Free The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel Page B

tabled. The bad news was that just about everybody was now looking at me.
    Reagan and Sage handed me all of their napkins.
    “I’m so sorry, you guys,” I said. “What a klutz. I better go to my room and get cleaned up.”
    “Sure!” Reagan said, tossing some extra napkins onto the floor to mop up the excess. “Maybe I’ll find you later. One of the reasons I wanted to meet you is I’m planning on starting an animal rights group,” she said. “I’m going to petition the administration to start my own. And to fund me. Not as an EE, since those end after October, but as a school club. Do you think you might be able to help me out?”
    “Definitely!” I said, squirming in my soaking jeans. “I’m definitely in. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
    “Great!” Reagan exclaimed. “Maybe someone in your sea cow group could send us a letter of recommendation.”
    “Maybe,” I told Reagan. “Or there’s this environmental guy my mom did some writing for last year—Julius Severay, I think his name is.”
    Reagan’s mouth dropped wide open.
    “Julius Severay? Of the Global Wildlife Coalition?”
    “That’s the guy.”
    “My gosh, he’s like, huge!”
    “I can ask my mom to e-mail him. See if he’d be willing to get you a letter, or endorsement or something.”
    Reagan put her hand over her mouth.
    “That would be . . . Oh Moxie . . . that would be the coolest thing ever!”
    “I’ll get right on it,” I said with a grin.
    Reagan patted her roommate’s arm.
    “You were right, Sage. This girl is aces.”
    Sage smiled.
    I gave them both what I felt was an excellent Assertive Revolutionary Activist smile—strong, compassionate, and committed. Well, that’s what I was aiming for, anyway. And I meant it. In spite of the mess I’d made over the sea cow thing, not to mention the milk, I realized that being an ARA was extremely inspiring. This was definitely a top contender for my new personality, if I could just get things under control again.
    I walked toward the dining hall exit, my wet sneakers making a high squeaking sound. As I reached the doorway, my path was blocked by someone trying to come in at the same time. Kate Southington. There was a brief, weird moment where I expected us to engage in the little step-left-step-right dance you do when you’re trying to get around someone. But Kate stood stock-still, like she was made of marble. I was torn between a Mexican stand-down and avoiding an awkward moment in public. After a few seconds, I opted for avoiding the awkward moment and got out of the way. Kate began to breeze past me like royalty, pausing to direct a quick, pointed stare at my milk-sodden jeans. I felt a flash of irritation at myself for giving in so easily.
    So I guess this was the way it was going to be now. I had a hint of it the night before, when Kate showed up in our suite to invite Spinky over for cake. Just Spinky. Spinky, always congenial, had cheerfully accepted the offer, generously suggesting that I might like to come along. But one glance at the scowl on Kate’s face was enough. I made a polite excuse about having to investigate some classic Iggy Pop cuts on iTunes. When they walked out, Kate put her arm through Spinky’s and shot me a look I can only describe as triumphant. She seemed to think that Spinky was a prize we were competing for. And that only one of us could win. I refused to now simply stand frozen like a dummy.
    So I loudly said hello to her. My mother always says the best way to deal with someone who’s being hostile is to be nice to them. The best way to deal with Kate, then, was to be nice to her no matter what she did to me.
    And it worked, because like most people, Kate had the automatic-response-impulse hardwired into her brain, which caused her to look over her shoulder and say hello back to me when she probably would have preferred to maintain an icy silence. But she ducked her head after she said it, and turned her face in the other direction,