Thirteen Plus One Read Free Page A

so,” I said happily. “Me love cake.”
    Dinah and Cinnamon shared a glance—only it wasn’t of the hee-hee-we’re-so-sneaky sort.
    “You ... didn’t bring me a cake?” I faltered.
    Dinah’s eyes flew to Malena, which told me she didn’t want to discuss it in public. Which also told me ( and Malena) what the answer was.
    Malena laughed a weird laugh, as if she hadn’t expected to make an honest hit. “Ouch,” she said, and then she strolled away in her tight white pants.
    The homeroom bell rang. I stayed on the floor, marshmallows all around me. One in my bra.
    “No cake?” I said. “For real?”
    “I wanted to make one,” Dinah said. “But we didn’t have any eggs!”
    Cinnamon pushed herself up onto her elbows. “And I suck at cooking. You know that.”
    True, but even a burned-on-the-outside, oozy-on-the-inside cake was better than no cake at all.
    “Won’t we have cake tonight?” Dinah asked. She meant at my birthday-slash-sleepover party. It was going to be a low-key affair, just Dinah and Cinnamon.
    I tried to shrug off my disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” “I can’t wait to see little Maggie,” Dinah said. Tonight would be her very first time to meet little Mags—and Cinnamon’s, too—since Mom brought Maggie home from the hospital just yesterday.
    I got to my feet. “She might be asleep, and if she’s sleeping, we aren’t allowed to bother her. Just to warn you.”
    Cinnamon looked at me funny, like maybe I was punishing them for not making me a cake.
    Was I?
    I didn’t want to be that person. Yuck. So I added a second item to my mental To-Do-Before-High-School list. Maybe I’d even write this list down at some point.
    Anyway, the second thing on my list was to work on BEING MATURE, even when people let me down. That was a worthwhile goal, right?
    Then it occurred to me that I’d challenged myself first to be spazzy, and two seconds later to work on being mature.
    Wow, Winnie, said a not-so-nice voice inside of me. How very inspiring.
    “ We did bring you marshmallows,” Cinnamon pointed out.
    “Yes,” I acknowledged. “Yes, you did.” And the one in my bra was going to require a trip to the girls’ room, as my oh-so-subtle twitching was doing nothing to dislodge it.
    Or I could leave it in as padding, I suppose. Apparently, marshmallows did make your boobs bigger. Even the mini ones.

    All morning long, I kept a hopeful eye out for Lars. Yes, my decorated locker was lovely, and yes, I blushed adorably (or so I hoped) when my French class sang Bon Anniversaire to moi. But Lars was my boyfriend, my yummy, wonderful boyfriend, and I couldn’t wait to find out what kind of birthday surprise he had up his sleeve.
    Seeing Lars at school was tricky, however, because Lars was in ninth grade, not eighth. Unlike me, he was already in high school. Lars had gone where no man had gone before (not counting the fifty jillion men and women who had), and who did he leave behind? Me.
    It was a sticky wicket, and since the high school was on a physically separate part of campus, our paths didn’t usually cross unless we made a point of making it happen. Like, he’d text me, or I’d text him, and we’d plan a quickie by the stone bench outside Pressley Hall at ten o’clock or whatever.
    (By “quickie,” I didn’t mean anything obscene. Just a smile and a brush of our fingertips, possibly a kiss. Lips only, no tongue. Because it’s school! Der!)
    But our texting days came to a screeching halt last week when my cell phone, a cheapo from Best Buy, went fllllemph and never worked again. I shared with Mom and Dad my very good idea of how they could get me a new one for my birthday— like for example an iPhone, *big smile*— and they shared with me their exceedingly unsatisfying opinion that if I wanted an iPhone, I was going to have to save up for it myself.
    Sadly, that was unlikely to happen in the next millennium. I barely had enough cash to support my Java Chip Frappuccino