Rolling Dice (8 page)

Kyle and Tiffany laugh. “No way,” Kyle tells me. “Sorry, Madison, think you’re gonna be alone in a sea of nerds in that class.”

It’s the way he says “nerds” that makes me frown a little. Like it’s a bad thing. Like he means it in a derogatory way.

“The worst thing about being in a sea of nerds is that I’m definitely going to flounder,” I say, instead of asking him what’s so bad about being a nerd. In my mind, “nerd” always has always seemed synonymous with “smart.”

They laugh, though. “Loving that pun,” Adam tells me, and the silent guy, Marcus, nods appreciatively. Even if I was going to voice my thoughts to Kyle, the bell rings, meaning the ten-minute break between classes is over.

Tiffany links her arm through mine. “Biology next, right?”

“Um, yeah. Right,” I say. To the others I add, “Bye.”

“I’ll see y’all at lunch!” Tiffany calls as we all start to head separate ways.

We’re halfway down the hallway when she sighs and says, “So.
Bryce
. What’s the deal with you guys?”

“I’m sorry—
what?
”

“You know …” She laughs, and bumps my shoulder. “You guys talked at the party, and he walked you to homeroom this morning … And what was it he just called you then?”

I think for a second. “Mainstream?”

“Yeah, that. So what’s the deal? Do you
like
him?”

“What? Oh, no! No, we’re—we’re just friends. I mean …”

I trail off when Tiffany laughs again. She says, “All right, well, I’ll ask you this: do you think he’s cute? C’mon, be honest with me now.”

“Well … yeah. I mean, of course he’s cute.”

“He’s the star soccer player for the school, you know,” she informs me. “He’s on the football team too, but soccer’s the big thing here.”

“Oh, okay. Well, that’s cool.”

But in my head I think,
Duh. Like I didn’t already guess he was Mr. Big-Shot Jock?

“He’s totally going to end up with a soccer scholarship too.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm, everyone says so.” She pauses. “And I think he’s pretty interested in you.”

We walk into a room I assume is our Biology classroom, and it looks like nearly everyone’s already there, but the teacher hasn’t started yet. Tiffany guides me toward a lab bench with a couple of empty spaces, and I sit down next to a girl who’s doodling in her notebook. Out of the corner of my eye I see her glance up at us, then shuffle over to make a little more room.

I laugh in response to Tiffany. “Yeah, right. I barely know the guy. He’s not interested in me.”

Tiffany smiles like she’s holding on to a secret that only she knows. “Whatever you say, Madison, whatever you say.”

I give a careless kind of laugh. Meanwhile, my mind races, trying to process everything. Because a) Tiffany, one of the most popular girls in school, seems to be my friend. And she introduced me to her friends, which should mean that b) I may actually be part of the elite clique, and that’s something I’d never even have considered before. I just wanted to make friends here, and not be miserable and lonely. Being one of the popular crowd wasn’t part of my plan.

And then there is the small matter that c) Bryce, who from the sound of things is Mr. Popular and quite possibly considered the cutest guy in school, could be interested in me. At least, according to Tiffany. And that seems totally crazy to me. He’s out of my league.

I’d like him to be interested, of course.

But I don’t think he is.

And frankly, I’d rather not get my hopes up.

For the next forty minutes Tiffany tells me everything and anything about all her friends. She, Summer and Melissa have been best friends since third grade.

Marcus, who I met earlier, is the “strong, silent type.” And totally loved up with Summer—they’ve been dating for fifteen months now. “It’s so totally adorable,” Tiffany gushes. The last of the guys they usually hang out with is Richard. “But everyone calls him Ricky.”

The teacher shoots us a glare before carrying on explaining the PowerPoint presentation about natural selection we’re supposed to be taking notes on. Mine are disjointed and I know I’ve missed some stuff as I listen to what Tiffany’s telling me.

I’d wanted to try and focus on my schoolwork here, but right now I don’t really care that I’m not paying attention. I’m flattered Tiffany wants to be friends with me—it seems like an easy pathway right to the summit of the high-school social hierarchy. I don’t want to mess it up. And they seem like nice people, taking me in without question like this. Besides, it’s not like I can afford to turn down the offer of friendship. And I know better than anyone that it’s best to stay on the right side of the popular kids.

