The Homecoming (Thunder Point #6)(37)

Iris pushed the tissue box toward her. “That’s not true. You have everything it takes to be well liked. You’re a nice person, you’re smart, you’re considerate.”

“I’m the size of an ugly sixth-grader with no boobs.”

“Be honest with me, Misty—is there any pushing, shoving, pinching, knocking books out of your arms, chasing you down online, sending mean texts or anything like that? Any bullying?”

She shook her head. “No. Steph is just done with me and Tiff hates me, that’s all. If you tell anyone, I will die. Because I am not a baby!”

Oh, Iris wanted to pull those girls into her office and just slap them senseless. It would never help Misty but Iris knew that if Tiffany was mean, she was probably troubled. Probably insecure. Or maybe spoiled. Or she lived in a home where cruelty was an acceptable way of life. Mean girls. There were always mean girls. They lasted a lifetime.

“I wasn’t expecting this at all,” Iris said. “And while you’re trying to work this out, trying to make new friends, better friends, I actually have a totally unrelated question for you.”

“What?”

“Do you have a study hall?”

“Fifth period, right after lunch. Why?”

“Do you need that study hall for schoolwork? Homework?”

“Sometimes I get my homework done in study hall, sometimes I like to read. My classes are all hard—please, I don’t want another class.”

“No, sir! I looked at your transcripts—you’re in accelerated classes, a straight-A student, I might add. I was wondering if you’d like to work in the office during your study hall. Primarily, my office.” She indicated the credenza behind her desk—it was stacked with notebooks, papers, folders. “This is material for the SAT prep courses, college requirements, scholarship information—all stuff I’m trying to get ready and keep up with. It needs to be sorted, stapled together, put into the right folders. I have to make sure every student has all the necessary information. Since you’re not taking the prep class, would you like to transfer your study hall to my office and give me a hand?”

Misty frowned and looked at Iris with suspicion. “Do you think if I do that you’ll convince me to take the test?”

Iris laughed. “I thought if you did that to help me, I might eventually catch up! I need an intern and I don’t have one yet. I need another counselor and I don’t have one of those, either. I work a lot of nights and weekends and I’d rather read. What are you reading right now?”

She looked away a little shyly. “Some romance called The Rosie Project...”

“I loved that book!” Iris said. “Well, if you’re interested I can find space for you, a cubicle at least, and on days you have homework you need to do, just do it. On days you have time to help me, I’ll set you up with a project. No pressure—it’s your call. But hey, if you’re busy ignoring your ex-friend and her new clique, maybe we could help each other out.”

Misty thought about this for a moment and finally smiled. “I could maybe try it for a little while, see if it works.”

“That would be great. I have two other students helping me—one is a junior and she comes in during second period and the other, a senior, is here sixth period. I think maybe I’m going to be able to solve my intern problem!”

“Are you just being nice to me?”

“Just? Oh, please, can’t you see I’m drowning? I have other girls to ask if you need to keep your study hall sacred—that’s up to you. But, Misty, it’s really all right if someone is nice to you. Regardless of how Tiffany and Stephanie have made you feel, you’re a very smart, nice person. If I were fifteen again, I think I’d want you for a friend.”

“That’s nice of you to say, I guess.”

“I’m going to show you something private.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a picture of an extremely homely girl—fuzzy, wild brown hair that had a misshapen look to it, bushy brows, the biggest teeth in the world, thick glasses and a few zits sprinkled on her nose and chin. “Me. Eighth grade.”

“Wow,” Misty said. “Your hair isn’t like that anymore.”

“I learned a few things about hair, but that’s mine. And I eventually grew into my teeth. I wasn’t small, I was large. Taller than all the boys in my class. If that wasn’t bad enough, I had two left feet. I’m not what you’d call coordinated. I tried out for cheerleading one year—it was a catastrophe. Right here at Thunder Point High. The mean girls had a good laugh at that.”

“You had mean girls?”

“Misty, mean girls have been around since God was a boy. So have girls like me, who have to grow up, get smarter, make it in a tough world. By the way, there are still mean girls when you’re an adult, but with every year it gets a little easier to say, ‘You’re not a nice enough person for me.’ When I went back to my class reunion a few years ago, the mean girls were still there. They were still pretty, still getting lots of attention, still making snide remarks about people. But I was reacquainted with some classmates I hadn’t paid much attention to in high school, girls who had gone on to have remarkable careers and had either grown very attractive or had finally developed the confidence they needed to appear very attractive. I keep this picture close at hand to remind myself who I was, how far I’ve come and what all the girls in my school go through at one time or another. It keeps me honest.”