Tell Me Three Things Read Free Page B

girl ruffled his hair. It’s thick and tempting.
    But he seems mean. Or sad. Or both. Like he too is counting the days until he graduates from this place and in the meantime can’t be bothered to fake it.
    For what it’s worth: 639 days, including weekends. Even I manage to fake it. Most of the time.
    I haven’t had a chance to really look without getting caught, but I’m pretty sure the Batman has a cleft in his chin, and there’s a distinct possibility that he wears eyeliner, which,
meh.
Or maybe it’s just the dark circles that make his eyes pop, because he looks chronically exhausted, like sleep is just not a luxury afforded to him.
    “No worries,” the girl says, and pretends not to be stung by his rejection, though it’s clear she is. In response, she sits on another girl’s lap in the opposite chair, another blond, who looks so much like her that I think they might be twins, and faux-cuddles her. I know how this show goes.
    I walk by, eager to get to the bench just outside the door. A lonely place to eat lunch, maybe, but also an anxiety-free zone. No way to screw it up.
    “What are you staring at?” the first blonde barks at me.
    And there they are, the first words another student has voluntarily said to me since I started at Wood Valley two weeks ago:
What are you staring at?
    Welcome to the jungle,
I think.
Welcome. To. The. Jungle.

CHAPTER 3
    I t’s not so bad here, I tell myself, now that I’m sitting on a bench with my back to the Batman and those bitchy girls, the cafeteria and the rest of my class safely behind him. So people here are mean. No big deal. People are mean everywhere.
    I remind myself of the blissful weather. It’s sunny, because apparently it’s always sunny in LA. I’ve noticed that all the kids have designer sunglasses, and I’d get all snarky about people trying to look cool, but it turns out they need them. I spend my days all squinty, with one hand cupped over my eyes like a saluting Boy Scout.
    My biggest problem is that I miss my best friend, Scarlett. She’s my five-foot-tall half-Jewish, half-Korean bouncer, and she would have had the perfect comeback for that girl, something with bite and edge. Instead, I’ve only got me: me and my delayed response time and my burning retinas. I’ve been trying to convince myself that I can go it alone for the next two years. That if I need a boost, I can just text Scarlett and it will feel like she’s nearby, not halfway across the country. She’s fast on the trigger. I just wish I felt a little less stupid about how this place works. Actually, SN is right: I have lots of practical questions. I could totally use a Wood Valley app that would tell me how to use the lunch credit cards, what the hell Wood Valley Giving Day is, and why I’m supposed to wear closed-toed shoes that day. Maybe most importantly, who is off-limits for accidental eye contact.
What are you staring at?
    The flirting blondes now walk by my bench—guess their attempt to get Batman to walk was fruitless—and giggle as they pass.
    Are they laughing at me?
    “Is she for real?” the blonder girl mock-whispers to her only slightly less blond friend, and then glances back at me. They are both pretty in that lucky, conventional way. Shiny, freshly blown yellow hair, blue eyes, clear skin, skinny. Oddly big boobs. Short skirts that I’m pretty sure violate the school’s dress code, and four coats of makeup that was probably applied with the help of a YouTube tutorial. I’ll be honest: I wouldn’t mind being lucky in precisely that way, being that rare teenager who has never stared down the head of a pimple. My face, even on its clearest days, has what my grandmother has always not-so-charitably called character. It takes a second, maybe a third look for someone to notice my potential. That is, if I have any. “Did you see that scrunchie?”
    Oh crap. I was right. They are talking about me. Not only will I spend the next two years without a single friend, but