“Do you sell cookies?” Mom smiled.
I snapped my fingers. “Now there’s an idea.”
Her face sobered again. “Jenny—”
“And,” I went on, “you’ll be glad to know that my problem is under control. My class is involved in a fitness program until
the end of the year. There’re rigorous workouts every day. No doubt I’ll drop twenty, twenty-five pounds without even trying.”
I grinned. “So, you can forget about the shrink.”
She winced at the word. Not hard enough. “I already made an appointment,” she said.
I freaked. “Cancel it.”
She stood. “I couldn’t get you in until the twenty-first, though. Can you believe how booked up these people are? I can’t
imagine there are that many kids with”—she blinked away—“problems.”
“Major problems, Mom. Major. You don’t want to burden them with my piddly stuff. What’s a few extra pounds when people are
slitting their wrists, smoking dope, driving without a license—”
Just then Vanessa came tearing out of her room. “Mom, can you take me down to Milton’s Music? My last reed just split.”
Mom sighed. “Sure,” she said.
Wait a minute, I wanted to scream. Remember me? This vital discussion we’re having about my life? “Really, Mom. You can cancel
the appointment.” I pushed to my feet.
“I don’t think so.” She grabbed her purse.
Right there I suffered a severe emotional trauma. I lost my appetite. Vanessa got the aftershock. On her way past me I said,
“Gee, those jeans are getting a little tight across the butt.”
She screeched to a stop.
Mom snapped, “Jennifer!”
“Oops.” I covered my mouth. “Not nice. I forgot.”
Vanessa twisted around. “Are they?” She met my eyes.
What could I say? With my thumb and index finger, I zipped my lip.
“Jenny!” Mom yelled again. To Vanessa she said, “They look fine.”
Vanessa sprinted back to her room. “I’m going to change.”
Mom turned to me. If looks could fry, I’d be deep fat.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house the next morning. Dad didn’t get the job, whatever it was, so he and Mom had a huge
argument in the basement. They’d been going at it down there a lot lately, like we couldn’t hear. Dinner was total silence.
Breakfast, too. My two favorite times of the day, ruined. Add to that watching Vanessa cut every Cheerio in half
before
she chewed it fifty times—hello?
Who
needs a shrink?
The promise of gym class got me through the morning, because today we implemented the Prairie Plan. Yee-haw.
“All right, Solano, give it to me,” Max said, extending her hand. We were huddled behind the bleachers, psyching ourselves
up. Some might say acting like retards.
“Hold it.” Lydia crushed herself between us. “This is my revenge. I get to do it.”
Max sagged visibly. She really wanted the honor. With a heavy heart, she dropped her arm.
“Be sure to get it on real thick,” Max grumbled. She trailed Lydia to the running track while Prairie and I formed the daring
duo at the rear.
“I know. I’m not a total idiot,” Lydia said over her shoulder.
“Just half a one,” I muttered. Prairie giggled. Max smirked.
We watched Lydia tuck the ammunition into the stretch band of her pants and pull her blouse out to cover it. Real deceptive.
It looked like she’d grown a spinal tap. On me the bulge would’ve dissolved into all my layers of blubber. Maybe I should’ve
claimed the honor.
We asked Dingy Dietz if we could run first. You know, to get the agony out of the way. We needed to be done with our race
for the Prairie Plan to begin.
Max lined up for the first leg.
Mr. Dietz set his stopwatch. “Get ready, set, go!” He blew his whistle to start the first heat.
From the sidelines, we whooped a war cry.
We ran a perfect race. Perfectly awful. Max was okay on her leg. But about halfway around the track I slowed to a walk. Why
work up a sweat? I figured.
Max seemed miffed. “You could at least try,” she said as I jumped backward over the finish line, twirling the baton in the
air before handing it off to Prairie. “At least Prayer tries.” She motioned to the track, where Prairie Cactus dragged up
a dust storm with her bum foot.
Prayer, I repeated to myself. That fits. As in, You know she doesn’t have one, Max. Nevertheless, next time I’d trot, at least.
For some reason, I wanted Max’s approval. Craved it. Maybe because my life depended on it.
Max cheered Prairie on. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Behind me, Lydia said, “I can’t wait to see their faces. This is going
to be so sweet.” She beamed. I beamed back. For once, she was right.
Finally the moment we’d been waiting for. Prairie dragged over the finish line. “Good job.” Max clapped Prairie on the back
as Lydia bounded away on the last leg.
