Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do? by Cynthia Voigt Page A

the people at Mikey and Margalo’s lunch table, but almost all ninth graders too, were feeling pretty good about themselves. They were pretty sure no other ninth-grade class—with the help of sometenth graders and to the envy of the upper classes—had ever done anything like this. They thought they might have discovered an anti-bullying technique that would work anywhere. They wondered if maybe some TV station might hear about it and come interview them. “Ronnie and Shawn should be our spokespeople,” was the general opinion, which went on to recommend, “Better keep Hadrian off camera. He’s too weird.”

    The restraining order—“Not within 200 yards!”—was the talk of the school on Wednesday. High school was like a terrarium, an enclosed ecological system where the introduction of any new element immediately affected the whole. People measured off two hundred yards—“Two football fields, dummy”—and considered what action might be taken against anyone who violated the order. Everybody was eager for Sven and his stooges (Harold had been renamed Stooge One, and Toby Stooge Two, but Sven was always and only Sven) to show up so they could enforce the order.
    On Thursday morning loudspeakers in the homerooms cracked out their usual announcements, reminders of the special schedule in effect on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, of the performances of A Midsummer Night’s Dream over the first weekend in December, of a Senior Class Prom Committee meeting, and more, before it summoned the day’s assortment of malefactors to Mr. Robredo’s office. Hadrian Klenk’s was the first name on thislist. He was instructed to go immediately to see the assistant principal, and so he did, leaving homeroom early and arriving back in the middle of English. It wasn’t until Lunch A that he could report in.
    â€œYou’d think they’d make their own soups,” Hadrian said, settling his tray down on the table across from Mikey and Margalo, who were themselves enjoying (Mikey) a baguette sandwich with ham and brie, and eating (Margalo) a leftover leg of chicken, with a bread and jam sandwich on the side. “I’ll trade my grilled cheese for part of your baguette,” he offered Mikey with—for Hadrian—unusual assertiveness.
    She smiled, How dumb do you think I am? Because I’m not that dumb. “You aren’t going to be one of those people who undergoes a personality transformation when your life improves, are you? Like an overnight screen sensation,” she said, thinking of Shawn Macavity’s swift rise to popularity last year.
    â€œI don’t think that’s a real danger,” Hadrian said. “I mean, I’m just an excuse here, aren’t I? It has nothing to do with me personally. I tried to explain that to Mr. Robredo, and I think he understood. It took a while,” Hadrian said. He added, “Because at first he blamed me for the restraining order.”
    â€œOh,” said Margalo, who hadn’t thought this would happen.
    â€œBetter you than me,” was Jace’s response.
    â€œWhat did you tell him?” Cassie asked. “How’d you get out of it?”
    â€œI didn’t tell him anything,” Hadrian said. “Not at first, anyway.”
    â€œHe threatened you?” Tim wondered.
    â€œWhy would he do that? What would he threaten me about?” Hadrian was puzzled. “He thinks it’s a good idea. Although I did get the impression that not everybody agrees with him. I mean, the Principal might not because of the possibility of negative publicity, and—”
    â€œHe likes it?” Tim asked, surprised.
    â€œSo I told him it wasn’t really my idea. Because—It wasn’t my idea, so why should I get the credit? I told him it was you, Mikey, and you too, Margalo. He said he didn’t know you but I was lucky to have two friends like