prison drama."
I am no fan of Clayton High School—or any high school, really, except maybe that one for the performing arts, the one in
Fame
, where everybody danced on taxicabs in the street—but I still couldn’t understand how Luke could compare it to jail Clayton High is nothing like jail. For one thing, there are no bars on the windows.
And for another, prisoners get reduced sentences for good behavior. The only thing you get in high school for not killing each other is a diploma that is good for exactly nothing, except possibly a managerial position at Rax Roast Beef.
"Um," I said. "I’m sorry." What was he talking about? Why was he so upset? I mean, yeah, it’s mean how they treat Cara, but what am
I
supposed to do about it? "But I sort of have to go—"
"No," Luke said, his blue eyes still burning like pieces of kryptonite behind the lenses of his glasses. "I want to know. I want to know why you didn’t try to stop those people from tormenting that poor girl."
"Look," I said Cara’s wails were getting louder, and I knew the bell was going to ring any minute.
But I don’t know. Something came over me. Maybe it was the stress of having a movie star in disguise following me around all day. Or maybe it was residual tension from being yelled at for an hour by Mr. Hall about my jazz hands.
In any case, I think I sort of snapped. I mean, where did he get off, basically saying nothing at all to me for most of the day, then turning around and yelling at
me
about something Kurt Schraeder and his friends were doing?
"If you disapprove of this place so much," I hissed, "why don’t you just go back to Hollywood? I wouldn’t mind, you know, because I actually have more important things to do than baby-sit prima donnas like you."
Then I turned around and went into the ladies’ room.
I’ll admit that, even though my speech sounded cool and all, I wasn’t feeling very cool. In fact, my heart was beating kind of fast, and I felt a little bit like hurling my pizza. Because really, I don’t yell at people. Ever.
And the fact that I’d yelled at this very famous movie star whom I had been assigned to be nice to by the principal and Juicy Lucy . . . well, I was kind of scared. Scared that Luke would tell Dr. Lewis what I’d said. Scared that I’d consequently get expelled. And scared that I wouldn’t get that diploma after all and have to work as a drill press operator, just like I’d put on my state achievement test.
Only I’d been joking! I don’t want to be a drill press operator! I mean, I’m excellent at solving other people’s problems . . . and you know, layout and all of that. I can see how things fit together and what should go where, which is why I’m not only Ask Annie but I help out a lot with set design for the Drama Club. I want to be a therapist—or a designer or both—when I’m grown-up. Not a drill press operator.
Except that it’s kind of hard to be a therapist
or
a designer on an eleventh grade education.
But I didn’t really have time to worry about Luke just then. Because I still had Cara to deal with.
"Cara," I said, going to lean against the stall door she’d locked herself behind. "Come out. It’s me, Jen."
"Why?" Cara sobbed. "Why do they keep doing that me, Jen?"
"Because they’re idiots. Now come on out."
Cara came out. Her face was blotchy with tears. If she didn’t spend so much time crying, and stopped trying to blow-dry her hair so it was stick straight like Courtney Deckard’s and just let it curl on its own the way it wanted to, and knocked off the capris, which don’t look that good on someone her shape, I suspect she might even have been pretty.
"It’s not fair," Cara said, sniffling. "I try and I try . . . I even told them my parents were going out of town last weekend and that they could use my house to party in. Did anybody show up? No."
I turned on the water in one of the sinks and wet a paper towel to wipe the potato guts out of Cara’s
I am no fan of Clayton High School—or any high school, really, except maybe that one for the performing arts, the one in
Fame
, where everybody danced on taxicabs in the street—but I still couldn’t understand how Luke could compare it to jail Clayton High is nothing like jail. For one thing, there are no bars on the windows.
And for another, prisoners get reduced sentences for good behavior. The only thing you get in high school for not killing each other is a diploma that is good for exactly nothing, except possibly a managerial position at Rax Roast Beef.
"Um," I said. "I’m sorry." What was he talking about? Why was he so upset? I mean, yeah, it’s mean how they treat Cara, but what am
I
supposed to do about it? "But I sort of have to go—"
"No," Luke said, his blue eyes still burning like pieces of kryptonite behind the lenses of his glasses. "I want to know. I want to know why you didn’t try to stop those people from tormenting that poor girl."
"Look," I said Cara’s wails were getting louder, and I knew the bell was going to ring any minute.
But I don’t know. Something came over me. Maybe it was the stress of having a movie star in disguise following me around all day. Or maybe it was residual tension from being yelled at for an hour by Mr. Hall about my jazz hands.
In any case, I think I sort of snapped. I mean, where did he get off, basically saying nothing at all to me for most of the day, then turning around and yelling at
me
about something Kurt Schraeder and his friends were doing?
"If you disapprove of this place so much," I hissed, "why don’t you just go back to Hollywood? I wouldn’t mind, you know, because I actually have more important things to do than baby-sit prima donnas like you."
Then I turned around and went into the ladies’ room.
I’ll admit that, even though my speech sounded cool and all, I wasn’t feeling very cool. In fact, my heart was beating kind of fast, and I felt a little bit like hurling my pizza. Because really, I don’t yell at people. Ever.
And the fact that I’d yelled at this very famous movie star whom I had been assigned to be nice to by the principal and Juicy Lucy . . . well, I was kind of scared. Scared that Luke would tell Dr. Lewis what I’d said. Scared that I’d consequently get expelled. And scared that I wouldn’t get that diploma after all and have to work as a drill press operator, just like I’d put on my state achievement test.
Only I’d been joking! I don’t want to be a drill press operator! I mean, I’m excellent at solving other people’s problems . . . and you know, layout and all of that. I can see how things fit together and what should go where, which is why I’m not only Ask Annie but I help out a lot with set design for the Drama Club. I want to be a therapist—or a designer or both—when I’m grown-up. Not a drill press operator.
Except that it’s kind of hard to be a therapist
or
a designer on an eleventh grade education.
But I didn’t really have time to worry about Luke just then. Because I still had Cara to deal with.
"Cara," I said, going to lean against the stall door she’d locked herself behind. "Come out. It’s me, Jen."
"Why?" Cara sobbed. "Why do they keep doing that me, Jen?"
"Because they’re idiots. Now come on out."
Cara came out. Her face was blotchy with tears. If she didn’t spend so much time crying, and stopped trying to blow-dry her hair so it was stick straight like Courtney Deckard’s and just let it curl on its own the way it wanted to, and knocked off the capris, which don’t look that good on someone her shape, I suspect she might even have been pretty.
"It’s not fair," Cara said, sniffling. "I try and I try . . . I even told them my parents were going out of town last weekend and that they could use my house to party in. Did anybody show up? No."
I turned on the water in one of the sinks and wet a paper towel to wipe the potato guts out of Cara’s
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