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“This is horrible!” Mona cried. She pulled her blazer over her head, just like celebrities did when they were avoiding the paparazzi.
“I’m calling them right now to complain,” Hanna exclaimed, whipping out her BlackBerry and shakily scrolling for the skywriting company’s number. This wasn’t fair. She’d used the clearest, neatest handwriting possible when she faxed Mona’s party message to the skywriter. “I’m so sorry, Mon. I don’t know how this happened.”
Mona’s face was shadowed under her blazer. “You’re sorry, huh?” she said in a low voice. “I bet you are.” She slid her blazer back around her shoulders, lurched up, and strode away as fast as her raffia Celine wedges would carry her.
“Mona!” Hanna jumped up after her. She touched Mona’s arm and Mona spun around. “It was a mistake! I’d never do that to you!”
Mona took a step closer. Hanna could smell her French lavender laundry soap. “Ditching the Frenniversary is one thing, but I never thought you’d try to ruin my party,” she growled, loud enough for everyone to hear. “But you want to play that way? Fine. Don’t come. You’re officially uninvited.”
Mona stomped through the cafeteria doors, practically pushing two nerdy-looking freshmen aside into the large stone planters. “Mona, wait!” Hanna cried weakly.
“Go to hell,” Mona yelled over her shoulder.
Hanna took a few steps backwards, her whole body trembling. When she looked around the courtyard, everyone was staring at her. “Oh, snap,” Hanna heard Desdemona Lee whisper to her softball-playing friends.
“Mrow,” a group of younger boys hissed from the moss-covered birdbaths. “Loser,” an anonymous voice muttered.
The wafting smell of the cafeteria’s overly sauced, mushy-crusted pizza was beginning to give Hanna that old, familiar feeling of being both hideously nauseated and crazily ravenous at the same time. She returned to her purse and rifled absentmindedly through the side pouch to find her emergency package of white cheddar Cheez-Its. She pushed one into her mouth after another, not even tasting them. When she looked up into the sky, the puffy, letter-shaped clouds announcing Mona’s party had drifted.
The only letter that remained intact was the last one the plane had written: a crisp, angular letter A.
16
SOMEONE’S BEEN KISSING IN THE KILN….
That same Wednesday lunch period, Emily strode quickly through the art studio hallway. “Heeeyyy, Emily,” crooned Cody Wallis, Rosewood Day’s star tennis player.
“Hi?” Emily looked over her shoulder. She was the only person around—could Cody really be saying hi to her?
“Looking good, Emily Fields,” murmured John Dexter, the unbelievably hot captain of Rosewood Day’s crew team. Emily couldn’t even muster a hello—the last time John had spoken to her was in fifth-grade gym class. They’d been playing dodgeball, and John had beaned Emily’s chest to tag her out. Later, he’d come up to her and said, snickering, “Sorry I hit your boobie.”
She’d never had so many people—especially guys—smile, wave, and say hi to her. This morning, Jared Coffey, a brooding senior who rode a vintage Indian motorcycle to school and was usually too cool to speak to anyone, had insisted on buying her a blueberry muffin out of the vending machine. And as Emily had walked from second to third period this morning, a small convoy of freshman boys followed. One filmed her on his Nokia—it was probably already up on YouTube. She had come to school prepared to be taunted about the photo A had passed around at the meet yesterday, so this was sort of…unexpected.
When a hand shot out of the pottery studio, Emily flinched and let out a small shriek. Maya’s face materialized at the door. “Psst. Em!”
Emily stepped out of the stream of traffic. “Maya. Hey.”
Maya batted her eyelashes. “Come with me.”
“I can’t right now.” Emily checked her chunky Nike watch. She was late for her lunch with Becka—Little Miss Tree Tops. “How about after school?”
“Nah, this’ll just take a second!” Maya darted inside the empty studio and around a maze of desks toward the walk-in kiln. To Emily’s surprise, she pushed the kiln’s heavy door open and slid inside. Maya poked her head back out and grinned. “Coming?”
Emily shrugged. Inside the kiln, everything was dark, wooden, and warm—like a sauna. Dozens of students’ pots sat on the shelves. The ceramics teacher hadn’t fired them yet, so they were still brick red and gooey.
“It’s neat in here,” Emily mused softly. She’d always liked the earthy, wet smell of raw clay. On one of the shelves was a coil pot she’d made two periods ago. She’d thought she’d done a good job, but seeing it again, she noticed that one side caved in.
Suddenly, Emily felt Maya’s hands sliding up her back to her shoulders. Maya spun Emily around, and their noses touched. Maya’s breath, as usual, smelled like banana gum. “I think this is the sexiest room in the school, don’t you?”
“Maya,” Emily warned. They had to stop…only, Maya’s hands felt so good.
“No one will see,” Maya protested. She raked her hands through Emily’s dry, chlorine-damaged hair. “And besides, everyone knows about us anyway.”
“Aren’t you bothered by what happened yesterday?” Emily asked, pulling away. “Don’t you feel…violated?”
Maya thought for a moment. “Not particularly. And no one really seems to care.”
