Rolling Dice (7 page)

“How do you know Bryce?” Even her voice rings with the haughty tone of the elite crowd.

“Um … I, uh, I met him at the—at the party at the beach …,” I stutter, and gulp hard.

I can’t tell if she’s mad that I was talking to Bryce, or if she’s just curious.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” This time, her voice is softer, more amicable.

I nod, and swallow the rising lump of anxiety in my throat.

Then the unexpected happens: her face breaks into a wide smile and she says, “I’m Tiffany.”

“Madison.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Maine. I moved here over the summer.”

“Cool.”

“It’s really not,” I say. “I don’t know why everyone thinks that.”

She laughs and flicks her hair over her shoulder before hitching up her handbag. I think it’s a designer bag. I try to see the metal clasp on the front—I’m pretty sure it’s Gucci.

Tiffany notices me looking at it, and she smiles again, twisting around so that I can see it better. “You like? I got it in Milan in July. It’s the real thing, before you ask. Late birthday present from my aunt.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I tell her honestly. I wouldn’t be surprised if everything from her
earrings to her jeans is expensive and designer. She nods her head at me. “Cool piercing. It’s cute. Especially with your hair. It’s, like, so punk-rock. Totally chic.”

“Oh.” I grin widely, flattered by her compliment—and also relieved that the nose piercing and getting my hair cut was totally worth it. “Thanks.”

All of a sudden we hear a throat being cleared, and we both look around to see a teacher standing with his arms crossed and gray eyebrows raised at us.

“Are you planning on coming into homeroom anytime today, ladies?”

“This is Madison,” Tiffany says, in a bubbly, bright voice, grabbing my arm like we’re old friends. “She’s new.”

“Ah, I see. Well, Madison,” the teacher addresses me, “let’s not make a bad impression on your first day by dawdling outside classes.”

“Sorry,” I say quietly, ducking my head a little. I never got in trouble back at Pineford—but then again, I never really did anything at all back in Pineford. But I don’t want to make a habit of annoying any teachers this year, even if I am the new Madison.

The classroom is full of enthusiastic chatter, which hushes slightly as I walk into the classroom with Tiffany right behind me. It’s not the hideous, pregnant pause I expected. No staring, or whispered remarks, or sneers. There’s just a lull in the conversation: people looking at me and wondering who I am. The thing I hate most is them looking at me; it makes my heart thud against my ribs sickeningly. But then the chatter picks back up and I’m not so much of a focal point anymore.

“Tiff! Over here!” a girl calls brightly, and I look over to see her pulling out a desk chair in the middle of the classroom. There’s an empty desk in front of it too.

“Come on …” Tiffany walks past me, beckoning. She falls gracefully into the seat pulled out for her, next to a blond girl. I follow, but slowly, hesitantly. My legs are shaky, and they feel unsteady. The heels definitely aren’t doing me any favors so far.

“This,” Tiffany announces, her voice loud and clear enough to carry across the whole class, even though she’s only talking to the blond girl, “is Madison. Madison, this is Melissa.”

“Uh, hi,” I say, and give her a smile.

Melissa has perfect curls and sun-kissed skin, and she’s dressed almost as well as Tiffany. I’m a little jealous that they make casual look so … so
wow
.

She looks me up and down, and I can see her taking in every detail. I’m suddenly super-aware of the fleck of mud on the front of my shoes, and I sit down on the chair at the desk in front of Tiffany, but stay facing them.

“Hi,” Melissa says. “Welcome to Midsommer High. Home of the Hounds.”

“Right, everyone,” says the teacher. I turn around in my seat. “I have your class schedules here. Hand these out,” he tells the boy closest to him, setting down a pile of papers.

The boy sighs and gets up to give everyone the schedules. People immediately start comparing, and either grumbling about their teachers or sighing in relief that their schedules are all A-OK.

Lucky for some
.

I just sit there until the bell rings for first period, wondering exactly how I ended up sitting in homeroom with what must be two of the most popular girls in school, with AP Physics on my schedule.

I can’t decide if the new Madison’s life is going to suck, or turn out seriously awesome.

I make it through the entire morning without falling on my face again, at least.

