Free* Haircuts!**
*If you have shoulder-length or longer hair
**We get to keep the hair.
(Do-Goods, we’re looking at you—bald kids need your help!)
“Good morning, Ms. Cady!” we both scream as we pass the stone statue of our school’s founder sitting proudly atop a rearing horse that guards the bottom of the school driveway. Two first-years, one dangling precipitously from the horse’s towering left hoof, and the other sitting atop Ms. Cady’s shoulders, look up at us as we pass, their polishing cloths paused.
We’re a few minutes early, so we park and blast the heat.
I’m exhausted but antsy, shifting in my seat so I can see the parking lot entrance. “They should be here by now.”
Deanna yawns and stretches, taking the ice pack off her knee, poking her scar, and tossing the ice pack back in the glove compartment before leaning back and closing her eyes. “We could take naps until they get here.”
“I hope Aloha doesn’t show up,” I grumble. “Maybe that way Fiona would boot her out of the Hopefuls.”
“Be nice,” Deanna says, her eyes still closed. “You know Aloha is the best choice for our third. She’s been our friend forever.”
I try to bite my tongue, but words come out. “Not forever. You and I have been friends forever. Aloha’s a transfer student. There is no forever, past or future, in our friendship.”
“Gigi Lane.” Deanna opens one eye and glares at me. “You’re being a total butt-wipe.”
I pout. “So?”
“So, we’ve talked about this. Is Aloha your friend?” Deanna, both eyes open now, pokes me when I don’t answer. “Gigi!”
“Yes, she’s my friend.”
“Why?”
“Come on, Deanna.” I groan, now regretting the fact that I walked right into a Deanna “Dear Heart” Jones love lesson.
“Gigi, why is Aloha your friend?”
I rush my oft-recited answer out in a sigh: “Because she’s funny and smart and kind of pretty, and when we were ten, she helped us carry that dog that got hit by a car all the way to the animal hospital and then cried when it died.”
Deanna nods. “Very good. I bet your heart grew two sizes just by saying that.”
I snicker. “And because who else are we going to pick for our third? Daphne ‘Dog Face’ Hall?”
She tries not to, but Deanna giggles. “Or Heidi,” she says, breaking into a devilish smile.
“Ick. No.” I shudder. Heidi is in our year and is on the path to becoming Head Cheerleader, a position that any Swan with barely above-average looks and moderate intelligence would be thrilled with. But earlier this year, when Deanna, Aloha, and I were tapped as Hottie Hopefuls, and Heidi wasn’t, she threw a fit. Flying pom-poms; furious scissors kicks; obscene, nonsensical cheers through her tears. It was hilarious. It was all just further proof she wasn’t ready for the popularity pressure cooker that is the Hot Spot. “That would have been a total disaster,” I say, a little giddy at the thought.
“Total disaster. Ooh, there’s Aloha.” Deanna points out the window.
I look down the hill and see Aloha’s black Jeep screech into the parking lot. It roars up the hill and screeches again as she parks next to us, lurching to a stop, her hair flying in front of her face, her forehead almost hitting the steering wheel. Totally unfazed, she rolls down her window, and I roll down mine.
“Whaddup, tramps?” Aloha doesn’t look at us, but at her own reflection in the visor mirror as she pops open a tube of lip gloss and smooths it on. “Are we early or are they late?”
I grimace as I watch her pucker her lips and make a kissy face at her own reflection. “Aloha, where the hell have you been?”
Deanna pokes me and mouths the words, Remember the dead dog!
I sigh and start again. “You know Fiona wanted us all here on time.”
“Slept in,” Aloha purrs, flipping the visor back up. “What?” she says with a smirk. “Afraid Fiona will lay into you for not ‘controlling your fellow Hopefuls’?”
“Just get in the car,” I growl.
“Hi, Aloha!” Deanna calls. “Get in, I brought you a Pop-Tart!”
“You’re the tart, you tart!” Aloha calls back with a wink. She gets out of the Jeep and then makes a point of standing right by my window, smoothing down her hair and straightening her outfit.
Dear God, her outfit!
“Take it easy, Gigi,” Deanna murmurs, leaning over me to roll up my window. “Just don’t look at her.”
