Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) Read Free

self off the floor. He retrieves his rock, then takes a split-second detour by my closet on his way out.
    â€œ Halt! I saw that.”
    He turns, hands behind his back, all innocent acting.
    â€œGive it!”
    He pulls my sneaker from behind his back. “Oops . . . wrong shoe. Meant to take the other one. I’m, uh, practicing my tracking and stalking skills for Scouts. No muskrats handy, so I picked you . Should be interesting, especially after today.” He studies the sole of my shoe. “I need your paw print.”
    â€œStalking? Really?”
    â€œCareful observation is important.” Ralph squats in stalker position on the carpet with his pants wedged up around his butt. He creeps—stomach to rug—across my floor. “Use toes and elbows only,” he grunts. “Rest your weight on the insides of your legs.”
    I squish him to the floor with my foot. “In stalking,” he grunts into the carpet, “always remember that your shadow is not overlooked by your quarry.” He cranes his neck to look up at me. “Constantly watch your quarry. Be prepared. Freeze if necessary. Never approach from downwind.Don’t breathe until your quarry resumes feeding or other natural activities.”
    I pull Ralph to standing, load the Bible on his arm. “Here. You take it. It’s missing a few chapters.”
    He walks out backward. “Don’t you mean verses?”
    â€œNo, chapters.” I shut my door in my brother’s goofy face.
    . . . the true creation story of me.

Chapter 3
    I could grow a beard waiting for Mr. Thorp to get off the phone in his office. All weekend I obsessed over what rumors had been spread about me. I have rehearsed and re-rehearsed my side of the story until I can say it without crying. But so far, walking into school has been a carbon copy of every Monday, except for the pretzel twist in my stomach.
    Mr. Thorp, of the clipped-caterpillar mustache and poochy eye bags, finally puts his caller on hold and looks up blankly. He mentions not one word about social studies. He does not ask a single question. Over the weekend my humiliating incident seems to have fallen into the empty wastebasket between his ears. He says nothing about Neil or commie coughing or the deaf-and-blind Miss Arth. “Since this is your first offense, if you successfullycomplete your detention, your truancy will be expunged from your permanent record.”
    Mr. Thorp reaches over, punches the blinking button on his phone, and that’s it.
    I walk out with my punishment—eighth hours on Wednesday and Friday for the next four weeks. Art room cleanup.
    Sorry, Ralphie, all I got is a pink slip — no floats, no ticker tape parade for me.
    Outside the front office I stop. I stare at the buffed brown floor, thinking I hate this place . But who cares? Nobody. My heroic departure was nothing that the swipe of a pink slip couldn’t wipe away.
    Outside, the ROTC honor guard is in formation around the flagpole. Neil Bradford holds a precision salute as the flag is raised. He’s starched and serious. Neil will not receive a detention. Miss Arth will not receive a detention either. People don’t get eighth hours for adjusting their earrings, even if right before their very eyes an innocent person is getting crushed by a tank.
    In the lunch line Patty Kittle and my other former best friend Anita ask me how I’m feeling now. They both wear pearls, an essential part of the sorority girls’—better known as cupcakes —school uniform.
    â€œWhat?”
    Patty says, “You went to the nurse’s office during class, right?”
    â€œNo. I wasn’t sick. I walked out .” I hold up my detention slip.
    â€œOh!” She nods, wide eyed, with her hand cupped over her mouth.
    Anita’s eyes shift all over the place. “Well, I’m so glad it was just because of . . . that , I mean, I’m so happy