Free Cycler by Lauren McLaughlin Page B

I spot its bluish green twin on my left hip. I take down the note taped to the corner of the mirror. “Hey, Jill. Sorry things didn’t work out for you at the Bump. Maybe you should try something truly radical, like being yourself. Just a thought. Anyway, I do appreciate the porn. How about some DVDs next time? I like brunettes. Oh, and sorry about the bruises. I was doing yoga. Got carried away. Love, Jack.”
    Love,
Jack? What a suck-up. And how gross is it that he knows about the Bump, that he knows about my life at all? Plus what’s with showing up early? I turn the note over and write “Stop invading my phase! I’m on a tight schedule here!”
    Then I realize how stupid that is. It’s not as if he controls these things. I grab some paper from my desk and write, “Sure. No problem. I’ll ask Mom for more naked brunettes. Hey, while you’re exercising, how about trying to do something about this arm flab?”
    I almost write “Love, Jill,” but it feels smarmy, so I just write “Jill.”

    Over French toast, I ask Mom for the porn DVDs, which she agrees to after casting a cold but ambiguous glance at Dad. I have not been entirely successful in my avoidance of Baron von Box-of-Porn, as he tends to be underfoot now and then. I suppose I shouldn’t blame him for hoarding it, though. I’m sure he gets nothing from Mom. I deeply hate having psychologically complex parents. Have I told you that?
    The French toast is yummy as always, but I do not linger over breakfast. I drive to school early and hide out in homeroom to avoid running into Tommy Knutson before Ramie and I can strategize damage control. It’s Friday, so I just have to get through one day before a weekend-long brainstorming session can commence.
    As Mrs. Schepisi and the other students filter in, I get nervous that Ramie’s ditching school. But just as the late bell rings, she rushes in. Let me paint a picture for you: vintage sailor’s cap, super-skinny white jeans (it’s early April, for crying out loud), her dad’s blue button-down shirt and a long ribbon of black grosgrain wound around her torso and thighs like she’s in an S and M movie.
    Eliciting the usual snide comments and chuckles from our homeroom crowd, which she ignores, Ramie slides into the seat next to me just as Mrs. Schepisi closes the homeroom door.
    “Nice look,” I tell her.
    She pulls back and gives me the up and down. “Blue cashmere sweater set again?” she says. “Nice jeans, though. Hem them shorter. Ankle length. It’s the new black.”
    “Along with Chubby Chic?” I say. “Anyway, what’s the word on the street?”
    She scoots her metal desk closer, leans over and lowers her voice. “On Tuesday he asked me where you were.”
    My stomach flips over.
    “I told him you were out sick. I didn’t want to get into the whole blood transfusion thing, but he did ask why you miss so much school.”
    “What did you say?”
    The principal’s voice crackles over the ancient PA system with pointless announcements about yearbook meetings and an upcoming pep rally for the baseball team. Like anyone cares.
    “I told him you were a woman of many mysteries,” Ramie says.
    “Good improv.”
    “He did mention calculus,” she says. “Are you tutoring him?”
    I take a few deep breaths and release the tension from my body. It looks like, fingers crossed, I have survived the J-bar incident with at least enough dignity for Tommy Knutson to risk being seen with me for tutoring.
    “You should meet him today,” Ramie says. “At lunch. I’ll make myself scarce so you can do sticky eyes over sines and cosines. Mmmm . . . sexy.”
    “That’s trig, not calculus, you math dunce,” I say. “How’s my hair?” I turn to the side so she can see.
    “Looks like it always looks.”
    “New conditioner,” I tell her. “Hey, we’re abandoning the Lexie Oswell routine, okay?”
    “About time,” Ramie says. “It’s so not you.”
    “Yeah, being an uptight snob is harder than