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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cliques Are Made to Be Broken
“What do you think?” I ask The Mouse, tapping my pen on the table.
“Attacking Donna LaDonna in your first piece for The Nutmeg? Risky, Bradley. Especially as you haven’t gotten her side yet.”
“Not for lack of trying,” I counter, which isn’t exactly true. I did follow her around for a bit, but I didn’t really try to confront her. What I actually did was drive by her house three times. The LaDonnas live on the top of a hill in a big new house, which is also strikingly ugly. It has two columns, one wall made of brick, one wall made of stucco, and the others of wood, as if the person designing the house couldn’t decide what they wanted and chose everything instead. Sort of the way Donna LaDonna is about boys, I figure.
On two occasions, the house was deserted, but the third time, I saw Tommy Brewster coming out, followed by Donna. Just before Tommy got into his car, he made a lunge for her, like he was trying to kiss her, but she pushed him away with her index finger and laughed. While Tommy was still in the driveway, fuming, another car pulled up—a blue Mercedes—and a tall, really good-looking guy got out, walked right past Tommy, and put his arm around Donna’s waist. Then they went inside without a backward glance.
When it comes to guys, Donna clearly leads a very interesting life.
“Why not start with something less controversial than Donna LaDonna?” The Mouse asks now. “Get people used to the idea that you’re writing for the paper.”
“But if I don’t write about Donna, I have nothing to write about,” I complain. I put my feet up on the table and tip my chair back. “The great thing about Donna is that everyone is scared of her. I mean, what else about high school inspires such universal distress?”
“Cliques.”
“Cliques? We’re not even in a clique.”
“In the sense that we’ve been hanging out with pretty much the same people for the last ten years, maybe we are.”
“I always thought of us as the anti-clique.”
“An anti-clique is a clique, isn’t it?” asks The Mouse.
“Maybe there’s a story here,” I muse, leaning all the way back in my chair. When I’m nearly perpendicular, the legs slide out and I fall over, knocking down several books in the process. I land with the chair on top of my head, and when I peek around the seat, little Gayle is bending over me.
Someone has got to tell this girl about Clearasil.
“Carrie?” she gasps. “Are you all right?” She glances around wildly as she picks several books up off the floor. “You’d better get up before the librarian finds you. If she does, she’ll kick you out.”
The Mouse bursts out laughing.
“I don’t get it,” Gayle says, her arms wrapped around a pile of books. Her eyes fill with tears.
“Sweetie,” I say. “We’re not making fun of you. It’s just that we’re seniors. We don’t care if the librarian kicks us out.”
“If she tried, we’d probably give her the finger,” The Mouse adds. We look at each other and snicker.
“Oh. Well.” Gayle nervously pinches her lip. I pull out the chair next to me. “Have a seat.”
“Really?”
“This is Roberta Castells,” I say as Gayle cautiously sits. “Also known as ‘Mighty Mouse.’ Or ‘The Mouse’ for short.”
“Hello,” Gayle says shyly. “I know all about you. You’re a legend. They say you’re the smartest girl in school. I wish I could do something like that. Be the smartest. I know I’m never going to be the prettiest.”
The two Jens come into the library, sniffing around like bloodhounds. They spot us and take a seat two tables away.
“See those girls?” I indicate the Jens with my head. “Do you think they’re pretty?”
“The two Jens? They’re beautiful.”
“Now,” I say. “They’re beautiful now. But in two years—”
“They’re going to look really, really old. They’re going to look like they’re forty,” The Mouse says.
