Crush Control by Jennifer Jabaley

writer for a TV show,” she said, breaking her confident stride slightly. “My name is Georgia. I just moved here this summer from Philadelphia.”
    â€œYour name is Georgia and you moved to Georgia?” I asked.
    She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started.” We walked over to the mirrors and I dabbed at my puffy eyes with a cold, damp paper towel. Georgia told me she’d started at this school two weeks ago, when the school year officially began.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “We intended to get here a few weeks ago. I told Mom about the first day of school and I even got the bank to move up the closing on the new house, but . . .” I sighed and ran my hand under the cold water. I used my wet fingers to smooth my flyaway strands back into the ponytail. “Well, Mom’s not one to stick to a schedule.”
    Georgia shook her head in sympathy. “Parents.” She looked at my schedule and told me that we had third period English together. Then, in a move that erased just a fraction of my pain and gave me a sliver of hope, Georgia offered to skip her next class, hang with me in the bathroom, and tutor me on everything she had observed in her first two weeks at our new high school. I hesitated for a moment. After all, skipping one class because of an emotional disaster was one thing, but skipping a second? But, I reasoned, I wasn’t skipping without a plan. Georgia was offering valuable assistance to aid my transition. So I nodded in agreement.
    She tossed the wooden hall pass into the garbage bin with a casual shrug and proclaimed, “I’ll tell them I got lost.” She pulled a trifolded paper towel from the dispenser and smoothed it out. She grabbed a pen from my messenger bag, sat on the floor, and drew a huge triangle onto the white cloth, the black gel ink bleeding into little stray lines.
    â€œSo, from what I can make of it, the complex hierarchy of social order here is just like at any other high school.” She took the pen and scribbled some names at the apex of the pyramid. “In ancient Egypt, the gods sat atop the pyramid and here, the gods of Worthington High are Mia Palmer and Jake Gordon. The power couple—king and queen—yada yada yada. You get the drift. Jake is your average football-player jock meathead and Mia is of course the top cheerleader on the squad.”
    I sat down on the hard concrete floor of the bathroom and looked on with interest.
    Georgia started adding lines and words to the pyramid. “Football players and basketball players outrank soccer players and wrestlers. Student government fits in here.” She drew an arrow. “Band, here . . .” Another arrow. “Mathletes, foreign language clubs, speech team, and the like go here. Theater—here—which just makes no sense. I mean, we all worship actors and actresses, right?”
    I nodded. “Sure.”
    â€œBut most actors and actresses were in drama club in high school. So why is drama not more toward the top of the pyramid?” She sounded a bit defensive.
    â€œAre you in drama?” It seemed like a logical assumption.
    She nodded. “Well, I was, in Pennsylvania. I’m trying out for the spring play, that’s for sure. I’ve heard that Abigail Vorhees gets the lead every year, but I intend to break her reign. Seventeen years of dedication to television and romance novels is bound to pay off. What about you?” she asked, scrutinizing me. “What do you do?” She looked over at my bag. “I don’t see any instruments. There’s no paint or charcoal or any signs of creative art on your hands.” She looked at my color-coordinated notebook sticking out of my bag. “You look organized—you could be in student government—but you also look somewhat athletic. You’re not bulky enough for softball, not glam enough for cheerleading. Tennis? I’m thinking you’re a student government