When I walk into Art and Photography third period, I see the familiar sight of scraggly, mousy brown hair and one and a half eyebrows amid the circle of easels and the tables set up with vases of flowers or bowls of fruit, ready for a still-life drawing.

“Carter!” I all but bound across the classroom toward him. In the process, I bump into a table with a wooden bowl containing two apples and some grapes. I hop, trying to keep my balance, and manage to save the table and an apple. Everything else falls to the floor.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and duck my head—but of course, I no longer have the long curtain of hair to hide behind. I feel so exposed: everyone who’s already in class is looking at the strange new girl who just destroyed a display.

I hear a chair scrape and footsteps head toward me as I pick up the grapes. The person kneels down to grab the bowl and the other apple for me.

“Way to make an entrance,” Carter says.

“How many people saw that?” I mumble, shaking my head at myself as he sets down the bowl and I add the grapes and the apple.

“Pretty much the whole class. Miss Augustan isn’t here yet, though, so you’re safe.”

I pick at the grapes, shifting them so that they sit better, before I follow Carter back to his seat. I take the easel next to his.

“How’s your first day so far?” he asks me.

“Um, okay, I think.”

“Made any friends?”

“I think so. There’re some girls in my homeroom who seem nice. Tiffany and Melissa?” I say their names like a question, because I want him to tell me about them.

“Whoa … wait.” Carter turns his whole body to face me. “Tiffany? As in, Tiffany Blanche?”

“Um, I think so … Dark hair, really pretty …”

I trail off, because Carter looks shocked. And slightly confused. There’s no other way to describe that expression: wide eyes, furrowed brow, mouth half hanging open, like he’s deciding whether or not to say something to me.

“Why? What’s—”

Before I can finish asking my question, and before Carter can say anything about Tiffany, someone claps their hands together, and a musical voice rings out, “All right, class, settle down, settle down! Another new year lies ahead, and I’m expecting great things from you all!”

Miss Augustan is tall and willowy, with long wavy hair. She’s wearing jeans and a paint-flecked white T-shirt—her clothes don’t really scream teacher.

She looks around with a big smile, taking everyone in, and pauses at me. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

“Name?”

“Madison. Um, I mean, Madison Clarke.”

Miss Augustan nods. “Do you do much Art? Photography? Photoshop?”

“Not really. I guess I liked it in my old school, though.”

“Good enough for me,” she says brightly. “Welcome to my class, Madison. Okay, everyone, we’re going to break y’all in easy this year. I set up fruit bowls and vases. Paint them. Draw them. Abstract, watercolor, pastels, pen—anything at all! Whatever and however it strikes your fancy! But at the end of this double period, I want your interpretation of one of those displays on that canvas!”

There’s a heartbeat of silence before the class bubbles with conversation and the clatter of pens and pencils and paints being taken out.

I look at the small desk beside my easel. There’s a paint palette of about a dozen colors, a couple of black pens, varying grades of B and HB sketching pencils, a couple of paintbrushes and an eraser. My hand lingers over them before I pick up a pen.

I don’t start to draw, though; I twirl the pen around in my fingers a couple of times, and then I turn in my seat to look at Carter, who’s drawing a green curve with a pastel.

“So,” I say pointedly. “About Tiffany?”

Carter sighs. His hand pauses, but he doesn’t turn toward me. “Tiffany Blanche,” he tells me, “is more or less the Queen Bee of the school. If she were a senior, that would be indisputable. She’s …” His mouth twists like he’s finding it hard to pick the right words. “She’s … bitchy, but most of the time she puts up a front as a nice person. Like, she smiles at everyone in the corridor, but you know it’s a front. Which is the worst part, because then you feel bad for hating her. But she’s got her place in this school and that’s where she likes to stay, just like the rest of them. The rest of
us
,” he corrects.

I know what he means, and I nod. But then I reply, “She seemed really nice when I spoke to her. I mean … she was talking to
me
.”

“Then you’ve got your place now too,” he responds, not unkindly. He gives me a small smile to soften his words.

“If she was talking to you,” he carries on, “then I’d suggest you don’t talk to me. One of her
minions
might see you.” His ominous tone makes me throw my head back and giggle. But he just stares at his canvas, slowly forming an apple, without even a hint of humor in his face.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask, a little nervously.

