Skater Boy
Authors: Mari Mancusi
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SKATER BOY
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By Mari Mancusi
SKATER BOY
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Mari Mancusi
Copyright © 2011
All Rights Reserved.
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AGENCY INFORMATION
NLA Digital Liaison Platform LLC
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
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Chapter One
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“Hey, Dawn, whatcha writing?”
I slam my notebook shut and force a wide smile as my friend Ashley approaches the lunch table. I can't believe it. She's five minutes early. Five minutes! After I've already gone and used up one of my three-bathroom-breaks-a-semester chemistry class privileges for a few precious moments of writing time. And now Ashley has shown up and ruined it all.
The early bird gets the chance to tick Dawn offâ¦.
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a casual shrug. “Just a birthday wish list. You know how The Evil Ones are. Left to their own devices I'd probably end up with some itchy Harvard letter sweater for my sweet sixteen.”
I'd actually been working on a poem, not a birthday list. One I plan to enter in a contest sponsored by
Faces
, a local Massachusetts literary magazine. But I am certainly not about to inform our head cheerleader of that little technicality. I mean, writing poetry? How geeky can you get? And The Evil Ones (aka Mom and Dad) are terrible in the presents department, so it's not like I'm telling a total lieâ¦.
“Oh cool.” Ashley flounces onto the chair beside me, her wool plaid skirt puffing up and then settling back down over her perfectly sculpted thighs. We all wear the same skirts here as sophomores at Sacred Mary's, but Ashley's skirt usually falls at least two inches shorter than regulation and it constantly gets her in trouble with the Sisters. “You should ask for those Seven Jeans we saw at Nordstrom the other day.”
“The ones with the crystals on the back pocket?” I look up and see that Ashley #2 has arrived at our lunch table. Like Ashley #1, she's blond and lanky and wears her skirts too short. Her claim to fame is being picked as homecoming queen last fall, even though she's only a sophomore. “Those are completely lame. When shopping for jeans, I say go James every time. They're scientifically designed to make your butt look smaller, not draw attention to it with crystals.”
I stifle a groan. I love my friends, don't get me wrong. But there are times I'm not quite sure I fit in with them. I mean yeah, I'd rather be here than at the loser table discussing games like Magic: The Gathering, but is it really necessary for us to debate the pros and cons of designer denim every single lunch? Doesn't anyone talk politics anymore? Not that I know anything about politics, but maybe I could start learning if someone brought them up once in a while. It'd probably prove more useful in life than the Fashionista 101 sessions we seem to hold every lunch period.
 “You guys are crazy!” Oh, there's Ashley #3, making our lunch group complete. She swings her Kate Spade messenger bag off her shoulder and plops it on the floor. We consider Ashley #3 the brainy one. She's president of the student council and wants to be a TV anchorwoman when she grows up. I think she has a good shot at the job. She's already got the brilliant white capped teeth and perfect hair. “Obviously Levi's makes the best jeans known to mankind.”
The other two Ashleys groan in sync. “No way would I be caught dead in Levi's,” says Ashley #1.
“That's âcause you're a lemming,” Ashley #3 explains, using the big word with a smug pride. She knows for a fact Ashley #1 won't know what it means and she's right.
“Hey! What did you just call me?”
“Girls, girls! Let us not fight over fashion,” Ashley #2, the peacemaker, coos. She took a yoga class once and has been all Buddha-on-the-mountain ever since. “Our different tastes in denim make the world go round.” She holds her palms out and smiles demurely. For a minute I think she's going to actually break out into an “Ohmmm.”
Instead she says, “What were we talking about again?”
“Dawn's birthday wish list.”
“Ah. How about a side of Brent Baker, served on a silver platter?” Her demure smile morphs into a lecherous smirk as she watches the senior from across the room. We all turn and look. The Ashleys sigh, again in sync. They're good at that.
“No way. He's on
my
birthday list,” declares Ashley #1. This obviously strikes them as funny, and all three break out into giggles.
 You know, I'm pretty convinced I'm the only girl in school not lusting after Brent Baker. Brent Baker the Third, that is. Born with a silver spoon wedged up his butt. His parents and my parents go to the same country club, so I've known him since my playpen days and he's been after me almost as long. But I'm so not interested in him. I mean, sure he's got the blond, blue-eyed jock thing going on, but his huge ego negates any points he's chocked up in the looks department.
The Ashleys can't understand why I think he's repulsive, but they don't rock the boat. After all, that means he's fair game for any one of them.
“Hi, Brent,” coos Ashley #1 as the varsity football player approaches our table. He's all Abercrombie'd out, as usual. (Seniors at Sacred Mary's have the luxury of forgoing uniforms, as long as they don't abuse the privilege with blinged out Ed Hardy T's and butt-crack-revealing jeans.)
“Ladies,” he greets, offering a smarmy grin. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Dawn,” he adds, coming behind me and placing his hands on my shoulders. I shrug away. I usually try to be civil to himâThe Evil Ones would kill me if I weren'tâbut I draw the line at shoulder massages.
