The List (7 page)

“Hey, Jennifer,” Dana says, sliding over so Jennifer can sit.

“Hi,” Jennifer says. “I like your shirt, Dana. It’s so cute.”

Dana grins down at her front. “Oh, thanks.”

It’s quiet for a second. Margo glances over and sees Jennifer staring at her. “Hi, Margo,” Jennifer says, all bright and cheerful. “Congratulations on … you know.”

“Thanks.”

Rachel drums her nails against the table. “So, Jennifer. We wanted to tell you that we’re sorry that you’re on the list again this year.”

Jennifer shakes her head, like it’s nothing. “Honestly, I’m used to it by now.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t
have
to get used to something like that,” Dana says, pursing her lips. “Whoever made the list this year is a total sadist.”

Margo thinks back to when senior year had just started. Dana got assigned a seat behind Jennifer in French II, and she complained every day for a week about the fat rolls on the back of Jennifer’s neck. Whenever Jennifer looked down at her textbook, the folds of skin would smooth out, and when she’d look up, they’d squeeze together, like a disgusting human accordion.

It annoys her how easily Dana can forget the past.

But it also makes Margo jealous. Because she can’t.

t three o’clock, Danielle shuffles from her last class of the day to her locker. She collects her textbooks and her swim bag as slowly as possible, in no rush to get where she needs to be. Well, that’s not true. Danielle should be at swim practice with Hope. But she’d been instructed not to go to the pool.

Everyone in English had looked up when Principal Colby knocked on the door. Danielle’s teacher welcomed her. Principal Colby didn’t say anything to him, she just looked around the room. When her eyes landed on Danielle, she walked over and said simply, “I’ll see you later.” This left the bulk of the explaining to the note card she placed on Danielle’s desk.

Danielle bit the end of her pencil. What could Principal Colby want with all the girls on the list? Were they in trouble? Had Principal Colby figured out who had written it?

Though her questions baited juicy answers, Danielle hardly cared to know them. Instead, she became aware of the boy sitting to her left, craning his neck as he tried to read the note. She quickly slid the card into her book and succumbed to humiliation for the second time that day.

Her cheeks are still hot from it.

Just then, Sarah Singer, the ugliest junior, passes by. Principal Colby is right behind Sarah, her hand pressing into Sarah’s back, forcing her forward. Sarah’s steps are comically laborious — flat-footed trudges, punctuated by tortured sighs, the toes of her sneakers dragging across the linoleum floor.

Danielle had heard about this girl and the word she’d scrawled on her forehead, but this is the first time she sees it for herself. Part of her is impressed by Sarah’s toughness — a different Game Face than the one she’d worn today, when she pretended there was no list, that she hadn’t been on it. But the rest of her is humiliated knowing she is the same as Sarah. That all of Mount Washington will look at her and see the same word, whether or not it’s written on Danielle’s face.

Danielle closes her locker and leans against it. It is the kind of hurt that feels permanent, more like a scar than a scab. Something she’ll always carry with her.

“I was already off school grounds!” Sarah complains. “You can’t force me back inside once the day is over!”

Either Principal Colby doesn’t hear Sarah or she doesn’t care to respond. Instead, she locks eyes with Danielle as she passes her and says, “Come on. You, too.”

The other six girls are already in the principal’s office. The room is too small for there to be any order to where people sit, no division of space with the pretty girls in the chairs and the ugly girls against the wall, that sort of thing. It is crowded, uncomfortable for everyone.

Abby is in one of the two chairs in front of Principal Colby’s
desk. She scoots over, allowing a small patch where Danielle can squeeze in next to her. Danielle smiles faintly at the offer, but instead perches on the armrest.

Candace is in the other chair, inched forward to the very edge of the seat, her weight tipping forward. She’s pulled herself up close to Principal Colby’s desk.

Lauren sits on the radiator, her knees drawn to her chest, staring out the window.

Bridget is on the couch.

Margo sits next to her, hands folded in her lap.

Jennifer slumps against a tall, black filing cabinet.

Sarah won’t enter the office farther than the doorway, her arms crossed and defiant. She barely moves as Principal Colby squeezes past her.