I nod. And keep nodding. I’m still nodding as I say through gritted teeth, “But, Deanna, she totally stole my style.”
“Dude,” she cautions, “we cannot keep having this discussion. You guys have a similar look. That’s all. Neither one of you is a style snatcher.”
I glance out the window to where Aloha is picking an invisible piece of lint off of her vintage 1970s high-waisted jeans. “Oh, come on!” I whisper-yell. “She knows I have that exact same pair of jeans! What if I had worn them today? What then?”
“Then you would have popped your trunk and grabbed the spare outfit you keep exactly for that kind of emergency.”
I shake my head. “But I shouldn’t have to!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. “She knows as well as you do that 1970s nondisco, nonpolyester, nonhippie, non-bell-bottom fashion is my thing! I was the first one to grow out and feather my hair, and I was the one that started wearing those high-waisted jeans she’s trying to cram her fat ass into, and I’ve been wearing dangly gold pendant necklaces for years. Plus, I have blond hair, which clearly works better for that sort of hairstyle. Her brown hair looks like feathered doggie doo-doo.”
“Are you done?” Deanna groans.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“She’ll be sweating in jeans today,” Deanna finally offers. “It’s chilly now, but it’s going to be a high of sixty-two.”
I glance out at Aloha, who is retucking her chocolate brown silk shirt into her jeans, a snug argyle sweater-vest with a deep V-neck over it.
“I suppose my dress is more suitable to the weather.” I grin with a deep breath, smoothing down the fabric of my vintage micromini. “She’ll stink up that silk before lunch.”
“Exactly!” Deanna agrees.
“She’s going to smell like roadkill! Thanks, Deanna.” I pat her on her good knee. “I feel loads better.”
Aloha gets into the car, flipping her feathered hair as she does. “I cannot wait for this rushing bullshit to be over with.”
I whip around to glare at her. “If you hate it so much, you can drop out right now.”
Aloha shrugs and takes the Pop-Tart Deanna is holding out. “Nah. You’d miss me too much. Besides, if I dropped out, then I’d have to go be a Glossy or a Cheerleader, and there’s no way I’m going to demote myself.”
I can’t even look at her. “You shouldn’t be so flippant,” I snap. “You should show some appreciation.”
“For what? The honor of picking up Fiona’s dry cleaning?”
I’m Gigi Lane and Aloha wishes she were me. “Forget it. You just better hope they don’t find out how lacking you are in sisterhood. Ms. Cady would be—”
“Ms. Cady was a tramp.” Aloha laughs. “Why would I care what she thought of me?”
“She wasn’t a tramp!” I turn around again. “She had lovers! And she chose not to limit herself by getting married and giving up all her rights!”
“She was a spinster hag!” Aloha shouts gleefully, clearly loving the fact that I’m so riled up.
Deanna levels a glare at both of us and orders, “Be nice.”
Aloha pats her on the head. “Sorry, Dear Heart. Didn’t mean to sully your delicate sensibilities.”
“That’s okay.” Deanna shrugs. “You guys just drive me bonkers with your stupid faces.”
We’re all still laughing when I see a familiar sleek sedan pull into the driveway. “There they are.” I wipe my eyes and wonder how, once again, Deanna has made everything okay.
The Jaguar slows as it passes us, my stomach twitching at the tinted windows, knowing they are looking right at us. “Let’s go.”
We get out and follow along behind the car as it parks, like we’re Secret Service agents following the president’s car in a parade. We take our places—Deanna and I on the driver’s side, Aloha on the passenger, all of us standing three steps back, our hands clasped behind us. “Like butlers,” Aloha snorted the first time they made us do it, to which Fiona responded by making us address her only in pig latin for the rest of the month. When the engine shuts off, we glance at one another and then reach out at the same time and open the doors.
Fiona Shay sits in the driver’s seat. She is putting on lipstick. She doesn’t even look at me. “We’re not ready yet.” Next to her is her second in command, Poppy, and in the backseat sits Cassandra.
We close the car doors in unison and barely have time to step back into position before there are three quick knocks on the driver-side window from inside the car. We all reach out quickly and open the doors again. This time they get out.
