Revenge of the Snob Squad

by Julie Anne Peters

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1998 by Julie Anne Peters

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-07223-6

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  To Zo Milne, special teacher, treasured friend

  Chapter 1

  If they gave out a World’s Worst Whiner Award, Lydia Beals would get it. She was already an official member of the Mickey Mouth Club. Totally obnoxious. And a brown-noser to boot. Nobody at Montrose Middle School could stand Lydia Beals. Including me.

  Today Lydia was whining about having P.E. for six weeks straight. I had to agree, even though I didn’t say it. Not even Lydia could hate gym class more than me. Mrs. Carpezio, our gym teacher, was off on maternity leave—having triplets, she claimed. Secretly I suspected she’d been bingeing on basketballs. It was real exciting for her but left us with this substitute, Mr. Dietz. Old. Crotchety.

  First time I saw him I thought, He’s not going to make it across the court without a walker. As I dragged into the gymnasium behind my class, I heard Lydia tell him, “Don’t you know that choosing up teams causes permanent psychological damage in children? I should know. My mother’s a child psychologist.”

  We heard this about six times a day.

  Mr. Dietz said, “How ’bout if I make you a captain?”

  Lydia’s jaw jammed in the stuck-open position. “Okay.” She beamed.

  I dreaded gym anyway, but when Mr. Dietz announced that our school would be participating in a new fitness program, he almost got to scrape my lunch off the freshly lacquered floor. And when he said the first phase was team relay races, I considered leaving him breakfast, too. I wasn’t alone. The communal groan could be heard in Pittsburgh. Where is Pittsburgh, anyway?

  “Shut the door,” Mr. Dietz told me. “Look alive.”

  I gave him my classic look of the Living Dead. It was a vacant stare perfected after many years of practice.

  As usual, the elite cliques immediately separated themselves from the rest of us pond scum. Mr. Dietz blew his whistle, hoping, I guess, to cut through the comas. Good luck.

  “Okay, folks, let’s choose up teams.”

  To make myself invisible (which is a laugh if you could see me), I slouched against the tumbling mats in the back. Why delude myself? I always have been, and always will be, the last one picked for any team—sports or academic. Lydia Beals may be called Bealsqueal behind her back, but they call me Lardo Legs to my face.

  “Melanie,” Lydia called out her first choice. Prize pick for a relay race. Melanie had legs from here to Hong Kong. Where is Hong Kong?

  “You gotta be kidding.” Melanie tossed her thick lemon locks up over her shoulder. Melanie also had an ego that stretched to Toledo. Where is—oh, forget it.

  “Mr. Dietz, do I have to?” she whined. “Ashley said I could be on her team.”

  Mr. Dietz hemmed. He hawed. Ashley Krupps was the principal’s daughter and Dietz knew it. You didn’t disappoint the principal’s daughter. Not if you wanted to work at Montrose tomorrow.

  “Okay, forget Melanie.” Lydia saved his scrawny neck. “I’ll take Zach Romero.” As opposed to the new Zach whatever-his-name, who was as yet unproven. He’d be picked before me, too. Watch.

  “No way, Jose,” Zach said. “I’m on Kevin Rooney’s team.”

  The sound of Kevin’s name perked me up. I’m deeply in love with Kevin Rooney. Like I have a chance.

  “Kevin hasn’t even picked yet!” Lydia screeched. She hoisted her hands onto her hips. Through squinty eyes, she threatened the rest of us. Everyone lurched backward a step. Except me, of course.

  “I’ll go,” a raspy voice rose from the sidelines. Pushing off from the brick wall with one army boot, Max McFarland strode across the basketball court. The sea parted to let Max through.

  This is an interesting development, I thought. Max McFarland rarely participated in gym class. Only when we played basketball (which was my second most despised sport) or volleyball (a close third). Max was big. Not fat, like me, but solid. Bones of bronze. And tall, at least five ten. Mean, to boot. She scared the bejeezus out of us. Boys included.

