Shandy, Mandy, Andy (short for Anderson, her last name), and Sandy (whose real name is Jen, but whose mother’s maiden name is supposedly Sandy).
“For the record, I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”
“Tell me, oh, dearest Chameleon,” Wes says, “does the rock under which you live have heat and running water?”
“Apparently, a couple of the Candies wanted to cheat off Danica in precalc,” Kimmie says, “and Danica told them where they could stick their slice of pi .”
“But really loudly,” Wes adds. “She announced it to the entire class, and then said that their brains, collectively, amounted to the size of a pea. People initially thought it was funny.
Supposedly, even Puke-o was caught smirking.”
“Good for her,” I say, flashing back to an incident that happened in junior high, when I wish she’d been as brave.
And when I wish I’d been brave, too.
“But now the Candies are mad as hell, and the masses have joined their stampede.”
Kimmie points to the soccer table, where John Kenneally (who just happens to be dating Andy Candy) and his team of lemmings appear to be plotting something evil. They’re eyeballing Danica and huddling in close.
“People are treating her like dog dung.” Wes sighs. “Even more so than normal.”
“Because no one can think for themselves,” I say, watching the candy-colored clique (literally, since they’re dressed in contrasting pastel colors today) stand up from their table, dump their trash in unison, and move toward the exit.
“You don’t seriously expect any of the Candies to have an independent thought, do you?”
Wes asks, stifling a laugh. “But I certainly like the way you think.” He flashes his bright blue notebook, the cover of which reads: WES’S POETRY JOURNAL. “Sage wisdom such as yours is just one of the reasons why I’m considering letting you be the first reader of my poetry.”
“Since when are you a poet?” Kimmie asks.
“Since I needed to find a way to express myself in a manner that doesn’t include snapshots of period panties and joining my own candy-coated group.”
“Well, just say the word,” I tell him, taking a sip of hemp-milk heinousness. “I’d love to read your work.” I continue to look around, checking for people’s reactions as Danica makes her way across the cafeteria.
That’s when I spot Ben, sitting with Alejandra Chavez.
“I’m almost surprised that Danica doesn’t take her lunch in the library,” Kimmie says. “I mean, it’d probably be a whole lot less painful.”
I bite my lip, surprised that Ben isn’t in the library, either, that he’s elected to be among everybody else, risking the possibility of touch.
And of having me see him with Alejandra again.
Ironically, Danica stops at their table, but Alejandra seems less than excited to see her.
She keeps her focus on Ben, practically ignoring the fact that Danica is standing there, looking completely desperate as she shuffles her feet and finally shrugs her shoulders.
“What’s all that about?” Wes asks, slipping on a pair of tiny, round, wannabe John Lennon eyeglasses.
“The fact that Danica is standing at Ben’s table?” Kimmie asks. “Or that Ben is out of seclusion and lunching with Freetown High’s Most Beautiful Person?”
“Both,” I whisper, relieved to see that Ben doesn’t follow Alejandra’s lead. He makes direct eye contact with Danica and nods toward an empty seat.
But Danica turns away and heads toward the soda machines.
“Paging Camelia Chameleon,” Kimmie says, using an empty juice cup as a makeshift intercom to get my attention.
The next thing I know, Danica’s down on the ground. It appears that John Kenneally has
“accidentally” bumped into her, spilling the contents of her tray down the front of her sweater.
John tries to stifle his laugh with a lame little cough, then scoots down as if to help wipe up the spill.
Finally, Mr. Muse comes over
“For the record, I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”
“Tell me, oh, dearest Chameleon,” Wes says, “does the rock under which you live have heat and running water?”
“Apparently, a couple of the Candies wanted to cheat off Danica in precalc,” Kimmie says, “and Danica told them where they could stick their slice of pi .”
“But really loudly,” Wes adds. “She announced it to the entire class, and then said that their brains, collectively, amounted to the size of a pea. People initially thought it was funny.
Supposedly, even Puke-o was caught smirking.”
“Good for her,” I say, flashing back to an incident that happened in junior high, when I wish she’d been as brave.
And when I wish I’d been brave, too.
“But now the Candies are mad as hell, and the masses have joined their stampede.”
Kimmie points to the soccer table, where John Kenneally (who just happens to be dating Andy Candy) and his team of lemmings appear to be plotting something evil. They’re eyeballing Danica and huddling in close.
“People are treating her like dog dung.” Wes sighs. “Even more so than normal.”
“Because no one can think for themselves,” I say, watching the candy-colored clique (literally, since they’re dressed in contrasting pastel colors today) stand up from their table, dump their trash in unison, and move toward the exit.
“You don’t seriously expect any of the Candies to have an independent thought, do you?”
Wes asks, stifling a laugh. “But I certainly like the way you think.” He flashes his bright blue notebook, the cover of which reads: WES’S POETRY JOURNAL. “Sage wisdom such as yours is just one of the reasons why I’m considering letting you be the first reader of my poetry.”
“Since when are you a poet?” Kimmie asks.
“Since I needed to find a way to express myself in a manner that doesn’t include snapshots of period panties and joining my own candy-coated group.”
“Well, just say the word,” I tell him, taking a sip of hemp-milk heinousness. “I’d love to read your work.” I continue to look around, checking for people’s reactions as Danica makes her way across the cafeteria.
That’s when I spot Ben, sitting with Alejandra Chavez.
“I’m almost surprised that Danica doesn’t take her lunch in the library,” Kimmie says. “I mean, it’d probably be a whole lot less painful.”
I bite my lip, surprised that Ben isn’t in the library, either, that he’s elected to be among everybody else, risking the possibility of touch.
And of having me see him with Alejandra again.
Ironically, Danica stops at their table, but Alejandra seems less than excited to see her.
She keeps her focus on Ben, practically ignoring the fact that Danica is standing there, looking completely desperate as she shuffles her feet and finally shrugs her shoulders.
“What’s all that about?” Wes asks, slipping on a pair of tiny, round, wannabe John Lennon eyeglasses.
“The fact that Danica is standing at Ben’s table?” Kimmie asks. “Or that Ben is out of seclusion and lunching with Freetown High’s Most Beautiful Person?”
“Both,” I whisper, relieved to see that Ben doesn’t follow Alejandra’s lead. He makes direct eye contact with Danica and nods toward an empty seat.
But Danica turns away and heads toward the soda machines.
“Paging Camelia Chameleon,” Kimmie says, using an empty juice cup as a makeshift intercom to get my attention.
The next thing I know, Danica’s down on the ground. It appears that John Kenneally has
“accidentally” bumped into her, spilling the contents of her tray down the front of her sweater.
John tries to stifle his laugh with a lame little cough, then scoots down as if to help wipe up the spill.
Finally, Mr. Muse comes over
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