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“BoxyJoxy underwear seeks super-cute boy-spokesmodel,” read Macy.

I looked at her in horror.

“Don't...You...Dare,” I whispered hoarsely.

She started laughing. Her laugh is sort of a snorting bellow.

“JOKE, Beauty Boy, I was JOKING! I made that one up! You shoulda seen your face! Ah, we do have fun, you and me, don't we?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SHAY IS INTERESTED. TOO INTERESTED.

The FUNdraiser is taking over our school, which makes me swing wildly between worry and guilt. We seem to be spending a whole lot of class time on it. Not that I object to that part. That part would be fun, for a person not wracked with worry and guilt.

Chan and Frey and I make a point of calling it the FUN (you kind of shout that part out) draiser, just because
draiser
is such a cool word. We've decided that if we ever form a band (unlikely, because Frey and I play nothing and Chan only plays piano), we'll call it Draiser.

I'm avoiding Mrs. Walker and constantly pretending to be just another regular, healthy, concerned fellow student. Which, of course, I really
am
. It's so complicated.

Our class spent all morning painting banners for the event. You know, things like
Kids Care About Kids!
and
Fundraising for Life!
and
Being Sick Just Sucks!
(That last one was from the group I was in. All guys. Hey, we're in grade seven.)

Every penny of the money raised will go to the children's hospital, in case you're wondering. Can I feel less guilty because of that? Turns out, yes, I can! I actually feel good that we're doing something for sick kids, even though I don't happen to fit into that category.

In the middle of all this working together for a good cause, Shay is being more of a jerk than usual.

“I'm going to find out who it is,” he told the class when Ms. McCoy got called to the office and we were “trusted to supervise ourselves.” Why do teachers ever do that? We can't be trusted. I'll tell you that right now.

“The sick kid Walker was talking about. We should know. Maybe it's contagious or something. Anyway, I want to know who it is,” he said, scanning the class. He looked at Edie, clearly wanting her to comment.

“Where's the black paint?” she asked, totally ignoring him and looking down at the banner they were making.

Shay started on Jamie, a thin, quiet guy in our class who takes
forever
to eat his sandwich at lunchtime.

I'm proud to say that while Shay was trying to bully Jamie into admitting his nonexistent illness, I “accidentally” splashed the pot of red paint I was carrying on Shay's shirt.

“Spin, you idiot!” he yelled.

“Oh, gee, Shay, sorry about that!” I dabbed at his shirt with the dirty rag I was carrying. “My bad.”

He pulled furiously away from me and stalked out of the room. Edie caught my eye and smiled.

Shay had to change into his stinky gym shirt for the rest of the day! He'll get me back for that. But at the time, seeing his outraged little face was very sweet.

At lunch, Shay sat down at our table and started on Chan.

“So, Chan, how ya feeling?” he asked.

“Totally fine,” said Chan, biting into an apple. “One hundred percent. Thanks for your concern though, Shay.”

Shay looked over at Frey, big and solid, who was staring off into the distance, plowing his way through a mound of cookies. You could tell Shay rejected him immediately. He turned to me.

“Spin,” he said, almost to himself, like he was considering me, “you're away a lot...” He studied me, his eyes narrowing.

“Never felt better, Shay. Hey, buddy, did you get that red paint out?” I asked, like I was all concerned about his shirt. The trick was to get Shay mad. He had a real temper and was easily distracted that way. You paid for it later, but whatever.

“No, moron,” he snapped, getting up. “You owe me a shirt. A
good
one, not the loser crap you wear.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “What's your size?” I was feeling reckless.

“Medium!” he practically yelled. Now, it's certainly not something I brag about, but as a model, you get to know sizes. He was an extra small. Definitely.

“I don't have time for this,” he said and walked away.

Mission accomplished.

Frey came out of his daydream, finished up his cookies and asked us if we were going to meet at Red Plush after school.

“I can't,” I said, sighing. “I have a dentist appointment.” Lie. I had to do some promo shoots Macy had lined up for my teen-model portfolio. Probably photos involving backward baseball caps. Adults still think those are cool.