Fiona steps so close to me I can smell her perfume, the brand of which I never find, no matter how many bottles I sniff at the mall. The scent is like a mix of gardenias and oligarchy.
“You’ll wash the car,” Fiona orders quietly, looking directly into my eyes. “And clean out the trunk. And when you’re done, you will wait outside the DOS for further instructions.”
Aloha pretends to stifle her groan when Fiona mentions the Den of Secrecy, and when Poppy, Cassandra, and Fiona all level their stares in her direction, Aloha just smirks at her shoes.
Fiona looks at me. “Control your Hopefuls, Lane.”
I nod, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “Aloha,” I say, turning toward her. “School song. Five times.”
Aloha snorts.
Fiona glares at me, raising her eyebrows.
“In Latin,” I add, “and backward.”
Fiona nods her approval and walks away, followed by Poppy and Cassandra. We stand watching them, their perfect hair, their perfect posture, cutting a perfect silhouette of popularity for us to step into next year.
Aloha stops reciting as soon as the three are in the building, and wrinkles her nose. “This car smells like ass.”
“It’s got a bad case of the funk,” Deanna agrees, kicking a piece of something smooshy off the front tire. “Did she make you drive through the dump on the way back from New Hampshire?”
I shake my head. “We used my car for New Hampshire. I dropped her back here to pick up her car.”
“Why’d you go to New Hampshire?” Aloha asks.
“That’s classified and you know it,” I snap. “Go get the hose.”
Aloha stares at me for a long moment.
“The hose, Aloha,” I say firmly.
After she stomps off toward the shed, Deanna sighs.
“What?” I ask, already defensive.
“You could have told her,” she reasons. “You told me.”
I shrug. “She doesn’t deserve to know. You saw the way she acted, she was a total embarrassment.”
“She’s just being herself.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “An embarrassment.”
The car does stink, inside and out. We take turns holding our breath and leaning into the trunk, the portable hand vacuum bucking as it sucks up bits of glass, metal, and unidentifiable gunk. We spray the whole trunk down with carpet cleaner and scrub, and then stretch an extension cord from the basement so we can blow-dry it with the emergency hair dryer I keep in my trunk.
By the time we’re done, it’s almost 7:00 a.m., and we still have to find the Den of Secrecy, the Hot Spot’s secret meeting room. There are tons of rumors about what’s inside—a tanning booth; a movie theater; a trampoline; hammocks slung between imported palm trees; a 360-degree mirror box so you can check out what other people really see when they look at your ass; a pool; a kitchen loaded with goodies; a bathroom fully stocked with every cream, lotion, and serum you could ever wish for; and a walk-in closet filled by the Network every spring and fall with fashions so forward no one outside of Europe has even seen them yet.
The deal is Head Hottie gets the key to the DOS the first day of senior year. Unless the Hopefuls can find it before the end of the Founder’s Ball. If we find it first, we get to spend the rest of the year hanging out in the DOS with this year’s Hot Spot.
“You scabs ready for another exercise in futility?” Aloha asks once we’re on the landing of the narrow back staircase.
“Perk up, pups,” Deanna chirps. “I bet this time we find it.”
Aloha rolls her eyes. “It’s so cute the way you’re delusional.”
We decide to look on Founder’s Path, the long hallway that marks the old path from the main house to the shed where Swans built Ms. Cady’s stunt plane. Now it leads from the senior locker wing to the main entrance of school in the original mansion. Dusting the two dozen Ms. Cady portraits that line Founder’s Path is one of the first duties first-years get, and I remember staring in awe at the various images as I ran my dust cloth over the lines and curves of the gilded frames.
“Let’s check behind the paintings again,” I decide once we’re there, peeking behind an eight-foot-tall portrait of Ms. Cady standing next to a giraffe. “Knock on the wall, see if it sounds hollow. There might be a hidden door we missed last time.”
Aloha snorts. “You really think Fiona hoists herself through a hole in the wall to get to the DOS?”
“Shut your piehole and knock, Aloha,” I snap, moving on to peek behind a cubist rendition of Ms. Cady jumping out of a biplane. “Unless you have a better idea.”
Aloha leans on the wall in front of me, blocking my way. “Oh, I have lots of ideas, Gigi. You have no idea what great ideas I have.”
