Free Bounce by Natasha Friend Page B

I feel the tiniest bit like Cinderella.
    Even Cleanser Boy notices. “Hey,” he says on our way to the car. “You clean up nice.”
    â€œThanks,” I say. “You, too.”
    He does. In a preppy, jock-boy sort of way. But whatever he put on for cologne is horrifying. Especially in an enclosed space. As soon as we get in the car, I open my window.
    Thalia is driving. She is in full substitute-parent form—tossing out little public service announcements the entire ride.
    Remember, kids, you don’t have to be high to have a high old time. And Cigarettes won’t make you look any cooler.
    Ajax laughs. “Our teachers are going. You really think they’ll be serving up martinis and matches?”
    â€œI was in eighth grade once,” Thalia says. “I know what happens at these things. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid.”
    She looks at us in the rearview mirror. “Got it?”
    Ajax raises one fist in the air. “Take a Stand for a Drug-Free Land.”
    I place a hand over my heart. “Count on Me to Be Drug-Free.”
    â€œGood,” Thalia says. She pulls up to the curb and says she’ll be back to get us at ten.
    Ajax lets out a groan. “Ten? Come on. It ends at eleven.”
    Thalia turns around and smiles. “Sisters: The Anti-Drug.”
    The Thorne School for Boys looks exactly like the March School for Girls. Only the smell is different, like mayonnaise and feet.
    About fifty people are gathered in the gym, and I can see that Clara Bing was right. Nobody’s dancing. All the girls are standing in little clumps against one wall, whispering to one another, while the boys are on the other side, stuffing chips into their mouths.
    One look around and you can tell the decorating committee didn’t exactly break a sweat. There aren’t any streamers or balloons or anything, just a couple of lame signs.
    THORNE FALL SOCIAL: PLAY THE ARCADE, DRINK LEMONADE.
    HEY MARCH GIRLS, DANCE YOUR SOCKS OFF, BRING YOUR XBOX.
    Xbox.
    A video-game theme. This is how they impress us.
    Mackey would be thrilled.
    In the bathroom, Andrea is surrounded by the usualheadbands. But there seems to be a new fashion trend tonight: braids. Also, tennis dresses.
    They’re all staring at themselves in the mirror. When they put on mascara, their mouths make little pink O’s of concentration.
    Andrea sees me. “Hi, Evelyn,” she says, but she doesn’t turn away from her reflection.
    â€œHi,” I say.
    â€œIs Ajax here?”
    â€œYeah.” My tongue feels like sandpaper.
    â€œIn the gym?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œGood.” Andrea smoothes on some lip gloss and smacks her lips together. She hands her purse to a girl in a pink tennis dress and spins around. “Ladies?”
    She says this and everyone snaps to attention. She walks out the door and everyone follows.
    By the time we get to the gym, music is blaring. But still no one is dancing.
    The boys have migrated from the snack table to the “arcade” at the far end of the gym. It is a sad sight—only three games, and one of them is pinball.
    On the bleachers, most of the boys are playing handhelds by themselves, which they could be doing in their own living rooms. I notice that Ajax isn’t playing anything. He’s standingin center court with a bunch of other eighth-grade boys, doing what they do best: stealing one another’s hats, punching one another’s shoulders, burping. I watch them for a while, sickly fascinated. They can’t stop moving for a second. They have to be hitting one another, or dodging out of the way, or grabbing their crotches at all times.
    One of them has his hands down his pants at this very moment, making adjustments.
    Eighth-grade boys are gross. It’s a wonder girls want anything to do with them.
    Was Linus like this when he was their age? I can’t imagine it. He’s so much cooler than they are. Not