Stealing Popular by Trudi Trueit Page A

had first lunch. “Let’s ask her to eat with us,” I said.
    Fawn let out a ghostlike sigh.
    Adair was more direct. “Do we have to?”
    I looked from one to the other. “You don’t like her?”
    â€œIt’s not that we don’t like her.” Fawn sucked in her lower lip. “It’s that she’s sort of . . .”
    â€œBeige,” said Adair.
    Color code for boring.
    â€œWith blue stripes,” said Fawn. “She’s always got on a sad face.”
    â€œAdd some purple stripes,” said Adair. “She’s accident-prone. Every time I pass her in the hallway, she’s picking her stuff up off the floor.”
    Fawn peeled the lid off her vanilla pudding. “You know what happens when you mix beige, purple, and blue. You get—”
    â€œBrown,” I finished.
    Brown was worse than beige. Brown was death.
    Was it a coincidence that brown-haired Liezel was wearing a dark-brown sweater with brown pants and brown boots? Even her backpack was brown. Adair and Fawn bowed their heads at the tragedy.
    â€œWait a minute,” I said, coming to my senses. “She might wear brown, but she isn’t brown. You want proof?”
    â€œAlways,” said Adair.
    â€œExhibit A: She’s not accident-prone. Venice tripped her in front of everybody in the gym, and now she’s got the Royal Court doing it too—every chance they get. They think it’s funny.”
    â€œNo!” Fawn exhaled in horror.
    â€œThat’s just mean.” Adair dumped out her veggie chips onto a napkin.
    â€œExhibit B: She plays guitar in a rock band. A high-school rock band.”
    Fawn’s spoon halted in midair. Adair looked up from sorting her veggie chips. She liked to arrange them in little piles according to color: orange (carrot chips), green (spinach chips), and yellow (potato chips).
    â€œShe does?”
    â€œSeriously?”
    As Liezel carried her tray to the cashier, Adair’s eyes tracked her with new admiration. “She never said anything to anybody,” she said, surprised.
    I opened another package of crackers. “Actually, she’s had a poster tacked up to our locker all week,” I replied.
    â€œLiezel!” Adair waved. “Come sit with us.”
    Fawn scooted her stuff down to make room.
    â€œHi,” said Liezel, sliding onto the bench. “Thanks for the 911. I just got switched to this lunch and thought for sure I was going to get stuck in the boonies with Mr. Quigley. Did you hear? He’s got an MP3 player now. It can hold, like, five thousand pictures of Clawed Monet.”
    We groaned.
    â€œLiezel, do you really play in a rock band?” asked Adair.
    â€œUh-huh. I play guitar. I sing and write songs, too.” She glanced at me. I knew she wanted me to say somethingabout her music, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t yet listened to her CD. I had meant to, even took it out of the jewel case, but I was too afraid to play it. What if the band was terrible?
    Fawn’s mouth was open. “You mean, you play in public?”
    â€œOf course. That’s the whole point, Fawn. We just played at my church’s Labor Day picnic.” Her grin faded. “We sent in an audition CD to play at the Big Mess fall dance, but we never heard back. I guess the committee chose another band.”
    â€œYeeeeooooooooow!”
    I was pretty sure the shout had come from the other side of the cafeteria, near the door. Or maybe from the hallway outside.
    â€œIt’s probably Parker and Todd wrestling again,” said Adair.
    â€œOr skateboarding inside again,” offered Fawn.
    â€œOr sword fighting with Todd’s drumsticks again,” said Liezel.
    We could go on all day. With those two spit wads the possibilities were endless.
    A few seconds later there was another scream. This one had a slightly higher pitch and much more energy behind it.
    â€œEeeeeeeeek!”
    That had