I hear someone walking up behind me and turn to see Daphne “Dog Face” Hall stop dead in her tracks, as if my gaze has frozen her to the spot.
“Gross!” I gasp, looking at her.
She blinks.
Deanna looks up from the portrait she’s checking to shoot me a warning look, and starts hurrying toward us. “Hey, Daphne,” she says with a smile, “what’s up?”
“Um … ,” Daphne mumbles. “I’m just going to the art room.”
I can feel a familiar, prickling heat rush up over my scalp. I make a shooing motion with my hands. “So, go then.”
Daphne doesn’t move, she just stares at me, blinking.
The heat lets loose and washes over me, sinking into my skin, incinerating my insides until my ears whoosh with the sounds of liquid fury.
“Get your fat ass off Founder’s Path, you stupid, ugly troll,” I hiss. I step closer to her, going in for the kill. “You’re using the wrong moisturizer, and you have stubby eyelashes.”
“Dude!” Deanna says, smacking me on the arm. “Don’t be a dick!”
Daphne backs away and then turns, breaking into a herky-jerky train wreck of a run toward the arts wing.
“She started it,” I huff, my body cooling as Daphne runs out of sight.
“She’s got a face like a popped zit.” Aloha yawns.
“You’re both evil tarts,” Deanna says, “and you’re going straight to hell.”
Aloha nudges Deanna with her hip. “Then why are you friends with us?”
Without thinking, Deanna says, “Because if I wasn’t around, they’d burn you at the stake for bitchcraft.”
“Oh, crap,” Aloha groans. Too late, I see Ms. Carlisle, our headmistress and resident fashion don’t, walking toward us. There’s a reason that in the “Letter from the Headmistress” section of our brochure there’s just a picture of the nameplate on her office door.
She’s wearing a lavender skirt suit that I am sure is made of polyester. She adjusts her giant vinyl purse, causing the suit jacket to fall open.
“Ew!” Aloha laughs into her hands, covering it with a fake sneeze, as we all try to look away from Ms. Carlisle’s too snug skirt. Its waist is directly beneath her chest, and the skirt squeezes its way down her pouchy stomach, over her bulging thighs, to end in a hideous, flouncing petal-cut hem at her knees.
“Good morning, ladies,” she crows, smiling so wide her smudged plastic glasses slip down to the tip of her nose. I try not to flinch at the brown stains on her snaggled teeth. I can’t believe that’s the public face of Swan’s Lake.
“Good morning, Headmistress,” we answer in unison.
“And what are you ladies up to so early this morning?” Ms. Carlisle starts rifling through her ugly purse, digging in up to her elbow.
“Student Council meeting,” Deanna says brightly.
“That’s nice, dears. You know, Ms. Cady was a big fan of the saying ‘The early bird gets the worm.’”
Aloha grumbles, “She probably ate them.”
If Ms. Carlisle hears, she doesn’t show it. We rush out a quick good-bye as she pulls out her office key, and make our way to the main entrance.
We pass by the main double doors to school, and through the mottled colors of the stained glass we can see the two rows of first-years with morning duties lining up on the front steps.
“Poopers. Foiled again.” Deanna sighs. “We’re never going to find the DOS.”
“Nonsense,” I snap. “We’re not going to be the first Hottie Hopefuls in the history of Swan’s Lake to not find the DOS before the Founder’s Ball. Now, where are they?”
“Here.” We look to where Fiona is walking down the wide, curving main staircase into the entrance hall, her hand running lightly along the dark, polished banister. Cassandra and Poppy follow. “We’re here.” Cassandra glowers at us as they reach the bottom. “Where were you?”
“We finished the car,” Deanna offers.
Poppy clucks her tongue. “You were supposed to find us in the DOS.”
“Yeah, well, we tried.” Aloha smirks. “But we were interrupted.”
“You’ll have to try harder,” Fiona says. “If you don’t find it, how in the world do you expect to use it next year?”
“Wait, what?” I jump forward. Fiona narrows her eyes at me. I take a step back. “You said we’d get the location on the first day of school next year. That’s what you read to us from the Hottie Handbook.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Fiona admits after a moment. “But no Incumbent has ever had to wait to be given the location. Usually the Head Hottie Hopeful would have found it by now.”
