Homeroom Diaries Page 8

  We get clobbered a couple hundred times, and I spend the next fifty minutes fuming about how completely unreasonable it is to make people play dodgeball against their will. It isn’t even a sport in the Olympics! (Is it? I’d better Google that.)

  (Googled it—it isn’t!)

  Also, it’s unreasonable to make students take pop quizzes twice a week.

  Also, it’s unreasonable to demand to see someone’s diary!

  And at the end of class, while I’m changing back into my jeans, I realize something: This school is completely unreasonable, and that’s why everyone is so miserable!

  Which leads me straight to my next thought: Let’s get reasonable!

  I can’t wait to share that idea with the Freakshow—just as soon as I change out of my gross gym clothes and exit the swamp-juice-smell area.

  Brainzilla jumps on the idea. Maybe she wants to make up for her blown quiz, or maybe she sees an opportunity for a few cool Facebook pics to impress her Yale friend with. Either way, she’s all over the Rally for Reason. “Yes! Stop the hate!” Brainzilla announces. She whips out a notebook and starts to jot down a few calculations. “Okay, there are fifteen hundred students at the school, and a good participation rate would be about eighty percent.…”

  “Should we charge an entrance fee?” Eggy asks. “We could raise money for a good cause.”

  Tebow tugs on his lower lip. “No—we want everyone to be able to participate. Not just people who can afford it.”

  “We’ll talk about how ridiculous this school is!” I say, and I can feel myself glowing with this idea. I imagine all the Nations coming together, sharing our ideas about how to make the teachers and administration more reasonable. Then I imagine everyone feeling better—whether or not the teachers change anything.

  “We could rewrite the school regulations,” Flatso suggests. “And get rid of that ridiculous rule saying we can’t wear glitter nail polish.”

  “Let people opt out of dodgeball!” I cry. “And pop quizzes should only be given in cases of emergency!”

  “What about that ban on hugging?” Zitsy puts in. Wow—I’d forgotten about that, but he’s right. Hugs are technically forbidden on campus. That was Mr. Tool’s brilliant brainstorm our freshman year.

  “Jeez, no wonder everyone’s stressed out,” Tebow says. “Maybe we could suggest a few moments for prayer—or, like, meditation or whatever—during homeroom. Optional, of course.”

  “I’ll do a flyer,” Eggy volunteers.

  “I’ll organize the water and snacks for everyone,” Zitsy puts in.

  And just like that, we finally have an Operation Happiness idea that might actually work.

  Chapter 47

  WE GO LOWER

  By the end of the next day, the Freakshow has papered the entire school with rally flyers. Eggy did such a great job designing them that we (okay, I) got really excited and may have gone a little overboard.

  As of last period, I’d seen three people take copies of the flyer, and only one of them was using it to toss out her gum. Success!

  Meanwhile, Brainzilla got busy laying out three alternate scenarios, estimating the likely size of the crowd based on weather, time of day, and whether we experienced resistance from some of the Nations. And once the rally was over, Eggy would deejay a dance party on the front lawn!

  I feel like anything could happen, and that feeling lasts all the way through the final bell and out into the parking lot. The Freakshow and I are headed toward Zitsy’s car when I notice Marty Bloom staring at our flyer. He’s with his best friend/sidekick/henchman, Stoors.

  “Join hands and share ideas?” Bloom makes a retching noise.

  “Rip it down, man,” Stoors says.

  So Bloom does. And just as I hear the paper tear away from the lamppost, Bloom looks up at me… and smiles.

  The good feeling that has buoyed me all day dries up and crumbles.

  “Put that back!” Eggy shrieks, but Bloom has already torn the flyer in half.

  “Why don’t you stuck-up, perfect people go sing ‘Kumbaya’ somewhere else?” Bloom sneers. “Stop trying to spread your feel-good PC bullshit in everyone’s face.”

  Brainzilla’s face has turned pale, but she stands her ground. Still, her voice is quiet when she says, “It isn’t bullshit to want to do something positive.”

  “Shut up, slut,” Stoors snaps. “Or I’ll have someone else claw your eyes out.”

