Brett McCarthy by Maria Padian Page A

glinting off her perfect licorice hair. She was near the windows, eating lunch with a guy. The guy. Bob Adonis Levesque. And their heads were bent close together in what seemed to be a very friendly conversation.
    “Whoa,” I said, unprepared for the second time that day. “When did that happen?”
    “During your suspension,” Kit replied. “What, she didn’t tell you? I figured you were going to fill
me
in.” I shrugged.
    “Oh, c’mon!” Kit prodded me with her elbow. “Give it up. Whaddya know?”
    “I’m banned, remember? Her mother won’t let her call me.”
    Kit stared. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You haven’t talked to Diane. All this stuff has come down, and you’ve let a
phone ban
get in your way? What gives?”
    First Michael, now Kit. Why was everyone so amazed that I didn’t have up-to-the-minute info about Diane Pelletier’s life? Did it ever occur to them that I might have other things to think about?
    “Do
not
tell me this is about cheerleading,” Kit said.
    “You think it’s cool that she’s gone over to the Dark Side?” I demanded. “You are the most anti-cheerleader person I know! You call them Bulimic Butt Wigglers!”
    Kit looked pensive.
    Pensive:
musingly or dreamily thoughtful.
Thinking about what I just said.
    “You know,” she finally sighed, “you’re right. I think cheerleading is stupid and I have called Darcy a Bulimic Butt Wiggler. Frankly, she is. But this is
Diane.
She’s awesome.”
    “People change,” I said. Where had I just heard that? Oh, right. Michael.
    “C’mon, Brett,” said Kit. “If it makes her happy, why should we care? Besides, it was only a matter of time. She’s gorgeous, and she can do handsprings without messing up her hair.”
    Before I could reply, the loudspeaker cut through the noise of the cafeteria.
    “Would Bettina McCarthy please report to Mr. Hare’s office? Bettina McCarthy.”
    Of course. My detention. I was supposed to be dining with the principal.
    There’s a reason why human beings invented nicknames. It’s to make sure that people whose birth certificates say something like…like Hilda or Percival or Bettina can make it through life without being emotionally scarred. For most of my life, “Brett” had saved me from the humiliation of “Bettina.” Now, thanks to the women who worked in the front office, my cover was blown.
    At first no one had any clue who Bettina McCarthy was. But a few geniuses figured it out when they saw me pick up my tray and head for the exit. They started banging on the tables, chanting, “Ti
na!
Ti
na!
” and within seconds the whole room took up the beat. It was a little scary, actually. How I imagine a riot would look in a maximum-security prison. I could see teachers and lunchroom aides glancing around nervously.
    I made for the shortest route to the exit doors, which, unfortunately, led me right past the future homecoming princesses (Darcy’s posse), the romantic darlings of Mescataqua Junior High (Bob and Diane), and a long Guy Table filled with the Smoking Demigods of Cool (Bob’s friends).
    I fixed my eyes on the exit but couldn’t help hearing the hisses and insults from Darcy’s crew. Couldn’t help noticing that Bob and Diane were among the few people in the cafeteria
not
pounding or yelling, just silently watching me go. Couldn’t help overhearing one Demigod, whose clueless comment just about said it all:
    “Bettina?” I heard him ask. “I thought her name was Josephine.”

mon•u•men•tal
    The free fall my redefined life had taken might have stopped at that point
if
I had headed straight to No-Hare’s office. But instead of trotting off to the principal, I made for the lockers, grabbed my backpack, and left the building. This, as it turns out, was a monumentally stupid choice.
    Monumental:
massive; outstanding; very great.
Incredibly huge.
    Taking off from school without permission is practically a federal crime. We’re talking Office of Homeland