Free Oddballs by William Sleator

beside Avis said.
    â€œAvis.”
    â€œHi. I’m Art, and this is Bob and Gary. I think Bob’s right; you’re wasting your time with those high school children.” He looked up at his friends. “What do you think? About Friday night, I mean.”
    â€œGreat idea,” Bob said.
    â€œFriday night?” Avis asked, unable to control her curiosity.
    â€œWe’re having a party on Friday night,” Art told her. “Why don’t you come? I mean, if your parents wouldn’t mind. We’d like to get to know you better. And you’d meet lots of interesting people.”
    â€œWe’ll make sure you have a great time,” Gary added encouragingly.
    â€œCome on, Eleanor,” Vicky said, standing up with determination. “Enough is enough.” They moved across the swaying streetcar aisle. Vicky smiled charmingly at the boys. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Vicky, and this is Eleanor. We’re really Avis’s friends.”
    The boys turned reluctantly away from Avis and regarded Vicky and Eleanor with silent hostility.
    Vicky brandished her dimples. “Uh, you know, that was just a game,” she explained. “Avis really is our best friend. Right, Avis?”
    Avis said nothing.
    Eleanor pushed back her long, white blonde hair. “We do this all the time, just kind of for laughs,” she said. “We’re all in it together, aren’t we, Avis?”
    Again, Avis said nothing.
    â€œFor laughs, huh?” Bob said, not sounding at all amused.
    â€œPretty juvenile sense of humor,” Art remarked.
    â€œIt’s a sign of deep insecurity, putting another person down to try to feel good about yourselves,” Gary pointed out.
    â€œAnyway, we were in the middle of a conversation,” said Art, the gorgeous one beside Avis. “Would you mind letting us continue it?”
    â€œAvis, tell them !” Vicky insisted.
    â€œTell them what?” Avis asked her, sounding completely innocent. “That you two walk around with yer noses in the air, treatin’ me as if I was dirt? And then these three young men start treatin’ me like a ’uman bein’, and suddenly yer all cozy and sweetsy?” She folded her arms across her chest.
    â€œ Avis !” Vicky cried out in furious, powerless frustration. “The game is over! Stop it! Just tell them the truth !”
    Art sighed, giving Vicky a disgusted look, and turned back to Avis, who smiled sweetly at him. “This is our stop,” he said. He tore a page out of his notebook and wrote on it. “Here’s our address and phone number. Call us if you need a lift on Friday.”
    The three boys got up, brushing rudely past Vicky and Eleanor. “Bye, Avis. See you on Friday,” they said, grinning engagingly at her, and dismounted the streetcar with casual college-boy aplomb.
    Now Avis was the only one laughing. “I just couldn’t resist ,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out. “I mean … when … when would another opportunity like that ever come along?”
    â€œAvis, we are never going to forgive you,” Vicky said, fuming. “Will we, Eleanor?”
    â€œNever,” Eleanor agreed. “What’s their address, Avis?”

Leah’s Stories
    When I was in high school, I got to know a strange, smart girl named Leah Moses. She had coarse black hair, an oily complexion, and thick glasses. Though she had independently styled her appearance like the girls in our group—long hair, no makeup—she was never accepted as a member of our circle. Most of our friends couldn’t stand her because she was such a pretentious intellectual snob.
    Bart and Nicole and I were the only ones who ever spent any time with Leah at all. Partly, the three of us felt sorry for her. Leah was truly an outcast, not one by choice, like Vicky. Nor were her shabby clothes an affectation, as ours were: Leah’s