  The memory of Jenna’s attack flashes through my mind, and I see Brainzilla flinch. We aren’t the only ones remembering the fight—I have to dive in front of Flatso, who had just barreled toward the Haters with—I believe—foul intentions.

  “Don’t even think of threatening her!” Tebow shouts, and Bloom says, “Why don’t you try to stop me?” and I’m thinking that stuff is about to get seriously out of hand when Winnie Quinn appears and demands, “What’s going on here?”

  In the silence that follows, I realize how crowded and still the parking lot is. Nobody is getting in a car to leave. Everyone is just watching us, as stationary as the lamppost beside me.

  Winnie eyes the torn flyer in Bloom’s hand. “Did you take that down? Why would you do that?”

  Bloom’s only response is a sneer, but it bounces off Winnie like bullets off Superman’s chest.

  “These people,” Winnie says, pointing at us—well, really, at me, “are just trying to do something positive. If you don’t want to do it, fine. You don’t have to. But you don’t have to ruin things for everyone else, either.” He turns to face the gawkers. “And why don’t any of you speak up?”

  Nobody says anything, which seems to irritate Winnie even more. “God! I’m so sick of stupid bullies ruining everything!” He points at Bloom. “You don’t get to decide what everyone else does! Now, apologize!”

  Bloom crosses his arms and smirks. “Or what? You can’t really believe you have any kind of authority in this place. You’re just another weirdo like the rest of them—no idea how to just be normal.”

  Winnie looks like he’s been punched. But just as I think he’s about to back off, he gets right in Bloom’s face.

  “I’d rather be like the rest of them than some spoiled rich kid who pretends he’s happy but never gets enough attention from Daddy and doesn’t have any real friends because they’re all just using him for his money. I’d rather be one of these kids any day. In fact, I am one of these kids! Now. Apologize!”

  And to my shock, Bloom’s face has gone pale. He mutters something that might or might not be an apology, but either way, he takes off, and Stoors follows. Then Winnie stomps to his MINI Cooper before anyone can say a word.

  I call out, “Thank you!” but I don’t think he hears me—he’s already pulling away.

  “That was so heroic,” Flatso murmurs with a wink and a laugh. She had given up on her crush on Winnie almost instantly, and then it became sort of an inside joke. But I wholeheartedly agree that Winnie is basically a superhero. It crosses my mind that I may be falling in love with Winnie Quinn. That may sound absurd and childish, but I don’t even care. It feels nice. And I’ve never been in love before. Except with Laurence.

  Chapter 48

  TINY EARTHQUAKE

  Brainzilla sits down, right down on the asphalt in the parking lot, like she can’t stand up a moment longer. My good feeling disappears into the air, like a soap bubble popping.

  “Are you okay?” Zitsy asks as Brainzilla puts her head between her knees.

  I put my hand on her back and realize she’s shaking. Brainzilla is a tiny earthquake, quivering right here in the parking lot. “It’s okay,” I tell her.

  “It’s not okay,” Brainzilla whispers. She wipes her hands down her face, then looks up at me. There are shadows deep as bruises under her blue eyes, and I wonder if she has been sleeping. Her pale skin and delicate features make her look fragile.

  “Don’t worry.” I kneel down next to Brainzilla, ignoring the gravel that bites into my knees. “We’ll bring the Nat
ions together, and the Haters will come around.”

  “Will they?” Brainzilla’s expression is flat, as if she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Or will he just have someone try to beat me up again?”

  My friends look at each other. I guess we’re all a little unsure. Brainzilla has always been so strong, but it looks like the increasingly tense situation with Bloom has left her feeling—well, scared, I guess. It’s as if she’s made of china and might shatter at any moment.

  It’s confusing. Isn’t she the one who’s supposed to have it all together?

  Chapter 49

  FACEBOOKED

  Igh fwabwagh arg dey.” Marjorie takes a huge, hiccupy breath and then starts speaking this weird alien language again. “I can’t blurgreve!”

