A List of Cages(17)

“When I was a freshman?”

I nod.

“Macbeth. Oh my god, it was such a freakin mess. So I guess you know, every freshman has to participate. They make the sets, the costumes, everything.”

I nod again.

“Well, obviously there aren’t nearly enough parts for everyone, so the English teachers just add them. Like when we did Macbeth, eighteen girls performed the parts of the three witches. It might’ve been okay, but we didn’t have after-school rehearsals till a couple days before the show—we just practiced in class. And since the witches were all in different English classes, they learned their lines in different rhythms—the witches’ lines rhyme, almost like a song.

“Anyway, the girls only got to have one read-through as a group, so when we did the actual show, no one was together, and you couldn’t understand a thing they said—for the entire play. I’d say it was funny, but Emerald was Witch Number Eight, and she’s, like, still traumatized.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Do you know what’s worse?”

“What?”

“When I was a freshman, they had two performances. The Saturday-night show for the parents, and another one on Friday afternoon, when the entire school was forced to come.” I must look horrified, because he says, “I know, right? Consider yourself lucky. They just changed that last year.”

“So the students don’t come to the Saturday-night show?”

“Definitely not.” He grins. “No one who doesn’t have a kid performing would willingly put themselves through that.” The doll starts to wail again. “Do you have to take that thing to lunch with you?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you sit? I never see you.”

“I don’t go to the cafeteria.”

“Then where do you eat?”

I can’t answer that, so I don’t.

“Oh, Julian.” Adam sighs. “So secretive.”




I duck out of Dr. Whitlock’s office a few minutes early—she never notices—and head to the cafeteria. Lately we’ve all become obsessed with The Game, which is basically Truth or Dare without the option to choose truth. As soon as you’re given a dare, it’s either comply or get ostracized. Then you get to dare someone else, so it’s the game that never ends.

It’s fun, but there’s one unfair rule: guys can be dared to strip completely and make fools of themselves by ringing someone’s doorbell or streaking down the street, but girls can’t be asked to shed any undergarments.

Allison once cited safety issues, which is obviously a ridiculous excuse. It’s not like a kidnapper-rapist is going to steal them while we’re all pointing and laughing. Emerald, in her superior, yet reasonable way, said something about the female body being more beautiful and therefore more sacred—basically implying that seeing a guy’s junk is equivalent to seeing a naked chimp at the zoo.

I’m one of the first to get a seat today, and soon all my friends squeeze into the table. I glance around for a suitable challenge, then spot Principal Pearce bent over his cane—the one that could be a prop from Lord of the Rings. All my friends are legitimately nervous as I look each one in the eye.

I freakin love it when it’s my turn.

“Okay…Camila,” I say. She watches me, her green eye shadow looking like a bruise that’s starting to change colors. “I want you to go flirt with Mr. Pearce for at least three minutes.”

“No problem,” she says, way too smug. We all laugh as she sashays over and puts a seductive hand on his arm. I’ve got to give it to the old man. Camila’s doing her best hair tossing and cleavage thrusting, but he doesn’t look impressed. Suddenly she spins around and stomps back—high heels smacking the floor—and slaps a little piece of paper on our table. “I got a dress code detention.”

We burst out laughing. When she storms off, we laugh even harder.

Just a few minutes later, Camila returns. “Adam,” she says, leveling me with an icy smile.

Now, it’s just understood that you forward the dare when it’s your turn, instead of immediately striking back at whoever dared you. Otherwise, no one else would get to play. But apparently Camila’s too pissed to play by the rules.

She reaches into her purse, then tosses a pair of tiny, Camila-size panties at me. “Put them on.”

Everyone at the table starts laughing like crazy, but I have to ask, “Were you just wearing these?”

“No! You’re disgusting! I got them from my locker.”

“Why do you have spare underwear in your locker?”

“Just put them on,” she orders, “and make sure everyone in your next class knows you’re wearing them.”

I give her a wide smile. If she wants to embarrass me, she’s going to have to try harder than that.


Between lunch and fifth period—only moments after squeezing into Camila’s miniature underwear—I trip and end up sprawled out in the center of the crowded hall. Charlie and Allison cackle like I did it on purpose for their amusement.

It takes me a little longer than usual to get up, and when I do—shit shit shit—my ankle hurts. I yell out in high-pitched agony. It really, seriously hurts.

Camila rolls her eyes and examines her long fingernails. “You’re not getting out of this, Adam.”