“Me neither,” said Chan. “Piano.” Not a lie.

“Oh,” said Frey, “because...”

We waited patiently. Frey takes his time.

“Because Red needs some help,” he said. “Her son just moved to Vancouver, and he managed Red Plush, and the apartments Red owns across the park. So she's gotta do
that
, and take care of the video store...” This was quite a long speech for Frey. I think he was actually worried in his big, confused way.

“Anyway, I've got my paper route and hockey practice, but Mom and Dad told her that they'd ask around for her. See if anyone was interested in taking over from her son.”

I thought about it. Red needed someone to help her. It seemed like it would be a great place to work: totally quiet, low-pressure, warm, good snacks. Sure, Red was kind of freaky-looking, but she was super nice.

I thought about my mom.

This just might make her business courses worth all the boredom. It would definitely be better than her job at the card store, which she always says is “just temporary.”

Maybe Red Plush was Mom's big chance.

Maybe Red Plush was
our
big chance.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HEEEEERE'S CLARISSA, PSYCHO-FREAK GIRL MODEL

I can't believe my luck. Some people say that meaning “I'm so lucky!” You should know me and my life well enough by now.

Twice in four chapters I've had a shoot with Clarissa. It's like a one-two punch, or lightning striking twice, or having brussels sprouts two days in a row.

As usual, I'd thought this was a normal shoot, with normal people. Macy never tells me anything.

“Oh, you know, Nathan Stern, Nicole Nguyen, those kind of kids,” she told me.

Yes, Nathan was there (he's a nice, serious kid who leans against the wall and reads during breaks), and yes, Nicole was there too, being talked at by Gilbert Sheppard. I like Nicole, and Gilbert's not a bad guy. He just shares every little thought that rolls around in his brain. Anyway, all good, solid kid models. All nice, normalish people.

On the not-so-normal side, Clarissa was also there, sucking up to the photographer as usual.

It was a summer-catalog shoot with lots of bright lamps and bright clothes. I was gulping water by the tiny-paper-cupful and trying to ease the tight waistband of my shorts.

We were all appreciating a short break from Clarissa.

In a mere one and a half hours, Clarissa had:

• Thrown a tantrum about her outfit until they scurried off to get her another one. I had this wicked waistband cutting into my body, and Nathan's shoes were clearly two sizes too big, but
she
got the new outfit.

• Pouted about the new outfit.

• Told me
very loudly
that Nathan should wash his hair more.

• Pushed Nicole out of the way. Hard.

• Told Gilbert to shut up (okay, we've
all
told Gilbert to shut up, but she said it in a very mean way).

• Cut Nicole out of one of the main shots by convincing Tony (the photographer) that it would be more effective with three (her in the middle, of course).

• Told me I stink (this may in fact be true, but, again, said with the meanness).

• Faked a twisted ankle. I know it was fake because I caught her limping on different sides. So I called out, “Hey, Clarissa, I thought you twisted your
right
ankle. But now you're limping on your
left
ankle. What's up with that?” All the other kids giggled. Clarissa glared at me.

I think we had everything but the fake-crying. Honestly, spending time with Clarissa makes you sort of fondly wish you were with normal, relaxing people like Shay.

Usually, kids who pull this kind of garbage don't go far in modeling. Photographers won't put up with it. I don't know why it works for Clarissa. Maybe the photographers are afraid of her. I know I am.

We started up again after the too-short break.

Tony had us all stand in a semicircle. We were supposed to stare upward, “amazed and delighted,” and fake-laugh and fake-point at a sad little shriveled purple balloon they had hanging from a string.

“Focus on the balloon, kids! Amazement! Astonishment! That's it, that's it!” Tony called as he shot photo after photo.

Try it. Look up at your ceiling. Maybe there's a light there, or a bit of fluff, or an old spider web. Fixate on it. Now try to pretend it's something incredible, like maybe a spaceship or a flock of flamingos or...well, this is your thing—make something up. Now look amazed (your eyes should be open really wide; probably your mouth should be too) and point at the light/fluff/web. Feel kind of stupid? Yep, you're normal.

