Harsh Pink with Bonus Content (2 page)

The list was posted just this morning, and since the other names are still unfamiliar to me, I only looked at it to make sure my name was on it. Despite knowing I’d performed a flawless routine and even thrown in a couple of back handsprings that seemed to impress the crowd, you can never be sure. So when I read my name on the list, I just sort of nodded, did a silent internal cheer, then went on my way. I’m fully aware that I need to play this out carefully. Being the new girl comes with all kinds of challenges and liabilities. Obviously Kendra Farnsworth is one of them.

“Sorry about that,” I say in a voice that I mean to sound genuine. “That’s a tough break.”

She rolls her eyes, then studies a perfectly shaped fingernail. “Tell me about it.”

I look at her French manicure with those white tips that never look quite real. I’m surprised she hasn’t heard that French is out, or maybe she doesn’t care. “I forgot part of a routine once,” I say offhandedly. “It was in a state competition.” Okay, that is a total lie, but I need to get her to trust me by appearing to be transparent. The truth is, I had been really worried that I’d forget our hardest routine when we competed at state last year, but it never actually happened. I made sure it didn’t. But my “confession” does the trick. It causes Kendra to smile, ever so slightly, and I think maybe the ice is breaking or maybe just thawing a little. She gives a nod over to where her friends are standing and, as if given permission, they come over and begin talking to me, introducing themselves and cautiously congratulating me for making the squad. Apparently some of them made it too.

“Where are you from anyway?” asks a petite brunette named Sally.

Now, this is one of those questions that can easily be taken wrong. Sometimes people ask me where I’m from as in, “What’s your ethnic background?” Because of my Asian features I’ve even had people assume I can’t speak English — which can be either amusing or irritating, depending on my mood. Under these circumstances, I decide to give Sally the benefit of the doubt.

“We moved here from Boston last summer,” I explain. “I’d been a cheerleader at my old high school since freshman year.” This I say for Kendra’s benefit, although my eyes are still on Sally. “And I cheered in middle school before that.” I shrug. “Between gymnastics and cheerleading, it seems like I’ve spent most of my life bouncing around.” I sort of laugh.

“Well, you were really good yesterday,” says a skinny blonde as she pokes Kendra in the arm. “I mean you totally rocked Kendra’s world.”

“Shut
up,
Meredith,” snaps Kendra.

“Hey, it’s your own dumb fault,” says Meredith. “We told you to practice, but you were like all, ‘No, I don’t need to.’ ”

“Whatever.” Kendra narrows her eyes and adjusts the strap of her Fendi bag. “Like I told Reagan, I’ve decided that cheering is juvenile anyway. This is my senior year and I’ve got better things to do.”

“Yeah, like what?” challenges Meredith.

“Like Logan Worthington,” Kendra says with a sly expression. “I wouldn’t mind doing that boy this year.”

Sally laughs. “He’s about the only one you haven’t done.”

“What is this?” says Kendra with a wounded expression. “Bash Kendra Day? It isn’t bad enough that I didn’t make the squad, so all my friends have to turn on me too?”

Of course, this plea for mercy changes everything. And suddenly these girls are apologizing, offering condolences, and practically offering to carry her books. Not that she has any. Kendra just smiles, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “That’s better.” Then it’s time to head back to class.

“Nice meeting you guys,” I say as I head off toward the English department. They call out similar pleasantries, but I can tell this isn’t over. I know enough about girls to know that it’s never really over. And I suspect Kendra isn’t ready to let this go yet. The question is, how far will she take it?

It’s times like this when you need a good friend by your side. I think about my best friend, Geneva, back in Boston. Man, do I wish she were here now. Not only is Geneva gorgeous and intelligent and lots of fun, but she can easily hold her own against girls like Kendra. In fact, Geneva and I made a pretty daunting pair. I doubt I’ll ever have anyone quite like her again. That makes me sad. Good friends aren’t that easy to come by.

Geneva and I developed our own classification system for friends. We ranked them as class A, B, or C. Naturally, Geneva was a class A. Actually, she was an A-plus. I’m sure she felt the same about me. My second best friend, Bethany, was more like a class B, but she was better than nothing if Geneva was unavailable.

Class-C friends are more a matter of convenience … or desperation. Like if you’re late to lunch and have to stand by yourself in line and don’t want to look pathetic, you talk to someone you’d normally just ignore. That’s a class C. Geneva and I had our own private joke. We’d say, “Isn’t Jessica class C?” And naturally, Jessica, who would be listening, would assume we’d said
classy,
and she would feel special. Then when she turned away, Geneva and I would exchange a knowing sort of smile. I miss that.

Then Mom got transferred to what feels like about a million miles away from Boston, and now I have to start over. I don’t even have a class-C friend anymore. Oh, I hung with one for a few weeks during the summer, when I was so bored I wanted to slit my throat. My grandma thought I should meet a girl in our neighborhood, and for Nana’s sake, I tried to be nice to Geek Girl, although it concerned me that someone influential might see me with her and I’d be classified as a loser even before school started. Fortunately, it seems that didn’t happen. But the sad truth is that poor Andrea Lynch was definitely a class-C friend — more like a C-minus. Although to be fair, she might’ve made it to a plus if I’d stuck with her.

After a couple of weeks, I’d trained her to quit laughing through her nose, curing her of this totally gross grunting noise. Then, after I introduced her to a proper skin-care regimen, her complexion actually started to clear up. And I have to admit that she actually did have this quirky sense of humor and we even had some good laughs. But a few days before school started, I dumped Geek Girl so fast that I’m sure her head is still spinning. I’ve been utilizing my caller ID to avoid taking her phone calls, and I even went so far as to block her e-mails. We’re talking cold turkey here. I’m fully aware that was pretty heartless on my part. But when you’re the new girl in town, you have to fend for yourself. And I’m smart enough to know that friends like Andrea Lynch are not an asset.

