Mia spread her letter out next to Whitney’s. Mia had gone to middle school with Whitney. She was gorgeous and talented and the only popular kid who’d never made fun of her, never asked if she was on drugs.
But then this! Back at Weston Middle, no one would have believed that Whitney Montaine and Mia Flint had the same goals, that they both wanted an “escape plan.” And yet here it was. In writing.
Mia fitted the envelope back into the hole. If she had a girl crush, it would totally be on Whitney. Not that she’d ever tell that to Sophie.
JAKE
Jake: Truth or dare?
Mona Lisa: Hey, summer friend! Haven’t heard from you since July. And . . . truth.
Jake: Hey to you, too. Okay, truth. How many boys have you kissed?
Mona Lisa: Eight. Yes, that’s three more since I got back home to Atlanta after I saw you this summer. Do you think I’m a slut?
Jake: Ask me the same question.
Mona Lisa: How many girls have you kissed? I know that girl Marin with the candy-corn breath and someone from your Dominican heritage camp.
Jake: The SAME question.
Mona Lisa: Oh, you mean how many BOYS you’ve kissed?
Jake: One. A guy from my new art class. His name is Owen.
Mona Lisa: Does this mean you’re over Teddy? I don’t think I can spend another summer vacation at the lake with you moping about him.
Jake: It means I finally kissed a guy.
Mona Lisa: Please tell me you’re over Teddy.
ZOE
ZOE DEFINITELY SHOULDN’T have come to the cafeteria. At least it was just ninth-grade lunch and not the upperclassmen, too. The older kids were nymphos. Every time the bell rang this morning, she’d had to push through packs of them grinding all over each other.
To top it off, people were staring at her in the halls. It was the same at orientation yesterday. They’d known right away who she was. She could hear them whispering about that video of her mom from London. People were saying how Sierra Laybourne had a mental breakdown and that was why Zoe was here. Whenever Zoe heard her mom’s name, her throat tightened and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.
“Zoe?” shouted a girl from her orientation group. It was Whitney, the bubbly one. She was waving at her. “Hey . . . Zoe!”
Whitney was sitting at a round table with two other girls. One was blond and Barbie-doll pretty. The other had black hair, blue eyeliner, and was in her math class this morning. Kyra, maybe? Zoe could tell right away that these were the popular girls.
Zoe started across the cafeteria. Most kids were wandering aimlessly with their trays, but Whitney and her friends were totally chill. Zoe sat in the empty chair and set her pizza and fruit cup in front of her. Of course she landed at the popular table on day one. That’s how it was when your mom was a celebrity. It didn’t have anything to do with you.
“I’m Laurel,” said the blond girl.
“You were in math with me,” the girl with the blue eyeliner told Zoe.
“Yeah,” Zoe said. “You’re Kyra, right?”
Kyra squealed. “She knows my name! I can’t believe she knows my name!” She screamed like she was trying to get people to look over.
A bunch of kids turned and stared at Zoe, checking out the greasy pizza on her tray. She should have gone with the salad bar.
“Shut up!” Whitney hissed. “Talk about her like she’s here!” Then she turned to Zoe. “How’s it going so far?”
“Fine, I guess.” Zoe peeled back the foil on her fruit cup.
“Is everyone being stupid because of your mom?” Whitney asked. “Not like I’m the exception.”
It was cool the way Whitney put it out there. Most people never mentioned Zoe’s mom, and yet the entire conversation revolved around her in an unspoken way.
“A little,” Zoe said. “A teacher asked if I could get him my mom’s autograph.”
“Damn!” Whitney shook her head. “They’re not supposed to do that. Who was it?”
“No big deal,” Zoe said, trying hard to breathe. Oh god. Watch one of them post that online. Then Max would call and give her the lecture: be discreet, you’re in the public eye, we have an image to preserve. She’d gotten that lecture her whole life. She could probably sing it to the tune of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Max was her mom’s manager, and he called the shots about everything in their lives.
“If that teacher keeps bothering you,” Kyra said, “tell me, and I’ll tell my dad.”
