Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(30)

The cliques split off as fast as cockroaches when a light      shines. Ryan and a couple other guys relax at a table near the back as if      they’re God’s gift to women. Their expensive jeans and T-shirts that sport their      favorite moronic teams scream total jock. I hand my enrollment sheet to a      teacher deep in conversation with two more jocks. They discuss baseball,      football, basketball. Blah, blah, blah. It must be a male thing to talk about      playing with balls.

Lacy plops down at an empty table and kicks out a chair for      me to join her. “Ryan says you go by Beth.”

I fall into the chair and glance over at Ryan. He quickly      averts his eyes. My blood tingles—was he really staring at me? Stop it. The tingling fades. Of course he was. You’re the freak,       remember? “What else did Ryan tell you?”

“Everything. Meeting you Friday night. Yesterday with      Scott.”

Fuck. “So the whole damn school knows.”

“No,” she says thoughtfully. Lacy looks me over and I can      tell she’s searching for that pathetic girl from a long time ago. “He only told      me, Chris, and Logan. The one with dark hair sitting next to Ryan is my      boyfriend, Chris.”

“My apologies.”

“He’s worth it.” She pauses. “Most of the time.”

For four classes, people have ignored me. I helped the      situation by sitting in the back of each room and glaring at anyone who looked      at me for longer than a second. Lacy drums her fingers against the table. Two      thin black ponytail holders wrap her wrist. She wears low-rider jeans and a      green retro T-shirt imprinted with a faded white four-leaf clover.

“How many people have you told?” I ask her.

The drumming stops. “Told what?”

I lower my voice and pick at the remaining black paint on my      nails. “Who I am and why I left town.” I’m fishing. Because of the enrollment      slip, no one has called my name out in class and no one’s mentioned my uncle.      For today, I’m anonymous, but how long will that last? I’m also testing the      waters for the town gossip. Lacy’s dad was a police officer and he was the first      one to walk into the trailer that night.

“No one,” she says. “You’ll tell people about your uncle      when you’re ready. It’s sickening. No one gave a crap about Scott until the      World Series. Now everyone worships him.”

A group of girls break into laughter. The same type of purse      rests on the table in front of each perfectly manicured girl. Sure, the colors      and sizes of the purses are different, but the style is the same. The blonde      laughing the loudest catches me looking and I toss my hair over my shoulder as a      shield. I know her, and I don’t want her to remember me.

“Gwen’s still staring,” Lacy says. “It might take a few days      for the hamster wheel turning her brain to make the full circle, but she’ll      figure you out soon enough.”

I might appreciate her sarcasm if I wasn’t distracted by the      blonde. Gwen Gardner. The summer before kindergarten, Lacy’s mom suggested to      Scott that I go with Lacy to Vacation Bible School. I put on my favorite dress,      one of two that I owned, pinned as many ribbons as I could in my hair, and      skipped into the room. A group of girls in beautiful fluffy dresses surrounded      me as I introduced myself. To the tune of giggles and whispers from the other      girls, Gwen proceeded to point out every hole and stain on my beloved dress.

That was the high point in my relationship with Gwen. From      there, it went downhill.

“She still a bitch?” I ask.

“Worse.” Lacy’s tone drops. “Yet everyone believes she’s a      saint.”

“And I thought third grade sucked.”

Lacy snorts. “Imagine what middle school and training bras      were like with her. I swear the girl blossomed into a C-cup between fifth and      sixth grade. Thank God Ryan finally broke up with her last spring. I couldn’t      stand being within a foot of her a moment longer.”

Of course Ryan dated Gwen. I’m sure the break-up is      temporary and they’ll marry soon and create tons of other little perfect spawns      of Satan in order to torture further generations of people like me.

We lapse into an awkward silence. It’s strange talking to      Lacy. It used to be the two of us against the world. Then I left. I assumed, in      my absence, she’d become one of them—the girls who were perfect. She had the      potential to be one. Her parents had money. Her mom would have bought her the      clothes. Lacy was pretty and fun. For some insane reason, she stuck with me—the      girl who had two outfits and lived in the trailer park.