Aloha snorts and I shoot her a quick glare.
“You’re too late now anyway,” Poppy informs us. “The first-years are here. You’ll be supervising them in cleaning the Oriental rugs from the underclassmen locker hall. We’ve given the second-years the morning off from supervising. Find us in the DOS before first period.”
Aloha snorts again, and Deanna makes a squeaking sound.
Fiona focuses her gaze on me. “I suggest you advise your fellow Incumbents that snorting like a pig or making sweet little baby sounds will not get them out of their responsibilities. If they would rather not be in their current position, they are welcome to clear the cliques and find another home for senior year.”
This shuts even Aloha up. Clearing the cliques is this completely humiliating process that transfers go through where they spend a week or so with each clique until they settle somewhere near the bottom. Transfers never get top tier. Well, most of them don’t, I think, trying not to snarl at Aloha’s platform wedge sandals. Fiona and the others walk up the staircase, not looking back at us.
“Do you think the DOS is upstairs, then?” Deanna wonders.
“Could be,” I say. “But we’ve searched up there a dozen times.”
Outside the front doors the first-years have started singing our school song, which, following tradition, they will sing louder and louder and more and more obnoxiously until we let them in.
“‘We are the sisters of the swan!’” they sing. One of them kicks the door.
Aloha laughs. “Cheeky little brats, aren’t they? Should we let them in or make them chew through the doors?”
“‘We weave a tapestry of sisterhooooooood!’” the first-years scream from outside, slapping their palms on the mottled glass inlay.
I nod at Deanna, and she pulls open the doors. Immediately the singing stops, replaced by gasps and squeals of “Dear Heart!” and the mob of girls pushes through the doors, breaking formation in a thundering scuff of ballet flats to surround Deanna.
“Are you leading duties today?” they ask, their legs still too long for their bodies, their chipmunk cheeks just beginning to thin, their bangs finally growing out from the blunt short cuts that mothers of unfortunate junior-high girls insist on. “Can you teach me to do a back kickover?”
They are giggly, and earnest, and young. Until they see first me and then Aloha watching them. They swallow their giggles, try to settle their breath. They change the way they stand, the way they tilt their heads. A hush falls over them. They stare at us, flushed and gulping.
It’s like I’m watching the incarnation of my affirmation. I’m Gigi Lane, and every single one of these Swans wishes they were me.
“The rugs in the underclassman locker corridor need to be beaten,” I inform them, thrilled at the low, no-nonsense sound of my voice. “There are three rugs. Four of you to a rug. You can bring them out to the garden by the kitchen; there are ropes already strung up for you to hang them. Grab brooms from the kitchen supply cupboard to beat the dust out. Stay away from the Deeks’ courtyard; we don’t want to have to pay a ransom to get you back. You will return the rugs to position by first bell. Understood?”
They all nod. I stand there, not moving, not speaking for a long moment. Beside me I see Aloha smile at me. I wink at her. “Dismissed.”
They scatter like marbles.
A couple of weeks later I’m running down the hall, hoping to get back to Human Biology so I can finish the final before the end of class. Fiona texted me halfway through to tell me to report to the DOS immediately, ignoring the fact we still haven’t found it yet. We’re not allowed to leave class during finals, and Ms. Blackwell refused until I showed her my test and whispered in her ear all the answers to the questions I’d yet to finish. When she finally nodded her approval, I dashed out of class and frantically started running up and down the halls, hoping that by some merciful stroke of luck I’d stumble upon the DOS, but instead I stumble over Beatrice.
“Shit!” I yell, almost knocking her over, my shoes pulling up the long Oriental rug as I skid to a stop. She grabs my arm, keeping me from falling.
“Hello, Gigi,” she says when I’ve righted myself.
“Hey, Beatrice. What’s going on?”
“Nothing of note.” She helps me straighten the rug. “We’re on a bit of a stakeout.” She looks behind her, and I see the rest of the Vox Foxes leaning in a line against the lockers, one high-heeled foot apiece propped behind them, looking like a chorus line.
“Ladies.” I nod.
