out of too much trouble. She had brown hair too and blue eyes. She just always looked neat and in order. Finally, there was me, Jessica Carpenter. I guess I didn't really have a role in the group, and I didn't really look anything like them, with dark hair and amber eyes. Most people say I have that 'girl next door' look. I guess they're right the only things in my closet were over sized jerseys and t-shirts, jeans, leggings, shorts, and sneakers.
"What are you guys doing?" I ask.
"Playing truth," Rebecca replies.
"You mean truth or dare?"
"No, we're just doing truth since we can't really do anything of sorts like a dare in the cafeteria. I'll log you on," she smiles. She reached for my phone and signed me on, the first question I got was to say who was the worst dressed player (Kat), then who was the most boy-crazy (Rebecca). The third question asked me to rate everyone playing from 1-10. Ugh, last semester that's what all the guys were doing to girls. And I was never brave enough to listen to what they rated me. But I could rate, and take a rating, from my girls. Kat had pretty eyes, so I gave her a six. Georgia had hair like Kat's, but it was quite thin. She reminded me of a baby sort of with her round face and pale skin. Her eyes were a bright blue, so I'd give her points for that. I give her a seven though. Rebecca was easily the prettiest of us all. I give her an eight. I was the last person to submit my response. I felt bad because I'd rated Kat the lowest out of anybody, but good because I rated Georgia the highest. I was expecting to see something sort of a five or six in under my name. But I, Jessica Campbell, had been rated an 8.5. I hated being the friend everyone took pity on.
"You guys don't have to lie to me," I muttered. Georgia and Kat rolled their eyes.
"I think you don't give yourself enough credit," Kat sighed. I thought about myself for a second. I guess was average, with amber eyes and thick black hair. But nothing special. My nose wasn't big, but it wasn't little like Rebecca's. I was small in size though, if that's the kind of thing people like nowadays.
"Yeah right," I say. "let's act like I'm not five foot two."
"It's called being petite," Georgia chimed. I noticed that Rebecca hadn't stopped staring at her phone since the results came in. I reached over and seized it from her hands.
"Come on, are you really bothered by results from a game?" I ask.
"N-no," she stuttered. "I just don't have anything to say." I looked at her before returning to the conversation with Georgia and Kat.
"Do you guys really think-" I was interrupted.
"What could bring me up half a point?" Rebecca murmured. Was she jealous? I wondered. She did have a habit of getting salty when she lost at something but never with one of us. Besides, since when were our looks a competition? It was the first time someone else might be considered the best looking in the group, and though she was trying to hide it, I could tell it was getting under Rebecca's skin.
"So, I got rated an 8.5 and you got an 8," I acknowledged. "The guys obviously don't think so," I mumbled. Rebecca's mood changed instantly. She was always up for gossip.
"Explain, now!" she leaned forward. I told them what happened in chemistry and they couldn't stop gaping when I had finished.
"Maybe you inferred wrong?" Kat suggested. I prayed she was right. But I knew she wasn't.
"Kat," Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Let's be realistic. She doesn't exactly dress like the belle of the ball. And her personality won't reel 'em in." What was Rebecca acting like this for?
"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," Georgia inquired.
"Yeah," Kat declared. "You've been grumpy since first period."
"You guys have been on my case all of lunch," Rebecca countered. "I think I'll eat in the library today." As she sulked off, I couldn't help thinking of what she said. Was it true? Was I so drab that guys didn't care for me? Georgia snapped me out of my thoughts.
"As much as I hate to say it," Georgia sighed, "She has a point." I looked at her. How long had they been thinking this?
"Well," I smiled. "Then how about after school we go shopping. You guys can pick out my clothes."
"I can't," Kat piped up. "R and I are going to tennis practice." I turned to Georgia.
"I'm free," she answered.
"So, it's set. Kingston plaza at 5 o'clock." The bell rang, and we all dispersed. I knew I had fourth period with Rebecca, so that was going to be awkward. The argument would blow over before school was over though, like it always did. Rebecca and I crossed paths in the hallway.
