thousand times before swallowing.
I want to scream. Or ask them for their leftovers.
Within minutes I’m swallowing my last bite of chicken, while some of the other skaters at my table are still on their first forkful of broccoli.
“This isn’t a refugee camp, you know.” The acid voice oozes into my ear, the accent thick and syrupy. I turn around and see Ivy, in head-to-toe pink, her dress a carbon copy of my own. When she recognizes it, she crosses her arms across the ruffle and glares at me. She turns to her friend, who looks like she’d like nothing more than to sew her lips to the ass of Ivy’s dress. “Look, Sabrina. How cute. She thinks if she dresses like the best, she can be the best.”
Sabrina giggles like she’s watching an episode of Saturday Night Live , which is appropriate, since Ivy’s act is just about as tired.
Ivy leans in close and whispers in my ear, “If you want to eat like a lumberjack, squeeze yourself into that dress, and walk around looking like a gummy bear, that’s your prerogative, but I thought I’d just give you some friendly roomie advice: pink is my signature color.”
I’m all for keeping a low profile, and I know I need tokeep my anger in check, but I’m not about to let this Manic Pixie Nightmare Girl push me around. I drop my fork on my plate, where it lands with a clatter.
“Listen, Steel Magnolia, you can take your Pepto-Bismol butt over there, or you’ll be icing your knee right alongside me.”
Sabrina’s eyes get wide, and she steps back slightly, as if she’s worried a fistfight might break out and she’ll be caught smack in the middle.
“Don’t mind the crip,” Ivy says to Sabrina without turning away from me. Her gaze is steely. Finally, she pivots and takes Sabrina’s arm, and the two of them stalk back to their table.
“She meant ‘cripple,’ ” Andy says.
“I know what she meant,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Oh, so that puzzled look was—”
“Nothing,” I mutter, because I’m pretty sure admitting that I was figuring out how to remove her arm from her body and beat her with it would get me labeled as Not Classy. The server sets dessert down in front of me, a clear glass dish with a scoop of sorbet topped with a mint leaf. I push it away. I’m too pissed to eat. I need to think. I need a plan.
“She’s just trying to psych you out,” Andy says, helping himself to my discarded dessert. “I think her motto is ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t make the competition too scared to try.’ ”
“I think it’s time for a little psychological warfare of myown,” I say. Prissy places like this are all about the pranks, and I am the queen of the prank at Jefferson. Just ask Libby Keegan, last season’s rookie of the year, who skated champs with Icy Hot in her sports bra.
“Color me interested,” he says. He leans in conspiratorially.
I turn and stare at him, then slowly break into a smile. “Thank you, Andy. You’ve just given me an idea.”
I lie in bed for what feels like hours, waiting until Ivy is snoring and I can be sure she won’t wake up. I creep out of my room and down the hall, past the staircase and the sign directing me to the gentlemen’s quarters. I get to room 22, Andy’s room, turn the knob, and ease the door open in silence. Andy’s in the bed closer to the door. Apparently his enthusiasm didn’t keep him awake: he’s sound asleep, and I have to shake him lightly to wake him. He rolls over and glares at me.
“You are so disturbing my beauty sleep,” he whispers.
“It’s game time,” I tell him. His roommate is snoring like a buzz saw in the other bed, so I don’t worry too much about waking him.
“You were serious?”
I nod. “I need your help. Scissors—you got ’em?”
We creep back down the hall and into my room, where Ivy is still dead to the world. I wave Andy into the bathroom and take the lid off the back of the toilet, where Istashed my supplies in a Ziploc bag. A
I want to scream. Or ask them for their leftovers.
Within minutes I’m swallowing my last bite of chicken, while some of the other skaters at my table are still on their first forkful of broccoli.
“This isn’t a refugee camp, you know.” The acid voice oozes into my ear, the accent thick and syrupy. I turn around and see Ivy, in head-to-toe pink, her dress a carbon copy of my own. When she recognizes it, she crosses her arms across the ruffle and glares at me. She turns to her friend, who looks like she’d like nothing more than to sew her lips to the ass of Ivy’s dress. “Look, Sabrina. How cute. She thinks if she dresses like the best, she can be the best.”
Sabrina giggles like she’s watching an episode of Saturday Night Live , which is appropriate, since Ivy’s act is just about as tired.
Ivy leans in close and whispers in my ear, “If you want to eat like a lumberjack, squeeze yourself into that dress, and walk around looking like a gummy bear, that’s your prerogative, but I thought I’d just give you some friendly roomie advice: pink is my signature color.”
I’m all for keeping a low profile, and I know I need tokeep my anger in check, but I’m not about to let this Manic Pixie Nightmare Girl push me around. I drop my fork on my plate, where it lands with a clatter.
“Listen, Steel Magnolia, you can take your Pepto-Bismol butt over there, or you’ll be icing your knee right alongside me.”
Sabrina’s eyes get wide, and she steps back slightly, as if she’s worried a fistfight might break out and she’ll be caught smack in the middle.
“Don’t mind the crip,” Ivy says to Sabrina without turning away from me. Her gaze is steely. Finally, she pivots and takes Sabrina’s arm, and the two of them stalk back to their table.
“She meant ‘cripple,’ ” Andy says.
“I know what she meant,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Oh, so that puzzled look was—”
“Nothing,” I mutter, because I’m pretty sure admitting that I was figuring out how to remove her arm from her body and beat her with it would get me labeled as Not Classy. The server sets dessert down in front of me, a clear glass dish with a scoop of sorbet topped with a mint leaf. I push it away. I’m too pissed to eat. I need to think. I need a plan.
“She’s just trying to psych you out,” Andy says, helping himself to my discarded dessert. “I think her motto is ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t make the competition too scared to try.’ ”
“I think it’s time for a little psychological warfare of myown,” I say. Prissy places like this are all about the pranks, and I am the queen of the prank at Jefferson. Just ask Libby Keegan, last season’s rookie of the year, who skated champs with Icy Hot in her sports bra.
“Color me interested,” he says. He leans in conspiratorially.
I turn and stare at him, then slowly break into a smile. “Thank you, Andy. You’ve just given me an idea.”
I lie in bed for what feels like hours, waiting until Ivy is snoring and I can be sure she won’t wake up. I creep out of my room and down the hall, past the staircase and the sign directing me to the gentlemen’s quarters. I get to room 22, Andy’s room, turn the knob, and ease the door open in silence. Andy’s in the bed closer to the door. Apparently his enthusiasm didn’t keep him awake: he’s sound asleep, and I have to shake him lightly to wake him. He rolls over and glares at me.
“You are so disturbing my beauty sleep,” he whispers.
“It’s game time,” I tell him. His roommate is snoring like a buzz saw in the other bed, so I don’t worry too much about waking him.
“You were serious?”
I nod. “I need your help. Scissors—you got ’em?”
We creep back down the hall and into my room, where Ivy is still dead to the world. I wave Andy into the bathroom and take the lid off the back of the toilet, where Istashed my supplies in a Ziploc bag. A
Similar Books