Fiona says there’s a long history of camaraderie between the Voice of the People and the Hot Spot, so I’ve made it a point to talk to Beatrice and the other Vox Foxes whenever I get the chance. There’s a bit of doublespeak involved, since rushing the Hot Spot is supposed to be a secret endeavor.
“How’s the end of the year going?” Beatrice asks.
“Well.” I laugh as I catch my breath. “Actually, I’m running around like an idiot. How about you?”
“Oh, much better than you.” She chuckles. “We get to stand around like idiots. Are you looking for Fiona?”
“Maybe … ,” I falter, not wanting to break the first rule of the Hot Spot, which is, of course, don’t talk about the Hot Spot.
“I think she’s talking to my sister.” Beatrice’s older sister, Beverly, is a senior, the current editor of the Trumpet, and the head of the Vox Foxes.
“Where?”
“You think she’d tell us?” Beatrice sighs.
I sigh. “All right. Well, if you see them—”
“Heads up,” Beatrice interrupts, turning on her heel to join the other Vox Foxes against the lockers.
Fiona’s voice comes cracking down the hall. “Where have you been?”
I groan, and Beatrice gives me a pitying look as her sister and Fiona come walking quickly toward us. “I had to stop waiting for you and go to the meeting without you.”
“Foxes, let’s go.” Beverly doesn’t stop walking, and the Vox Foxes fall in line behind her.
Fiona looks at me with such derision there’s nothing I can do but affirm and confirm. I’m Gigi Lane and you wish you were me.
Fiona looks at her watch. “Don’t you have a biology final to finish? You know our GPA requirements.”
“You were going to take me to a meeting?” I can’t help but be excited by this turn of events. Meetings mean power. “Are the Foxes in trouble?” I mime a one-two punch. “Did you have to put them in their place?”
“Gigi,” Fiona snaps, “there is more to the Hot Spot than ‘putting people in their place,’ as you put it. We have a school to run.”
I nod eagerly. “I understand.”
She tips her head and studies me. “Do you really?”
“Of course!” I try for a confident tone, but to be honest, I’m a little taken aback by the intensity of her gaze.
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, and I take off at a run back to biology.
I’m tearing around the corner into the arts wing when I actually do knock someone over.
“Son of a bitch, that hurt!” Aloha yells, hopping around on one foot, her hands gripping her shin.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp for breath. “You know the GPA requirements for Hottie Hopefuls! You should be in class.”
“Relax, Gigi,” she sneers, “I’m just going to take a tinkle, if that’s okay with you.”
“Aloha,” I groan, “relax, okay? Do we really have to show our teeth whenever Deanna’s not around?”
“Aw,” Aloha says, laughing, “but what would we have in common if we didn’t hate each other?”
“I … I don’t hate you,” I stammer, shocked at her words. I’ve always thought Aloha and I had a sort of sibling rivalry that resulted when one sibling was better looking and more successful than the other. There’s not real hatred involved, just well-warranted jealousy.
“You don’t hate me?” She feigns shock. “Let’s hug and get matching Best Friends Forever necklaces! Oh, wait”—her face warps into a glower—“you already have matching BFF necklaces with Little Miss Sunshine.”
“Deanna and I both really like you—”
“Cram it, Georgina,” Aloha snaps. “The only reason I even talk to you is because I want into the Hot Spot.”
I clear my throat. “First of all, my full name is only for emergencies. Second of all, I’m glad to know your true feelings. I’ll make a note of them.”
Aloha laughs in my face. “You do that, Gigi. You make all the notes you want.”
We part ways without another word, and I’m almost back to my class when I hear a lackluster “She’s got spirit, yes she do! She’s got spirit, how ’bout you? It’s Gigi! It’s Gigi!”
Heidi moves limply through the cheer, her ever-ready pom-poms barely swishing as she raises them over her head before resting her hands on her hips and smirking at me.
“I’m late, Heidi. I don’t have time to talk.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” she says. “I was just doing my duty, paying my respects to the future of Swan’s Lake.”
I shake my head. “You’re going to have to get over it, Heidi. You know there could only be three of us.”
