It's Just a Jump to the Left by Libba Bray Page A

had been granted a pass from the theater manager
     who used to go to A.A. meetings with Agnes’s mom.
    “He’s behind the counter, same as always. Get to it,” Agnes answered, and Leta felt her heartbeat quicken.
    Tom’s hair shone in the glow of the popcorn machine. “Can I get you something?” he asked.
    “Can I have a Sprite, please?” Leta felt she should say something more, to keep the conversation flowing like she’d read in
     a
TeenBeat
article, “Snag Your Crush!” “I really want a Coke but I have an ulcer? And my doctor said I can’t drink Coke anymore because
     it gives me a stomachache?”
    Tom jiggled the cup under the stream of pale, foaming soda. “Bummer.”
    “It’s the same with popcorn, bad for my ulcer,” Leta continued. “I had to have a barium swallow. They call it a ‘delicious
     strawberry milkshake’ but it’s like drinking strawberry-flavored chalk. I almost barfed it back up.”
    “Hey, Tom, I can cover for you if you want time with your girlfriend,” the other guy at the counter snickered, and Leta’s
     face went lava-red.
    “Shut up, Marco. That’ll be a dollar twenty-five,” Tom said.
    Quickly, Leta dropped her change on the counter. Agnes pushed her toward Theater 2. “Smooth move, Ex-lax. At this rate, you’ll
     never get kissed. Come on. I don’t wanna get stuck in the back with the virgins.”
    Leta and Agnes settled into their seats, third row center. When the lights dimmed and the familiar red lips and white teeth
     glowed on the screen, the audience erupted into cheers, and Leta felt that surge of excitement in her belly, the thrill of
     sitting in the dark with strangers sharing an experience that made them all seem like friends. She and Agnes sang along to
     every lyric. They threw toast and shouted comebacks. But once Columbia was on-screen, Leta was alert, her feet miming the
     steps below her seat, her hands making small motions on her lap. Only once did she look away, her eye drawn by a flash of
     gold on the front row. There sat Jennifer Pomhultz wearing her sister’s gold-sequined baton twirler’s outfit with fringe at
     the shoulders. So Jennifer hadn’t come as Magenta at all but as Columbia, and Leta felt a surge of panic mixed with hatred
     as Jennifer also imitated Columbia’s moves. Leta elbowed Agnes and pointed.
    Agnes’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “That bitch!”
    Someone on their row—a virgin—made the mistake of starting up the battery-powered carving knife way too early. Its electric
     growl disturbed the mood, and the audience pounced with a chorus of shushing.

    After the movie, Leta and Agnes waited out front for Mr. Tatum to come pick them up. It was brisk in the parking lot—the flatlands
     of Texas could be surprisingly cold in winter. Leta crossed her arms to stay warm and brooded over Jennifer Pomhultz. “I can’t
     believe her. She can have anyone else, but Columbia’s mine.”
    Agnes waved it away. “Don’t worry about it. By next week, she’ll be Riff Raff.”
    But Leta did worry. That’s why she had an ulcer. Even now, her stomach burned with acid, and she wished she’d brought her
     Maalox along.
    “Hey, aren’t you Diana’s sister, Agnes?” A guy with dark hair and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt walked up to them, tossing his cigarette
     in the parking lot on the way. Leta recognized him from her brother’s high school yearbook. His name was Roger, and he raced
     motocross. “I’m Roger. I’ve seen you around.”
    “Yeah, I’ve seen you, too.” Agnes said it really cool, but she was smiling in a way Leta had never seen her smile before.
    Mr. Tatum was late as usual, and for a half hour they stood around talking and trying to stay warm. Roger made fun of Agnes
     but it was really a compliment, and when Agnes fake-punched his arm, Leta could see she wasn’t insulted at all; she was thrilled.
     At last, Leta saw Mr. Tatum’s old white Buick edging into the lot from College Drive. Mrs. Tatum had taken