Puddin'(28)

I smile halfheartedly. I’ve already promised myself to give her the benefit of the doubt, but the truth is I’m mad. I’m really, truly angry. I feel violated, like this one little space I had to call my own—this dirty, smelly gym—is no longer safe. It’s no longer my own. And it’s hard not to take offense to the fact that working with me is part of her punishment. I shrug, trying to get beyond the negativity. “Well, if anything, she’s lucky my uncle was generous enough not to press charges.”

Amanda nods. “You’re not kidding.”

A brief quiet settles. This slumber party needs a hit of adrenaline.

“Ice-cream sundaes!” I say, the words coming out like more like Eureka! “I think it’s time for an ice-cream sundae break.”

Hannah laughs, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Well, that’s something I don’t hate.”

Willowdean nods. “A-plus slumber party, Millicent Michalchuk!”

Sprinkles make everything better, and for a whole night I even forget about Daisy Ranch and how in the world I’m ever going to get into broadcast journalism camp.





Callie


Ten


The wheels of my mom’s Tahoe barely come to a stop outside the gym before I swing the door open and jump out. “I can’t believe you agreed to this without consulting me,” I tell her. This is the constant argument we’ve had for the last few days, which I’ve spent at home serving suspension. Every time it fizzles out, one of us sparks it right back up again, like two trick birthday candles.

“Well,” she shouts as I slam the door. The automatic window buzzes as it rolls down, so she can be sure she’s heard. “I still can’t believe you vandalized a place of business like some damn hooligan.”

“You don’t think I’ve already been punished enough? Everything I’ve spent the last few years working for has basically evaporated.” My voice grows louder with each word, and a few people in the shopping center, including a couple of men exiting the gym, pause to watch our interaction.

My mom, fully aware of our audience, doesn’t bother to indulge me. “I’ll pick you up at six,” she says. “I love you, honey.”

I spin on my heels and shout, “Sure you do.” I go out of my way to make eye contact with absolutely every person I pass in the parking lot. It takes everything in me not to snap at each of them. Keep staring, I think. Watch the pretty girl’s life unravel before your very eyes. And that’s really one of the shittier parts of this whole thing. When you’re at the top, people just love to watch you fall.

The bells above the door jingle as I walk into the gym, and Millie is the first person I see. Perfect, I think.

Popping down from her stool behind the counter, she waves and says, “Hiya! You’re Callie.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I respond dryly. “Hi, Millie.”

You would think a girl like Millie would do her best to stay out of the spotlight, but I swear to God the girl does everything in her power to not be missed. Like today. In her lavender leggings and hot-pink tunic dress with sneakers that appear to be hand-painted with flowers and kittens.

She claps her hands together. “Welcome to Down for the Count! I don’t know if you remember me, but I do the morning announcements for your mom at school.”

“Well, we collided in the office the other week,” I tell her. “You were in the pageant.” Couldn’t miss her, really. “And we’ve gone to school together since elementary school. So, yeah. I know who you are.”

She smiles, but her lips are stiffer than they were a moment ago. “Well, I try my best not to make any assumptions, and I didn’t want to embarrass you in case you had forgotten me.”

Oh, this girl is good. Her passive-aggressive game is next level. It’s so good that most people would just mistake it for manners. “Right,” I say. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

I haven’t seen this place in the light of day. The brand-new window stretching across the store front is shiny and tinted. Much of the equipment has signs on it that read TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER, and the women’s locker room is currently under construction . . . which is probably from the damage incurred last week. I know that I should feel bad, but I’m too pissed off to care.

Millie takes me behind the counter and pulls out a label maker and a blank plastic name tag. “First things first! A name tag. C-A-L-L-I-E?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Callie and Millie,” she says, testing our names out in tandem. “We sound like a crime-fighting duo.”

“Except in this duo, I’m the actual criminal,” I remind her.

Her cheeks turn even pinker than they already are as she repositions herself back on her stool. “There’s another stool under the desk for you.”

I watch as she carefully taps my name out on a label maker, and while it prints, she reaches under the counter for a backpack. Her hands emerge with sheets of stickers. “To decorate your name tag!” she says.

While she applies the label to my name tag, I finger through the pages of mini holographic stickers and settle on a smiley face, which I apply upside down to signify that I’m in mourning for the life I once had. RIP me.

“You know what?” says Millie. “You and my friend Hannah would really get along.”