  Marjorie is crying her eyes out. She’s been this way since I walked through the front door, and I can’t understand a word she’s saying, but I’m trying really hard to be sympathetic. I would be more sympathetic if I knew what the hell was going on. Marjorie babbles some more, and I hope she’s not having a stroke. She’s a little young for it, but still.…

  “Oh, Kooks!” she wails.

  “It’ll be okay,” I tell her. Poor thing.

  “You’re so strong!” She mashes her lips together, and now I really have the feeling I don’t know what’s going on.

  “Really, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is,” I tell her.

  “Wait!” Marjorie’s eyes go huge, and I worry that if she sneezes, they’ll pop right out of her head. “You don’t know?”

  “What?” A heebie-jeebie skitters up my legs.

  “You don’t even know what they’ve done to you! And here I am, wailing my head off, and YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW?!” She bursts into a new fit of hysterical tears.

  This, incidentally, is an extremely effective way to freak someone out. Heebie-jeebies start parachuting out of the sky and landing all over me.

  “Marjorie, do you think you could just, like, slow down and maybe do a yoga pose and explain what you’re talking about?” I’m begging, I know. But I figure that, no matter how bad the truth is, it can’t be that bad.

  The phone rings. Marjorie startles as if she’s been electrified, so I get it.

  “Get on Facebook,” Flatso demands, before I even say hello.

  “Can I borrow this?” I ask Marjorie, whose laptop is open on the kitchen table. Morris the Dog paces below, and when I reach out to scratch his ears, he skitters away. Wow. Everyone’s jumpy.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Marjorie screeches, and throws her arm over her eyes, as if she can’t bear to watch the horror.

  Her screen is already open to Facebook. I have an account, but I only check it once a day or so. It’s a huge time suckhole for me, so I try to stay away. I sign in and look at my newsfeed.

  “This video of a Chihuahua licking a kitten?” I ask.

  “Scroll down,” Flatso commands, so I do, and that’s when I see it.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  “I can’t watch!” Marjorie screeches, and runs from the room.

  “The Haters hacked us,” Flatso snarls. “I didn’t think they were smart enough.”

  I didn’t think they were horrible enough. But they were. They are. This is bad.

  I’m not worried about myself. I don’t care if everyone thinks I’m nuts.

  It’s Brainzilla I’m worried about.

  Chapter 50

  SCARY STUFF

  Hey, Katie. It’s me again. Just give me a call when you get this, okay?”

  I hang up and immediately start to worry that Brainzilla’s voice mail isn’t working. Then I worry that my phone is defective. I pick it up and listen. Dial tone. But wait—what if she just tried to call me during that one second that I was holding the receiver to my ear? I click off. It still doesn’t ring.

  I start to dial her number again and am interrupted with a call-waiting beep. I click over.

  “Did you see what those assholes did to us?” Zitsy demands.

  “I know—it’s totally messed up. Listen, can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “I can’t get through to Brainzilla.”

  “Me either.” My throat is thick.

  “Keep trying,” Zitsy says, then clicks off.

  The moment I get a fresh dial tone, I call Katie again.

  “Hello?” a strange voice says.

  I’m so surprised that someone has picked up the phone that I actually drop the receiver and fall off my bed. Literally. I didn’t even know that was possible. I haul myself onto my knees and grab the receiver.

  “Oh—uh—sorry, I’m trying to reach Katie Sloane?”

  “Hi, Kooks.”

  I stare at the number display on my phone and slowly realize that the limp voice is Brainzilla’s. It sounds too exhausted, too zombielike to be my best friend. But it is. God, I wish I could just reach right through the phone wires and give her a hug. “Did you see—”

  “The Yale lady friended me,” Brainzilla says.

  I feel like I’m falling, sliding down a deep hole. I have to lean back against the bed frame to steady myself. “What?”

  Dead air on the other end of the line, and Brainzilla’s words start to seep into my brain. The Yale lady friended me. The meaning snaps into place. “She saw it?”

  I can hear Katie’s breath, ragged and uneven. I wait a moment for her answer, but it never comes. Instead, I just hear the soft click of the receiver.

  My best friend since preschool has just hung up on me.