"Hey Jess," she called. "I'm sorry about acting like that at lunch." I smiled. No matter how rambunctious or wild Rebecca got, she always apologized.
"It's fine," I decided. "Let's go." When we got into class and were looking for a place to sit down, Rebecca lightly shoved me into the seat a row from the back. She sat next to me.
"What was that for?" I inquired.
"So you could sit next to Brett."
"What? You're the one that likes him."
"Yeah, but I would freak out if he sat too close."
"Rebecca, Brett Armstrong isn't some sort of god. Talk to him or don't, that's your choice. Making me your wing woman isn't."
"I'm sorry, but I really wanted to be close to him. Jess, look at him." Brett wasn't ugly, to be honest. He had the average jock's crew cut in in dark brown, almost black, and brown eyes. Cute, I guess, but not in the god-like manner girls at this school credited him to be.
"Sorry about your hands," he whispered. I didn't think the event was important enough to him to remember, but he did.
"It's fine," I responded. It wasn't fine. That wasn't what he needed to apologize for.
"Do you have the answer to number fourteen?" he asked. I was tired of him.
"Do you even plan on making it to tenth grade?" I retorted.
"Jeez, it was just a question, "he mumbled. Girls all over the room were shooting me dirty looks. "Jeez," I smiled. "It was just a joke!" That got most girls to look away, but some devoted fan girls didn't forgive me. He breathed a sigh of relief and shoved his paper on my desk. He turned to talk to Morgan Murphy, a cheerleader. I pushed his paper back on his desk. He looked bewildered.
"I offered to help you with your work, not do it for you," I snapped.
"Call me," Morgan was glaring at me. I didn't care. He turned to me and put his paper between us, finally. As we went over algebra, he finally seemed to understand something other than lacrosse or the Superbowl.
"Hey," he looked up from his paper and at me. "You play girls lacrosse, right?" I nodded and returned to the work.
"Subtract y from h and you get-" I was cut off.
"So you know hard it is to balance sports and school right, especially with the best sport," he concluded.
"Mindful observation. Back to the math," I was getting annoyed.
"Can you forget about the math for a second?" he begged. He pushed his paper away from the both of us.
"You never want to do the work," I grumbled.
"Coach says I need to find a tutor or bring my grades up someway else. You were the first person I had in mind," he begged. Who was this kid? Obviously, he was trying to guilt trip me into tutoring him. And the whole student body would be against me if I didn't. But I really didn't want to see him any more than I had to. "How about Wednesday?" I didn't even say yes!
"I'm not tutoring you," I sneered. "Now leave me alone."
"It would be an experiment." If you hate it that much you can still get the credit most people earn in a year. If it doesn't bother you, than I can stay on the team. Look, I'm not getting onto varsity next year by being benched. Would you at least consider it?" he pleaded. I felt bad. But in power at the same time. Anyone who knew me knew that I couldn't say no to power.
"Friday at three pm in the library," I sighed. "Don't be late."
Georgia and I called an Uber to Kingston plaza. There were too many stores to choose one.
"We could start at H&M," Georgia decided.
"Or we could start at Hilly's," I countered.
"The thrift store?"
"The thrift store," I confirmed. When we got inside Hilly's turned out to be busy with old women and vintage artists and teachers.
"Why are we here?" Georgia questioned.
"To look around," I explained.
"For what? Secondhand clothing?" Georgia scrunched her nose at the thought. Her parents were relatively wealthy.
"No, for things you can't buy from real stores, like this notebook," I picked up a light pink notebook with blue filigree in the middle in between the filigree. I couldn't pronounce the last name, but it didn't bother me. Sometimes when I came here, I liked to look for used diaries and read about other people's events in life. Sometimes they inspired me to do things of my own.
Georgia and I called an Uber to Kingston plaza. There were too many stores to choose one.
"We could start at H&M," Georgia decided.
"Or we could start at Hilly's," I countered.
"The thrift store?"
"The thrift store," I confirmed. When we got inside Hilly's turned out to be busy with old women and vintage artists and teachers.
"Why are we here?" Georgia questioned.
"To look around," I explained.
"For what? Secondhand clothing?" Georgia scrunched her nose at the thought. Her parents were relatively wealthy.
