Free So Not Happening by Jenny B Jones Page A

about that?”
    If he gives me the whole frowning-uses-more-muscles statistic again, I think I will projectile-vomit through the digital sound waves.
    “Tell your dad all about Truman.”
    I give him the abbreviated rundown, tidying up the blog-leakage story but still giving him the important details.
    “People here want to run me out of town.” I twirl Moxie's stuffed mouse in front of her face. She only blinks and goes back to growling at her tail. “I was thinking I could move in with you for a while. Maybe try this again next year.” Or never.
    Silence crackles in my ear. “Bella . . . I love you. You know that.”
    Here we go.
    “But my therapist says I'm in a selfish phase, and that's just not a good environment for you—not full-time anyway.”
    It's good enough for his bimbo-of-the-month club.
    “This is a learning experience for you. Your mom called me Friday, and we both agree that you need to walk through the consequences of your actions.”
    Walk through the ... ?
    “No, I don't! Yes, I get that posting my rant about Truman for the whole world to see was stupid. I won't do it again. Lesson learned. Send me a plane ticket.”
    “I'm sorry, Bel. I really am. But I'll see you in a few weeks.”
    “Yeah. Whatever.” And I disconnect from my dad.
    Just like he's disconnected from my life.

chapter thirteen
    W hen I enter the kitchen Monday morning, Budge is sneezing all over the table.
    “Gross. Cover your mouth.” Neanderthal.
    He lasers me with a glare, then sneezes again, sending Moxie scampering for safer, quieter territory.
    “Bless you.” Robbie smiles at his brother. “Did you know that saying probably comes from the days of the bubonic plague?”
    I glare at Budge. He is the plague.
    Mom sits down, a nervous look on her face, and rubs my back. At last! I finally get some sympathy around here. “Honey, I have some bad news for you.”
    I grab the bowl of oatmeal she slides my way and inhale its mapley goodness. “You mean something worse than today I'm going to go to school and be pelted with insults, spit wads, and stray pieces of gravel? I won't have anyone to sit with at lunch, and everyone in class will shun me and egg my car? Oh, wait. I don't have a car.”
    “Um, yes, there's more.”
    I drop my spoon.
    “Sweetie, Budge is allergic to Moxie.”
    He sneezes on cue.
    “So? He can get some shots or something.”
    He stands up and takes his bowl to the sink. “Or you get rid of your cat.”
    I grab my mom's arm. “What? No!”
    “I'm really sorry, but he's tolerated the cat for as long as he could. He didn't want to upset you.”
    Budge stands behind Mom and smiles. He's evil! Evil, I tell you!
    “He lives to upset me. You can't make me get rid of Moxie. She's all I have.”
    “I wouldn't go that far,” Mom says.
    “Well, I would. She and I have been together through thick and thin. And she's special—not just anyone would know that you have to moisten her food. Not just anyone would dig out her toys when she loses them. Not just anyone would know that she needs extra pets when she walks into walls or falls off of staircases. Moxie needs me!”
    “Bella, we are part of this family now, and we have to make decisions that benefit everyone.”
    “Besides,” Budge adds, “it's gross to have a cat in the house.”
    “Oh yeah, because you Finley guys are really into hygiene and tidiness. Moxie could get lost in the dust in your room alone.”
    Budge rears back and blasts another sneeze.
    “That's so fake! Look at him—how can you buy into this?”
    “Jake will find Moxie a good home, Bel.”
    I stand up, my chair squawking across the linoleum floor. “Tell him to find me one too.” And I race upstairs.

    Knowing I'd rather dance in the front yard topless than ride to school with Budge, Mom drives me herself.
    “Have a good day, Bella.”
    For seconds I stare at her. It's like telling someone on death row to keep her chin up. Closing the door, I walk away.
    God, please get me