obvious I’m no threat? Are they just extra cruel here in Austin, or are they clueless about popularity rules too?
The more I think about it, the madder I get. I’m so busy grumbling inside my head and tearing open wet-wipes packets with my teeth that I don’t hear someone come up behind me.
“Excuse me?”
“What?” I snap, whirling around.
A girl is standing there, slightly off to the side. She’s younger than me, probably a sophomore, and she’s clutching a large notebook in both hands, holding it in front of her like a shield.
“Are you Maggie Dempsey?” she asks in a breathy voice.
I hesitate but, failing to sense anything sly about her, eventually say, “Yeah.”
“I’m with the school newspaper,” she says, venturing a step closer. “We have this column on new Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
students called ‘Welcome the New Wagoner,’ and I was wondering if I could interview you for it.”
“I’ve read that column,” Penny says. “Last year they talked to a new boy from Minnesota. He collects trains.”
My shoulders slump. Oh no. Not this stuff. I really hate these getting-to-know-you things. Like when teachers ask us to pair up and write each other’s biographies. My life is so different, I can’t help coming off like some homeless street urchin or a forgotten character in a Lemony Snicket book.
Then again… Suddenly I reinflate. Sounding like a weirdo can only help my cause.
“Sure,” I say, facing the timid reporter girl. “What exactly would you like to know?” She starts off with the basic stuff: my name, my age, where I’ve just moved from, whether I have brothers and sisters, et cetera. As I talk, she slowly relaxes.
“Some of us on the staff were wondering…” She stops and bites her lip.
“What? What were you wondering?” I prompt.
“About your clothes.” Her limbs pull inward and her volume drops again. “We were wondering why you…”
“Dress like this?” I finish for her. I give a little shrug and decide to play dumb. “Why not?”
“Oh…uh…nothing. Just…” The girl trails off and glances past me at the popular table. I follow her gaze and catch sight of Caitlyn. She’s still watching me, her face all wrinkled up in a menacing glare.
“Just…,” the girl says, restarting, “aren’t you ever afraid you might look…”
“Stupid?” I finish for her again. “No! I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Being the way other people tell you to be. There are—what—over two thousand students in this school? Then there should be over two thousand different styles. Instead you have ten percent of the population telling the other ninety percent how they should dress and act! How stupid is that? It takes zero brains to get someone else’s haircut.
Real style is all about being yourself. It takes guts.”
“Right…yeah…I guess,” the girl says as she scribbles furiously.
“Here’s a scoop. Popular people aren’t any better than regular people; they just act like they are. And the thing is, we totally give them their power. If everyone stopped believing they owned us, they’d be nobodies. They’d have to eat each other.”
The girl scrawls out another few lines and then stops and looks right at me. “Was it like that where you came from? In Portland?”
“Uh…yeah. People weren’t scared to be themselves. To be real.” It’s completely untrue, but I figure there’s no way she’ll ever know.
“Sounds like it was great there.”
“It was….” My voice trails off. Once again I think about Trevor, and my throat gets that just-strangled Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
feeling.
“So…is Star Trek your favorite show?”
At first I’m taken aback, and then I remember my mission to be strange for the article. “Oh totally,” I lie.
“I really love Mr. Spock and…that other guy.”
The girl smirks ever so slightly as she writes
The more I think about it, the madder I get. I’m so busy grumbling inside my head and tearing open wet-wipes packets with my teeth that I don’t hear someone come up behind me.
“Excuse me?”
“What?” I snap, whirling around.
A girl is standing there, slightly off to the side. She’s younger than me, probably a sophomore, and she’s clutching a large notebook in both hands, holding it in front of her like a shield.
“Are you Maggie Dempsey?” she asks in a breathy voice.
I hesitate but, failing to sense anything sly about her, eventually say, “Yeah.”
“I’m with the school newspaper,” she says, venturing a step closer. “We have this column on new Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
students called ‘Welcome the New Wagoner,’ and I was wondering if I could interview you for it.”
“I’ve read that column,” Penny says. “Last year they talked to a new boy from Minnesota. He collects trains.”
My shoulders slump. Oh no. Not this stuff. I really hate these getting-to-know-you things. Like when teachers ask us to pair up and write each other’s biographies. My life is so different, I can’t help coming off like some homeless street urchin or a forgotten character in a Lemony Snicket book.
Then again… Suddenly I reinflate. Sounding like a weirdo can only help my cause.
“Sure,” I say, facing the timid reporter girl. “What exactly would you like to know?” She starts off with the basic stuff: my name, my age, where I’ve just moved from, whether I have brothers and sisters, et cetera. As I talk, she slowly relaxes.
“Some of us on the staff were wondering…” She stops and bites her lip.
“What? What were you wondering?” I prompt.
“About your clothes.” Her limbs pull inward and her volume drops again. “We were wondering why you…”
“Dress like this?” I finish for her. I give a little shrug and decide to play dumb. “Why not?”
“Oh…uh…nothing. Just…” The girl trails off and glances past me at the popular table. I follow her gaze and catch sight of Caitlyn. She’s still watching me, her face all wrinkled up in a menacing glare.
“Just…,” the girl says, restarting, “aren’t you ever afraid you might look…”
“Stupid?” I finish for her again. “No! I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Being the way other people tell you to be. There are—what—over two thousand students in this school? Then there should be over two thousand different styles. Instead you have ten percent of the population telling the other ninety percent how they should dress and act! How stupid is that? It takes zero brains to get someone else’s haircut.
Real style is all about being yourself. It takes guts.”
“Right…yeah…I guess,” the girl says as she scribbles furiously.
“Here’s a scoop. Popular people aren’t any better than regular people; they just act like they are. And the thing is, we totally give them their power. If everyone stopped believing they owned us, they’d be nobodies. They’d have to eat each other.”
The girl scrawls out another few lines and then stops and looks right at me. “Was it like that where you came from? In Portland?”
“Uh…yeah. People weren’t scared to be themselves. To be real.” It’s completely untrue, but I figure there’s no way she’ll ever know.
“Sounds like it was great there.”
“It was….” My voice trails off. Once again I think about Trevor, and my throat gets that just-strangled Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
feeling.
“So…is Star Trek your favorite show?”
At first I’m taken aback, and then I remember my mission to be strange for the article. “Oh totally,” I lie.
“I really love Mr. Spock and…that other guy.”
The girl smirks ever so slightly as she writes
Similar Books
