Brett McCarthy by Maria Padian

the principal!” she declared. Language arts teacher frowned.
    “Jeanne Anne, take a seat, please. Brett, is that true?”
    Redefined Brett McCarthy put on her best clueless face.
    “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I said innocently. Jeanne Anne, bless her, took the bait.
    “Liar!” she shrieked. “You know I just handed you a letter and you ripped it up!” Language arts teacher picked up a few scraps.
    “I can’t read this,” he said impatiently. “Brett, what is it?”
    “Old homework,” I said, looking straight into his eyes.
    “You lying
witch
!” Jeanne Anne yelled. That did it. Especially because the teacher thought she’d said something way worse.
    “Jeanne Anne!” Language arts teacher was pretty mad. “We do not use that sort of language in this classroom! Pack up your things, young lady. Follow me. The rest of you…sustained silent reading until I get back!”
    “What’d I do? She’s lying!” Jeanne Anne was pretty close to tears. “Call the principal. Call him right now. He’ll tell you….”
    The old me might have felt a little sorry for Jeanne Anne at that point. Bruised, multicolored face. Totally losing it. Hauled off by the teacher while the real criminal played innocent.
    But this was Brett McCarthy, Redefined, and I didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy in reserve. I ducked my head to hide the smile as Jeanne Anne and the teacher left the room, as I heard her finally burst out crying once they reached the hallway. I searched my backpack for a sustaining book. Diane stared at me. Shocked.
    “What’s going on with you?” she asked. As if I knew.
    “Shh!” I said, putting my finger to my lips. “This is supposed to be
silent
reading.” I buried my nose in my book and didn’t look up until language arts teacher returned.
    A long time would pass before Diane and I spoke to each other again.

pen•sive
    Here’s the thing about detention letters: You can rip them up, but you can’t ignore them forever. Eventually they catch up with you. Kind of like former best friends.
    It turns out my fight with Jeanne Anne set off an earthquake in the eighth grade. Shifted the tectonic plates of our little world, so now there was this big rift, the Mescataqua Grand Canyon, with some kids on one bank and some on the other.
    In other words, people took sides.
    This was really obvious at lunch. Mom didn’t have time to pack my lunch today, so I was buying. As I came off the food line with my tray of chicken fries and chocolate milks, I realized I had nowhere to sit. Our table—the Kit, Diane, Brett, and (unfortunately) Jeanne Anne table—was now occupied by a group of Band Jocks. I hesitated, looking over the sea of heads for an empty chair next to someone who still liked me. Someone from the same circle of Hell.
    “Brett!” Kit was waving at me from the back of the room, the long table usually filled by girls from our soccer team. Gratefully, I steered myself toward her at a near run.
    That’s when I realized just how much had changed. As I wove through the maze of tables, almost every kid I passed greeted me; and not always in the—shall we say—most
pleasant
way. There were high fives, some
Welcome back, Brett!
s and even some guy who shouted out, “McCarthy rocks!” But there were hisses and catcalls too. I heard
Loser!
more than once, and from one table—I’m convinced it was Darcy’s crowd of starving somersaulters—someone pelted me with a doughy bread ball, which landed on my tray.
    I slid next to Kit, who promptly picked up the bread ball and hurled it, hard and with amazing accuracy, in Darcy’s direction. Kit plays baseball on the
boys’
junior high team, so no one tossed it back.
    “That was different,” I said. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”
    “No problem,” she said. “D’you see where Diane is?”
    Instinctively, I turned toward Darcy’s crowd. Sure enough, at a small table near them I picked out the back of Diane’s new sweater, the sun