Free Project Paper Doll by Stacey Kade Page A

usual.
    Jenna had received special permission to go to her locker early to continue the clean-up efforts that the janitorial staff had started yesterday. Apparently, hemorrhoid cream doesn’t come off so easily.
    She’d called me last night in tears, pleading with me to meet her at her locker, for moral support. How could I say no? It didn’t seem inherently risky, and I had to go that way to get to my own locker anyway. No big deal.
    But I hadn’t gotten more than fifteen feet inside the main doors before I heard my name being whispered several times in quick succession, and then a surprising lull in conversation, which was usually only prompted by the arrival of the principal or the start of an argument that everyone wanted to hear.
    I looked up and found dozens of faces—all blurring together in an unrecognizable mass—turned toward me in a way I hadn’t seen outside of my nightmares.
    I might have panicked, thinking they were finally on to me, except no one was running away. No one was screaming.
    If anything, they were edging slightly closer, as if they wanted to get a closer look at some kind of spectacle or celebrity.
    I dropped my guard and listened, trying to pull relevant thoughts from the muddle of excitement and noise.
    …what her locker is going to look like?
    That’s her.
    …told Rachel Jacobs off.
    I would NOT want to be her.
    She is so dead .…
    Great. Word had spread about my little confrontation with Rachel yesterday, and now everyone wanted to stare at the girl who’d dared to go up against her. Even though I hadn’t been the one doing the provoking at all.
    Whatever.
    I fought my way through to the stairs and up to Jenna’s locker, ignoring the stares and whispers on the way.
    The area by Jenna’s locker had a crowd around it again, thinner than yesterday but more than enough. And they were all here for the same reason—to gawk at Jenna and the misfortune they were grateful had landed on her head instead of theirs.
    Vultures. She didn’t deserve it. She hadn’t done anything wrong. A flicker of fury at Rachel rose up in me. One day she’d get what she deserved even if I couldn’t be the one to bring it down on her.
    Through a gap in the crowd I could see Jenna standing at her locker, her shoulders slumped, radiating misery. She had her back to the people watching, and her movements were wooden and awkward as she bent down to pick up another industrial brown paper towel from the stack at her feet and wipe it in hopeless circles on the inside of her locker door. Even from where I was I could see she was only smearing the hemorrhoid cream around, making it worse.
    Where are you, Ariane? Hurry up! Jenna’s pleading thoughts pierced through the noise as if she’d shouted.
    I started toward her, determined to shove my way through the gawkers (and maybe crunch a few toes and knock a few ribs in the process), but then the memory of my father’s voice rang out in my head.
    We can’t afford any more mistakes.
    I stopped. If I pushed my way in to pull Jenna out, that would only set off another round of speculation and attention. It might even draw Rachel back to me. I couldn’t do that, couldn’t take the chance.
    I’d broken Rule #3 by getting involved, but I could avoid the possibility of making things worse, by following Rule #4 and keeping my head down.
    Except for Jenna… It would definitely be worse for Jenna. Her mental chanting of my name, like some kind of prayer, continued, a low-level buzz in my consciousness.
    I hesitated, shifting my feet, as people flowed around my middle-of-the-hall position with irritated sighs and muttered swear words.
    Jenna would be so hurt if I left her here to fend for herself. And she would cry. I hated it when she cried. It made me feel all panicky and unsure of what to do. Sometimes it even made my nose and eyes sting in sympathetic response. And I don’t cry. Or at least I haven’t in years.
    But my father was right. As much as I cared about