“And you let a dirty transfer in as your third.”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
Heidi laughs. “Oh, Gigi, I know Aloha was the least of two evils in your mind. A transfer, yes, but without my—what did you call it? Trademark desperation?”
I step closer to her. “You’ll want to watch your tone, Heidi. Cheerleaders may be top tier, but they’re not untouchable.” I lower my voice. “Remember when we were first-years, and the you-know-whos got that Cheerleader convicted of tax evasion? She spent two years in jail, sharing soap and sleeping with a sharpened comb under her pillow, before her lawyers got her off. That’s the Network, Heidi. No one is untouchable.”
“Oh, I know that, Gigi.” Heidi smiles, showing all of her teeth. “No one is untouchable.”
“I … I’ve got to get to class.” I curse myself for stammering.
“You … you do that,” she says, her smile too big for her stupid face.
“I will,” I say, turning on my heel, the weight of her envy threatening to slow me down as I quicken my steps.
I groan loudly when I see Daphne “Dog Face” Hall coming from the opposite direction. She sees me and flinches, dropping her hall pass. I walk quickly toward her, and by the time she’s picked up her pass, I’m standing right in front of her. “What are you doing?” I ask.
She holds up the hall pass and gulps.
“What are you, nine?” I snap. “That timid-little-girl act stops working once you get boobs. Now, I ask you again, what are you doing here?”
“You … you don’t own the halls,” she stammers.
I laugh in her face. “Right. You just keep telling yourself that.”
“Why … why do you hate me so much?” she whimpers, fat tears pooling in her eyes and sliding down her cheeks.
“Oh my God,” I groan, disgusted. “Don’t cry! What the hell is wrong with you? Why must you cry every time we have one of our little chats?”
“I … I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. You cry because you’re weak. Have you read my mom’s book?”
Daphne shrugs.
I shake my head and sigh. “I keep telling you, read Meet Your Tweet. It’ll change your life.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, her gaze fixed on the floor.
I reach out and lift her chin. “You said that last time, remember? Why should I believe you?”
“I’ll … I’ll read it.”
“Good. Buy a copy. Don’t get it from the library. My mom doesn’t get royalties if you get it from the library. Understood?”
She nods.
“Good. Now, run along.”
As she turns, Daphne shoots me a millisecond-long glare of pure hate.
I remind myself of what Fiona told me at our first private meeting. Their hatred isn’t real, Gigi. They hate us the way first-years hate duties. They act like they hate us, but they know this school would fall apart without us.
Lunch period is the time when the kiss-butts show themselves. Since the Hot Spot spends lunch in the DOS, it’s our time for the teeming masses to pay their respects to the future leaders of Swan’s Lake.
“Hi, Gigi!” I look up to see Margot Danesi standing at my elbow.
I’m sitting with Aloha at our usual spot in the cavernous dining hall, waiting for Deanna to buy her lunch. I didn’t mention my altercation with Aloha to Deanna, and since then Aloha and I have kept a stony silence between us.
I glance at Margot and go back to my salad. “Hello, Margot.”
Margot is a Do-Good, one of those community-minded pretty girls with admirable dental hygiene who volunteer for things like reading porn to the blind. She’s a third-year and she’s set to take over the Do-Goods in the fall. She was first in line for the hair-donation fund-raiser, and since then has been growing out a pixie cut that exposes the nape of her neck in the most tawdry way.
She’s dressed in the Do-Goods’ usual uniform: buttoned-up collared shirt, below-the-knee skirt in a fabric too heavy for the season, and the sort of sweet ballet flats first-years wear. She’s added a silk scarf around her neck.
“You know, Margot,” Aloha observes, “I don’t think God would be that upset if you unbuttoned the top button on your blouse. After all, he gave you that rack, and I’m sure he wouldn’t object to you airing it out once in a while.”
Margot turns bright red. “Oh, Aloha, you card!” She laughs uncomfortably. “I swear you’re going to get me in trouble!”
I sigh. “Oh, Margot, you know you never swear. Jesus hates a potty mouth.”
“That’s true,” Margot murmurs in agreement.
“Hey, Margot!” Deanna says, sliding her tray onto the table and sitting down. “How’s the pious life treating you?”
“Great!” Margot answers. “How are you?”
