Also by Lauren Myracle
The Internet Girls series
ttyl
ttfn
l8r, g8r
Eleven
Twelve
Kissing Kate
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Myracle, Lauren, 1969–Rhymes with witches / Lauren Myracle.
p. cm.
Summary: High school freshman Jane believes that she would do anything to be popular until she is selected to be in the school’s most exclusive clique and learns that popularity has a price.
ISBN 0-8109-5859-7
[1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Cliques (Sociology)—Fiction. 3. Witchcraft—Fiction. 4. Conduct of life—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.M9955Rh 2005
[Fic]—dc22
2004023447
paperback ISBN 978-0-8109-9215-3
Originally published in hardcover by Amulet Books in 2005
Copyright © 2006 Lauren Myracle
Designed by Jay Colvin
Published in 2006 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
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For Laura,
the original Bitch,
who couldn’t be a bitch if she tried
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
beg
speak
roll over
about the author
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Tobin Anderson for inducting me into the world of the weird. Thanks to Laura Pritchett, Todd Mitchell, and Jack Martin for helping me make the weird even weirder. And thanks times ten to Susan Van Metre, who tempered weirdness with vulnerability, spookiness with humanity. Susan, you are the cat’s meow.
I so shouldn’t have worn this thong. It was hiking up my butt, and there was nothing I could do about it because there was no way to subtly reach up and yank it out. “They’re comfortable,” Mom had said. Then, “Well, they do take some getting used to. But Jane, if you don’t want panty lines …”
Thanks, Mom. This was the wedgie from hell.
“I’m thinking maybe board shorts and a red tank top,” Alicia said.
I shifted on the hard cafeteria chair. My new dress, the one that demanded no panty lines, wrinkled under my thighs.
“If I can find black board shorts,” Alicia went on. “Or board shorts with enough black in them to count as black. We all have to wear black and red, did I tell you?”
“Go Devils,” I said.
Alicia speared a spaghetti noodle. She twirled it around her fork. “You’re being stupid, you know. They have spots for five freshmen. You could sign up after lunch and still have—”
She was interrupted by a high-pitched yowl as a rangy butterscotch-colored cat bolted from the kitchen. It leaped over one table and skidded down another, sending a plate of spaghetti crashing to the floor. Cries erupted as people jerked out of its way. Chairs screeched.
“Get out! Get out!” one of the cafeteria ladies shrieked, brandishing a spatula. “Filthy overgrown rodent!”
The cat bounded through the wide double doors. The cafeteria lady flung her spatula, and the cat jumped sideways and tore down the hall.
“And stay out!” the cafeteria lady yelled. She stared after it, her face flushed and her hairnet slipping out of place. She stomped back to the kitchen to the applause of the student body.
“Jesus Christ,” Alicia said. “You’d think we could have one day—one day—without those cats breaking a frickin’ plate. But nooo. The whole damn school is possessed, I’m not even kidding.”
“They’re cats, Alicia. Not spinning-head girls from The Exorcist.”
“They’re diseased. Why doesn’t someone call the Humane Society?”
I raised my eyebrows. Mr. Van Housen, the principal, had called the Humane Society, as well as Animal Control. He’d sent out e-mail after e-mail explaining the difficulty of capturing feral cats once they’ve taken over a given territory, e-mails that Alicia had received along with everyone else.
“Whatever,” she said. “But it’s driving me insane.” She stabbed a fresh noodle and demanded, “So will you? Sign up after lunch?”
“I’m not trying out for cheerleading,” I said.
“But why? I know you’re convinced you’re this big loser, but you could at least try out.”
My skin grew warm. “I’m not convinced I’m a loser. Who said I’m convinced I’m a loser?”
“Hmm. Would that possibly be you, Jane?” She assumed a hangdog expression. “‘I am worthless and alone because my daddy abandoned me. Boo-hoo-hoo.’”
I put down my garlic bread. Alicia was not nearly as clever as she liked to think she was.
“I’m kidding,” she said. Her face showed her regret, although only for an instant. Being real with each other wasn’t something Alicia and I knew how to do very well. “But how are you going to, like, rise above it if you never even make the effort? I’m serious. Don’t you ever just want to be more than who you are?”
A new disruption sent ripples through the crowded cafeteria, saving me from having to answer. It was the Bitches, Crestview’s elite, strolling majestically through the doors. They filed in according to rank: first Keisha, who was a senior; then Bitsy, a junior; then Mary Bryan, a sophomore. A lull fell in the hum of eating and talking, and then conversations swelled back up. Brad Johnson’s laugh rang out, shouting, Look at me! Look at me! Sukie Karing smiled hard and waved. “Over here!” she called. “I saved you guys seats!”
“They’re not cheerleaders,” I said. “You don’t have to be a cheerleader to be cool.”
Alicia snorted. Still, she straightened her spine as Bitsy passed. So aware, all of us, of being in their presence. I watched as they waltzed into the food line, then I gloomily regarded my spaghetti, knowing they’d emerge with fettuccine alfredo.
