Oh, Fitz,
I copied my friend’s paper from last year and turned it in. Now I’m scared my teacher will remember it. What should I do?
— Opal
Miz Fitz sez:
Relax. If you’re busted, you could tell her that you actually wrote the paper last year for your friend, and it is your friend who should have been busted. Not a nice thing to do to your friend — I’m just giving you your options.
By the time the second wave of pizzas arrived, I had sold a ton of books, and the crowd was spilling from the sidewalk onto the street. Bree Feider and her friends returned — apparently, the party had gotten big enough to merit their attention. I sold books to three of my ex-girlfriends: Tracy Spink, Bridget Murphy, and Ashley Strickland. Even Miss Morris bought a copy for the school library.
Sam Johnson, the editor of the Wellstone Word, asked if he could interview me. I was trying to answer his questions and sign books and remember people’s names — all at the same time — when I saw Blair. She wasn’t alone. Standing next to her, talking and laughing, was the guy with the GTO.
I had three choices. I could walk right up to Brett with a big smile and try to out-sexy Blair, which would be tough. Or I could slink away like a whipped dog.
Or I could simply die.
I chose number three, beaming a death wish skyward. I waited for a count of ten. Where was that bolt of lightning when I needed it?
Okay, dying was out. Slinking away was not an option, either. Lita Wold lurks, spies, lies, sulks, cries, and mopes, but she does not slink. I looked down at my carefully chosen dork rags and sighed.
Whenever my father was entering into some questionable venture (like trying to fix a leaky faucet), he would roll up his sleeves and say, “In for a dime, in for a dollar.”
“That’s stupid,” I would say back to him.
He would laugh, then go right ahead and do whatever it was he was doing, until either he fixed it or my mom called the plumber.
But now it made sense to me. I’d bought the boots and the skirt. I was committed to my program of social suicide. Never mind that Blair’s outfit (sprayed-on black leather jeans, and a scoop-neck top revealing more cleavage than Emily could ever hope for) made my getup look like a nun’s habit.
At least my boots were way cooler than hers.
I circled around the crowd so I could come up behind them. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. I didn’t want Blair to see me coming. I was afraid if I had to walk right into her stare, I’d choke or trip over my own feet.
Once I got my angle right, I took dead aim and marched toward them. As I got close enough to overhear their conversation, I slowed down.
“What kind of high school kid writes a book?” Brett asked.
“Adam is sort of different,” Blair said.
I felt a little twinge of pride hearing her say that. I was about to accidentally bump Brett’s shoulder when Blair said to him, “So what are you doing here?”
That was a surprise. I assumed they had come together.
Brett gave a faint one-shoulder shrug and said, “I’m meeting somebody.” He scanned the crowd, but didn’t look in my direction. “I feel like I’m back in high school. Everybody seems so young.”
“Young like me?” Blair said.
“Yeah, but you’re wise beyond your years.”
They both laughed, and it hit me hard how comfortable the two of them seemed together. I was standing maybe four feet away from them, and they were totally oblivious in their own little world while I was this high schooler wearing stupid clothes and mooning over a college boy. I had to leave. I spun around and caught the sharp edge of the new heel on my new boot (the left one) in a crack. A yelp leapt from my mouth and I went down, landing hard on my butt, my booted feet flying higher than my head. This was my exact position when Brett and Blair turned to see what all the yelling was about.
“Where did you get the idea for your book?” Sam Johnson asked.
“I … er … huh?” I was trying to keep an eye on the GTO guy, but people kept getting in the way, and Sam kept asking me questions. Another person shoved a book in front of me. Chelsea Whalenburg.
“I decided to buy your book,” she said, “even though I already know what you all want.”
“And what is that?” Sam asked her.
“My ass,” said Chelsea.
Sam smiled and scrawled something in his notebook. I signed Chelsea’s book.
“You were saying?” Sam asked after she left.
“I got the idea one day when I was tubing down the Apple River with some friends, and we were talking about how guys are always trying to figure out girls and vice versa, and I —” My mouth stopped talking. There he was, the GTO guy, only it wasn’t just Blair standing next to him — Lita was there, too. And then Lita got knocked down or something, and all these people were gathering around, looking down at her.