Once the teacher turns back to the projector screen, Tiffany rolls her eyes and carries on, lowering her voice only a little. “Of course, we’ll hang out with the rest of the jocks—and the rest of the squad, but—”

“What squad?” I interrupt.

She arches her eyebrows slightly. “Oh, did I forget to mention? Cheerleading squad. Every Tuesday. Coach managed to free up the afternoons.”

“Ah,” I say, nodding.
Of course they’re cheerleaders
. “Can I take a wild guess here and say you’re head cheerleader?”

Tiffany laughs loud enough to have the teacher turn around. “Miss Blanche, please.” Then he goes back to teaching.

“Sadly, no. Seniors only. Ditto for co-head cheerleader. But I’ve got a pretty good shot at it next year, Coach told me.”

“Cool.”

I’m really glad Tiffany is being nice to me, but it makes me anxious. Like, what if I do something to mess it up? I’m not the best person when it comes to social skills. I cannot afford to screw this up.

I know there’s that reputation popular people have: that they’re shallow, and conceited, and self-centered. But I know it’s not always true; Jenna wasn’t like that. Not
everyone fits the mold. I’m giving these people the benefit of the doubt.

Ambling out of the Biology lab, Tiffany leads the way to the cafeteria. There’s the usual hustle and bustle of kids trying to grab their food and get a seat. There are two lines, one at each side: one for salad and sandwiches, the other for a hot meal—looks like today is taco day.

Tiffany heads for the salad line. I’m not surprised that this is the shorter of the two. I stand there too, but I’m not hungry—all the anxiety that’s been building up has made my stomach feel unsettled. I know I should eat something, though, since I was way too nervous for breakfast, so when we get to the counter I grab an oatmeal cookie and a banana.

Tiffany, much to my surprise, has a can of (full-fat) soda, a BLT sandwich and a Three Musketeers bar. She turns to me and says, “Don’t tell me that’s your lunch.”

“Um, yeah.”

“Seriously?” She goes kind of bug-eyed when I nod my head.

“Well, what about you?” I say, nodding at hers. I would’ve thought—and call me stereotypical—that the future captain of the cheerleading squad would at least eat a healthy lunch.

“Oh, this?” She laughs. “This is nothing. Seriously, my metabolism is so high, I could eat a Big Mac every lunch time and keep this figure. Well—with a little exercise. But that’s totally covered anyway.”

“Lucky,” I say—and I say it enviously, but if she notices she doesn’t let on; instead, she just laughs good-naturedly. I start to think she’s really not the horrible, conceited kind of popular girl. She’s nice.

“Summer! Marcus!” she hollers, holding her tray in one hand and waving across the cafeteria with the other.

I recognize a guy from earlier—Kyle—coming over. Bryce joins us, along with Melissa, and some guy I haven’t met yet. I think he’s Richard—or Ricky, I suppose—since he seems to be the only guy I haven’t been introduced to yet.

I follow them all across the huge cafeteria, feeling like the black sheep in the herd. I know people are looking over—at me. I hate it. I’m itching to get out my iPod—but I don’t want them to think I’m antisocial or anything.

As we all drop into seats—with me on the end, opposite Ricky and next to Melissa—I get the feeling that this lunch hour is going to seem very long. I fiddle with the strap on my bag, and keep tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m totally flattered and more than a little excited that I’m at the “cool table” with the popular kids, practically one of the elite. But
I have no idea how to act, what to do, what to say, and it feels so surreal. Dreamlike. It’s just not right.

I mean, come on. I’m Fatty Maddie. The outcast, loner, weirdo girl from Pineford. I can change the way I look, but seriously, things like this are only supposed to happen in movies. They don’t
actually
happen in real life. I’m literally expecting Ashton Kutcher to jump out and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.

“Madison?” someone prompts as I nibble my cookie.

I jump, realizing they’ve all been talking and I’ve not been listening. “Huh? Sorry—totally zoned out.”

“Cheerleading tryouts? Are you up for it?” Tiffany asks.

“Come on,” Melissa says. “It’ll be so cool!”

“Plus,” Tiffany adds, “you’re little. I bet you’d be really easy to throw around.”

I actually snort. It’s a proper snort—the kind that nobody should ever hear you do. But I can’t help it, honestly. The thought of me, cheerleading … Me being part of the popular clique is ridiculous enough, but me at cheerleading tryouts?