“Hi, Brent,” I mutter.
“Did you hear about the new girl?” he asks, plopping down beside me. I slide as far as I can to the other side of my stool. Brent always reeks of too much cologne and it makes my eyes water. Or maybe I'm just allergic to cheesiness.
The Ashleys lean in, eager for the gossip. “What new girl?” questions Ashley #3, honing her journalistic skills.
 “Well,” Brent says in a conspiratorial voice. He's delighted he's gotten our full attention. Pathetic. “Supposedly she's the headmaster's daughter. And I heard she got kicked out of boarding school for being part of a satanic cult.”
“Oh, her!” Ashley #1 exclaims, as if previously thrown off by the masses of new students Sacred Mary's has acquired in the last week. She bobs her head in all-knowingness. “I heard from a very reliable source that she's a witch. And she drinks the blood of snakes after cutting off their heads.”
I know for a fact Ashley's “very reliable source” is her on-again, off-again boyfriend Derek. Who is not reliable at all, IMO.
“Ri-ight,” I say sarcastically. “And she eats babies for breakfast, too.”
“Really? Wow!” Ashley #1 looks impressed. “I hadn't heard that part.”
Sigh. Just sigh.
“Ooh! Look! Is that her?” Ashley #2 exclaims with a squeak. I follow her pointing finger to a girl who has just exited the lunch line, tray in hand, and a slightly defiant look on her face.
“Oh my gosh, she looks like Marilyn Manson!” Ashley #3 whispers so loudly that I'm almost convinced the new girl can hear her from across the caf.
“No she doesn't,” I hiss back, a lot more quietly. “She's pretty. She looks like the girl from Evanescence.”
She does look a lot like Amy Lee, I decide, as I take another peek. What with her long, jet-black hair and powder-white skin. She's wearing a black zippered hoodie over her uniform top and has rolled her regulation Catholic-schoolgirl skirt down to reveal an inch of stomach skin. I'm surprised none of the Ashleys have ever tried that look before. On her feet she's wearing black combat boots. (Not surprised they skipped that trend.)
The nuns are going to have a field day with this chick.
“Let's get her to come sit with us,” I suggest, feeling a moment of compassion for the new girl. “She probably doesn't know anyone.”
All three Ashleys and one Brent Baker the Third turn to stare at me, mouths agape.
“You're kidding, right? Puh-leeze tell me you're kidding,” says Ashley #1.
“If you're not kidding, you must be blind. Do you see what she looks like?” That from Ashley #2. “She's a total skank.”
“If we invite her over, we might as well invite all the other losers in the lunchroom. Want me to get the gamer geeks over to our table, Dawn? How about the drama dorks?” That's Ashley #3's contribution.
“Okay, fine. Sorry!” I say, rolling my eyes. “It was just a suggestion.”
Like I said, I love my friends, but I am aware they're truly the shallowest people on the planet. Like, they'd never even consider accepting anyone into their inner circle who doesn't embrace the color pink. And God help you if you have on the wrong shoes. At times, I'm surprised they include me in their little reindeer games. After all, strike oneâI'm not even called Ashley. (Though it is my middle name.)
 In any case, the four of us bonded long ago in elementary school (I had the best Barbie collection!) and I'm somehow still hanging around with them. And while they get on my nerves at times, it's better than having no friends at all. To be forced to sit by myself at lunch like the new girl. So I put up with them for the most part. And really, at times they can be fun. Especially when we're shopping.
I watch curiously as the supposed snake-blood-drinking witch-Satanist starts picking at her mystery meat. I feel bad for staring, but she's just so intriguing. Not like anyone I've ever seen at Sacred Mary's.
She doesn't seem to mind sitting by herself. In fact, she almost seems to glow with self-assurance. Like she doesn't care what others think of her. I wish I had half that confidence.
Abruptly, she turns around and catches me staring at her. She raises one eyebrow as she appraises me, then rolls her eyes and turns back to her food. I can feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. In that one moment, it's as if she's weighed me and found me wanting. She thinks I'm exactly like my silly friends. Just another one of the blond, blue-eyed Ashley clonesâall fluff and fashion and no substance. One of The Plastics. The Populars. The Mean Girls. Whatever tired movie cliché you want to use.
For some strange reason, I suddenly get the undying urge to prove her wrong.
Chapter Two
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I arrive home at exactly 7:05 P.M. that evening and I no sooner drop my Marc Jacobs carryall on our foyer's marble floor, than The Evil Ones start in with their nightly game of Dawn harassment.
“How was school?” my mother asks from the beige couch in our Victorian-themed parlor. I don't know how she and Dad can sit in there. Even the raging fire in the fireplace can't warm the icily formal room.
“School was fine. So was crew before school and gymnastics after. And yes, I got an A on my math test.” I know they're going to badger me about each and every one of these activities, so I figure I might as well throw them all out on the table at once so we can move on.
“You know, I was looking at your schedule for next year,” Dad pipes in from his armchair, after setting down the big fat book he's reading. “And I see you have a study scheduled in B period.”
