Plastic by Sarah N. Harvey Page A

her softball team. Her fastball is incredible. And very accurate. Even a jab in the back from Leah hurts.
    I ignore her and try to concentrate on Alex. He’s my bloodstained, sexually confused and doomed main character.
    â€œJack!” Leah hisses again. Another jab, a little closer to my neck this time. Leah is my best friend and probably the most impatient person on the planet. Ignoring her is futile, even though I risk detention (again) if I answer her. Before I have a chance to reply, I feel a piece of paper slip between my regulation navy blue sweater and the collar of my regulation white shirt. Slowly and casually, I stretch and “scratch” my neck. I yawn too, for effect, even though Ms. Lieberman isn’t paying any attention. She’s reading a gigantic book about Hitler. Come to think of it, Hitler was a bit like Alex. Sexually confused and doomed, but not in a good way. I doubt whether Ms. Lieberman would appreciate the connection.
    Leah’s note is written on a prescription pad. She steals them off doctors’ desks. This one is from the desk of Dr. Ronald Myers, BSc, MD, FRCPS, Specialist in Reconstructive Surgery. Which makes the good doctor sound like some kind of saint. Fixing cleft palates on big-eyed orphans in the Sudan. Performing painstaking skin grafts on burn victims—that sort of thing. But no. Dr. Myers should have No nose too big, no boob too small printed on his business cards. He’s Leah’s mom’s plastic surgeon. Cosmetic surgeon. Whatever. Mrs. James loves him. She had her (first) nose job when she was sixteen, and she’s had “work” done every couple of years since. It’s the only kind of work she does. She’s had so much Botox that her emotions don’t register on her face anymore. Happy, sad, angry, afraid? You can’t tell from looking at her. I’ve known her forever, and from a distance she looks the same now as she did when I was six. Up close, it’s a different story. A sad one.
    I unfold the note and smooth it out. The Lipo-Lizard is having her book club tonight. Can I come over to your place? Leah has a lot of rude nicknames for her mom: Butterface, Chipmunk, Trout Lips, Kabuki Head. You don’t even want to know what they refer to. The worst thing I’ve ever called my mom is an effing feminazi. We were arguing about cleaning up my room, I think. I mean, yes, she’s a feminist, but she’s not the militant, anti-man, hairy-legged kind. She’s more the equal-pay-for-equalwork, pro-choice, anti-war kind. She’s got wrinkles, but she would sooner vote Republican than get her forehead injected with a deadly poison. Needless to say, my mom and Leah’s mom aren’t best buds. Leah and my mom, on the other hand, are tight, especially when it comes to ragging on me. It’s a regular pastime with them.
    I flash Leah a quick thumbs-up and get back to staring at Melissa’s chest. Her thin white shirt is unbuttoned to the third button, which is promising, but I’ve only got a side view, which is less than ideal. I casually toss my pen toward the floor by her desk. She hears it fall and looks over at me. I shrug in what I hope is a charming manner, and she leans over to pick it up. I angle toward her just as Ms. Lieberman looks up from her book and says, “Jack? Is there a problem?”
    â€œNo problem, Mrs. L.,” I reply. “Dropped my pen, is all.” I take the pen from Melissa, who turns away from me and slides her hand inside her shirt to adjust her bra strap. She’s definitely suffering from NBS—New Bra Syndrome. Symptoms include strap slippage, underwire chafing, cup wrinkling and the dreaded back-fat bulge. I sigh, and Leah jabs me in the back again.
    â€œLoser,” she whispers. Leah hates my current hobby. She says it’s because it’s degrading to women, but I’m pretty sure it has more to do with her breasts being on the small side. Not