“Kyra’s dad is the principal,” Whitney said, sipping her water. “Mr. Bauersmith. She’s going to work the favors in high school.”
“Lucky!” Laurel said. “My dad never gets me anything.”
“Not too lucky,” Kyra said. “He’s cheesy. Did you see his mustache?” Kyra glanced at her phone and then at Zoe. “Besides, I’m not lucky like Zoe. You must get everything. Do designers send you free clothes? Do you have a chauffeur?”
The canned pear tasted sour on Zoe’s tongue. She dropped the plastic spoon onto her tray.
“Stop it,” Whitney said to Kyra.
“Whatever.” Kyra craned her head around the cafeteria. “Did you see Brock? Wasn’t he going to join us at lunch?”
“Kyra and Brock are together,” Whitney explained to Zoe.
“We just celebrated three months,” Kyra said.
Zoe pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. Was she really going to have to puzzle together the friendships and couples here at Hankinson High School? None of it would matter once she went back to LA.
“Was that clip of your mom calling you a spoiled brat for real?” Kyra asked all of a sudden. “Or was it a publicity thing? I’ve heard that—”
“Kyr!” Whitney slapped her palm over Kyra’s mouth. “Shut up. Shut up.”
“Whatever,” Kyra said, pushing Whitney away. “God, high school is so boring.”
To stop the tears from coming, Zoe studied the clock on the wall. She’d only been in lunch for eleven minutes.
MIA
THE DOORBELL RANG, several insistent buzzes. Sophie.
“Come on in!” Mia shouted, but she didn’t get off the couch. She was indulging in her latest obsession: looking up pictures of Zoe. It was wild to type Zoe Laybourne and see images from Zoe’s toddlerhood when she clutched a panda bear, her zitty period—probably seventh grade?—all the way until the paparazzi had gotten pictures of her and her mom in the airport leaving London after that horrific video went viral. In those pictures Zoe was wearing a black tank top and huge sunglasses and seemed grown-up and glamorous. That was what fascinated Mia. Like, how could that girl be the same Zoe she saw in the halls? At school Zoe seemed small and lost, definitely not a celebrity. Too bad they didn’t end up in any classes together, because Mia would really like to bond with Zoe and help her adjust to life in Hankinson. Of course, Mia hadn’t worked up the nerve even to smile at her yet.
Sophie was knocking hard on the door and turning at the knob. Mia’s parents must have locked it when they went to the gym. Mia closed the screen with Zoe’s pictures and hopped up to let Sophie in. She’d come over early for their standing Saturday night movie date.
“Finally!” Sophie said, kicking off her sandals and glancing at the tablet in Mia’s hands. “What took so long? Were you getting your Zoe Laybourne fix again?”
Mia wished she hadn’t told Sophie about her little hobby. Even though Sophie was her closest—or maybe only—friend, Mia sometimes felt like she couldn’t trust her, like Sophie wouldn’t think twice about slinging dirt if she needed to.
“No,” Mia said. “Just doing homework.”
“They’re giving you homework already?” Sophie twisted her long sandy hair into a pile on her head. Classes at Immaculate Conception didn’t start until Monday.
Mia nodded. She’d actually done all her homework this morning. It had taken only twenty minutes. So far high school seemed like a cakewalk.
“Did you do it?” Sophie asked. She smoothed her short b
lue sundress around her thighs. Sophie was much curvier than Mia and already had real hips and woman boobs. Whenever she wasn’t in her Catholic school uniform, she wore minidresses. She liked to brag that guys checked out her legs. Personally, Mia thought Sophie’s thighs looked like two honey-baked hams. Not that Mia would say that to Sophie, even though Sophie didn’t think twice about telling Mia that she was a skeleton.
“Do what?” Mia asked.
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Shave your legs. When we texted two hours ago, you said you were finally going to do it.”
“Oh yeah,” Mia said. She was probably the last girl in the world to shave. Sophie said it was time she stopped having hairy Neanderthal legs. “Yeah, I sort of did it.”
Sophie leaned down and swiped her hand across Mia’s bare calf. “Nice. Does it itch?”
“A little.”
