ask her what I’ve been wondering. Swallow hard. “You didn’t really . . . ?”
She glares at me. “You really think I’d cut someone’s eye out?”
“Yeah, I figured . . . sorry.”
We don’t talk much for the rest of the lab, other than a few mumbled remarks like, “I think I found the pharynx.” But I keep staring at her hands. I want to ask . . .
No. I can’t. What would I say? Girls scratch people all the time. She probably uses nail hardener, or has really strong keratin. Or better yet, dead worm skin is probably really fragile. Exactly! I can even test that.
The next time Catherine has her head bowed and is scribbling away at our lab work sheet, I jab my thumbnail into the pasty worm carcass, to see if I can chop its head off. But my nail is too short and blunt; I end up squishing it.
Ugh. I have to close my eyes and think of puppies to keep from throwing up.
“You done playing with that?” Catherine says.
“Heh . . . finished.”
“Good.” She gets up to turn in the worm and our work sheet, and I wipe my thumb on my jeans, totally ill and convinced that I smell like zombified worm flesh.
Out of the corner of my eye I sense a scuffle; I hear a girly yelp and then the air crackles, fills with the scent of burned grease and Robitussin. The Burnout next to Darla convulses before slumping down on his desk, face-first into the worm tray.
I hope I’m the only person who saw her stash that inhaler.
The teacher pulls her earphones out of her ears. “Did he just have a seizure?”
“He’s been asleep the whole time,” Darla says. Her face is flushed and she’s breathing heavily.
This girl is INSANE!
Not to mention a terrible liar.
But no one calls her on it. I am so, so grateful for that right now.
When Catherine comes back, she sniffs the air; makes a horrible face. Then: “Hey, he’s mouth-to-mouth with that worm. You owe me five bucks. That counts as eating it.”
What?! “No, it doesn’t!”
I don’t bother to check my wallet—I know for a fact that I don’t even have five bucks. My mom only gave me enough to buy a drink for lunch. And I am NOT drinking from the water fountain at this school.
“You never specified he had to swallow it,” Catherine says, smirking like she’s got me.
What, now she’s a rules lawyer? Two can play at that game.
“Our bet was whether he’d eat it to get high,” I say. “He’s face-first in that tray because Darla electrocuted him with her inhaler, not because he wanted—”
“Excuse me?” Catherine looks at me like I’m even more retarded than I was that night at Roast.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” I backtrack, not meaning to say that either. Then I laugh. “Hahaha, how would an inhaler electrocute someone? Heh . . . heh . . .” It gets less and less believable and more and more pathetic. But she’s totally not paying attention to me anymore.
Catherine’s eyes narrow to slits. Her nose twitches every few seconds like an angry rabbit’s. Darla must sense the heat of her stare, because she pulls the collar of her parka up to hide her face.
“Holy shit,” Catherine says as it suddenly clicks. “‘Darla’—is that my stalker?”
“Your stalker?”
“Yeah.” Catherine’s bristling—the hairs on her arms are perked right up. “She’s been coming to the coffee shop where I work for weeks. She’s always staring at me, or taking pictures of me with her cell phone . . . she’s obsessed. And it’s freaking annoying, but whatever, it’s a coffee shop, weird people come in sometimes. I could even deal with her stupid questions about ‘my feelings’ and ‘do I feel different, like I don’t belong sometimes’—because at least I could ignore her. But now she’s at my school? What the hell??”
Her lips pull back over her teeth.
Oh, crap.
Darla, you do not want this girl to look at you the wrong way—let alone make you the target of her white-hot fury. I am so, so sorry for throwing you under the bus so
She glares at me. “You really think I’d cut someone’s eye out?”
“Yeah, I figured . . . sorry.”
We don’t talk much for the rest of the lab, other than a few mumbled remarks like, “I think I found the pharynx.” But I keep staring at her hands. I want to ask . . .
No. I can’t. What would I say? Girls scratch people all the time. She probably uses nail hardener, or has really strong keratin. Or better yet, dead worm skin is probably really fragile. Exactly! I can even test that.
The next time Catherine has her head bowed and is scribbling away at our lab work sheet, I jab my thumbnail into the pasty worm carcass, to see if I can chop its head off. But my nail is too short and blunt; I end up squishing it.
Ugh. I have to close my eyes and think of puppies to keep from throwing up.
“You done playing with that?” Catherine says.
“Heh . . . finished.”
“Good.” She gets up to turn in the worm and our work sheet, and I wipe my thumb on my jeans, totally ill and convinced that I smell like zombified worm flesh.
Out of the corner of my eye I sense a scuffle; I hear a girly yelp and then the air crackles, fills with the scent of burned grease and Robitussin. The Burnout next to Darla convulses before slumping down on his desk, face-first into the worm tray.
I hope I’m the only person who saw her stash that inhaler.
The teacher pulls her earphones out of her ears. “Did he just have a seizure?”
“He’s been asleep the whole time,” Darla says. Her face is flushed and she’s breathing heavily.
This girl is INSANE!
Not to mention a terrible liar.
But no one calls her on it. I am so, so grateful for that right now.
When Catherine comes back, she sniffs the air; makes a horrible face. Then: “Hey, he’s mouth-to-mouth with that worm. You owe me five bucks. That counts as eating it.”
What?! “No, it doesn’t!”
I don’t bother to check my wallet—I know for a fact that I don’t even have five bucks. My mom only gave me enough to buy a drink for lunch. And I am NOT drinking from the water fountain at this school.
“You never specified he had to swallow it,” Catherine says, smirking like she’s got me.
What, now she’s a rules lawyer? Two can play at that game.
“Our bet was whether he’d eat it to get high,” I say. “He’s face-first in that tray because Darla electrocuted him with her inhaler, not because he wanted—”
“Excuse me?” Catherine looks at me like I’m even more retarded than I was that night at Roast.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” I backtrack, not meaning to say that either. Then I laugh. “Hahaha, how would an inhaler electrocute someone? Heh . . . heh . . .” It gets less and less believable and more and more pathetic. But she’s totally not paying attention to me anymore.
Catherine’s eyes narrow to slits. Her nose twitches every few seconds like an angry rabbit’s. Darla must sense the heat of her stare, because she pulls the collar of her parka up to hide her face.
“Holy shit,” Catherine says as it suddenly clicks. “‘Darla’—is that my stalker?”
“Your stalker?”
“Yeah.” Catherine’s bristling—the hairs on her arms are perked right up. “She’s been coming to the coffee shop where I work for weeks. She’s always staring at me, or taking pictures of me with her cell phone . . . she’s obsessed. And it’s freaking annoying, but whatever, it’s a coffee shop, weird people come in sometimes. I could even deal with her stupid questions about ‘my feelings’ and ‘do I feel different, like I don’t belong sometimes’—because at least I could ignore her. But now she’s at my school? What the hell??”
Her lips pull back over her teeth.
Oh, crap.
Darla, you do not want this girl to look at you the wrong way—let alone make you the target of her white-hot fury. I am so, so sorry for throwing you under the bus so
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