  She has never hung up on me before. Never. Not once.

  I call back, but I get dumped straight into voice mail again. “Katie? Katie?”

  But I’m shouting into a black hole, a deaf in-box. I hang up.

  Even though it’s useless, I can’t stop myself from calling again. And again.

  I leave something like fifty-seven voice mail messages. I fill that black hole until nothing more can go in it. Her voice mail is full, but I keep on calling.

  From my end, it sounds like it’s ringing in an empty room.

  Chapter 51

  EVEN SCARIER STUFF

  I can’t sleep. I can’t get the sound of the ringing phone out of my head. Even after I hang up, it just rings on and on.

  I feel this desperate need to talk to Katie. I really need to know she’s okay. When she said that the Yale lady saw what the Haters posted, she sounded hollow. It was the sound a dead leaf makes when it rattles on a tree just before it falls.

  I really want to go over to Brainzilla’s house, but she lives all the way across town. Still—maybe I could get there on my bike. Except that it’s already past nine. And it’s January.

  A ringing phone wakes me up. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but a quick glance at the clock tells me it’s almost midnight.

  Here is a basic life rule: Good things never happen in the middle of the night. Well, unless you order pizza really late.

  My hand hesitates over the receiver for just a moment. But the phone rings again. It almost seems louder, as if it’s demanding to be answered.

  Flatso starts shrieking the moment I answer. “Ohmygod, Kooks! Kooks! We have to get over to Tuality right away—I don’t even know if they’ll let us in, but we’ve got to try.” She sounds like she’s struggling to speak, like she’s crying. “Katie’s there! She’s stable, but—ohmygod, Kooks—just wait there, and Zitsy will be right over—”

  “What? Wait—Bev—slow down, okay? What’s happening in Tuality?”

  “Katie! Katie’s in Tuality!”

  “What’s she doing in Tuality?”

  “She’s been admitted!” Flatso’s voice rises to a scream. “Mrs. Sloane told Aunt Joan to call Mom—”

  The cogs in my brain click and whir, reorganizing everything Flatso has said, trying to force it to make sense. Aunt Joan. Flatso’s aunt Joan is a nurse at Tuality Community Hospital. Mrs. Sloane told her to call Flatso’s mom. Katie has
been admitted. I sit bolt upright, suddenly understanding everything. “What happened?” Oh my god, it’s Bloom. He went after her. He hurt her—

  Marjorie pokes her head into my room. In the darkness, her eyes are shadowed, and her pale skin is almost gray. She looks like a ghost, and I’m suddenly covered in the same creepy spiderweb feeling I had the night I found Mrs. Morris in the garage.

  “Oh, Kooks,” Flatso wails. She’s sobbing now, crying so hard that her tears have traveled through the wires, wetting the receiver in my hand. No—wait. That doesn’t make sense. Those must be my tears, I realize as I wait for the answer I think I already know.

  “Kooks—Katie tried to kill herself.”

  Chapter 52

  NIGHT FRIGHTS

  I hear someone calling my name from far away as I run into the cold, dark night. I think the person yelling must be Marjorie. I had to push past her to get out of my room, out of the house. I feel bad, but there’s no time to apologize.

  I have to get to Tuality.

  I have no clear plan, no awareness of anything except the desperate need to get to Katie. There are shoes on my feet, but I have no idea how they got there. I’m not wearing a coat. I am wearing my Snuggie, though. Plus I’m running, so I’m warm.

  I dart across a busy street.

  The honking wakes me up a little, and I remember something dim about how I’m supposed to look both ways before I cross a street. I plunge forward, past a McDonald’s, a Walmart, a strip club, a check cashing place. I barely notice them as I run past. My mind can only process one thought: Katie, Katie, Katie.

  My chest is tight, and I suck in a lungful of diesel fumes. God, I’m out of shape. My calves cramp and my thighs ache as I plod one heavy boot in front of the other. Why didn’t I wear running shoes? Sweat pools under my breasts, and I feel my hair sticking to my forehead. I run on. I can’t stop. I can’t slow down.