Even when I saw Geek Girl in school during those first few days less than a week ago, I pretended not to know her. I actually ignored her when she called out my name a couple of times, playing blind, deaf, and dumb. The only alternative would’ve been to set her straight, and that’s pretty harsh. Anyway, I think she got the hint. Does that make me a mean girl? No, I reassure myself as I walk into my lit class, taking a seat in the second row. It simply means I’m a survivor.

“Y
OU NEED TO START HELPING OUT AROUND THE HOUSE,
R
EAGAN,” SAYS
M
OM
as I turn off the blender. She’s in a foul mood this morning. It’s Saturday and she’s just started zipping through the kitchen like a Merry Maid on amphetamines. She’s scooping up newspapers, junk mail, stray coffee cups, and miscellaneous items of clothing, tossing them right and left. And I’m trying to stay out of her way. I assumed I had the kitchen to myself, since she’d been working on her laptop in the living room.

“I do help out,” I say as I pour my breakfast smoothie into a tall glass and take a nice cool sip.

“The downstairs bathroom is a nightmare.” Mom grabs the can of protein powder that I just used, forces the lid on it, then shoves it in the cupboard.

“I was going to put that away,” I say.

Mom throws a bunch of papers into the trash compactor, then slams it shut.

“Most of that mess is Nana’s,” I point out as Mom slings a dirty tennis shoe toward the laundry room. “You know she leaves her stuff all over the place. Have you seen the powder room today? I suppose I get to clean that up too?” Okay, as soon as the words are out, I wish I could reel them back in. Poor Nana. It’s not really her fault and I know she’s doing the best she can. Even so, Mom’s been losing patience with her. She keeps saying that Nana has Alzheimer’s, but so far there’s been no official diagnosis. I’ll admit that Nana is pretty forgetful, but isn’t that how people get when they age? And Nana is eighty-four. What does Mom expect from her anyway?

“Well, I think I’ve found a place that will take her,” says Mom as she squirts detergent into the dishwasher. Sometimes the way she talks about her mother really worries me. Like Nana’s an old dog or a broken piece of furniture that needs to be discarded. It’s scary. I mean, I wonder what she’d do with me if I got sick.

“What do you mean
a place?”
I study my mother carefully as I envision my grandmother locked up in some horrible loony bin. Mom’s hinted about something like this, but is she really serious?

“Come on, Reagan.” Mom uses her I-want-you-to-play-along-with-me voice. “You know that Nana needs
special
care now Especially since this move. It’s been stressful to her and she’s easily disoriented. Lately she’s been losing everything. It took me an hour to find her hearing aid last week, and she forgot to put on her shoes when she went outside yesterday.”

“So?” I take another sip. “Lots of people go barefoot.”

“What do we do when she forgets to put on her pants?”

I laugh. “Big deal. An old lady goes to the mailbox in her underwear. I’m sure it’s happened before.”

“Not in
this
neighborhood.” Mom stands up straight and looks out the kitchen window that overlooks the immaculately landscaped backyard. Just like every other immaculately landscaped yard in this subdivision. I’ve never lived in a place like this before. In Boston we lived in a high-rise condominium with a doorman and no yard. At first I thought having a yard might be cool, especially since this yard came with a nice big pool. But when I saw that the house was just a cookie-cutter version of every other one in the neighborhood, I wasn’t so sure.

“My mom hates it here,” Andrea confessed to me shortly after we met. “She says she feels like a Stepford wife. Like if she doesn’t put the garbage can out at just the right time, facing the right direction, just the right distance from the curb, and then get it back off the street within an hour of pickup time, well, it might make her look bad.” She laughed. “Like who cares what you do with your trash? I mean, would it be better to just let it pile up in your house?”

“Reagan?” My mom’s voice has that tone that suggests I might’ve been ignoring her again. “Are you listening to me?”

“What?” I study her face, trying to remember what we were talking about just now. She looks so pale and old without her usual makeup. Despite the fact that she’s had two very expensive facelifts in the past five years and uses every product imaginable to “slow down the effects of aging,” her years seem to be catching up with her. And, although she refuses to acknowledge it, I know for a fact that she turns sixty next month. One reason I can so easily track her age is because I know she was close to the cutoff age for international adoption in China. Single women can’t be over forty-five to adopt an infant. She was forty-four then and I am sixteen now, so I simply add the two numbers and, presto, I know her age.

Back when my mom decided to adopt a baby, China was the only country to even consider a single woman as a potential adoptive parent. Of course, this was only because the country was so desperate. Thanks to their rigid laws controlling family size, thousands of Chinese baby girls were dying in impoverished orphanages — a fact I try not to think about. Anyway, China must’ve figured that even an older, single mom was better than a death sentence.

Mom sighs in a tired way as she pushes a strand of blonde-tinted hair away from her forehead. “We were talking about
Nana,
Reagan.”

“Oh, yeah.” I take a long sip that finishes off my smoothie and then meticulously rinse the glass and place it in the dishwasher (only because Mom is watching me). Impressive.

“I want to take Nana to tour this place today, Reagan. And I want you to come along with us.”

“Oh, Mom.” I let out a dramatic groan. “Why do I have to go?”

“Because it will reassure Nana.”

“But I’m not the one who wants to put her away, Mom.”