  Maxine McFarland. The only girl I knew who wore a training bra in second grade.

  “Kevin, your pick,” the daring Mr. Dietz called out. Kevin, love of my life, hitched his chin a fraction of an inch. Zach Romero responded. He swaggered up to take his predetermined position behind Kevin.

  The last six squad captains made their picks. Then it was Lydia’s turn again. “Rachel Cagney,” she said.

  “Mr. Dietz, Ashley promised I could be on her team, too.” Rachel batted her mascara-caked eyelashes at Mr. Dietz. Gag me with an ice cream scoop.

  “This isn’t fair,” Lydia wailed. “I’m the team cap—” Her words got garbled by the stranglehold Max imposed on her neck. The grip and twist caused the top button of Lydia’s white lace blouse to pop off. It skittered across the shiny floor, while Max whispered in Lydia’s ear.

  “What!” Lydia recoiled. She glared at Max. Only for an instant, though. Lydia wasn’t stupid. Her tight lips drew tighter. She folded her arms and humphed. “I pick Prairie,” she muttered.

  My eyebrows arched. Two interesting developments in one day. Spare me the excitement. Apparently Max McFarland planned to lose the race. Prairie Cactus (what a name, huh?) limped across the floor and teetered into place behind Max. If her head was even with Max’s elbow, Prairie had grown an inch since lunch.

  Even the physically challenged got picked before me. I tried not to let on what torture this was. From my pocket I withdrew a KitKat and unwrapped it.

  As teams formed, the throng thinned. The lights dimmed. Finally it was the last round. Oh, the agony. I yearned for a Reese’s peanut butter cup. A Snickers. One nub of a soft and chewy super-size Tootsie Roll.

  Lydia’s final turn. She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. Twisting her head around, she queried Max. Max considered the crowd, nodded, and handed down her decision in Lydia’s ear.

  Lydia balked. Apparently she didn’t value her life. Max balled a fist. Clucking in disgust, Lydia said, “Okay. Jenny Solano.”

  What? I jerked awake. Me? My eyes darted around the gym. It’s a miracle, I thought. As I waddled my way past the remaining sixth graders to the opposite end, I counted heads…. Five, six, seven. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t dead last. I was seventh to last.

  “Thank you, God,” I prayed to the acoustic tile. So this is what it feels like to be among the chosen few.

 
Chapter 2

  Loudmouth Lydia, macho Max, peg leg Prairie, and sumo Solano. Talk about the dream team. We had the slowest time of all the relay teams. Big surprise. If you think we’re going to exercise, get energized, and rally from behind to win in the end, you’ve OD’d on Disney. Get real. We didn’t kill each other, which was a big disappointment for Max, I think. After the first heat she asked Mr. Dietz if she could just run all four legs of the race herself. That made Lydia foam at the mouth. Personally I felt it was the only chance we had. If Mr. Dietz promised me the Milky Way, or even a package of them, I couldn’t have made it around that track again. Luckily he didn’t have to decide because the bell rang.

  Mr. Dietz’s shrill whistle brought the thundering herd stampeding toward the building to a slow-motion, dust-raising halt. “Since we’re going to run relays for two weeks to see how our times improve,” he announced, “we’ll keep the same squads.”

  Rats. I was hoping somehow, by default, to end up on Kevin Rooney’s team. I wasn’t the only one disappointed. Lydia looked like she was going to throw a hyper hissy fit, right there on the gravel, until Max shut her down with sledgehammer eyes. “Good idea, Mr. Dietz.” Lydia smiled through clenched teeth. Always the brown-nose.

  After school I plopped down in front of the TV with a bag of Cheetos to watch Oprah. She’s my idol. Oprah says addictions, especially food addictions, are caused by a void in your life. I wasn’t sure what my void was. Lately I’d begun to think it was my hamster, Petey, who’d died on Halloween night. His empty cage still sat in my bedroom, haunting me.