Carter shrugs. “Do you need me to bring out the dictionary definition of ‘minion,’ or are you okay on that?”

“No,” I say, frowning in confusion. “I just—I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” he says. “Like I said, if you want to be friends with Tiffany, stop talking to me.”

“But
why
?”

“I don’t think you really need me to answer that, now, do you?” Finally he turns his head, and the look on his face is still grave, but there’s something sad about it. Almost pitiful. “You’re a smart girl, Madison.”

And then I get it: Tiffany’s pretty much the most popular girl in school, from the sound of it. Carter is probably not the kind of guy who hangs out with the popular crowd. And if I want in with the popular crowd, and Tiffany, then I don’t want to be around Carter.

But I don’t know anyone else in this class, and I don’t know if any of Tiffany’s friends are here. And anyway, I kind of like Carter. He seemed like a nice guy when I talked to him at the party.

So I say to him, “How exactly did you lose half of your eyebrow?”

He laughs a little, but there’s still that pity in his eyes when he shakes his head at me. “My fourteen-year-old cousin had a blowtorch and decided to get all up in my face with it.”

“Oh, ouch,” I reply, and turn back to my work.

After a couple of minutes Carter says, “You know, the blowtorch incident isn’t true.”

Slowly I turn my head and stare at him, my eyes narrowing a little. “I’ve fallen for your fake stories twice now.”

There’s a smirk on his face, and he laughs at me. “I know. I’m very convincing.”

“Are you ever actually going to tell me the truth?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not half as cool as the other stories. Plus, it’s damn hilarious when someone believes it. Like you did.”

“Ha ha.”

But then I laugh too, and we only stop laughing when Miss Augustan suddenly appears behind us.

“Some may say that laughter is the music of the soul,” she tells us, “but it’s not helping your productivity.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, and she says, “Mm,” before wandering off to look at other people’s work.

Carter catches my eye, though, and I bite the insides of my cheeks hard. He snickers, and I concentrate on my sketch, trying not to laugh again. I don’t want to get into trouble on my first day. Face-planting on the steps in front of Bryce was bad enough

As I’m leaving class, someone cries out, “Madison!” and I whirl around to see Tiffany at the far end of the corridor, with a few other people. She waves me over with a smile, and I hesitate uncertainly, but then I head toward her.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m so nervous; Tiffany seemed friendly enough in homeroom. My palms turn sweaty, and my hands are trembling, but my chin is up and I put on a casual sort of smile, like I’m totally confident.

“Hey,” I say, mostly to Tiffany, since I don’t know any of the others. There’s a tall, lean guy with dark spiky hair, an arrogant look on his face. The other two guys have dark brown hair; one of them has an arm slung around a slim redheaded girl.

“Everyone, this is Madison,” Tiffany announces, waving one of her French-manicured hands in my direction. Seeing her pristine nails makes me very aware of my own bitten ones, and I curl my fingers up a little, self-conscious.

“Madison, this is Kyle, Adam, Marcus, and Summer.”

She points to each of them when she says their name. The redhead is Summer, and the guy with his arm around her is Marcus. Kyle is the one with black hair and the smirk, and Adam is the other guy. I now notice that Adam and Kyle are wearing identical letterman jackets—it tells me instantly that they’re football players or something for a school team.

“Hey,” they all say, in terrifying unison.

“Hi,” I reply, hitching my bag higher onto my shoulder.

I’m saved from an awkward pause when a voice that’s already all too familiar calls out, “Yo, guys, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Then, as he comes closer,
he adds, “Aw, look at that, Mainstream—making friends already.”

“Hey, Bryce,” Tiffany says, flipping her hair back.

“So you guys met Madison,” Bryce says, nodding at me.

“Yeah,” Summer says. “How’d you know her?”

“We met at the beach party,” he answers. “What’s up?”

Kyle says, “Nothing new.”

Tiffany says, “Ann-Marie Thompson totally hooked up with Jason Wills over the summer, even though she was still dating Sam. Like he was never gonna find out. They broke up,” she added, as an afterthought.

“I don’t suppose you guys know anyone else doing AP Physics?” I ask hopelessly, partly because I feel I should contribute to the conversation, and partly because I think it’d be nice to know
somebody
in the class.