Once she settles behind her desk, the principal says, “I’m sure you’ve probably figured out why I’ve called you here.”

If anyone knows Principal Colby’s intentions, no one says so. Margo wraps a strand of her hair around her finger. Bridget cracks her knuckles, tiny little pops. Jennifer scratches something stuck to her shirt.

Principal Colby sighs. “Okay,” she continues. “I’ll spell it out.” She leans forward dramatically. “A terrible thing has happened to you girls today. And I think it would help if we talked about it as a group.”

Candace snorts bitterly. Her legs are crossed, one shearling boot kicking the air rapid-fire. “Don’t you mean to
four
of us?” she quips. “I bet the prettiest girls had a great day.”

Principal Colby shakes her head. “I meant exactly what I said, Candace. Something terrible happened to
all
of you girls. Someone took it upon himself or herself to single you out, give
you a label, and present you as nothing more than the most superficial, subjective version of yourselves. And there are emotional consequences to that, regardless of which side of the coin you are on.”

Candace turns in her chair and looks behind her at Margo and Bridget on the couch. “Consequences? You mean like Margo having a lock on homecoming queen?”

Margo continues to examine her hair for split ends. “I get that you’re mad, Candace, but please leave me out of it.”

“Of course I’m mad, Margo,” Candace says to her, and then her eyes dart around to the other girls’ faces. “Wouldn’t you be if you were called ugliest when you are clearly
not
?” Her voice rolls, unsteady.

The other ugly girls look at each other sheepishly. Except for Sarah, who stares Candace down.

Principal Colby holds up her hands. “Girls, please. Don’t fight with each other. No one here is the enemy. You’re all victims.”

Margo raises her hand. “Principal Colby, I know you’re new at Mount Washington, but seriously, this is not a big deal.”

“Easy for you to say,” Danielle mumbles, surprised that she’s spoken up at all.

Jennifer steps forward. “I agree with Margo. I mean, if anyone here has a right to complain, it’s me. And I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me.”

Principal Colby locks eyes with Jennifer before she says, “I can’t believe you don’t care, Jennifer. You should care most of all.”

Jennifer’s cheeks turn pink.

Sarah groans. “What exactly are you trying to do here, Principal Colby? Force us into some kind of group therapy session?”

Principal Colby shakes her head. “Sarah … girls … look, I’ll concede that maybe it’s a bit too soon for you to be able to process what’s happened today. I’ve reached out to a few of you already, but I want you to know that I am here if you want to talk. And if you
do
have an idea of who might have made the list this year, I hope you will trust me enough to share that information. It’s time for this hazing to end, and I’d like for whoever is responsible for the list to be held accountable.”

Danielle looks around the room. Though she respects Principal Colby’s attempt at a locker-room pep talk, the reality of the situation doesn’t give her much hope. Although each of their names had appeared on the list, none of them seem to be playing for the same team.

Not even close.

Her Game Face would have to stay put. It is every girl for herself.

ridget wakes up bright and early. She showers, does her hair and makeup, and picks out an oxford shirt to wear with leggings and a long drapey cardigan. Once she hears Lisa turn on the shower for herself, Bridget hops down the stairs two by two, excited to get to the kitchen. Really, honestly excited for breakfast. Not faking her way through it, like she’s been doing.

Mrs. Honeycutt set out the cereal boxes, two bowls, and two spoons on the breakfast bar for her daughters, as she does every morning before leaving for work. Bridget takes her clean bowl and her spoon and puts them both into the dishwasher with the dirty plates from last night’s dinner. She ate the chicken breast and a couple baby carrots. No rice.

Not bad.

She takes a piece of paper from her front shirt pocket and flattens it out on the counter. Then she opens the cabinets and goes digging for the ingredients.

Maple syrup. Cayenne pepper. A lemon from the fruit bowl.

She found the recipe on the Internet last night. A cleanse. All the movie stars cleanse before big events, to make sure they look their very best. It’s not a diet, it’s a way to rid your body of toxins, of all the things that pollute your insides.

