imagined that, have I imagined everything, including Jackson and me?
I need answers. I want to know right now where Jackson and Star really stand. Jackson said they’d been having trouble. How much? What kind? What would Star say about their relationship? I have to know. And Star Simons is the only one who can tell me.
“Star,” I begin, not sure how to phrase this.
“Hey! Hi, honey!” Star stands up and waves directly over my head as if she’s flagging down a cab. She scoots back her chair and swoops around the table.
Coming toward us is Jackson House.
I am speechless. Breathless. Brainless.
Star throws herself at Jackson, hugging him and kissing his cheek.
“I thought you’d never get here!” Star says, slipping her arm around Jackson’s waist and pulling him back to our table. They’re dressed alike—khakis and white shirts.
Now I suspect that Cassie wasn’t the one who set up this little reunion. This show is for my benefit. Star leads him right to where she was sitting, next to me.
Jackson smiles down at me, but it’s not a better smile than he aims at Nicole and Cassie.
“We girls have had the best time!” Star exclaims. Smiling broadly, she leans back against the table. Her painted fingernails are spread out on the table, inches from me. Her perfume is strong.
She leans farther back, revealing that her unbuttoned white shirt may have exceeded the legal limit.
I see her fingers sliding toward my Diet Coke. Then, before I can get a sound out, her hand moves in a tiny sweeping motion.
“Don’t!” I plead. My Coke glass wipes out. Diet Coke and ice spatter all over me. I feel it seeping into the brown fuzz and soaking my bra and stomach.
“Oh no!” Star cries. “Mary Jane, what did you do? Here. Let me help.” She picks up napkins and dabs at my sweater.
I shove her hand away. “I’ve got it.”
Cassie offers me a fistful of napkins.
I take them and try to soak up the syrupy mess.
“Well . . .” Star picks up her coat from her chair. “We’ve got to get going.”
Nicole and Samantha stand up. “Me too,” Nicole says.
“Have fun, guys,” Samantha says to nobody in particular as she puts on her coat. She and Nicole walk off together.
Star hands her coat to Jackson, who helps her on with it. She pokes her arms through the sleeves, then turns to smile at him. Her back is to me, but her painted fingernails and the hand that spilled Diet Coke are just inches away.
Then, a nanosecond before she grabs Jackson’s arm, Star’s hand lifts in the air . . .
And she gives me the finger.
14
Bucker-Uppers
"Did you see that?" I demand of Cassie, when she finishes waving good-bye to our “friends.”
“See what?” she asks, which pretty much gives me my answer.
“Star gave me the finger!”
Cassie smiles at me like I smile at Sandy sometimes. “Oh, Mary Jane, she did not.”
“Yeah! She did!” But I can already see Cassie’s not going to believe me, even if mall security caught it on tape and hands it over to us.
“You’re just upset because you ruined your sweater and—”
“I didn’t ruin my sweater!” I shout. People at other tables turn and stare at us. At me. “Not that it would have mattered. I hate this sweater. But that was Star, too!”
Cassie gives a sigh worthy of Sigh Fry. “Admit it, Mary Jane. You’re jealous of Star.”
Duh, Plain Jane agrees.
Me? Jealous of that skinny, two-faced witch? M.J. challenges.
My soaked sweater is sticking to me, combining syrupy cola with fuzz and making me itch. “I’m going home,” I say, grabbing my coat and making for the exit.
“But what about the game?” Cassie calls after me.
“Tell them they’ll have to play without Mary Jane Ettermeyer! ” I shout.
By the time I pull into the driveway, both Fred and I smell like rusty mothballs. My anger has morphed through the three or four stages of grief we had to read about in my psych class. Denial, anger, sadness, and I forget the others because I’m
I need answers. I want to know right now where Jackson and Star really stand. Jackson said they’d been having trouble. How much? What kind? What would Star say about their relationship? I have to know. And Star Simons is the only one who can tell me.
“Star,” I begin, not sure how to phrase this.
“Hey! Hi, honey!” Star stands up and waves directly over my head as if she’s flagging down a cab. She scoots back her chair and swoops around the table.
Coming toward us is Jackson House.
I am speechless. Breathless. Brainless.
Star throws herself at Jackson, hugging him and kissing his cheek.
“I thought you’d never get here!” Star says, slipping her arm around Jackson’s waist and pulling him back to our table. They’re dressed alike—khakis and white shirts.
Now I suspect that Cassie wasn’t the one who set up this little reunion. This show is for my benefit. Star leads him right to where she was sitting, next to me.
Jackson smiles down at me, but it’s not a better smile than he aims at Nicole and Cassie.
“We girls have had the best time!” Star exclaims. Smiling broadly, she leans back against the table. Her painted fingernails are spread out on the table, inches from me. Her perfume is strong.
She leans farther back, revealing that her unbuttoned white shirt may have exceeded the legal limit.
I see her fingers sliding toward my Diet Coke. Then, before I can get a sound out, her hand moves in a tiny sweeping motion.
“Don’t!” I plead. My Coke glass wipes out. Diet Coke and ice spatter all over me. I feel it seeping into the brown fuzz and soaking my bra and stomach.
“Oh no!” Star cries. “Mary Jane, what did you do? Here. Let me help.” She picks up napkins and dabs at my sweater.
I shove her hand away. “I’ve got it.”
Cassie offers me a fistful of napkins.
I take them and try to soak up the syrupy mess.
“Well . . .” Star picks up her coat from her chair. “We’ve got to get going.”
Nicole and Samantha stand up. “Me too,” Nicole says.
“Have fun, guys,” Samantha says to nobody in particular as she puts on her coat. She and Nicole walk off together.
Star hands her coat to Jackson, who helps her on with it. She pokes her arms through the sleeves, then turns to smile at him. Her back is to me, but her painted fingernails and the hand that spilled Diet Coke are just inches away.
Then, a nanosecond before she grabs Jackson’s arm, Star’s hand lifts in the air . . .
And she gives me the finger.
14
Bucker-Uppers
"Did you see that?" I demand of Cassie, when she finishes waving good-bye to our “friends.”
“See what?” she asks, which pretty much gives me my answer.
“Star gave me the finger!”
Cassie smiles at me like I smile at Sandy sometimes. “Oh, Mary Jane, she did not.”
“Yeah! She did!” But I can already see Cassie’s not going to believe me, even if mall security caught it on tape and hands it over to us.
“You’re just upset because you ruined your sweater and—”
“I didn’t ruin my sweater!” I shout. People at other tables turn and stare at us. At me. “Not that it would have mattered. I hate this sweater. But that was Star, too!”
Cassie gives a sigh worthy of Sigh Fry. “Admit it, Mary Jane. You’re jealous of Star.”
Duh, Plain Jane agrees.
Me? Jealous of that skinny, two-faced witch? M.J. challenges.
My soaked sweater is sticking to me, combining syrupy cola with fuzz and making me itch. “I’m going home,” I say, grabbing my coat and making for the exit.
“But what about the game?” Cassie calls after me.
“Tell them they’ll have to play without Mary Jane Ettermeyer! ” I shout.
By the time I pull into the driveway, both Fred and I smell like rusty mothballs. My anger has morphed through the three or four stages of grief we had to read about in my psych class. Denial, anger, sadness, and I forget the others because I’m
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