“Hang on,” Sophie said, touching Mia’s other leg. “Why did you only shave one leg?”
“Oh.” Mia adjusted her shorts on her hips. They were size zero and still loose. Size-zero hips and a double-A bra. Puberty was definitely taking its sweet time. “That’s what I meant by sort of.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Why on earth would you shave one leg?”
Mia shrugged. Back when she was in the shower it had seemed like a good idea. “I wanted to make sure I liked it.”
“Liked it? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I guess like how you wear new shoes around inside before you go outside with them.”
“You’re weird,” Sophie said. She grabbed a glass from Mia’s cupboard and poured herself some milk. Mia hated plain milk—it actually made her gag. Another way that she and Sophie were different. Sometimes Mia wondered if they’d even be friends if they didn’t live on the same street.
“Where’re your parents?” Sophie asked, setting her empty glass in the sink and wiping off her milk mustache.
“Where do you think? The gym.”
Mia’s mom and dad worked out seven days a week. That was their obsession, along with their jobs. When they left for the gym every morning or evening, Mia wondered how they could possibly tone another part of their bodies, but in general they were more robot than human.
“I’m bored.” Sophie nodded toward Mia’s parents’ room. “Want to try on your mom’s clothes?”
“Okay . . . I just have to pee.”
When Mia got back from the bathroom, Sophie was standing in front of her mom’s closet, tugging her sundress over her head. Since Sophie’s face was obscured by blue fabric, Mia stared at her boobs. They swelled out of her beige bra and formed a thin slit where they met in the center. Mia wished she could touch right there, the cleavage, to see if it felt sweaty or squishy or what.
“Should I try on your mom’s green emerald wraparound or her cocktail dress with the satin?” Sophie asked, dropping her sundress onto the floor.
Mia quickly looked away. The last thing she wanted was for Sophie to know she’d been checking out her boobs. She didn’t even know why she did that. Did it mean she was gay? Her uncle was, so maybe it ran in the family. But whenever Mia watched a movie, she thought the guys were cute, not the girls. And at school there was Brock Sawyer. Mia would give anything to kiss Brock. She couldn’t see what he liked about horrible Kyra. Kyra did not deserve someone as amazing as Brock.
Maybe it was that Mia wanted to check out other boobs until she got her own.
Or maybe boobs were interesting even if you were straight.
Or maybe Sophie was right. Maybe Mia was just plain weird.
OCTOBER
WHITNEY
“YOU COULD HAVE knocked,” Whitney said as Alicia opened her door and walked right into her room. God. At least she was just trying on lip gloss and not changing into pajamas.
“Dad is taking us camping this weekend.” Alicia plopped onto the edge of Whitney’s bed. “I thought you’d like to know. He just left to buy hot dogs. And that color’s not right for you. Too pale. You look dead.”
“Camping?” Whitney studied her reflection and then wiped her lips with a tissue. Whitney’s family used to go camping when she was younger, but they hadn’t been in forever. “All of us?”
“Mom’s got open houses,” Alicia said. “Plus, it’s not like we want them together and arguing all weekend. I can’t stand them sometimes. Anyway, Dad told me we’re going to the campground with those boulders by the lake.”
“Mosquito heaven?”
“Yep.”
“Can we get out of it? I have plans tomorrow night.”
Alicia checked out her nose ring in the mirror. She loved sharing the bad news. “Dad says he needs to talk to us, and he wants somewhere away from it all.”
“He should have had two boys,” Whitney said.
An hour later Whitney found her dad in his office cleaning his tropical fish tank. Their dog was sleeping in a knot on the sofa. Whitney’s dad was a chemistry professor at the college. People called him brilliant. Sometimes Whitney wondered if people made a big deal because her dad was black, and there weren’t a lot of black chemists around here.
“Dad?” Whitney asked.
Whitney’s dad pushed his reading glasses up onto his head. He wore his hair short, and it was graying around the temples.
“I’m just wondering . . . do I have to go camping tomorrow night? I’m supposed to go to the mall with Kyra and this other girl, Laurel. She’s a new friend.”