“Did you need something, Margot?” I ask, smiling, before Deanna can answer. “Because we have, you know, business to attend to.”
Margot’s eyes widen. “Oh, of course. Business. I was just saying hello.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
I peek out one of the basement windows, its bottom sill just inches above the asphalt of the student parking lot. It’s past eight at night, and in the purple light I can see three dozen first-years and seniors spreading manure in the flower beds on the far side of the lot. That’s the other thing about the first-years’ last duty—seniors always show up to help them finish. It’s an added bonus for the sophomores, who are stuck in that awful middle-child position of not being the youngest or the oldest in school. This way they get to think up a task gross enough to punish both the babies and the seniors.
“Aw, look at the little kittens pushing the poop!” Deanna laughs, getting up on her knees to look out the window next to me. We’re sitting on a stack of old gym mats, watching Aloha try to fix the furnace.
“Do you really think old Gertie had this in mind when she talked about the ‘service of sisterhood’?” Aloha’s voice echoes from deep inside the furnace. “I thought she meant giving soup to dirty people and mercy-killing stray dogs.” She steps back, her face smudged with black ash. “I can’t see a damned thing in there.”
“Well, look again.” I hand her down a flashlight and fight a yawn. “There has to be a reason it’s not working.”
“I don’t understand why we need a furnace in summer.” Aloha ducks back in for another look. “Carlisle’s the only one that’ll be here, and I bet she doesn’t wash her hands after she goes to the bathroom anyway.”
“Is the flue open?” Deanna asks, looking again at an ancient set of instructions we found jammed into a crack by the furnace.
“Is your flue open?” Aloha snorts, standing up again.
“Don’t be dirty. The flue, it’s like the opening chimney thing.” Deanna leans forward to hand Aloha the instructions. Aloha glances at them and throws them over her shoulder.
I sigh and slide off the mats. “Step aside.”
“Gladly.” Aloha yawns, climbing up next to Deanna.
I stick my hand in, feel for the little lever described in the instructions, and pull. “It’s stuck.” I grunt, pulling harder this time.
“Oh crap,” Deanna gasps.
I just stand there looking at the dirty metal lever in my hand.
“I think that’s supposed to stay in the furnace.” Aloha laughs.
I groan, squatting down on my heels, dropping the bar, and holding my head in my gritty hands.
“Gigi?” I hear Deanna slide down from the mats onto her good leg. “Are you all right?”
I nod and hold up one finger, still covering my face with my hands. “I just need a second.” Affirm and confirm. That’s all I have to do. Affirm and confirm. I’m Gigi Lane and—
“Why’s she mumbling?” I hear Aloha jump off the mats. “She’s not freaking out, is she? Because she can’t freak out—the Founder’s Ball is only four days away, and we still have to find the DOS if we want to get sworn in. Gigi!” I flinch as Aloha claps her hands right next to my ears. “Gigi! Snap out of it!”
I peek between my fingers to see Deanna crouching down next to me as best she can, with her bad leg sticking out in front of her. “We’re really close, you know that, right? Just a few more days and we’ll find the DOS and get sworn in, and then rushing will be over forever.”
“But the thing broke!” I cry, raising my head and limply lifting the broken lever. “And I don’t know how to fix it and I don’t know why we have to in the first place! I don’t know why we have to do any of the things they’ve made us do!”
Deanna pats my shoulder. “Aw, buck up, camper! It hasn’t been that bad.”
“Hasn’t been that bad!” I jump up, tears pricking at my eyes, motioning wildly with the lever. “Cassandra forces Aloha to do her accounting homework, like some common playground bully!”
“I do hate the spreadsheets,” Aloha grumbles.
“And Poppy forces you to have lunch with disgusting Whompers and Gizmos!” I say to Deanna.
She laughs. “They’re not that bad, Gigi.”
“Those people are cretins!” I screech. “And Poppy just makes you talk to them because she thinks it’s funny!”
Aloha points at me and looks at Deanna. “Make her chill out!”
“I’m chill!” I yell at her. “I’m just … I’m just having a moment, okay? Is that allowed? Am I allowed to have one moment when I’m not absolutely perfect? Now, hand me the damn instructions!”