Free What Happens Next by Colleen Clayton

screw himself a ginger, then tell everyone on Monday how much bigger her boobs are up close. I almost go nuclear on him but decide against it. I don’t need more drama. I’ve had enough drama to last me a hundred years.
    “Sorry, I have this family thing.”
    I screw up my lips, raise my shoulders, and try to appear bummed that I am unable to attend the festivities. His expression tells me that he is unmoved by thoughts of Murphy family bonding.
    “Well, get out of it,” he says. “You just got invited to a party at Hunter’s beach house. By me.”
    I fantasize briefly about punching him in the balls.
    And that’s when Starsha, who clearly heard Tate’s last remark, comes waltzing up to join us. And then, because God hates me, Kirsten strolls by, too.
    Starsha, Tate, and I are standing right outside the computer lab just as she passes. She sees the three of us huddled together, and a look of disgust flickers in her eyes right before she heads inside. She thinks I’m chumming it up with Starsha and Tate now.
    “Tate, what are you doing?” Starsha says. “Hunter’s party is not a Callahan Kegger, it’s exclusive. TBP only.”
    Yes, they call themselves that. TBP—which is short for The Beautiful People . An überpopular, Starsha/Tate–led faction of Lakewood High clones. This unforeseen bit of theatrics forces me to recount my history with Starsha, and the Sid/Starsha film of nostalgia plays on fast-forward in my brain. The primary years spent taunting me about my hair and height; the middle years spent taunting me about my premature boobs and ever-expanding rear; and then, finally, the fit she threw last year when I made it for cheerleading and Cameron Fitzpatrick, cheerleader since fifth grade, did not. I remember the campaign of terror designed to make me quit so that Cameron, relegated to first alternate, could be reunited with her beloved pom-poms. How Starsha called me fat at every practice and declared that cheerleading was for girls size three or smaller, that red hair was ugly, kinky red hair was super ugly, and I wasn’t just fat, I was obese. I remember cheer camp last summer when I had to stay in a dorm room by myself because Starsha wouldn’t let anyone bunk with me and forced everyone to treat me like a piece of breathing shit all day, every day for a solid week. I remember how my real friends, Kirsten and Paige, sent me a bouquet of sunflowers for moral support with a note attached: For the best cheerleader ever! Keep on kicking! I remember the relief when, after camp, Starsha finally threw in the towel, accepted the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere, and started rationalizing my usefulness by sticking me at the bottom of all the pyramids.
    It’s not glamorous, being the brawn at the bottom of the pyramids, but at least she didn’t break me. At least I didn’t quit. And things have cooled off somewhat. Mostly it’s just catty, harmless banter, the two of us being immature and thriving off our lifelong repartee. It’s been one of my fondest high school pastimes, actually, fighting with Starsha. When you’ve got best friends like Kirsten and Paige, it makes the shitty part of high school almost fun… the fighting with mean girls and not being popular, I mean. Well, it used to make it fun.
    Tate looks at Starsha. “What do you care, anyway? It’s not like you’ll be all busted up about it, sitting in Toronto with your dickhead boyfriend, Bradley .”
    “Really, Tate? You want to do this here? He’s my parents’ friend’s son. You’re being a child.”
    Then she points for him to go into the lab. He lets out a snort and slumps inside. Starsha turns and finally addresses me directly.
    “You’ll have to excuse Tate,” she says. “All that football has damaged his already fragile brain functioning.”
    “Whatever,” I say, turning to walk inside. Barbie and Ken are making my skin itch.
    “Wait. I wanted to talk to you,” she says, following behind me. “It’s important.”
    I