Free Trauma Queen by Barbara Dee

pull on my Wile E. Coyote tee. Then I sort of shuffle out of the wheelchair stall like, Yawn, I just woke up.
    â€œOh, hi,” I say casually. I pretend to clear my throat again, but this just makes me sound like Mr. Hubley, so I stop.
    â€œMarigold?” Jada is staring. “Was that you?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWere you listening to us?”
    â€œWhat? No,” I say, my brain scrambling for an explanation. How could I possibly be hanging out in the wheelchair stall and not hear a single word of their conversation? Improvise, I hear Mom’s voice say. Just see where it takes you. “I was meditating. I always meditate before homeroom.”
    Megan laughs. “Seriously?”
    â€œOh, yes. I do a ton of yoga. It centers me.”
    They stare.
    â€œAnd grounds me. And helps me . . . (focus!) focus.”
    Ashley points at my chest. “Like on getting dressed?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour top is inside out.”
    â€œOh.” I look down. “Whoops.” Another wardrobe fiasco, and I can’t even blame this one on Mom.
    â€œThat’s really, really embarrassing,” Ashley points out. “You should be so glad we noticed.”
    â€œI am. Thanks a lot.”
    â€œBecause two days in a row . . .” She looks at Megan, who shakes her skinny head like, Yeah. What a loser .
    My eyebrows spring into action.
    â€œListen, Marigold,” Jada says, fixing me with her hyper-sympathetic brown eyes. “In case you did overhear our conversation, and I’m not accusing you of spying or anything, you should probably know we were talking about Quinn Rieger.”
    â€œOkay,” I say quickly. I pretend to be flicking my hair out of my face, but actually I’m wiping sweat droplets before they start running down my nose. “Thanks for telling me. But it’s actually none of my—”
    â€œYou two had lunch together yesterday,” Ashley interrupts. “Don’t you remember?”
    They were watching where I sat? “Oh, right. I did. She doesn’t say very much.”
    â€œThat’s what you think,” Megan says.
    â€œAnyway.” Jada smiles at me sweetly, “You just moved in and you don’t really know anyone yet. So trust us on this: Be incredibly careful.”
    â€œOkay, thanks,” I say. Flick.
    â€œDon’t feel sorry for Quinn,” Ashley says. “And make sure you don’t tell her anything superpersonal.”
    Megan nods. “And no matter how innocent she acts or what she says—”
    The bathroom door bangs open. It’s Layla. When she sees us, she grunts. Then she marches into the middle stall and slams the door.
    Ashley and Megan give each other a look, but Jada just keeps smiling at me. “We can talk about this later,” she says. “We’ll save you a seat at lunch.”
    â€œThanks.” That’s it, I have GOT to stop using this word. “But I sort of made plans today,” I add desperately.
    â€œOkay, so tomorrow,” Jada says, like she’s writing it on her mental calendar. “Well, you guys, it’s almost homeroom; we’d better go. Don’t forget your top, Marigold.”
    Then poof , the three of them are gone.
    I let out a long, overdue breath and catch myself in the mirror. Not only is my tee inside out, but my jeans are unzipped, and my hair is all mussed and staticky from pulling clothes over my head. I look like an electrified zombie, which leads directly to the question: Why does Jada want me to eat at her table? So she can tell me more scary things about Quinn? What if I really, really don’t want to hear them?
    The middle stall door bangs open.
    Layla looks surprised. “You’re still here.”
    â€œUh, yeah,” I say.
    â€œWhy? Don’t you want to run after them?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œTo join the pack.”
    â€œExcuse me, but I’m not a dog.”
    â€œI didn’t