Alicia sagged into her usual slump. “That’s because they’re beyond cheerleader-cool,” she said. “The usual rules don’t apply.”
“Well, that’s not fair,” I said. But it was a half-hearted complaint, because to complain about something, you had to not like that thing, and I liked the Bitches as much as anyone. Liked them—ha. Craved them, yearned for them, wanted to be them. Bought this stupid dress to impress them, for god’s sake, not that they’d ever notice. So really, the complaint was less about them and more about me.
Keisha walked out of the food line with her loaded tray, and Tommy Arnez quoted loudly from Casablanca.
“I came for the waters!” he cried. He and Curtis MacKeen started a Casablanca riff, their voices growing louder and their Bogart impressions heavier, and Keisha rewarded them with a smile.
“So will you at least come watch next Monday,
when we do our official auditions?” Alicia asked. “I need someone to cheer me on.”
I turned back to her. “I thought the cheering was your job.”
She scowled, Oh aren’t you funny.
“Of course I’ll come,” I said. “I’ll clap like crazy.”
Keisha, Bitsy, and Mary Bryan dropped down by Sukie Karing, and Mary Bryan tore open a packet of cheese and sprinkled it onto her carbonara. Not fettuccine alfredo, but carbonara. I could see the pancetta.
“I just hope I can do a split by then,” Alicia said. “I am so inflexible it’s not even funny.” Her eyes drifted to the Bitches, then made their way back to me. She sucked on her Diet Coke. “So what’s your big news? Before homeroom you said you had something to tell me.”
“I did?” I said. “Huh. I can’t remember.”
“Liar,” she said. “Did it have to do with your dad? I bet it did, didn’t it? Did he send you another dippy gift?”
As a matter of fact, he had. He’d mailed me a souvenir from Egypt, the latest stop on his quest to find himself. I wadded up my napkin.
“Because you really can tell me,” she said. “I won’t say anything mean. I promise.”
“I’ve got to go,” I said. I tossed my napkin on my tray and stood up. “I’ve got to finish my Spanish.”
“Nerd,” she said.
“Spaz,” I said.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder. A lump in the bottom bumped my hip. I took my tray to the conveyor belt, then headed past Mary Bryan and Keisha and Bitsy toward the door. Easy now, I told myself. Stomach in. Chin up. Expression alert, indicating rich inner life. Three, two, one—smile!
Oh god, did I have oregano stuck in my teeth?
Mary Bryan smiled back at me. At me. At easy, breezy me. I floated out of the room as my thong climbed up my butt.
During Spanish, I reached into my backpack and closed my hand around Dad’s present. A small brown teddy bear, just right for an eleven-year-old, wearing a shirt that read I LOVE CAIRO.
“We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit—how ’bout you?”
Whoops and cheers assaulted me as I walked across campus after class. Clusters of freshman girls, each group with their own senior leader, bounced and leaped and yelled. I searched for Alicia and spotted her on the courtyard of Askew Hall. With her pale skin and inky black hair, she was an easy target. The other girls were doing a step-cross-step kind of movement, but Alicia crossed when they stepped and stepped when they crossed. Her tongue jammed against her lower lip, making it bulge. She did that when she concentrated.
She rammed the girl beside her, and my face heated up for no good reason. It wasn’t me who had rammed Chelsea Olsen. It wasn’t me who appeared to be nursing a wad of chew.
Stop it, I scolded myself. Be nice. With Alicia, I was always trying to be a better friend than I was.
Footsteps clipped behind me, and I turned to see a breathless Mary Bryan. Mary Bryan! Her cheeks were pink and her honey-blond hair was slipping from her ponytail. Her striped T-shirt stopped above her belly button, revealing an inch of tummy above her low-slung jeans.
“Jane,” she said. “Hey! I was looking for you.”
I glanced behind me, even though she’d said my name as clear as could be. “You were?”
“Where are you headed? I’ll walk with you.”
“Uh, I’m just going to the library. I have a report due for English.” This wasn’t true. Really I was just going to hide out until three when Mom picked me up. I would hole up in one of the carrels and reread the Ramona books I loved back in sixth grade.
“Ugh,” Mary Bryan groaned. “Hate English reports. My last one was on that play Pygmalion, which, I’m sorry, totally sucked.”
“That’s the one with the ‘Rain in Spain’ song, right?” I asked. My nerves made me blabber. “Where that professor—what was his name? Oh yeah, Henry Huggins. And he turns a street urchin into a lady and then falls in love with her?”
Mary Bryan’s lips came together, and my stupidity hit me like a blow. Mary Bryan was a sophomore. She’d never said more than “hi” to me, and now, when she did, I gave a show-offy speech about a play she probably hadn’t even finished.
“Close,” she said, “only you’re thinking of the musical, which is My Fair Lady. In the play, they don’t fall in love.”
“Oh.”