"No, for things you can't buy from real stores, like this notebook," I picked up a light pink notebook with blue filigree in the middle in between the filigree read Alexis Muoka's diary. I couldn't pronounce the last name, but it didn't bother me. Sometimes when I came here, I liked to look for used diaries and read about other people's events in life. Sometimes they inspired me to do things of my own.
"What's the point in purchasing a filled-up diary?" Georgia asks. I clarify it to her, and we buy the notebook.
"Sorry Jess," Georgia apologizes, "but I don't think I want to go shopping for actual clothes anymore." I feel relieved. I really didn't want to go shopping in the first place. Plus I could get home and get started on this stranger's diary. I say goodbye to her and call an Uber. Apparently, I ran out of money on my account though. I leave the store and exit onto the strip of concrete that divides the parking lot from road. I call my mom and she picks up.
"Hello?" the phone rang.
"Hey mom-"
"Just kidding, leave a message please!" Wow, what a mature voicemail for a 35-year-old woman. Mom had me at 20, and she was always trying to "get her youth back" as she called it. Dad lives in Birmingham, Alabama with his wife and two boys. Mom obviously has no affection towards dad's new wife, but she never tries to spite her or talked bad about her. My parents divorced on good terms but dividing my time with them was always hard. I guess that's why people say don't get married at 18. Great, I thought. Now you're stranded, Jessica. A black Mercedes Benz drives by me, and I think nothing of it until it reverses back to me.
"Are you lost sweetie?" a middle-aged blonde woman asks. I smile. I go back and forth in my head. Don't take rides from strangers. But it's cold. It'll be colder when you're kidnapped and driven to a warehouse. My mind is trying its best to refuse but my body gives in.
"No, my crazy Uber canceled," I lie. She looks up like she's trying to decide what to do.
"Would you like a ride honey?" she asks. I answer yes, a little too quickly. She unlocks her door and I hop in. You shouldn't be doing this, I tell myself. I notice the white blonde-haired girl in the passenger seat. The woman catches me staring at who I'm guessing is her daughter.
"That's Ava," she speaks, "she's quiet today I guess."
"I'm not shy mom," Ava grumbles, "I already know her." I choke on my own spit.
"You do?" I yelp. This is bad. No, this is awful. I'm already the girl who tried to get Brett in trouble and insulted him when asking for help. I can't be the girl who hitchhikes with strangers who aren't really strangers.
"Yeah," she turns around. I recognize her instantly. Ava Mercier. Literally Madison's right hand woman. I can always tell her from the other cheerleaders because she has this white blonde hair with thinning ends that look to be bleached. "You're the girl who totally pretended to need help with your work so that you could talk to Brett," she glared at me. Eww. I hated when people spoke of Brett like he was something different.
"What's so special about Brett?" I wondered out loud. Ava turned gave me a pitying smile.
"I think you forget that everyone in this school is not equal. And you, Jessica, are not on the upper side of that scale," she said it in such a snooty tone that I could almost smell the condescending on her breath. I'm about to reply when the car slows to a halt.
"This is your ride?" Mrs. Stokes asks. I nod and she lets me out. I open the house to the smell of dozens of spices and Jamaican music ringing throughout my home. My mom sees me and immediately runs over to embrace me.
"I'm so sorry I only got your message a few minutes ago," she says. I want to demand something from her, but her regret seems sincere enough that I just forgive her. I go to my bedroom upstairs to my bedroom, which is filled with posters of rock stars and bands like Avril Lavigne and the Rolling Stones and open the diary. The diary is boring until I come across a page that looks rather think compared to the others. When I look closer, I realize that it's to pages.
I look around my room for something to break the sealed pages and I find a nail file. I finally pry open the page and it's as boring as the others. Until I get to the last paragraph and it talks about her starting a gossip page. "Think of it as shedding a little light on the popular kids," it reads, "like they do on us every day." I agree, but more importantly I know what I'm going to do t get revenge on Brett for lying to Mrs. Zimmerman. For now, I lay in my bed plotting and scheming, until I fall into a dreamless sleep.
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