It's Not Easy Being Bad by Cynthia Voigt Page B

Margalo—who wasn’t there.
    Mikey went inside to find her. It could be that Margalo’s bus was late, but it might also be that Margalo was too cold to wait outside for Mikey because she hadn’t yet gotten herself a winter jacket, or whatever she was going to wear that year. Margalo could probably come to school wearing an old blanket pinned at the neck with a baby’s diaper pin, one of those big pins with a yellow duck on the end, and she’d look good. Mikey thought she’d tell Margalo that.
    Mikey went to the library and stood inside the door, looking around, but she didn’t see Margalo. Nobody noticed Mikey; at least, nobody looked at her, or smiled at her. So she went to the art room, where the arty-smarty clique spent their free time, and just stuck her head in. One or two people who didn’t know her looked up, without any interest, and the rest ignored her.
    You didn’t think junior high was going to be warm and snuggly , Mikey reminded herself, going back to herlocker. Because she was uncomfortable, as if the skin of her body didn’t fit right, as if it were too tight, maybe. Or as if her skin were too baggy and loose, dragging around after her.
    But where was Margalo? She wasn’t at the lockers, either. Mikey went to homeroom.
    When Margalo’s desk was unoccupied, Mikey had to notice how everybody else was talking to somebody, and how nobody said anything to her.
    Okay , Mikey said to herself. So nobody in this room likes you. Big surprise.
    Margalo never showed up for homeroom, so that by the end of it Mikey had to admit that she was absent. And would probably not show up all day.
    And hadn’t called Mikey to warn her.
    Mikey was angry, which was a lot more comfortable than being alone. Her anger got her to math, and once the teacher came in, everything was pretty much normal. One of the good things about teachers was: When they were running the room, the kids weren’t Another good thing was that teachers kept everybody paying attention, so if someone had something to say, even if she wasn’t popular she got to say it, and at least one person—the teacher—would listen.
    But Margalo had really dropped Mikey in the soupby being absent, and Mikey wasn’t going to forgive her easily; that was what was on her mind as she pulled books out of her locker, put books in, checked to be sure she had her homework, and went back to classes. Lunch, she was beginning to realize—going down the crowded halls in her own little bubble that everybody gave a wide berth to and nobody even looked at—would be the worst.
    Standing alone in line. Crossing alone to her table. Sitting alone to eat.
    Before she even went near the cafeteria, Mikey went to the pay phones in the hall just outside the main office. She put in her coins and dialed Margalo’s number. As soon as Margalo said, “Hello?” Mikey let her have it.
    â€œYou could have called me,” she said. “I didn’t even bring a book to read.”
    â€œYou don’t read books, and there’s a whole library, anyway,” Margalo answered, as if she was the one who was angry. What did she have to be angry about? She wasn’t the one stranded here, behind enemy lines.
    â€œYou know what I mean,” Mikey said. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œI mean, what kind of sick are you?”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œThen why don’t you come to school?” Mikey leaned her forehead against the cool silver metal front of the pay phone, not letting herself be distracted by the sounds around her.
    â€œI don’t want to,” Margalo said, cross.
    â€œWell, neither do I, but I’m here. And you didn’t even call me up to tell me you were staying home.”
    â€œI couldn’t.”
    â€œWhy? Your hand was cut off in the night? Jeepers, Margalo—and why aren’t you in school, anyway, if