We all knew that in the catalog, we'd be pointing at something else. We just didn't know what. But for the time being, we looked up at the balloon and grinned and pointed.

Clarissa smiled brilliantly right into the camera.

“Suck in your guts, people,” she said between clenched, perfect teeth. “I don't model with fat kids.”

* * *

Macy took one look at my face when she picked me up, sighed and asked, “Clarissa act up again?”

“I'm never, ever modeling with her again,
ever
,” I told Macy, flinging my bag into the backseat. I threw it hard. Like my stupid life was that bag's fault.

“I know, I know,” Macy said soothingly. “She's temperamental. But you know, BB, Clarissa's got something. Maybe it's those huge eyes...I don't know what it is, but she's magic on camera.”

“I don't care!” I yelled. “I don't
care
about her eyes! I don't care about her magic! She's a freak! And I'm never, EVER modeling with her again.”

Macy shrugged and left it there. Every once in a while, she has a bit of tact.

I thought I'd won.

Until I saw the entry on the calendar for the next Saturday:
S.H.F. shoot W/C.A. & C.J.
For those of you who haven't secretly researched and memorized Macy's abbreviations, I'll translate:
Shiny, Happy Family
shoot with Chad Adams and Clarissa Jamieson.

Now, I knew Macy had been working for years to get me into
Shiny, Happy Family
. It was a big magazine.

I knew it would be big money.

And I knew that somehow, some way, I wasn't going to be there.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HEY, SPORTS FANS: HOCKEY UPDATE!

So it's the first hockey practice after school today (he says casually, like the seasoned jock that he is). No big deal, right? Probably not for normal people, but I'm totally nervous and also wildly excited. It's all still hush-hush with Mom and Macy. They'd see all the problems with it, and I just don't need the hassle right now.

Good old Frey came to school with a stick and a huge hockey bag filled with equipment.

“Some gear for ya, Spin,” he announced, dumping it on the floor next to my locker. “Me and Dad found a bunch of stuff that should sort of fit you. You even got matching gloves in there.”

I was touched. I had always liked Mr. Frey, a big, shambling high-school shop teacher. But today, with a bag of hockey equipment at my feet, I loved the man.

I never knew a bag of hockey equipment weighed so much. I felt like a big hero just lifting it. (Okay, I secretly dragged it down the two long hallways leading into the arena, but I picked it up again before I staggered into the locker room.)

After being the fat boy in recent modeling shoots, it came as a nice surprise that all the equipment was pretty big. Very big. Frey-big. In fact, I used a spare pair of laces as a kind of belt for the pants. There was a massive, ancient set of hockey gloves, which looked like they were permanently clenched around an invisible hockey stick. There was a set of shoulder pads that made me look like a tank. Elbow pads, shin pads, knee pads—it didn't matter that they all ranged from extra large to monster-huge; the Freys had really helped me out.

There was even a gray shell-like thing with ropes on it. I studied it for a long time, then shrugged and chucked it back into the bag as the other guys burst into the room.

But not before Shay had seen me looking at it.

“In love with your gorgeous jockstrap, Spin?” he called.

Great. Shay's on the team.

Oh well, you can't have everything.

And at least I knew what the thing was. Of course, a couple of sticks to the groin and I would've figured it out.

I'm a quick learner.

* * *

“Okay, men, listen up,” Coach bellowed. Coach called us men. I loved that. Coach was really Mr. Schulz, a short, roundish guy who taught grade-nine social studies. He wore an old ballcap and an ancient high-school football jacket.

“We have our first game earlier than expected, so we really have to get practicing. We're playing
this
Friday against the teachers, to wind up the school FUNdraiser.”

He paused, looking around at our flushed, nervous faces.

“The whole school will be there; everyone's paying a buck to watch, so let's make it a good game.”

My heart was pounding.

This FUNdraiser was ballooning into something pretty big. Mrs. Walker was more effective than I gave her credit for. She was like Macy: once you start them off, there's no stopping them.