Free Into the Wild Nerd Yonder by Julie Halpern Page B

costume (or a doomed punk party). I love the way it seems to change color depending on what colors are near it, like a chameleon. I slip into some sequined flats (I might as well go sparkly all the way), and knock on the bathroom door to retrieve Barrett. He decided he’d rather drive me than force me to get a ride with some freak (not that that was even an option), and after that he’ll head out into unknown, cheerleading waters.
    My knock pushes open the door to reveal Barrett leaning over the sink, clippers in hand. All but a tiny tuft of hair above his forehead remains of his once-glorious mohawk.
    “Just give me one more second,” he says, and
BZZZZ
, the mohawk is gone. “Ta-da!” He holds out jazz hands to display his newly shorn head.
    “Back to basics, then?”
    “Good for new jobs, college interviews, and dates with prepster hotties.”
    “Don’t go changing just to impress Chloe Romano.” I’m disappointed at the thought.
    “It’s not for her, Jess,” he says as he grabs clumps of hair and stuffs them into a grocery bag. “She loves the mohawk. I think she likes the idea that she’s going out with some weirdo. But I’m tired of being the weirdo. I’m tired of living up to everyone’s expectations of coolness. I’m so over it.” He runs thewater in the sink to wash away the remaining hairs. “Are you ready to go?”
    I nod and feel more alone than ever. My big brother, who I could always count on to make me feel cool by association, has abandoned the punk-rock ship for preppier waters. Tonight I’m invading full-on punk territory, without my big brother and with two girls who no longer resemble my friends. At least my skirt is cute.
     
     
    Bizza gets into Barrett’s car, and I just about throw up. She’s not wearing a shirt. All she’s got on is some faux-sexy lacy black bra. And I’m not just saying it’s a shirt that looks like a bra. She’s wearing a friggin’ bra. And a kilt.
    “You forgot something,” I tell her as she plops into the backseat.
    “Ha-ha,” she retorts. Without hesitation, she rubs Barrett’s newly shorn head. “We’re twins,” she sings merrily.
    “Not really,” he says. “I’m wearing a shirt.”
    The funny thing is, and I’m not just saying this to be bitchy (well, maybe a little), Bizza doesn’t even look good with her shirt off. It’s not that she’s sporting a severe kilt muffin top or anything; it’s that her bra, sexy or not, is barely, well, filled. One of my greatest triumphs over Bizza is that I at least have an average (to above average when I’m bloated from my period) sized chest. Bizza never developed as much in that area,and her attempt at sexy doesn’t work as well as she’d like. I’m trying not to think “score one for Jessie,” but it’s hard not to when her not-so-ample bosom is staring the world in the face.
    We pick up Char, who’s decked out in a bizarre tight green jumpsuit (which she completely pulls off), and follow the faint sound of thumping bass until it crescendos at Van’s house. “Last Stop: Punker Junction,” Barrett announces in his train conductor voice.
    “Thanks, B,” Bizza says as she slams her way out of the car. Barrett turns to me and mouths, “B?” I shrug and say good-bye to my abandoning brother.
    Funky, junked-up cars covered in punk band bumper stickers litter the driveway and street. I walk three steps behind Bizza and Char and consider turning around and chasing Barrett down before he gets too far. Then I see Van standing outside his front door, having a cigarette and greeting people as they arrive. He looks annoyingly beautiful in his native habitat, and he even changed his shirt for the occasion: a vintage tee telling everyone to “Save the Humans.”
    Bizza and Char arrive at Point Van, and Bizza pulls Van’s ear close to her mouth. She whispers something, and he smiles slyly. As she continues her sweet nothings, Van looks directly at me. His smile grows into a friendly,