The Princesses of Iowa by M. Molly Backes

I said.
    “Dude,” Tyler said. “He was probably just using Paige to get close to Jake.”
    I glanced over at the Freshman, who probably considered himself to be so enlightened and high-minded and worldly and yet had no problem whatsoever immediately categorizing me as a stupid, spoiled ditz. Screw him, anyway. “Yeah, apparently the Spice Girls are getting back together with a new member,” I said. “Fairy Spice.”
    The guys erupted in laughter. “Fairy Spice! That’s awesome!”
    From across the room, I thought I saw the Freshman wince, but his face went blank again so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it.

Thursday morning, I was running late thanks to my mother’s morning inspection — as the weeks ticked down to the homecoming vote, she was ramping up her scrutiny of my outfits, hair, makeup, and posture — and by the time I got to our table, my usual place had been taken by some junior girl from student council. Next to her, Geneva sat in Lacey’s spot. Our group had been gathering at the same tables every morning since sophomore year, to finish up homework, catch up on any gossip that might have occurred overnight, and delay the inevitable moment when we’d have to submit ourselves to yet another day of classes. Jake patted his lap and I perched on his knee, glaring at the juniors. Who did they think they were? “Someone should tell them not to turn the spray tan setting all the way to Oompa-Loompa,” I muttered.
    Jake followed my gaze and laughed. “Is someone cranky this morning?” He nibbled at my neck and I smiled in spite of myself. “Anyway, look at the bright side.”
    “What’s that?” I asked suspiciously.
    “If they get any oranger, Nikki will eat them, and you can have your seat back.” He pretended to chomp down on my shoulder. I laughed and bit him on the arm, and soon we were fighting and laughing like idiots.
    Geneva called, “Get a room, you two!”
    Just to spite her, I kissed Jake more passionately than was probably appropriate in a public setting. He didn’t seem to mind. “I really hate her,” I said when I came up for air. “Why isn’t Lacey keeping her in check? Where is she, anyway?”
    Jake shrugged. “I think she had a rough night last night. Her mom —”
    The bell rang, cutting him off. He stood abruptly and I slid off his lap. “What about her mom? Did you talk to her last night?”
    All around us, people were yelling and laughing and shoving one another. “It’s a long story, and I have to run. I’ll tell you at lunch, okay?” He kissed me fast and hurried off toward the math wing. Sighing, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed the other way.
    My first-period class was a sleeper we called Contemptible American History. Mr. Silva wasn’t at his desk when I walked in, and I surveyed the room for signs of what the period would hold. No TV, so we weren’t watching a movie, but if we were lucky, Mr. Silva might get sidetracked by stories about his time in Vietnam, and the creepy kids who loved guns would keep asking him questions until he forgot all about his lesson plans, and the rest of us wouldn’t have to listen at all.
    The class was rowdy with gossip. “I heard she had a total breakdown, freaked out, screamed at Dr. Coulter, and stormed out!”
    “No, my mom knows her doctor’s sister, and she says it’s a brain tumor.”
    “Dude, I heard it was, like, a broken uterus.”
    “You moron, you can’t break your uterus.”
    I leaned across the aisle to Elizabeth Carr, a pretty girl who was in creative writing with me. “Who has a broken uterus?”
    She laughed and adjusted her glasses. “Mrs. Mueller, I guess. I’m pretty sure you can’t break your uterus, though.”
    “So . . . brain tumor? Nervous breakdown?”
    Elizabeth shook her head. “All of the above? I really don’t know.”
    “Huh.” I leaned back in my chair. A sub was good. Maybe we’d watch more inspiring movies about people writing, and I could catch up on my sleep. I