Gone Too Far by Natalie D. Richards Page B

forward. Even before I see her, I somehow know she’s next.
    I raise the camera into position. And there she is, Kristen Green, dressed in a red skirt, black boots, and a sweater that looks expensive. She beams out at the crowd and picks up the remote for the projector. She waits for the slideshow to begin and I wait for…well, I’m assuming for all hell to break loose.
    â€œGood morning, Claireville High,” she says with a smile designed to sell things. She unhooks the microphone from the podium like she’s on stage all the time. Giving speeches. Talking to contestants. Whatever.
    She walks to the side of the podium, so that she’s illuminated head to toe in the spotlight. Her smile turns a little flirty as she cocks her hip. “So, tell me, everybody…how do I look?”
    Predictably, most of the boys in the audience—and a few girls that I’ll assume are her friends—applaud. I ignore the smattering of lingering whistles, keeping myself absolutely still. Poised.
    Kristen beams as she draws the microphone to her lips again. “I’m here to talk to you today about one of my many great passions—my commitment to personal style and presenting your best self.”
    And I’m here to talk about dry heaving.
    A slideshow starts and I focus the lens, pulling in tight to the screen. But it’s just a bunch of supermodels strutting down various runways. I pull back from the camera and frown, listening to her drone on about the importance of looking your best to feel your best and how one’s commitment to fashion is the best … I tune her out, because I’d rather chew broken glass than listen to anyone who uses the word best this much.
    She moves back behind the podium. She’s got to be almost done and nothing’s happened. What gives?
    â€œIn January, I’ll be heading up a fashion club,” she says. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity to correct your fashion tragedies and step out with your best foot forward.”
    I feel my teeth grind at the best .
    Kristen flips her hair and smiles wide. “Be sure to stop by. Trust me, some of you could really use the help.”
    She gets a few laughs, but she also gets a bunch of people looking down at their outfits, hoping they aren’t the ones she’s talking about.
    â€œThe Best Foot Forward Club starts January third,” she says.
    She flips the slide, and I can’t really read the information because suddenly, things are raining down from the rafters. Rags. Or towels. Some kind of cloth. I don’t think; I just shoot, snapping picture after picture. I pull back the camera to find one perfect shot, a pair of jeans sailing down toward Kristen’s horrified face.
    It’s clothes. Clothes are falling all over. Goodard is shouting and teachers rush on stage. A banner unrolls overhead, stretching almost the width of the stage.
    It reads: Five-Finger Discount Club — Join Today!
    I stand up, taking as many pictures as I can. I get Kristen’s wide, shocked eyes as she holds a red-inked pair of jeans that look to be her size. A baby blue T-shirt I remember seeing her wear last week catches on the podium and dangles.
    Principal Goodard holds up a white sweater with the word STOLEN emblazoned across the front in red. All of the clothes are marked with that same red ink. Words like SNAGGED, LIFTED, TAKEN silently judge the fashion princess.
    It’s amazing. Better than amazing. People are pointing and whispering, and I have no idea how anyone pulled this off.
    This couldn’t be set up in advance. Someone is here running this.
    The teachers are looking up at the catwalk, but I know better than that. Someone capable of that book—someone who looped Jackson’s videos—isn’t going to wait up there to get caught. Sure enough, at the far side of the stage, I see a dark figure climbing fast down the opposite ladder. All I can see is black. Every stitch