Free The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball by Risa Green

“You lost your virginity to him? Oh my God, you guys, Fart Girl and the Unabollmer are having sex!” Megan and her groupies crack up and everyone in line around us snickers. “I wonder what kind of baby they would have. Wait, I know. What do you get when you cross Fart Girl with the Unabollmer?”
    â€œWhat?” asks Brittany.
    â€œA stink bomb!” shouts Megan. “Get it?”
    Brittany and the others are suddenly in hysterics—obviously forced and fake—but somehow that makes it even worse. I glance over at Lindsay, whose eyes are welling up. I take her by the arm.
    â€œCome on,” I whisper to her. “Let’s get out of here. Don’t let them see you cry.”
    I start to lead her out of the line, in the opposite direction from Megan and her cronies. But Chris puts his arm out in front of us, blocking the way.
    â€œCome on, Chris, let us by,” I say to him in a low voice. But he ignores me and continues to stare at Megan. The cafeteria, which is normally so loud that a band could start playing in the corner and nobody would notice, is now so quiet that it’s almost eerie. At that moment I realize that it’s not just Lizzie, Matt, and Cole who are watching us. Rather, three hundred pairs of eyes are all glued to the small space that Lindsay, Chris, Megan, and I are occupying.
    â€œI hope you’re enjoying this,” Chris says in a loud, steady voice, “because one day, you’re going to be a fat ugly housewife who peaked in high school.”
    â€œYeah, and I still wouldn’t be interested in you, bomber boy.” Madison, Chloe, and Brittany giggle at Megan’s stupid comeback (I’m sorry, but did she not just agree that she would become a fat ugly housewife who peaked in high school?), while Chris gives her the finger, then extends his index finger so that the two together make a V. He points them at his eyes, then at Megan, then back at his eyes.
    â€œI’m watching you,” he says, then turns on his heels and strides out of the cafeteria.
    ***
    Lindsay makes it as far as the hallway, and then she bursts into tears.
    â€œI hate her,” she sobs. “I wish she would get run over by a car.”
    â€œI know,” I whisper. I’ve learned by now that when Lindsay is upset about Megan, the best thing to do is to just agree with her. Telling her that she does not actually wish that Megan would get run over by a car will only prolong the agony.
    We sit down in the hallway with our backs against the wall, and Lindsay splays her feet out in front of her. But I’m in a miniskirt, so I lock my knees together and tuck my legs to the side. The last thing I need right now is to be flashing the whole school my day-of-the-week underwear. Especially since I’m wearing the wrong day.
    â€œOh no,” Lindsay says. She straightens up and wipes at her eyes, then runs her hand over her hair to smooth it out.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s Spencer Ridgely,” Lindsay whispers. “He’s walking straight toward us.”
    I turn my head slowly, so as not to be too obvious. Sure enough, there he is: all six feet, two inches of total hotness. I stare at his dark wavy hair, his bright green eyes, his GQ cheekbones. He really is ridiculously good-looking. What do people that good-looking even think about? Not us, for one thing. Which is a relief, in a way. Especially right now, when Lindsay is still all splotchy from crying.
    â€œLindsay, please,” I say. “He doesn’t even—”
    â€œHe’s staring at your thighs,” she breathes.
    I whip around to see what she’s talking about, and my boring mud-brown eyes lock with the most spectacular emerald-colored irises I’ve ever seen. I’m too stunned to move or speak or even to look away, and Spencer Ridgely—yes, the Spencer Ridgely—flashes me a cocky, lopsided grin.
    â€œSmexy,” he comments, looking my legs