posted online—a picture in which she’s wearing an unflattering pair of underwear. “It appeared on an anonymous SocialLife page.”
“Have you actually seen the photo?” I ask. “Or is it just lame-o hearsay?”
“Does this look like hearsay to you?” She chucks a wadded-up piece of paper across the table at me.
I unfold it to find the photo in question: a color shot of Kimmie wearing a superbaggy pair of floral cotton underwear. There’s a boldfaced heading over the snapshot that reads: FREETOWN HIGH’S MOST DISASTROUS DRESSER.
“Period panties,” she explains, covering her face with her bejeweled hands (she’s got clunky cocktail rings adorning every finger). “It’s not like I normally dress like that. Or like this,” she says, gesturing to her outfit. She’s wearing layers of brown and beige in hopes of camouflaging herself amid the school’s morbidly oppressive colors.
“Who cares how you dress? This is clearly a violation,” I squawk. “Whoever took this photo literally did it behind your back.”
It’s a sideways shot of Kimmie as she bends slightly forward. There’s a tear by the hem of the aforementioned underwear, and the seams look ratty and frayed. As if all of that weren’t mortifying enough, the photo also shows her pulling on a pair of gym shorts with one hand, while one finger of her other hand is lodged up inside her nose.
I take a closer look, almost unable to believe my eyes. On closer inspection (which includes squinting), I can see that Kimmie is actually scratching rather than picking.
But still.
“Not a fan of my work?” Wes jokes, pulling a camera from his bag—one that looks frighteningly similar to the one I dreamt about. He’s taking photography as an elective this term.
“Please say you’re bullshitting.” Kimmie squeezes her eyes shut.
“You know I am.” He puts the camera away. “Besides, how would I get into the girls’
locker room?”
“Good point,” I say. “The person who took this must’ve been female.”
“Better point: all publicity is good publicity, right?” Wes winks.
“Tell me that when they’ve got a picture of your G-string-wearing self posted online for the whole world to see,” Kimmie snaps.
“And that would be bad because…?”
Kimmie gazes over her shoulder, where some boys are pretending to pick their noses.
One of them has a pair of old and tattered gym shorts on over his jeans to suggest a pair of undies.
“I seriously hate this school,” Kimmie says, turning back to face us.
“Did you report the picture to Snell?” I ask her.
“Yes, but the picture had already been taken down by the time I tried to show Principal Smell —as had the pictures of all the other ugly-underwear-wearing offenders.”
“So, it could’ve been worse.” Wes shrugs.
“Only if I were Danica Pete,” she says, nodding toward the front of the lunch line, where Danica lingers, tray in hand, seemingly searching the tables for someone.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, wondering if Danica was one of the other ugly-underwear offenders.
“Besides the obvious?” Kimmie says, shaking her head at Danica’s outfit du jour (a pair of pleated navy blue pants, a turtleneck sweater two sizes too big (probably to hide her slender figure), and brown ankle boots. “Though, I’ll have to admit, I could’ve sworn I noticed a cute pair of vintage flats on her yesterday.”
“They were vintage,” Wes confirms. “I recognized the lining when she accidentally tripped going up the stairs and lost one.”
“I’m still not following,” I tell them.
“Am I to assume you haven’t heard about the whole cheating incident that went down in Puke-o’s class last week?” Wes asks me. (Puke-o is our name for Mr. Pulco, the calculus teacher.)
“It happened between Danica and a couple of the Candies,” Kimmie explains.
The Candy Clique is a group of girls whose names all rhyme with “candy.” There’s
“Have you actually seen the photo?” I ask. “Or is it just lame-o hearsay?”
“Does this look like hearsay to you?” She chucks a wadded-up piece of paper across the table at me.
I unfold it to find the photo in question: a color shot of Kimmie wearing a superbaggy pair of floral cotton underwear. There’s a boldfaced heading over the snapshot that reads: FREETOWN HIGH’S MOST DISASTROUS DRESSER.
“Period panties,” she explains, covering her face with her bejeweled hands (she’s got clunky cocktail rings adorning every finger). “It’s not like I normally dress like that. Or like this,” she says, gesturing to her outfit. She’s wearing layers of brown and beige in hopes of camouflaging herself amid the school’s morbidly oppressive colors.
“Who cares how you dress? This is clearly a violation,” I squawk. “Whoever took this photo literally did it behind your back.”
It’s a sideways shot of Kimmie as she bends slightly forward. There’s a tear by the hem of the aforementioned underwear, and the seams look ratty and frayed. As if all of that weren’t mortifying enough, the photo also shows her pulling on a pair of gym shorts with one hand, while one finger of her other hand is lodged up inside her nose.
I take a closer look, almost unable to believe my eyes. On closer inspection (which includes squinting), I can see that Kimmie is actually scratching rather than picking.
But still.
“Not a fan of my work?” Wes jokes, pulling a camera from his bag—one that looks frighteningly similar to the one I dreamt about. He’s taking photography as an elective this term.
“Please say you’re bullshitting.” Kimmie squeezes her eyes shut.
“You know I am.” He puts the camera away. “Besides, how would I get into the girls’
locker room?”
“Good point,” I say. “The person who took this must’ve been female.”
“Better point: all publicity is good publicity, right?” Wes winks.
“Tell me that when they’ve got a picture of your G-string-wearing self posted online for the whole world to see,” Kimmie snaps.
“And that would be bad because…?”
Kimmie gazes over her shoulder, where some boys are pretending to pick their noses.
One of them has a pair of old and tattered gym shorts on over his jeans to suggest a pair of undies.
“I seriously hate this school,” Kimmie says, turning back to face us.
“Did you report the picture to Snell?” I ask her.
“Yes, but the picture had already been taken down by the time I tried to show Principal Smell —as had the pictures of all the other ugly-underwear-wearing offenders.”
“So, it could’ve been worse.” Wes shrugs.
“Only if I were Danica Pete,” she says, nodding toward the front of the lunch line, where Danica lingers, tray in hand, seemingly searching the tables for someone.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, wondering if Danica was one of the other ugly-underwear offenders.
“Besides the obvious?” Kimmie says, shaking her head at Danica’s outfit du jour (a pair of pleated navy blue pants, a turtleneck sweater two sizes too big (probably to hide her slender figure), and brown ankle boots. “Though, I’ll have to admit, I could’ve sworn I noticed a cute pair of vintage flats on her yesterday.”
“They were vintage,” Wes confirms. “I recognized the lining when she accidentally tripped going up the stairs and lost one.”
“I’m still not following,” I tell them.
“Am I to assume you haven’t heard about the whole cheating incident that went down in Puke-o’s class last week?” Wes asks me. (Puke-o is our name for Mr. Pulco, the calculus teacher.)
“It happened between Danica and a couple of the Candies,” Kimmie explains.
The Candy Clique is a group of girls whose names all rhyme with “candy.” There’s
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