fighting my way through a fog, but the caffeine brings everything into focus. My hands shake as I fish out a few of the ovals and pop them into my mouth, even though I have a feeling it’s too late.
The toilet flushes, and the stall door behind me swings open. Sophie just stands there, glassy-eyed, wiping her mouth with the back of a trembling hand. Her glossy black hair has a chunk of something yellow in it. I have to look away.
“Gah, I’m glad it’s you,” she says. She comes forward and twists the one knob above the sink. Our school doesn’t so much have hot or cold water, just one temperature: arctic. She scoops some water into her hands and splashes her face. “I’ve been feeling sick lately.”
I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is this weird rasp. My head aches. The room darkens, and I press my palms into my forehead, sinking to the floor.
I can never get used to the feeling of looking through someone else’s eyes. It’s as if each person sees the world in a slightly different hue. The tricky part is figuring out who the person is. It’s like putting together a jigsaw puzzle— what do I see, hear, smell? Everything is a clue.
What I smell now: mildew and hair spray.
I’m in the girls’ locker room. Hideous pink lockers flank me on either side. The girl I’ve slid into pulls black ballet flats onto her orangey, fake-tanned feet. Her toes are painted robin’s-egg-blue with little daisies in the center.
Gym class must be over. Half-naked girls rush around, wiggling out of shorts way too skimpy for October, brushing their hair, discreetly swiping on powdery-smelling deodorant.
A few feet away, I recognize a blond girl sliding a pair of skinny jeans over her hips. She has a little white patch in the shape of the Playboy bunny on her hip, where she puts a sticker when she tans. The girl is Mattie. She is my sister and my exact opposite in every way. If she’s the pink glitter on your valentine, I’m the black Sharpie you use to draw mustaches on the teachers in your yearbook.
I feel my mouth open, and out comes the voice of Amber Prescott, my least favorite person in the galaxy. “Ugh. I just got the worst headache. It came out of nowhere. Do you have any aspirin?”
My mind races. How could I have slid into Amber? I wasn’t touching anything of hers. Was I?
Mattie fastens her silky ponytail with an elastic band. “Nope. Sorry. Anyway, it’s really none of my business if Sophie wants to hook up with Scotch. She can go around acting like a whore if she wants.”
“Personally, I think it’s disgusting the way she’s throwing herself at him. I mean, that’s not what a good friend does. She knew you had a crush on him.”
Scotch? As in Scotch Becker? The biggest prick in the junior class? The mere mention of his name makes me feel like puking. When did Mattie start liking Scotch, head quarterback and douche extraordinaire?
Mattie’s face puckers as if she’s eaten a whole box of Lemonheads, which it always does when she’s trying to act like something doesn’t bother her.
“Well, what am I supposed to do? I can’t force him to want me. And, duh, why wouldn’t he like Sophie? She’s . . . like . . . amazing-looking.” Mattie drops onto the bench and covers her face with her hands.
Amber slithers closer to Mattie and pats her back. “Don’t give me that shit, Mattie. Scotch is crazy for choosing that heff over you. I mean, Sophie can’t go five minutes without sticking her finger down her throat. Just because she’s lost about half her body weight doesn’t mean she’s not still fat inside. Guys don’t forget. She’s still Porky Pie from the sixth grade.”
Porky Pie. Sophie’s old nickname brings back memories, none of them good. Kids throwing oatmeal cream pies at her on the bus. The time in the computer lab when Scotch Becker pulled up the dictionary website and made the robotic voice say “hippopotamus” at her, over and over. I can’t believe Sophie would even speak to Scotch after the things he did to her in middle school. In fact, I can’t believe she speaks to Mattie or Amber. They only started hanging out with her after she lost weight, and even now Amber’s favorite pastime is thinking of new ways to torture Sophie. Amber is forever pulling crap like telling Sophie her (nonexistent) ass looks fat or asking if Sophie should really be eating that slice of pizza. It’s obvious she’s completely jealous that Mattie and Sophie have become such close friends. She’s seizing this opportunity to drive the two apart.
Mattie peeks at Amber through her fingers. “Do you really think so?”
“Don’t worry,” Amber says, pulling out a hot-pink cell phone. “I’ve got a plan to put her back in her place.”
“Sylvia? Vee! Are you all right? Should I get the nurse?” Sophie hovers over me, twisting her hands in worry.
The bathroom tile is cool against my cheek. I wonder when they last mopped it. Pushing myself into a sitting position, I banish the visions of squirming bacteria from my thoughts.
“Ugh, no. I’m fine.”
“Oh, god. Your forehead!”
I reach up and feel a huge lump.
Sophie tears several paper towels from the dispenser and holds them under the faucet. She gently compresses the cool, wet paper to my head. She’s so freaking maternal. Last fall, when she and Mattie shared a birthday party, she made a chocolate cake from scratch. She covered it with chocolate icing and M&M’s and wrote “Mattie” with the candles. Mattie gave Sophie a Twinkie on a paper plate.
Just thinking about that party depresses me. Sophie is so sweet, really, despite her friends—including my sister, who used to be innocent and kind but in the last year has turned into such a bitch. I blame it on Amber.
Poor Sophie. She has no idea that, right this second, her two so-called BFFs are talking shit about her. And evidently planning something to “put her in her place.” I want to warn her to be careful around those two, but how would that look—me bad-mouthing my own sister? Would she even believe me?
Sophie pulls me to my feet. I lean against the sink and pull the paper towel away to assess the damage in the mirror. My forehead doesn’t look too bad. I feel the bump gingerly. A minor contusion. Maybe my father won’t notice.
Sophie meets my eyes in the mirror. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I turn to face her. Her shoulders are hunched over, her head bowed. Her legs are two sticks beneath her cheerleading skirt. She can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Really. How are you?”
She gets this funny look on her face, and I’m not sure if she’s about to start laughing or bawling.
“It’s my birthday,” she says finally, shrugging. “Mattie hasn’t said anything. You can give this to your sister. I made it.” Sophie holds out a braided friendship bracelet, the kind you make at summer camp. It’s red and gold to match their cheerleading uniforms.
I can guarantee with near certainty Mattie hasn’t done anything special for Sophie’s birthday. Again, I’m struck with the urge to tell Sophie to wise up and get some better friends. Thinking of how to phrase my words, I push the bracelet onto my wrist so I won’t lose it.
“Sophie . . .” I say, taking a step toward
