A & L Do Summer by Jan Blazanin Page B

rock—
    â€œGod, Aspen, you look like Death’s ugly stepchild. I mean it. I bet the Grim Reaper has lighter circles under his eyes.”
    So much for the ocean breeze. When I open my eyes, Laurel is studying me with a horrified expression. “Thanks, Laurel. I thought I couldn’t possibly feel worse, but you just pushed me past that barrier.”
    â€œHey, Piedmont, come here.” Tessa Chandler, one of Cottonwood Creek’s party girls, hooks a thumb at Laurel. She’s lounging on the grass under a tree, filing her nails. “We need to talk.” Tessa’s the only high school student—male or female—with smaller boobs than mine. That should make her one of my favorite people, but it doesn’t.
    Laurel nudges me, and we head over.
    â€œNot her, just you,” says Tessa’s best friend, Wynter Green. People make fun of my name, but they let her slide. Just shows how much you can get away with if you’re popular.
    Laurel stops in her tracks. “No thanks. If you want to talk to me, Aspen comes, too.”
    Tessa and Wynter look at each other with raised eyebrows.
    â€œThat’s your problem.” Wynter’s nostrils twitch like somebody passed gas. Her dark brown hair and eyebrows are tiger-streaked with platinum, and her eye shadow matches. Her boobs look like grapefruit halves poking out of her pink V-neck tee.
    Tessa spreads her fingers to better admire her talons. “Bring her if you have to.” I’ve always envied her olive skin and wavy blue-black hair, but no torture has been devised that would make me admit it.
    Before I can say, “I’d rather stick my tongue in a food processer than talk to those two sluts,” Laurel has my arm in a vise grip and is dragging me over. She thinks Tessa and Wynter stand at the pinnacle of the popularity pyramid. Manny tells me they’re more familiar with the horizontal position.
    Once we arrive at their magic tree house, I notice that the popularity princesses have made themselves a mat out of opened textbooks. Last year I spilled one drop of Pepsi on my algebra book and had to pay a two-dollar fine. Twenty bucks says they’ll wiggle out of paying for all those broken spines.
    They leave us standing while Tessa files her nails and Wynter adds another coat of lipstick. Just as I’m about to execute a quick turnaround and kick dirt in their faces, Tessa speaks.
    â€œThis is the situation, Laurel, ” she says, using an orange stick to push back her cuticles. “When you started school last fall, Wynter and I were somewhat interested. Your look isn’t awful, and—since you’re from Chicago—we thought you had more potential than the bumpkins who’ve lived here forever.” Tessa flicks her eyes toward me.
    â€œUnfortunately,” Wynter takes up the narrative, “you disappointed us with your poor choice of friends.”
    Hmm. Who can they be talking about?
    It’s Tessa’s turn again. “Until last week, when we read your post on Facebook …”
    Am I the only person in school who didn’t see Laurel’s cyber Pig Proclamation?
    â€œâ€¦ and we thought you were getting it together.” Tessa sticks the tip of the orange stick in her mouth, which seems borderline gross to me. “Pigs in Hammond’s office would have been too perfect.”
    Wynter adjusts her bra to give “the girls” more exposure. One more adjustment and their pink noses will be getting sunburned. “But, after all the hype, you disappointed us again. Although,” she pauses for effect, “I heard that a trash can outside the teachers’ lounge was crammed full of shredded toilet paper this morning. And one of the senior girls stepped in a gross pile of stuff in the elevator. Almost like something went on here last night.” She locks eyes with Laurel. “Do you know anything about that?”
    Laurel is so eager to please that