Most importantly, a cleanse is different from simply not eating. Not eating is not good for you. Bridget knows this. She knew it all summer. She didn’t go about losing weight the way she should have. She was too gung ho, got a little too carried
away. She didn’t want to be the kind of girl who thought the things she did, who restricted herself.

But Bridget also knows that she was put on the list because she lost weight. It said as much, right there on the paper. How she’d spent her summer did make a difference.

Except you’ve gained almost all of the weight back, Bridget.

Bridget doesn’t want to let anyone down. She wants to be better, smarter this time. With the homecoming dance just five days away, this cleanse is the answer. All she has to do is follow the directions.

If you were sick, you’d just stop eating again.

But you’re not sick.

You’re healthy.

Bridget carefully measures out the ingredients according to the recipe. She tips the measuring spoon over the lip of her plastic water bottle, sending a tiny pile of red dust to the bottom. Next, she slices a lemon and squeezes it into her hand. Her fingers trap the seeds, and the juice stings where she’s bitten the skin around her fingernails. The maple syrup is the last part. The glass jar is sticky, the cap fused shut with sugar crystals that break apart and powder her hands. She sends a thick chestnut stream into the well of her tablespoon. Bridget wishes there wasn’t so much syrup involved. Two tablespoons seem like a lot. She checks the calorie count on the syrup bottle, frowns, and makes the executive decision to cut the amount in half.

She uses the water filter on the refrigerator door and fills her bottle up to the tippy-top. If she takes small sips, she should have enough of the cleanse mixture to last her through the school day. She shakes the bottle, then removes the cap. Tiny
specks of cayenne pepper float on the top of the frothy tea-colored water. Bridget holds it under her nose. It smells like lemonade on fire.

Lisa comes downstairs and sits at the breakfast bar. She’s got on a corduroy jumper that Bridget had picked out during their back-to-school outlet excursion. Bridget gets the milk out for her. “You look cute, Lisa.”

“Bridge, can we please go shopping for homecoming dresses after school? I feel like I’ve been looking at pictures online for weeks, but I want to try things on.”

“I don’t think I can today.” Bridget wants to give the cleanse time to work. The paper says she can lose up to ten pounds in a week. Only she doesn’t have a week. Just five days. “Maybe Thursday.”

Lisa’s mouth gapes. “Thursday? But the dance is on Saturday! What if we can’t find anything?”

“It’ll be fine.” Bridget senses the disappointment in Lisa, and quickly adds, “You can ask Abby to come with us, if you want. And I already talked to Mom about the makeup thing. I think she’s going to be cool with it, so long as it’s a light touch.” The last part is a lie, but Bridget will ask her mother for Lisa tonight.

“What are you making over there?”

Bridget quickly crumples up the paper and throws it in the trash with the squeezed lemon half. She puts the rest of the ingredients away. “It’s this health food thing that’s supposed to boost your immune system.” When she turns back to face Lisa, she puts a hand to her throat. “I feel like I might be getting sick. And I don’t want to miss the dance.”

“Can I try it?”

Bridget shrugs and hands it over. A guinea pig for the first sip.

Lisa puts her lips to the bottle. Almost immediately, Lisa puckers and gags. She pushes past Bridget and spits the liquid into the sink. “Ew, Bridge! This stuff is nasty!”

“It’s not that bad.” It can’t be. She’s not allowed to eat or drink anything else all week.

Lisa grabs a paper towel and starts wiping down her tongue.

Bridget groans. “Don’t be so dramatic.” And then she takes her first tentative sip of the cleanse. It burns the back of her throat, burns all the way down.

You know, it might be easier not to eat anything.

Bridget takes another swig. A big, bold, defiant gulp to drown her brain. She can do this. And then, after homecoming, the pressure will be off.

Lisa frowns and climbs back onto her stool. She pours herself cereal, her favorite kind, with marshmallows in it. Bridget likes that kind, too. The way the little bits crunch and dissolve, how they turn the milk sweet and a little bit pink. Bridget sips from her water bottle again.

“I can still taste that crap,” Lisa complains, and a dribble of milk rolls down her chin.

Bridget turns her back to Lisa and says, “Well, make sure you take care of yourself and stay healthy, so you won’t ever have to drink this. And quit slurping like a little kid.”