“And it’s Henry Higgins, not Huggins,” Mary Bryan said. “For what it’s worth.” Idly, she dipped one finger under the waist of her jeans and scratched her tummy. “Anyway … you want to hang out sometime?”
Her words barely made it past my embarrassment. And when they did, they made no sense. Again I swiveled my head to see who she was really talking to.
“Gooooo, team!” the wannabe cheerleaders cried.
“Team!” echoed Alicia, one beat late.
“Um,” I said. My brain was jammed. “Um …”
“I’ll call you,” Mary Bryan said. She checked out the cheerleading girls, who pinwheeled their arms and flung themselves in the air. Her eyebrows edged higher as Alicia landed wrong on her ankle. “Shit!” Alicia cried, audible even from here.
Mary Bryan pulled out of it. “Okay,” she said. “Got to motor.” Over her shoulder she said, “Love the dress, by the way. See ya!”
plainjain: omg, u will not believe who talked 2 me after school. who came up and talked to ME, on purpose. go on, guess.
malicious14: who?
plainjain: mary bryan richardson!!!
malicious14: wtf?
plainjain: and get this: she asked if i want 2 hang out sometime.
malicious14: haha, very funny
plainjain: she did, i swear. it was extremely freaky.
malicious14: did she have u confused w/somebody, u think?
malicious14: jk
plainjain: oh god, maybe she did. except she did use my name, so what’s that all about?
malicious14: she probably felt sorry for u. she was probably like, “oh, there’s that poor sad freshman who’s always slinking off to the library.”
plainjain: fyi, i didn’t even go to the library. i was going to, but i changed my mind.
malicious14: why, cuz u were in a fog of post-mary bryan delirium? listen, jane, she might have SAID u should hang out, but she didn’t really mean it. u know that, right?
plainjain: gee, thanks
malicious14: i’m just saying. anyway, i’ve g2g. i twisted my ankle during cheerleading practice, and i’ve gotta put more ice on it. everybody gave me those fake pity looks, when really they were just glad it wasn’t them.
plainjain: bastards
plainjain: hey, maybe it was my dress, cuz mb did mention she liked it. u think that’s it?
malicious14: mb? ur calling her mb now?
plainjain: i bet it was my dress.
malicious14: ur pathetic. bye!
I shut down the computer and shoved back my chair. It was on wheels, so it rolled back several feet before ramming into the coffee table.
“Jane,” Mom warned from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” I said.
We went through this at least once a day, all because Mom refused to let me put the computer in my room. She did it for my own good, so that I wouldn’t become a raving sex maniac with the screen name “Foxxxie LaRue.” This, from my thirty-nine-year-old thong-wearing mother.
She walked barefoot into the den. “All done with your homework?” she asked.
“Didn’t have any,” I said. “But I found this awesome site called ‘jailbait.com.’ Grown-ups visit it, not just kids, and I can sign up to be penpals with someone in prison. That would be okay, right? I could, like, give back to the community.”
She sat on the worn sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit with me. Tell me about your day.”
I rose from the computer chair and joined her.
“So what’s new in Jane Land?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. She scooched over her legs, and I leaned ag
ainst her. “Alicia’s trying out for cheerleading. She really, really, really wants to make it.”
“Do you think she will?”
“Um, that would be a big fat no, sadly enough.”
“Why not?”
“Because the more you want something, the less likely you are to get it. Anyway, she’s kind of a spaz.”
Mom stroked my hair. “Jane. You don’t truly believe that, do you?”
“I’m not saying it to be mean. She’s just not all that coordinated.”
“No, that you never get the things you want.”
I started to reply, then let my mind drift off as she traced circles on my scalp. It was like being little again, when she used to brush my hair after a bath. I’d smell like my special kid’s shampoo that came in the fish-shaped bottle, and after the tangles had been combed out, Dad would wrap me in a hug and call me his mango-tango baby.
Mom kept caressing. After several minutes, she said, “Phil called, by the way. He didn’t leave a message. He said it wasn’t important.”
“Okay,” I said. Phil was my best boy bud. My safety date, not that I ever went on dates with him or anyone else. He’d kind of had a crush on me since we met in seventh grade—he tutored me in science for extra credit—but the good thing about Phil was that we could go on being friends and never really deal with it. I knew Phil would always be there for me.
“And your dad called,” Mom continued. “He was sorry he missed you.” Her fingers slowed in my hair. “He’s flying to Zimbabwe tomorrow. He’s going to stay in a thatched hut.”
“Great,” I said.
“Jane …”
“Mom.”
She sighed. Now it was her turn not to reply.
I stared at the ceiling with its spiderweb of cracks. I listened to our breaths. Finally, I pushed myself up.
“Guess I better go to bed,” I said.
Mom smiled up at me, although her eyes were sad. “Love you, Jane,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Love you, too.”
Upstairs, I pulled the teddy bear from my backpack. I stroked its fur, then lightly touched its nose.
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