desks, stuffed into backpacks and pockets. I can’t get through a single exam review without being harassed about
“the cloud”—even Griff was snickering about it in calculus when we were supposed to computing the force of fluid pressure on the marshmallows in Mrs. Smolinski’s Jell-O
mold.
Unlike our teachers, the Lav-Oaks rumor mill is operating at full capacity, and by lunchtime it’s clear that dining at my usual courtyard table with Cole and John—
especially with Ellie still out and those flyers covering every flat surface in the Centennial State—is not the way to make this scandal vanish. Instead, I make a date with the only classmate guaranteed to keep his maw shut about the cloud.
Prince Freckles snorts when he sees me enter the stables, but it’s a welcome snort rather than a judgy one. I drag the groom’s stool to his stall and unpack my lunch, glad to be ignored by the other horses and their soft, peaceful nickering. I’m probably breaking ten different health codes, and the taste of my egg salad sandwich and chocolate pudding cup are muted by the hay-and-animal smells, but the company is worth it.
“So you survived your first Lav-Oaks prom,” I say.
“Golf clap for you, buddy. That’s no easy feat.” 90
Speak for yourself! Prince Freckles paws at the dirt, hooves still coated with golden glitter.
“At least you lost the horn. It wasn’t doing you any favors.” I laugh when I remember the magic pixie dust photographer, the whole stupid setup with the pen and the hay and the fake disco lights. Ellie would’ve died—she would’ve convinced the photographer to let us do bestie poses on the horse, Ellie and Griffin and me riding bare-back in our prom night finery like a triple Xena, slightly more princess than warrior.
It wasn’t meant to be. If Ellie had been at prom, I would’ve spent my Saturday night with the undead instead of with the very-much-alive Cole Foster, absent the Xena pics but still in possession of my phone and my secrets and my best friend. The most important person in my life.
I have to fix this.
“Here’s some advice, horses.” I rise from the stool. In their stalls along the wall, the animals prick their ears, swat invisible flies with their tails. “Don’t ever get on Facebook.” Prince Freckles whinnies. Also maybe let’s not fall for our best friends’ boyfriends .
“You’re getting a little too smart.” I hand over the last of my lunch, an apple he gladly devours, and nuzzle the velvety gray patch between his eyes. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”
91
I’m back in the main building a total of thirty seconds, supremely mellow after my equestrian lunch date, when the death knell of the intercom buzzes through the halls:
“Lucy Vacarro, please report to Principal Zeff’s office.” 92
THE PAll IN PRINCIPAL
I s that hay ?” Jayla drops all pretense of composure and crinkles her nose as I enter the office. She’s perched on a chair across from Zeff’s oak desk, and beneath a floral headscarf and sunglasses that cover half her face, she looks like a kid playing dress up.
I cross my arms over my black tank top. “What are you doing here?”
“Have a seat, Miss Vacarro.” Zeff motions toward the adjacent chair. “I understand your parents are out of town.
Your sister kindly rearranged her schedule so that we might discuss the situation in person.”
Out of town?
Kindly?
Schedule?
93
“Situation?” I ask. Play dumb play dumb play dumb.
Ms. Zeff looks from me to Jayla, then back to me.
Normally I like Zeff. She’s been principal only five years, so she’s not all jaded and hateful yet, never invents reasons to bust us. She’s only about ten years older than Jayla, and just as pretty, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and honey-brown eyes. Decent, I usually say when my parents ask about her. Cool.
But for the first time in my life, I’m standing in her office, looking across the polished expanse of the desk, my throat
“the cloud”—even Griff was snickering about it in calculus when we were supposed to computing the force of fluid pressure on the marshmallows in Mrs. Smolinski’s Jell-O
mold.
Unlike our teachers, the Lav-Oaks rumor mill is operating at full capacity, and by lunchtime it’s clear that dining at my usual courtyard table with Cole and John—
especially with Ellie still out and those flyers covering every flat surface in the Centennial State—is not the way to make this scandal vanish. Instead, I make a date with the only classmate guaranteed to keep his maw shut about the cloud.
Prince Freckles snorts when he sees me enter the stables, but it’s a welcome snort rather than a judgy one. I drag the groom’s stool to his stall and unpack my lunch, glad to be ignored by the other horses and their soft, peaceful nickering. I’m probably breaking ten different health codes, and the taste of my egg salad sandwich and chocolate pudding cup are muted by the hay-and-animal smells, but the company is worth it.
“So you survived your first Lav-Oaks prom,” I say.
“Golf clap for you, buddy. That’s no easy feat.” 90
Speak for yourself! Prince Freckles paws at the dirt, hooves still coated with golden glitter.
“At least you lost the horn. It wasn’t doing you any favors.” I laugh when I remember the magic pixie dust photographer, the whole stupid setup with the pen and the hay and the fake disco lights. Ellie would’ve died—she would’ve convinced the photographer to let us do bestie poses on the horse, Ellie and Griffin and me riding bare-back in our prom night finery like a triple Xena, slightly more princess than warrior.
It wasn’t meant to be. If Ellie had been at prom, I would’ve spent my Saturday night with the undead instead of with the very-much-alive Cole Foster, absent the Xena pics but still in possession of my phone and my secrets and my best friend. The most important person in my life.
I have to fix this.
“Here’s some advice, horses.” I rise from the stool. In their stalls along the wall, the animals prick their ears, swat invisible flies with their tails. “Don’t ever get on Facebook.” Prince Freckles whinnies. Also maybe let’s not fall for our best friends’ boyfriends .
“You’re getting a little too smart.” I hand over the last of my lunch, an apple he gladly devours, and nuzzle the velvety gray patch between his eyes. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”
91
I’m back in the main building a total of thirty seconds, supremely mellow after my equestrian lunch date, when the death knell of the intercom buzzes through the halls:
“Lucy Vacarro, please report to Principal Zeff’s office.” 92
THE PAll IN PRINCIPAL
I s that hay ?” Jayla drops all pretense of composure and crinkles her nose as I enter the office. She’s perched on a chair across from Zeff’s oak desk, and beneath a floral headscarf and sunglasses that cover half her face, she looks like a kid playing dress up.
I cross my arms over my black tank top. “What are you doing here?”
“Have a seat, Miss Vacarro.” Zeff motions toward the adjacent chair. “I understand your parents are out of town.
Your sister kindly rearranged her schedule so that we might discuss the situation in person.”
Out of town?
Kindly?
Schedule?
93
“Situation?” I ask. Play dumb play dumb play dumb.
Ms. Zeff looks from me to Jayla, then back to me.
Normally I like Zeff. She’s been principal only five years, so she’s not all jaded and hateful yet, never invents reasons to bust us. She’s only about ten years older than Jayla, and just as pretty, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and honey-brown eyes. Decent, I usually say when my parents ask about her. Cool.
But for the first time in my life, I’m standing in her office, looking across the polished expanse of the desk, my throat