“Really good.” I added my praise.
Prairie’s eyes sparkled. “Th-thanks,” she wheezed.
Lydia trudged around the track. It took her an ice age. “Go! Run! Atta girl, L.B.” Max clapped and cheered. Prairie and I
picked up the beat. Out of the bleachers a faint yet distinctive sound drifted down: “Quack. Quack.”
Max stopped cheering. Deep in her throat, she growled. Prairie and I exchanged terrified glances and stepped back a couple
of feet.
At the far end of the track, Lydia shifted the baton to her right hand. That was my cue. “Oh, my stomach,” I moaned real loud.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Face contorted, I stumbled over toward Fayola on the first riser of the bleachers, and wretched.
She screamed. Everyone turned to look.
I burped. “Ah, much better. Must have been those burritos from lunch.” I bounced a fist off my stomach. Disgusting, I know.
Fayola torched me with her eyes. The class resumed whatever they’d been doing—sleeping, molting, laughing at Lydia.
“We’d better get lined up for our race,” Ashley said. She stepped daintily down the bleachers. Her mule team followed. As
she passed me she said, “Sick.”
I wanted to trip her so bad, but it wasn’t part of Prairie’s plan.
The second heat of runners was rousting them-selves from their nap when Lydia finally flat-footed over the finish line. She
crouched, catching her breath, or pretending to, as Ashley waddled up and stuck out a hand. “Baton, please.”
Here’s what was
supposed
to happen. The Prairie Plan. Lydia would plop the baton in Ashley’s hand as she sprinted over the finish line. Ashley would
run her leg then hand off to Fayola—or try to. “It’s all sticky!” Ashley would wail. “It’s… it’s covered with glue.”
“Not glue,” Lydia would say at my side.
“Honey,” we’d jump in. “A little bit o’ honey.” We’d emphasize the play on words. Then we’d all lapse into hyena hysterics.
Unfortunately the Prairie Plan bombed. About halfway around the track the lid on the honey bear bottle worked itself loose.
Probably as a result of Lydia’s hammering flat feet on the gravel. Honey dribbled down the rear of her pants. Then the bottle
slipped loose and rolled down Lydia’s left leg, lodging in the elastic cuff at her ankle.
By the time Lydia limped across the finish line, her left foot had collected about a yard of sand, and her red Keds were oozing
amber. All down her orange pants it was wet and sticky. Everyone was pointing and laughing, like she’d done the unthinkable.
Lydia’s eyes welled with tears.
“It’s okay, Lyd,” I tried to console her on the way to the girls’ rest room. “Could’ve happened to any of us.” Thank God I
didn’t get the honor.
“We j-just didn’t think it through,” Prairie said.
“Now these pants are ruined, too!” Lydia cried. “And so are my new shoes.” She wailed. Prairie patted her on the back. We
all exchanged sympathetic grimaces.
“This is Krupps’s fault,” Max said. “Now she’s
really
going to get it.”
I wasn’t exactly sure how Lydia’s icky sticky situation could be blamed on Ashley Krupps. But any excuse to get back at her
was okay by me.
A
s we settled into the Peace-mobile, it occurred to me that we all had it in for Ashley Krupps. I’d gone to school with her
since first grade. We’d never been what you’d call friends. One fat girl alone is bad enough; two fat girls together would
be asking for double trouble. We’d always avoided each other. Until last year. Until… the incident.
“Why does Ashley p-pick on you so b-bad?” Prairie asked Lydia. “I th-thought you were friends.”
Lydia clenched her teeth. “At the beginning of the year we were,” she said.
I remembered that. They used to eat lunch together, hang out by the bleachers at recess, and cheer while the eighth-grade
football team ran laps. Like either of them had a chance.
“At least I thought we were friends,” Lydia went on. “Until she found Fayola.” Her eyes went dead. “Ashley invited me to a
birthday party for Fayola. A surprise party. She said a bunch of seventh and eighth graders were coming. I was really excited
because it was the first part—I mean, because it was a boy-girl party. My mom bought me a new dress and everything. It was
really beautiful. Then I show up at the time and place on the invitation, and when the door opens I yell, ‘Surprise!’ Guess
what? There was no party. The address Ashley gave me was Kevin Rooney’s house. He was home with a couple of guys watching
videos. I guess Ashley told them she was sending over a surprise.” Lydia’s lips quivered. “I was it.”
“Oh, man,” Max said.
“How m-mean,” Prairie said.