Her dad examined the thin strip where he was testing the pH of the tank water. “This is the time to do it,” he said. “Before you and Alicia get busy with your activities and the weather turns cold.”
Whitney stood in the doorway, rising on her tippy-toes and slowly lowering again. Alicia took a psychology class last spring and got really into analyzing everyone. She told Whitney that their dad was a self-centered narcissist. She also said their mom compulsively shopped to fill the unhappy voids in her life. Whitney wasn’t sure if any of it was true.
“Laurel’s mom is driving us,” Whitney said. “I know Laurel from summer soccer, and now she goes to Hankinson.”
Whitney’s dad jotted something in his notebook. Whitney had been hoping Zoe Laybourne would come shopping too, but when Zoe didn’t show up at lunch all week, Whitney assumed Kyra had scared her off. Sometimes she wished she could dump Kyra, but that would make her life hell.
“What did you say again?” Whitney’s dad asked. He squirted a few droplets into the tank. It sent ripples into the water, making the fish flutter their iridescent tails.
“I’m supposed to go to the mall tomorrow night.”
“Sorry, Whit,” her dad said. “I need to talk to you girls. The mall will always be there. The campground closes for the season in a few weeks.”
Whitney bit her lip. She decided not to tell him how she and her friends were planning to search for leopard-print unitards to wear on the homecoming float. The freshman homecoming theme was “Back to the Jungle.” Her dad would say it was trivial. That was what he thought about most things that were important to Whitney.
GREGOR
GREGOR’S MOM MADE spaghetti the evening of the homecoming parade. Spicy red sauce and extra Parmesan, exactly the way he liked it. It was just Gregor and his parents because Erica was getting Chinese food with Russell, her sleazy boyfriend who drove a blue pickup truck with oversized tires.
“I’ve got something for you,” Gregor’s dad said. His eyes were teary as he reached toward the counter for a wrapped present.
“Smile, sweetie,” Gregor’s mom said. She had her phone up, recording the scene.
Gregor set down his fork. Thank god Erica wasn’t here. She was always making fun of the way their parents babied Gregor. “Why did you get me something?”
Gregor’s dad smiled. “Just open it.”
Gregor carefully peeled off the tape. Inside was a brown leather journal with his name engraved in gold letters on the front.
“It’s the same kind of journal I had when I
was your age,” his dad said. “My dad gave it to me on my first day of high school. I had to backorder yours. That’s why it’s a little late.”
“Thank you. I love it.” Gregor flipped through the blank pages, wondering about all the things that hadn’t happened yet but would feel important to record in one, two, even three years.
It was exciting to think about that. It made Gregor wonder about Whitney.
After dinner his dad dropped him off downtown and then headed over to Nana Margaret’s. His parents took turns bringing meals to his dad’s mom, who was eighty-two and lived alone. Gregor waved good-bye and then walked toward the small crowd gathered along the street for the homecoming parade. He rubbed his hands together, wishing he’d brought gloves.
“Hey, Gregor!” Dinky called, waving him over.
Dinky was standing with some other ninth-grade guys from band. The first week of school, Gregor had started drums with Dinky. It was a lot, running from drums to orchestra and practicing two instruments, but it was also fun to do something different. With drums, Gregor could let loose. Cello was much more precise.
“It’s crazy cold, right?” Dinky asked. The marching band was passing so he had to shout.
Gregor watched the band closely. Freshman percussion practiced with the marching band, but they didn’t perform with them until spring.
“They’re playing that song from The Jungle Book,” Gregor said, blowing warm air on his fingers. “How come?”
“Because of our float,” Dinky said, pointing down the street. “The freshman theme is ‘Back to the Jungle.’ Didn’t you hear all those announcements about decorating it?”
An old-fashioned fire truck rolled past them. It had a banner tied to the side that said GO, HANKINSON WILDCATS. Behind that, an SUV was pulling a flatbed with a plastic palm tree and a bunch of people shrieking.
Gregor laughed. Even his braces felt cold. “What does ‘back to the jungle’ mean? Like, how can we get back to the jungle? Hankinson never was a jungle—”
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