  Oprah’s show today was on mixed marriages. Mentally I replaced the happy couple on stage with Kevin Rooney and me. Major mix: the Blob and the Babe.

  Vanessa, my demented sister, crashed in the front door. She clucked her tongue at me in disgust, and I returned the greeting. “Turn it down,” she snarled. “I have to practice.”

  Vanessa was addicted to the clarinet, among other things. I knew what her void was. She was missing a brain.

  Dad, who was between jobs and had been for four years now, followed Vanessa in. He juggled a couple of grocery bags on one arm.

  “Ahoy, matey,” I called to him. “Toss me them thar cookies.”

  He threw me the bag of Chips Ahoys. While he played Mr. Mom in the kitchen, I turned up the volume on Oprah, just to irk Vanessa. It worked. She slammed her door. Dad hollered. I warmed from within.

  Dinner was meat loaf and mashed potatoes. My father cooked three things: meat loaf and mashed potatoes, meat loaf and French fries, meat loaf and hash browns. He kidded Mom that he was just a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I think the joke was wearing a little thin. Mom didn’t laugh anymore when she got up to nuke a bag of frozen veggies.

  “How was school today, Jenny?” she asked, passing me the bowl of green beans.

  I passed on the beans. Must leave room for dessert. “Fine.”

  She sighed. “Could you spare us a few details?”

  “Fine and dandy?”

  Dad chuckled. I didn’t think mentioning the D minus on my math quiz would make for pleasant conversation over dinner. Besides, I was intent on counting. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven. Vanessa swallowed. She has this new obsession about chewing every bite of food fifty times before swallowing.

  “Uht.” I pointed across the table. “That was only forty-nine. A piece of green bean is on its way to your stomach. Better go throw up.”

  “Jenny!” Mom’s hand hit the table.

  My hunk of meat loaf jumped off my plate and bounced into my lap.

  “May I be excused?” Vanessa asked. She rose from her chair.

  Dad said, “You haven’t eaten one bite of my meat loaf. And I used a special filler.”

  “Yeah, rubber,” I said.

  Vanessa glared at me. “Sorry, I’m just not hungry. Anyway”—she dabbed her chin with a napkin—“I have a lot of practicing to do. The orchestra concert’s in like two weeks, you know? I’ll never learn the Mozart in time.”

  Mom sighed. “Go ahead.” Her eyes didn’t even trail Vanessa out; they just zeroed in on me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “If you can’t say something nice to your sister, don’t say anything at all.”

  “Fine by me. It’s going to get real quiet around here. Mind if I bring my CD player to dinner?”

  In answer, Mom’s lips grew taut. She deferred to Dad. Dad smiled at me. “You know, Jen, your birthday’s coming up in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you invite some friends over for a party?”

  I just looked at him. Then I looked at Mom and back at him. “What? And share the cake?”

  Dad laughed. Mom shot him with poison-packed pupils, and he changed the laugh to a cough.

  “You never talk about school or your friends or anything that’s going on in your life,” Mom said. “You have no extracurricular activities, and when I try to interest you in things, you turn up your nose.”

  “You mean that gymnastics club?” I scoffed. “Get real. Now, if you could get me into sumo wrestling—”

  Mom continued as if I hadn’t even spoken. “And after last term’s grades…” She shook her head. “We’re concerned about you, Jenny. Very concerned.”

  My head dropped. For some reason tears welled in my eyes. It wasn’t like we didn’t have this conversation once a week, at least.

  “I’m thinking about sending you to a psychologist.”

  “What!” That shot my head up. It almost ripped right off my spinal cord and splattered against the fridge.

  “We think you need professional help with”—she swallowed hard—“your problem.”

  I saw Dad blush.

  I gasped as both hands flew up to cover my head. “Who told you? Vanessa? That snitch. She’s been counting hairs in the brush again, hasn’t she?”