As if.

“Um, no,” I say bluntly, my voice flat and unequivocal. “No way in heck will you ever get me doing
that
.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Bryce is the first to break it. “Why not? What’s wrong with cheerleading?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it,” I tell him, breaking off a piece of cookie and popping it in my mouth. “It’s just not for me, at all.”

“Too mainstream?” He puts a teasing emphasis on the word
mainstream
, which makes me bite back a smile and lean forward to look down the table at him.

“Ha ha,” I say, laying the sarcasm on thick. “So anyway, what’s everyone got after lunch?”

I say it to shift the focus off me; it works.

I’m right about it being a long lunch hour. I’m so nervous and fidgety, time passes all the more slowly. About fifteen minutes before the bell is due to ring, we all begin to get up, grabbing the remnants of our lunches and the trash.

What happens next is a blur.

“Whoa,” says Kyle loudly. I recognize the two people he is talking to in a heartbeat. “Watch where you’re going next time.”

I just stand there, my mouth open in a small circle, as I stare at Andy and Dwight.
Andy has something wet all over his green sweater—I assume it’s orange soda from the open can he’s holding.

“Gee, thanks,” Andy says sarcastically, muttering it more than saying it to Kyle’s face, and he pulls at his sweater. “Jackass.”

Most of our little group have gone; it just Kyle, Adam and me. I stay rooted to the spot.

“Get a life, losers,” Kyle mutters, purposely barging into Dwight, with Adam following.

“Get some brain cells,” I hear Dwight retort under his breath.

Then he catches my eye. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something in his expression I really don’t like—something similar to his look at the beach party, after I spoke to Bryce. “Uh,” I stammer. “I—I have to … Bye.”

I hurry away. I have this sick, twisting feeling in my stomach; I know I should’ve said something, done something, told Kyle to shut up, or at least stayed and talked to Dwight. I haven’t seen him since the party—don’t I at least owe him a hello?

But no, I just scurry off after my new friends, because I genuinely don’t know what to do. And for the next fifteen minutes or so, until the bell rings, all I can do is ponder what I should’ve done, and think about that awful expression on Dwight’s face.

Physics is three rooms away from where I had Biology class earlier, so it’s easy to find. But I still turn up late, dragging my feet because I’m so reluctant to go to AP freaking Physics. The bell has already rung when I finally reach the door to Room 31:
PHYSICS, DR. ANDERSON
.

Pausing for a minute, I gulp slightly. My teacher’s not just a Mr. or Mrs. Anderson. It’s
Dr
. Anderson.
Doctor
. Who is
so
going to give me detention for being late … Great. Detention on my first day—it just doesn’t get any better …

I take a deep breath, and then sigh heavily as I push at the door.

Except it doesn’t open.

I sigh again, this time a heck of a lot more frustrated, and jiggle the handle, twisting it, and finally shoving my shoulder into the door. And, of course, when I do that, it flies open. Typical.

Today is really just going totally
swell
.

I fly into the room, clutching the door handle so I don’t fall on my face for the second time. In the sudden silence my heels sound unnervingly loud on the laminate tile flooring.

“Late, as well,” says a voice. It doesn’t sound too pleased, either. “Miss … Clarke, isn’t it?”

“Um …” I pry my shaky fingers off the door handle. It’s stupid, but my hands are trembling at the thought of a teacher being displeased with me. So I may not have been a model student in Pineford, but heck, I never got detention!

“Um, yes …”

The teacher looks like a Dr. rather than just Mr., I think. His hair is thick and white, and his thin silver-rimmed glasses are perched on top of his head. He has a bony, crooked nose, and he wears a long white lab coat. “You’re late, Miss Clarke,” he repeats.

“Sorry,” I say, then add in an undertone, “Nobody ever said I didn’t know how to make an entrance, though …”

I say it quietly enough that I think he can’t hear me, but a few people in the front row nearest me stifle a laugh, which makes me feel a little less nervous. However, even Dr. Anderson chuckles—he must have superhuman hearing or something.

“Um, Dr. Anderson?” I say, edging closer to his desk after pushing the door shut
behind me. “There was a mix-up with my transcripts … I’m not actually supposed to be in this class.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Apparently there aren’t any classes for me to move into.”