The Lifeboat Clique Read Free Page A

no longer invisible. I was the class joke. But I didn’t care. My hands were still wrapped tightly around the chair legs. The earth had betrayed me, and I wasn’t taking any chances.
    Mrs. Paltos came over to me. I could tell it was her because the shoes were old-fashioned, the dress was too long, and the legs had veins that don’t spread that far till way after college. She crouched down.
    â€œ ¿Que pasó? ” she demanded, leaning hard on the accent to reaffirm that she was indeed the Spanish teacher.
    â€œEarthquake,” I explained, because she was obviously some kind of idiot who needed things spelled out.
    She shook her head, and I realized I had just violated her “no speaking English in Spanish class” rule.
    â€œ ¡Español solamente! ”
    â€œ Earthquako ,” I said.
    She scowled. “ ¡Levántate! ”
    But my body was not in the mood to levántate or, for that matter, do jack shit. It was in the mood to stay, crouched and trembling, right where it was.
    â€œ ¡Levántate! ”
    The class had stopped laughing at me and was listening intently. Something intriguing was going on—direct defiance to a teacher. Suddenly, though, she moved, and Croix—yes, Croix—took her place. He wore jeans and a Billabong shirt and looked even more stunning now that he was close. His hair was cut to a perfect length. His strange eyes sparkled, and his cologne made my soul want to grow nostrils.
    â€œHey,” he said. “It’s all good. Just a little tremor.”
    I was so shocked, I let go of the chair legs.
    â€œRight,” he said, nodding. “Nothing to be worried about. Though I don’t blame you. Best to be prepared for the worst.”
    I found myself crawling out from under the desk and taking my seat again, my heart still beating fast but totally ditching earthquake for sun god as inspiration for that rhythm. Croix gave me a thumbs-up and went back to his own seat, and that was that. The drama was over. The teacher made us go back to Spanish, which is what every survival handbook will tell you to do after an earthquake.
    Abigail turned her head, looked at me briefly, and went back to her notes.
    That’s right. Abigail was also in my Spanish class. You’re probably wondering if she ever acknowledged me, being my ex-best friend and all. Yes, she did. Sometimes she glanced at me and looked away. Not exactly Ariel and Flounder, but whatever. She was the one who had all the parties to which people like me weren’t invited. Of course, she didn’t use her own house. Her specialty was breaking into other people’s houses to have the parties. People away for the weekend, or a house that was still sitting on the market after months of some Realtor trying to sell it for two million dollars over value.
    She’d leave the trashed property for someone else to deal with. The police never showed up. She was never caught. Some said her father was friends with someone high up in the DA’s office who would divert the LAPD. That was the rumor, at least. LA was the place where your connections got you everything: your script funded, your jury duty excused, or someone else’s house to ruin in the name of a good time.
    And evidently the minor earthquake had inspired her to throw another party, because she straightened up, turned, and whispered something to limber stick-bitch Sienna Martin. Sienna said something a bit louder that jumped the heads of two nobodies and landed safely in the ear of Madison Cutler, budding alcoholic, probable bulimic, definite boob-jobber, and total cool kid. She smiled a smile that welcomed chilled Jell-O shots and passed on whatever party message she’d received to the next cool person, who leaned back and whispered it to Croix. He nodded politely, still taking notes.
    How did I know that a party was brewing when the words never reached my ears? I just knew. It is a skill common to people