Free Trauma Queen by Barbara Dee Page A

say you were a dog ,” Layla says, squirting soap on her hands. “I just meant Jada never travels alone.” She rinses carefully, then rubs her hands dry on her ripped jeans. “So? You’re going to sit with them tomorrow? And the day after? And the day after that?”
    This is so insane I have to laugh. “I don’t plan my lunches three days in advance. Why are you asking?”
    She shrugs. She checks her mascara in the mirror. “I think your shirt looks cool like that,” she says.
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYeah. Inside out is ironic.”
    Great. Now my cheeks are burning. “It’s not supposed to be ironic. It’s Wile E. Coyote.”
    â€œOh.” She runs her hands through the orange streak in her hair. “Then you actually like cartoons.”
    â€œJust classic Looney Tunes. And The Simpsons . Why? Is that okay with you?”
    â€œHey, like whatever you want.” She turns and looks right into my eyes, almost the way Mom does. “Quinn didn’t do anything wrong,” she says seriously. “So don’t believe what Jada tells you.”
    â€œShe didn’t tell me anything,” I protest, but Layla is already gone, kicking the door open with her pointy black boots.

Greasy Fingers
    I’m usually an expert at imagining disaster, but all morning long, whenever I wonder what Quinn could have done to totally ruin Jada’s life, I draw a blank. And not because of what Layla said about not believing Jada; because somehow I know in my stomach that Quinn is innocent. I keep peeking at her—the way she tucks her wispy hair behind her ears, the way she chews on the cap of her pen, the way she looks up from her desk every once in a while, like she’s afraid to catch people giving her the evil eye. But no one is ever looking at her; no one is even talking to her except Layla, and in class Layla is not what you would call chatty.
    And then I watch Jada, laughing loudly, talking loudly, surrounded not just by Megan and Ashley, but by a rotating bunch of fashionista girls, and also a few of the jockiest boys. There’s no way, I tell myself, that Quinn could be terrorizing Jada. Because just look at them: Alpha Girl and Outcast. Popular, Powerful, Pretty Girl and Girl Who Looks Like She’s Going to Puke.
    And I think: Whoa. Now I’m sounding just like Mom . Deciding who’s right and who’s wrong, who’s good and who’s bad, based on zero information, on how my stomach feels. I should stay out of this war, because I can’t possibly have any clue what’s going on. Also (no: mainly) because my only goal at Crampton Middle should be to keep a low profile, not make any enemies, and ride out what’s left of the school year.
    So at lunch I get a tray and park it smack in the middle of four girls from my gym class. They smile in a nice way and ask how it’s going, how do I like Crampton so far, and isn’t it gross how much the gym teacher sweats? Then they start talking about some TV show I don’t watch. I’m thinking okay, well, who cares if I’m in the conversation, at least I’ve got camouflage, like a black-and-white horse hanging out in a herd of zebras.
    But all of a sudden this fifth girl runs over and drags them off to a different table. Which means now I’m sitting here, exposed, surrounded by four deserted seats. And three tables away, Jada and Ashley and Megan and maybe ten of their closest friends are eating pizza, laughing their heads off. I’m pretty sure they haven’t spotted me yet, but it’s probably just a matter of time.
    â€œThese taken?” someone demands. I look up. Layla is standing in front of me, scowling, not even holding a tray. Incredibly, Quinn is right behind her, balancing a small leaning tower of Tupperware containers.
    â€œI don’t think so. They were taken a minute ago,” I add, as if that matters.
    They sit. Quinn tucks her