  Mom looked confused. “Told us what?”

  “About my problem. About…”—my voice lowered—“my premature hair loss.”

  Dad couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. Mother was not amused.

  Chapter 3

  The next day I zoned through language arts and math. Usually I can make my mind a total blank, but today I couldn’t stop thinking. About what Mom had said. A psychologist. A shrink. A head fed. Was I really nuts? If I was, I wanted to be cashews. Then another thought barreled through my brain. What if the psychologist Mom picked turned out to be Lydia’s mother? I glanced over at Lydia. At her empty desk. She was up at Mrs. Jonas’s desk, squealing (literally) on Ashley for grabbing her book and losing her place during silent reading. Lydia was pathetic. This was my role model?

  During gym, while the teams were supposed to be loosening up with calisthenics and stretching exercises, my team congregated at the bleachers. Lydia plopped down Indian-style underneath the seats and yanked a paperback out of her pocket. Some trashy romance novel. With a picture like that on the cover, you can bet it didn’t come from our school media center.

  Max perched above Lydia on the risers, picking the scab off her elbow from an apparent stab wound. As I clomped up, Prairie Cactus smiled demurely at me from her bleacher seat two rows below Max. I plopped on the row between them.

  “So, what’s our strategy today?” I said to no one in particular.

  “Huh?” Max grunted behind me.

  My Mars Bar had gone gooey in my pocket. Rats. I slurped the soupy slime out of the wrapper. “Our strategy. How do we intend to show up these losers and make the best time?”

  From underneath us, a howl like a sick hyena rose up. Lydia had the most obnoxious laugh. Behind me, Max blew a puff of air out between her lips. Prairie said, “B-b-better leave me out. I-I’m not a very good runner.”

  Understatement of the century.

  “Everyone runs today,” Max said. “I’ll take the first leg.”

  “Great,” I said. “After you finish with it, could I gnaw on the bone?”

  Prairie covered her mouth and tittered. Hey, encouragement. “Unless anyone has an objection,”
I continued, “I prefer the last leg. The anchor? I think I can drag us down. Get it? Anchor? Drag?”

  “I think I sh-should run the anchor 1-leg,” Prairie said. She lifted her right pant leg to show us her fake foot.

  Lydia gasped. Max snorted. A smile tugged the corners of my lips.

  “What happened to your foot?” Lydia said as she sashayed around the end of the bleacher box.

  Max and I both shot Lydia dead with eye bullets, even though I was curious, too.

  “B-birth defect,” Prairie said. “N-no big deal. But I can’t run too good.”

  “Well, I can run,” Lydia said. “I still hold the record in the hundred-yard dash from third grade.”

  Dead silence.

  “Look in the trophy case at Greenlee Elementary if you don’t believe me.”

  I almost said, “There must have been an epidemic that year—a lot of kids out sick.” Maybe I did say it.

  Lydia dog-eared the page of her book. “I’ll run the anchor. If no one has an objection, that is.” She looked at me.

  Max made sounds like she was going to spit a loogie on Lydia. I twisted around and discouraged her with a grimace. She swallowed it, reluctantly.

  “You jocks fight it out.” Max stood. The vibrating bleachers rattled my teeth as she tromped down past me. “See you at the starting line.”

  Like sheep led to slaughter, Prairie and I followed Max. Lydia caught up to me. “Since I’m team captain, I should decide the order we run in. Don’t you think?”

  Max stopped dead in her tracks. She whirled on Lydia. A detectable tremor raced from Lydia’s limp hair bow to her Keds rubber guards. “Why don’t you run the first leg,” she said meekly to Max.

  “Wise decision,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Jenny, you’re second.”

  I clucked.

  “What?” Lydia huffed. “I’m running the anchor. It’s our only chance.”

  At what? I thought. Less than total humiliation? I clucked again. Just to be ornery. Lydia exhaled a sigh of exasperation.