Free Only Girls Allowed by Debra Moffitt Page B

Piper said, raising her phone up high like it was a trophy she just won.
    We looked at her, waiting for the news. I figured it was yet another boy asking her out. They were getting hotter and older with each passing month of eighth grade.
    â€œThe Pink Locker Society is back in business,” Piper said. “Anna just texted us. The hackers are gone, so let’s get to work.”

 

    I should have been happy, and I was. But something about passing through that pink locker door took me back to the last time I was in that office. I could barely concentrate as we waded through more than three hundred questions. We had received on average a hundred per week, even though we were shut down. And one of them, quite obviously, was from Taylor. Grrrrrrr.
    The message said:
    Â 
    â€œHey, secret Pink Locker people, you should SERIOUSLY consider putting that awesome show
Gotcha!
on this Web site!”
    Forrest did tell me Taylor was on our Web site a lot, butseriously? The Pink Locker Society site will NEVER broadcast
Gotcha!
    I tried to put that out of my mind and dove back into embarrassing issues, starting with someone who was afraid to say she was scared to get braces. I could answer that one easily, having braces myself and knowing that it doesn’t hurt to get them on and it’s no big deal. But my mind kept drifting, drifting back to Forrest. I started to get really angry that he hadn’t said one word to me since that study hall in the PLS. I mean, what was up with that? I showed him something personal and really cool, and he doesn’t say anything? I wanted to poke him in the chest and, once and for all, get it on the table: I LIKE YOU FORREST MCCANN. DON’T YOU GET IT? ARE YOU BLIND?
    Ordinarily, Kate would talk me out of such foolishness. But there I was, locked in my own little head, unable to say anything to anyone. Even Piper would have talked sense into me, probably. But no, I forged ahead.
    I had no script this time, which turned out to be even more dangerous than having a script. Last time, I at least had the memory of what I wanted to say. This time I was just freestyling when I stopped him by the water fountain.
    â€œDon’t you have anything to say to me?”
    â€œHey, Jemma. What?”
    His green eyes were so clear when you got to look at them close. I realized right then that I hardly ever looked him square in the eye. I mean I looked at him from afar,but not straight on like that. I had so much I wanted to say. I wanted to just unravel right there in front of him.
    First I said, “Um . . . Um.” Then I said the first thing that came to mind:
    â€œI saw someone throw up in that water fountain once.”
    â€œNasty,” Forrest said. “It wasn’t today, was it?”
    Once I said no, he stopped and took a drink. Then he was gone again.
    Does it surprise you to learn how, that afternoon, a cold autumn rain poured down over Margaret Simon Middle School? What a perfect match to my mood. It rained extra hard when I was walking home from the bus stop—the kind of rain that gets you even under your umbrella. Thoughts of the restarted PLS Web site cheered me a little. But I couldn’t stop thinking of how I had just had an actual encounter with Forrest, and the subject I decided to discuss was puke.

 

    We truly were back in business. For a few days, we checked the Web site every few hours, like it was a sleeping baby. We wanted to be completely sure that the hackers were gone for good. Anna told us that she had to do a lot of patching, but she felt 95 percent confident that we were in the clear.
    â€œNot one hundred percent?” Edith had asked her on a recent conference call.
    We started to answer questions again, and our fan mail resumed. That helped us all to exhale and get back in our Pink Locker groove. During study hall, we answered question after question. And they just kept on coming. We started to think about fair ways of