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someone isn't royally screwed.
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She's royally pardoned.
"Yo, Pearson!" We all looked over to the door where Kathryn Ford and two of her attendants
stood. Even from across the room her smile was blinding. "Are you coming or what?"
"You know it," Co
Dave and Jessica, Matt and Madison started making out again. It seemed nothing would put an
end to their lip locks, until Co
go!" he said, yanking hard at the leather. And then Dave was pulling on Matt's jacket and
suddenly-- poof! --all three of them were gone.
No one said anything for a minute after the guys left, and then Jessica turned in my direction.
"Wow, you're really, like, into basketball, aren't you?"
Could that be curiosity in her tone? Hey, you're the new girl who's in my math class. I've really
let far too much time go by without getting to know you better. Tell us about your passion for
sport! I was unfamiliar with the social norms of my new habitat--was she friend or foe?
"Yeah," I said. I hated that my answer was so meek, as if I was waiting to see whether she
approved of it. I sat up straighten "I'm a huge fan." I was prepared to defend my leisure activity to the death.
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This, apparently, would not be necessary. "Cool," said Jessica. Then she turned from me to
Madison. "Did you see Co
"Oh my god," said Madison. "I give it a month, tops, before they get together."
"A month?" said Jessica. "Try a week. You should have heard her. She was all, 'I heard the
Knicks are having a great season,' and he was all, 'This could be their year.'"
"Like Kathryn suddenly cares about basketball," said Madison.
"Like anyone cares about basketball," said Jessica. And she bit down emphatically on a baby carrot.
I wanted to say something about the pleasures of basketball, what it's like to lose yourself in a
really great game, to watch your team come up from behind to score an unexpected victory, to
see a player you've been doubting for months suddenly find his rhythm. There was so much I
could have said.
But I'd already said more than enough. I finished my sandwich and the article and gathered up
my trash, not surprised that neither Jessica nor Madison acknowledged my leaving.
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Chapter Three
When it was just me and my dad, we used to eat at any old time, but as far as Mara's concerned,
if you don't sit down to a hot meal at seven on the dot, you're some kind of irredeemable savage.
And "sitting down to a meal" doesn't just mean sitting down. It means china, silver, candles, and elaborate floral arrangements. Mara quit her "job" (as a part-part-part-time PR consultant) about fifteen seconds after my dad proposed, so now she's free to expend massive quantities of time
and energy obsessing about important food-related accessories, such as crème brulée ramekins
and something called demitasse spoons. Once, she walked into the kitchen when I was eating lo
mein directly out of the carton with my fingers; she gasped and put her hand to her chest as if
she'd found me gnawing on a human head.
As usual no one said much to me all through
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di
fashion trends. I couldn't exactly be upset about being ignored since my other option was to be
enlightened about the ways I am physically and/or sartorialy repulsive.
After di
holding a pile of dishes I'd carried in from the dining-room table. I dumped the dishes in the sink
and grabbed the receiver.
"Hey, Goose, how's it going?" asked my dad when I answered.
"Okay," I said.
"How was school?"
Even though my dad asks me that every time we talk, I can tell he doesn't really want to know
the truth. I mean, who wants to hear his daughter is a social pariah? Instead of lingering on the
gory details of my unsocial life, I told him how Co
going to beat L.A.
"Wow, those Glen Lake kids really are stupid," he said.
"Not to mention totally gross," I said, and I launched into a description of the make-out session I'd witnessed at lunch. Halfway through my verbal rendition of the couples' game of doubles
tonsil-te
across the tri-state area from their mother's laptop, interrupted.
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"Are you talking about Jessica Johnson?" she asked. "Wait, hold on," I said to my dad. I turned around. "What?"
"I said are you talking about Jessica Johnson? Because she's totally awesome," she said.
I heard my dad calling my name through the receiver. "Hang on a sec," I said, still looking at
Princess One. "How do you know Jessica Johnson?" I asked.
Princess Two sighed and blew a stream of air up at her bangs. "Hel- lo! She's only, like, Je
Princesses' best friend. Like the chairmanship of the European Union, this position rotates
periodically.
"Wait a second, you're telling me there are parents around here whose last name is Johnson who
actually named their children Je
"Jason," the Princesses said in unison.
I started laughing. "What?" they asked, looking at me.
"You don't think it's kind of stupid to give all your kids names that begin with the same letter as
their last name?" I asked.
" I like it," said Princess Two. "It's classy."
I was about to say it was as classy as a porn star, but by now my dad was practically screaming
my name.
"Sorry," I said, putting the receiver back up
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to my ear. "I just had to navigate some Long Island lunacy."
When my dad and Mara decided to get married, there was this whole debate about where we
should live. Because the Princesses' dad lives the next town over and they have about twice as
much time left in school as I do, the decision was made that my dad and I would depart San
Francisco rather than subjecting the Princesses to a potentially traumatic relocation across the
Mississippi River. If you ask me, this was a huge mistake, since leaving the 516-area code is the
only thing that could have saved my stepsisters from growing up to be Humvee-driving, acrylic-
nail wearing, soap-opera addicted housewives.
Unfortunately for them, nobody asked me.
"So," said my dad, "did you see the Times? Stanford's looking pretty good. I think this could be their year." My dad, who went to Stanford, has a loyalty to his alma mater that I can only
describe as perverse. In spite of the fact that their team has not even made it close to the NCAA
finals in decades, he continues to bet on them year after year.
Before I could answer, I heard a click, which meant Mara had picked up the extension in the den.