Free Fat Vampire by Adam Rex Page B

whisper as she passed if Sejal had ever read the Kama Sutra . Maybe the same boy.
    â€œDude, I think she heard you!” said another. Laughter all around.
    That’s what I get , she thought. It hadn’t been necessary to walk among them all like that. She could have skirted around the side, but she’d made the effort to be visible, to be an actual actor in the actual world. As if, as the new girl, she reallyneeded to give them an excuse to stare.
    She dipped her head, let her hair fall in front of her face.
    She had to remind herself of one of the points her psychoanalyst was always trying to drive home: that the internet was less inviting, that it was even more critical. Her conspicuous stroll through the cafeteria of the internet would have started a flame war. Each nasty comment would burn like a match against her skin. How could she miss the warmth of all those matches?
    She exited the cafeteria and walked toward a large tree in the center of the quad, drawn to a shining, friendly face like a smiley. A face that seemed just now to be lit with the divine light of the universe.
    â€œThere she is!” said Cat. Cat stood and invited Sejal to sit in the grass with a tight cluster of other kids.
    â€œHi,” said a girl with long, slender arms. “I’m Ophelia. Cat’s probably told you about me.”
    Cat had, in fact. She’d given Sejal a rundown of a dozen different names, most of which were promptly forgotten. Sejal shook Ophelia’s hand, let her eyes linger over the soft brown feathers and long pink bangs of her hair. Sejal wanted this haircut.
    â€œThis is Troy and Abby and Sophie and Adam and Phil,” Ophelia said, christening each with a flick of her wrist. They became more animated, as if made real by the gesture of Ophelia’s invisible wand.
    â€œWhere are you from again?” asked Sophie.
    â€œKolkata. In India.”
    â€œOhh,” said the girl with a sad tilt of her head.
    It was a response Sejal would hear a lot in the following weeks and which she would eventually come to understand meant, “Ohh, India , that must be so hard for you, and I know because I read this book over the summer called The Fig Tree (which is actually set in Pakistan but I don’t realize there’s a difference) about a girl whose parents sell her to a sandal maker because everyone’s poor and they don’t care about girls there, and I bet that’s why you’re in our country even, and now everyone’s probably being mean to you just because of 9/11, but not me although I’ll still be watching you a little too closely on the bus later because what if you’re just here to kill Americans?” There was a lot of information encoded in that one vowel sound, so Sejal missed most of it at first.
    â€œChrist, Sophie, my gyno is Indian,” said Ophelia. “Just because she’s from the Third World doesn’t mean she eats bugs. No offense if you do, Sejal.”
    â€œâ€™ Felia , you can’t call them Third World anymore,” said Troy. “It’s hurtful.”
    â€œSays who?”
    â€œMr. Franovich.”
    Ophelia farted through her teeth. “Franovich.”
    â€œWhat are we called, then?” asked Sejal.
    â€œA Developing Nation.”
    â€œHa!” said Ophelia. “Developing! Like they’re getting their boobies.”
    â€œIsn’t that one of your old dresses, Cat?” asked Abby, who was similarly attired.
    â€œThe airport lost my bag,” said Sejal, “but Cat and I wear the same size.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œThat’s sad,” said Sophie. “About your bag. You probably had all kinds of beautiful kimonos or robes or whatever.”
    â€œJust one sari,” said Sejal, “and a salwar kameez my mom made me pack. Mostly it was jeans and shirts.”
    â€œAnd your elephant god,” Cat reminded her.
    And that , Sejal thought with a guilty pang. The faces