crap, but the truth was, nobody knew how to get along. Not for real.
“It’s just stupid,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We squeezed and shoved our way along the edge of the crowd. Even though I was almost six inches taller than Nat, I followed her. Nat always knew where she was going.
15.
When the fight was behind us, she repeated her question. “Metallic or beaded? Who do I want to be?”
I wanted to tell her that nobody made a purse that said “Natalia Shulmensky.” Nobody could make a purse that weird. Nat and me had lived next to each other since second grade, when her family came here from Russia. I made sure she looked decent—at least some eyeliner, zit concealer, and blush—before she went out in public. She kept me from jumping off the roof when my family went crazy. She helped me babysit my brothers. I helped her babysit her grandmother. She liked penguins, chocolate frosting from a can, sappy poetry, gum, and violin music. I liked TJ. She flirted with dorkdom, but she could be tough, and most people liked her.
Nope, they didn’t make purses that could say all that.
Three security guards and Mr. Gilroy, the evil vice principal of discipline, galloped down the hall. We pressed ourselves against the lockers so they didn’t run us over. Some kids changed direction to follow them, but Nat and me kept walking.
“I think you should get the beaded purse,” I said. “You aren’t exactly romantic, but you sure as hell are not ‘hot and independent,’ no offense, not the way they mean in those magazines. They mean hot like, ‘I’m too good for you, I got my own money, don’t be frontin’ me.’ You’re more like, ‘Be my boyfriend, I’ll make you cookies, come meet my dad,’ know what I mean?”
Nat nodded. “Yeah, but Target is having a sixty percent off sale on their metallics. I’ll ask Miss Crane at our meeting today.”
“Maybe she’ll have a purse you can borrow,” I said as a joke.
She nodded, eyes serious. “That would so cool. Good idea, Ash.”
We pushed our way up the stairs to the English wing.
“I heard you and TJ had a fight this morning,” she said. “I heard you caught him making out with some little slut.”
“That slut he was making out with was me, and no, we didn’t fight. It was nothing.”
“You should dump him.”
“You should buy the beaded purse.”
“Shut up.”
“Shuttin’ up. See ya later.”
16.
Second period, English 12: American Literary Connections, Basic, was a waste. Mr. Fugal yelled at us for not reading this poem by Langston Hughes. It was about a bird.
I liked Fugal at the beginning of the year, but he lost me when he made us read The Old Man and the Sea . Birds! Fish! Why couldn’t we read about people?
Since nobody knew the stupid bird poem, Fugal told us to take out our persuasive essay outlines. Persuasive essay? Not even the kids who paid attention had a clue what he was talking about. Fugal exploded.
Then the first miracle happened.
A fire drill.
17.
Fire drill rule #1—find your friends.
Mine were stretched out in the middle of the soccer field. Nat, Jessica, and the other white girls had stripped down to work on their tans. Some of the biracial girls, like Monica, had, too. Lauren liked her color, dark coffee, and couldn’t be bothered to change it.
I put on Nat’s sweatshirt and Monica gave me her jacket to cover my legs. My skin did not tan. My skin burned, peeled, and freckled. God did not intend for Irish kids to play in the sun, according to my mother.
Nat opened up a magazine to an article about feather boas. The air smelled like hot Dumpster, Nat’s spearmint gum, and the pot being smoked in the alley across the street. I closed my eyes and listened to the prom gossip bouncing back and forth between all the prom-maniacs.
“ . . . because he is sweet.”
“‘Sweet’ is another word for fat . . . ”
“ . . . then Patrick took that baby slut of his . . . ”
“How many calories do
“It’s just stupid,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We squeezed and shoved our way along the edge of the crowd. Even though I was almost six inches taller than Nat, I followed her. Nat always knew where she was going.
15.
When the fight was behind us, she repeated her question. “Metallic or beaded? Who do I want to be?”
I wanted to tell her that nobody made a purse that said “Natalia Shulmensky.” Nobody could make a purse that weird. Nat and me had lived next to each other since second grade, when her family came here from Russia. I made sure she looked decent—at least some eyeliner, zit concealer, and blush—before she went out in public. She kept me from jumping off the roof when my family went crazy. She helped me babysit my brothers. I helped her babysit her grandmother. She liked penguins, chocolate frosting from a can, sappy poetry, gum, and violin music. I liked TJ. She flirted with dorkdom, but she could be tough, and most people liked her.
Nope, they didn’t make purses that could say all that.
Three security guards and Mr. Gilroy, the evil vice principal of discipline, galloped down the hall. We pressed ourselves against the lockers so they didn’t run us over. Some kids changed direction to follow them, but Nat and me kept walking.
“I think you should get the beaded purse,” I said. “You aren’t exactly romantic, but you sure as hell are not ‘hot and independent,’ no offense, not the way they mean in those magazines. They mean hot like, ‘I’m too good for you, I got my own money, don’t be frontin’ me.’ You’re more like, ‘Be my boyfriend, I’ll make you cookies, come meet my dad,’ know what I mean?”
Nat nodded. “Yeah, but Target is having a sixty percent off sale on their metallics. I’ll ask Miss Crane at our meeting today.”
“Maybe she’ll have a purse you can borrow,” I said as a joke.
She nodded, eyes serious. “That would so cool. Good idea, Ash.”
We pushed our way up the stairs to the English wing.
“I heard you and TJ had a fight this morning,” she said. “I heard you caught him making out with some little slut.”
“That slut he was making out with was me, and no, we didn’t fight. It was nothing.”
“You should dump him.”
“You should buy the beaded purse.”
“Shut up.”
“Shuttin’ up. See ya later.”
16.
Second period, English 12: American Literary Connections, Basic, was a waste. Mr. Fugal yelled at us for not reading this poem by Langston Hughes. It was about a bird.
I liked Fugal at the beginning of the year, but he lost me when he made us read The Old Man and the Sea . Birds! Fish! Why couldn’t we read about people?
Since nobody knew the stupid bird poem, Fugal told us to take out our persuasive essay outlines. Persuasive essay? Not even the kids who paid attention had a clue what he was talking about. Fugal exploded.
Then the first miracle happened.
A fire drill.
17.
Fire drill rule #1—find your friends.
Mine were stretched out in the middle of the soccer field. Nat, Jessica, and the other white girls had stripped down to work on their tans. Some of the biracial girls, like Monica, had, too. Lauren liked her color, dark coffee, and couldn’t be bothered to change it.
I put on Nat’s sweatshirt and Monica gave me her jacket to cover my legs. My skin did not tan. My skin burned, peeled, and freckled. God did not intend for Irish kids to play in the sun, according to my mother.
Nat opened up a magazine to an article about feather boas. The air smelled like hot Dumpster, Nat’s spearmint gum, and the pot being smoked in the alley across the street. I closed my eyes and listened to the prom gossip bouncing back and forth between all the prom-maniacs.
“ . . . because he is sweet.”
“‘Sweet’ is another word for fat . . . ”
“ . . . then Patrick took that baby slut of his . . . ”
“How many calories do
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