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She shrugs. “I wanted to make your life miserable because you’re a jerk.”
I’m a jerk? “I guess we’re even. Because I think you’re a jerk too.”
“Actually, you’re worse than a jerk. You’re a snob.”
Huh?
“If you want to know the truth,” she says, “I’ve hated you since the first day of kindergarten. And I’m not the only one.”
“Kindergarten?” I ask in astonishment.
“You were wearing red patent leather Mary Janes. And you thought you were so special. You thought you were better than everyone else. Because you had red shoes and nobody else did.”
Okay. I do remember those shoes. My mother bought them as a special treat for me for starting kindergarten. I wore them all the time—I even tried to wear them to bed. But still, they were only shoes. Who would have thought shoes could cause so much jealousy?
“You hate me because of some shoes I wore when I was four?” I say in disbelief.
“It wasn’t just the shoes,” she counters. “It was your whole attitude. You and your perfect little family. The Bradshaw girls,” she says mockingly. “Aren’t they cute? And so well-behaved.”
If she only knew.
I’m suddenly exhausted. Why do girls carry these grudges for years and years? Do boys do that too?
I think about Lali and shiver.
She looks at me, gives a little exclamation of triumph, and goes inside.
And then I just stand there, wondering what to do. Go home? Call it a day? But if I leave, it means Donna LaDonna has won. She’ll have claimed this class as her territory and my absence will mean she’s driven me out.
I won’t let her win. Even if it requires being stuck with her for an hour once a week.
I mean, can my life really get any worse?
I pull open the heavy door, trudge up the stairs, and take my seat next to her.
For the next thirty minutes, while Todd Upsky talks about f-stops and shutter speeds, we sit next to each other in silence, each desperately pretending that the other one does not exist.
Just like me and Lali.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Gorgon
“Why don’t you write about it?” George asks.
“No,” I say, snapping off the delicate tip of a tree branch. I examine it, rubbing the soft dry wood between my fingers before tossing it back into the woods.
“Why not?”
“Because.” I push forward on the path that leads up a steep hill. Behind me, I hear George breathing heavily from the effort. I grab a sapling around the middle and use it to pull me to the top. “I don’t want to be a writer so I can write about my life. I want to be a writer to escape from it.”
“Then you shouldn’t be a writer,” George says, puffing.
That’s it.
“I am so sick of everyone telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. Maybe I don’t want to be your idea of a writer. Did you ever think about that?”
“Hey,” he says. “Take it easy.”
