they could tweet later.
âWaiting to hear from someone?â asked Tri, still poking around her desk and rummaging through her books and papers looking for the pizzeria menu.
âHuh? No.â A. A. shook her head. âDonât touchthat!â she said suddenly, slapping his hand away from her pink journal. She looked at the clock. It had been three hours since sheâd sent laxjock her sappy text. Ugh. She had to do something. She scrolled down the list till she found his number and began tapping out a new text.
âMushroom and sausage okay?â he asked, holding up the red and white menu.
A. A. nodded, without looking up. I WZ ONLY KDING! she wrote, and pressed the send button just as Tri got up to leave, closing the door behind him. She put down her phone and sighed. Maybe he thought she was being too forward. Maybe he never wanted to hear from her again.
But a few minutes later her phone buzzed back to life again.
She yelped when she saw the screen.
It was from him!
BUT IU 2 XOXOXOX
She pressed the phone close to her chest and smiled a small, secret smile. He was definitely amazing!
11
THAT H&M JACKET ISNâT THE ONLY KNOCKOFF IN THE ROOM
âWHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?â Ashley hissed, glaring at Lauren, who had taken a seat at the round table. âThis meeting is for committee members only,â she said as she removed her new H&M jacket.
It was a copy of a much more expensive Stella McCartney jacket, but she hoped no one would notice. The other day her mother had flipped when she saw the latest bills from Saks and had taken away Ashleyâs courtesy card, lecturing her that twelve-year-olds did not need to carry two-thousand-dollar handbags, blah blah blah, rampant materialism, blah blah blah, excessive consumption, blah blah and blah. This from a woman who spent a fortune on her skin-care regimen alone. Shesaid that Ashley was abusing her signing privileges and told her she was lucky she wasnât taking away the handbag itself. With only her allowance to spend, Ashley was forced to downgrade labels. But she refused to downgrade her trendsetting Ashley Spencer style. People looked to her for their fashion cues. Hello.
âRelax, Ash. Itâs an after-school activity, anyone can sign up, remember?â A. A. said mildly as she stretched her legs on the seat in front of her and yawned widely without covering her mouth.
Ashley frowned. A. A. could be such a tomboy sometimes. It wasnât good for the Ashleysâ enviable reputations if A. A. would persist in slouching down and acting like a boy. But it wasnât so much A. A.âs posture that was bothering her as what A. A. had said.
Technically, A. A. was right: Technically , anyone could sign up for any of the myriad after-school activities offered at Miss Gambleâs, although Ashley couldnât imagine whoâd want to waste their time at such boring activities as chorus, which was populated by off-key aspiring Voice wannabes, or theater, where you had to battle the budding drama queens who couldnât talk without âemotingâ or walk without âexpressing.â
Even worse, who wanted to hang with the nerdyworker bees who ran yearbook and The Gambler (the school newspaper: three pages stapled together and released once a semester)? Then there was the lowest of the lowâSchool Spirit, which was populated by doughy-faced girls who organized weekly bake sales and created handmade posters for pep rallies and field hockey games, and Fashion Club, which was started by two weirdos who wore bizarre outfits on free-dress days. The Ashleys would never be caught dead in something as trite as Fashion Club.
No. There was only one after-school activity worth signing up for, and everyone knew it. And that was Social Club, the club that ran the most important activity of all: the monthly mixers with the boys from Gregory Hall.
School had been in session for almost two weeks, and even Ashley was
âWaiting to hear from someone?â asked Tri, still poking around her desk and rummaging through her books and papers looking for the pizzeria menu.
âHuh? No.â A. A. shook her head. âDonât touchthat!â she said suddenly, slapping his hand away from her pink journal. She looked at the clock. It had been three hours since sheâd sent laxjock her sappy text. Ugh. She had to do something. She scrolled down the list till she found his number and began tapping out a new text.
âMushroom and sausage okay?â he asked, holding up the red and white menu.
A. A. nodded, without looking up. I WZ ONLY KDING! she wrote, and pressed the send button just as Tri got up to leave, closing the door behind him. She put down her phone and sighed. Maybe he thought she was being too forward. Maybe he never wanted to hear from her again.
But a few minutes later her phone buzzed back to life again.
She yelped when she saw the screen.
It was from him!
BUT IU 2 XOXOXOX
She pressed the phone close to her chest and smiled a small, secret smile. He was definitely amazing!
11
THAT H&M JACKET ISNâT THE ONLY KNOCKOFF IN THE ROOM
âWHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?â Ashley hissed, glaring at Lauren, who had taken a seat at the round table. âThis meeting is for committee members only,â she said as she removed her new H&M jacket.
It was a copy of a much more expensive Stella McCartney jacket, but she hoped no one would notice. The other day her mother had flipped when she saw the latest bills from Saks and had taken away Ashleyâs courtesy card, lecturing her that twelve-year-olds did not need to carry two-thousand-dollar handbags, blah blah blah, rampant materialism, blah blah blah, excessive consumption, blah blah and blah. This from a woman who spent a fortune on her skin-care regimen alone. Shesaid that Ashley was abusing her signing privileges and told her she was lucky she wasnât taking away the handbag itself. With only her allowance to spend, Ashley was forced to downgrade labels. But she refused to downgrade her trendsetting Ashley Spencer style. People looked to her for their fashion cues. Hello.
âRelax, Ash. Itâs an after-school activity, anyone can sign up, remember?â A. A. said mildly as she stretched her legs on the seat in front of her and yawned widely without covering her mouth.
Ashley frowned. A. A. could be such a tomboy sometimes. It wasnât good for the Ashleysâ enviable reputations if A. A. would persist in slouching down and acting like a boy. But it wasnât so much A. A.âs posture that was bothering her as what A. A. had said.
Technically, A. A. was right: Technically , anyone could sign up for any of the myriad after-school activities offered at Miss Gambleâs, although Ashley couldnât imagine whoâd want to waste their time at such boring activities as chorus, which was populated by off-key aspiring Voice wannabes, or theater, where you had to battle the budding drama queens who couldnât talk without âemotingâ or walk without âexpressing.â
Even worse, who wanted to hang with the nerdyworker bees who ran yearbook and The Gambler (the school newspaper: three pages stapled together and released once a semester)? Then there was the lowest of the lowâSchool Spirit, which was populated by doughy-faced girls who organized weekly bake sales and created handmade posters for pep rallies and field hockey games, and Fashion Club, which was started by two weirdos who wore bizarre outfits on free-dress days. The Ashleys would never be caught dead in something as trite as Fashion Club.
No. There was only one after-school activity worth signing up for, and everyone knew it. And that was Social Club, the club that ran the most important activity of all: the monthly mixers with the boys from Gregory Hall.
School had been in session for almost two weeks, and even Ashley was
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