Free My Invented Life by Lauren Bjorkman

about becoming one of her projects. I bookmark a few recipes at random so she’ll imagine I spent an hour poring over them instead of plotting ideas how to get back at Eva. Which is what I embark upon immediately after holing up in my room.
    The ancient Save the Whales poster on my wall sparks an idea, and I scour my desk drawers for blank bumper stickers. I used to print my own slogans on them, things like RECYCLE OR DROWN IN GARBAGE . In my final campaign, I waged war against people who park illegally in handicapped spaces. I lurked in our supermarket parking lot hoping for a chance to use my I’M TOO LAZY TO WALK bumper sticker. When I saw a man jog into the store from the blue zone, I slapped one onto the back of his car. I didn’t notice the geezer in the passenger seat until the man returned with a newspaper and unloaded a wheelchair from the back. Can you spell
mortification
?
    This time I’ll be more careful. While I print up a batch, I listen for Eva the Diva’s return from cheerleading practice. The front door slams, and I follow the trail of sound—the refrigerator door sucking shut, the rustle of a plastic bag of tortilla chips, and the clang of a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. Eva’s room door opens and closes. By the time I get there, it’s locked.
    “Lesbian Report,” I announce in my loudest voice short of yelling.
    She opens the door fast. “Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear?” she says.
    The sight of Marshmallow curled prettily on her pillow irks me.
    “So what’s your deal messing me up onstage?” I ask. “I could tell Sapphire.” But I won’t, and she knows I won’t. I push past her and shut the door behind me.
    “If you’re truly star material, Chub, nothing should faze you.”
    The skin in the middle of my back prickles, and I peel off my shirt. “Well, I’m not giving up the lead, if that’s your plan.”
    “Doing a striptease for P. Tom?” she asks.
    “Something’s crawling on me.”
    Eva turns my shirt right side out and throws it at me. “Lesbian Report, huh? Just give it to me and get out.”
    I have her attention. “Okay,” I say, thinking fast. “I had this freaky dream last night. I was looking for a cute guy to dance with at this party. But there were only girls around me—on the sofa, in the kitchen, on the porch. That’s when I realized I was at a lesbian party.”
    “That’s it?” Eva says. She straightens her gymnastics trophy.
    “No,” I say. “I felt really out of place at the party. Like I had a secret I couldn’t tell anyone. After I woke up, it hit me. Lesbians who aren’t out must feel that way at regular parties.”
    Eva looks like she wants to bean me with a trophy. I hope she doesn’t use the volleyball league one because it’s four feet tall. “You made that up, Chub. You think that if you pretend to be understanding, I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”
    “Whatever,” I say. “Next L Report item. I talked to Eyeliner Andie about your lesbian book.”
    “That pothead? You can’t believe anything she says.”
    “She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
    “Oh,” Eva says. She pauses. “Maybe someone else lent me the book.” She turns toward the barre. I meet her eyes in the mirror.
    “There’s a rumor that Andie is a lesbian,” I say. “Do you think it’s true?”
    Eva’s gaze slides away from mine. “How would I know?”
    “Just tell me. Anything. I won’t judge you. It’s not like it matters if you’re a lesbian. Or if she is. A lot of people choose that lifestyle.”
    “Lesbians don’t
choose
to be lesbians,” she says between her teeth.
    “It’s just an expression,” I say. “You hear it all the time. A lifestyle choice blah, blah, blah.”
    “Just because you hear something, doesn’t make it true. You don’t get anything.”
    “Fill me in, then,” I say.
    “Even if I had something to tell, I wouldn’t tell
you
.” She counts off twelve deep pliés before