“Could I have the address?” I said.
Lydia looked at me. “I don’t have it. I burned the invitation. Which is what I’d like to do to Ashley Krupps if I could.”
Max said, “Let’s firebomb her house.”
Was she kidding? Of course she was kidding. I think.
Lydia’s eyes lit up. “Okay. When?”
“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “I hate her, too, but I don’t want to kill her.” Which wasn’t totally true.
“I do,” Max muttered.
We all turned to her. “What’d she do to you?” Lydia asked.
Max removed the baseball cap from her head and ran a hand through her flattened hair. “She got me suspended.”
When Max didn’t elaborate, Prairie said, “H-how?”
Max exhaled. “She’s the one who told the cops I was smoking at the firehouse. She swore she saw me there right before the
fire started.”
Lydia inhaled audibly. “Were you?”
Max growled at her. “Of course not. I don’t smoke.” She added in a smaller voice, “At least I don’t anymore. Ashley’s the
one who set it. I saw her there with a bunch of her groupies after school that day, smoking. And she knows I saw her.”
“Why didn’t you turn her in?” Lydia said.
“Yeah, right.” Max snorted. “Like any one’d believe me over her. You know how
that
works.”
We sure did.
“At least you g-got out of school for a m-month.” Prairie smiled.
“True.” Max smirked. “It wasn’t all bad.”
“She’s such a j-jerk,” Prairie said.
“What’s she done to you, Prairie?” I asked.
“Nothing.” Her eyes fell. “Well… when I first moved here, w-we were in youth group at church together. The first day, after
I g-got introduced, Ashley poked me and s-said, ‘Ooh, p-prickly.’ ”
“She started that?” I couldn’t believe it. Yes, I could. It was Ashley all over. And a cruel taunt like that would spread
like a prairie wildfire, which it did.
“What about you, Jenny? You seem to hate her the most,” Lydia said.
“Me?” I gulped. How could they know how much I hated Ashley Krupps? How I thought about getting back at her every day of my
life? How I wanted to hurt her, bad. Without warning, tears filled my eyes.
Lydia wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “It must be really horrible.”
I nodded.
There was a long, agonizing moment when I couldn’t speak, when I could hardly breathe. Finally Max said, “She can’t talk about
it, okay? What’s important is, we’ve got to figure out a way to get back at Krupps. I say firebomb.”
“Jenny’s right,” Lydia said. “We don’t want to kill her. Just torture her psychologically. Scar her for life, like she has
us.” She handed me a Kleenex.
Eventually I got myself under control and said, “We need to figure out the ultimate humiliation.” I blew my nose. “We should
be able to do that. We’ve all been there.”
“Right.” Lydia curled up in her corner of the couch. “Something totally degrading.”
“Th-that she’ll never forget.”
Lydia said, “What’s the most horrifying experience you can ever imagine happening to you? Besides being in the same room with
Ashley Krupps.”
We snorted. Prairie piped up, “Dyeing your hair red and having it c-come out g-green.”
We all turned.
“My c-cousin dyed her hair once, and it turned g-green. And she’s not even a p-punker.”
“Eeoooh.” Lydia made a face. “I’d give a month’s allowance to see Ashley Krupps with green hair.”
Max shot to her feet. “Wait here.” She clomped out the door.
“Is she going to get the firebomb kit?” I asked.
Lydia elbowed me, smiling. Sobering fast, she said, “She scares me. Does she scare you?”
“Nah,” I lied.
We all stared out the door after Max. Lydia broke the trance. “Got anything to eat, Jenny?” she said.
I proffered my stash. A bag of Keebler fudge stripe cookies I was saving for just such an occasion.
Crunching into one, Prairie said, “Y-your pants don’t look t-too bad, Lydia.”
Lydia blotted her thigh with her thumb. “They’re still sticky. I should make Ashley Krupps wash them. That’s it. Let’s stuff
her desk with dirty laundry.”
“I’ll b-bring my brothers’ boxer shorts,” Prairie volunteered.
We all went, “Eeoooh” just as Max climbed back on board. She cradled a tattered dictionary in her arm. As she clomped past,
she stopped suddenly, opened the flap of the book, and removed a pistol. She aimed at Lydia and began shooting.
Lydia screamed.
Max smirked. “It’s only water.” She replaced the water gun in the carved-out dictionary and resumed her place on the beanbag
chair.
Lydia swiped at her forehead. She looked at her hand. “It’s green.”