Rhonda stared at me with those huge, damp eyes, and I felt part of myself dissolve like Kool-Aid mix in water. I’ve always thought that I was a good person. At least, mostly good. But as Rhonda stood there looking at me, TRAITOR written across her face, I started to think I’d never been good at all.
Then she took off like a bullet.
I was so surprised that she could move that fast that I didn’t even follow her.
Not right away.
By the time I managed to move, Rhonda had blasted through the hallway doors. Then the second bell rang, and I found myself alone in the hall. I was late for class.
I should find her later and apologize, I told myself. But I knew that wasn’t good enough. No—I had to find her and apologize now. Right away. Even if it meant skipping class and getting in trouble.
Because friendship is more important than French, oui?
The first place I looked was the girls’ room. No Rhonda. Just a very annoyed eighth grader who I, uh… accidentally barged in on.
Next I tried the cafeteria, but there were just lunch ladies assembling huge trays of goop that looked like reheated goop from yesterday’s lunch. Blech.
The only other room in the direction Rhonda had run was the teachers’ lounge, and it didn’t seem very likely she’d go in there. I knew I didn’t want to, since it was a well-known fact that the lounge doubled as Mrs. Stricker’s harpy lair.
Rhonda was nowhere to be found.
Who could help me? If I called Mom, she’d just come to school and make a Parental Scene. My bandmates? They don’t really get Missy Trillin’s evil power, or why I don’t just throw down with the Princesses. Besides, they were in school too.
In the end, there was only one person I could think of to call.
I’ll always owe my brother, because that phone call cleared up everything.
The minute I hung up, I knew what I had to do.