BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Praise
  4. About the Author
  5. Booklist
  6. Dedication
  7. Chapter One
  8. Chapter Two
  9. Chapter Three
  10. Chapter Four
  11. Chapter Five
  12. Chapter Six
  13. Chapter Seven
  14. Chapter Eight
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Part Two
  19. Chapter Twelve
  20. Chapter Thirteen
  21. Chapter Fourteen
  22. Chapter Fifteen
  23. Chapter Sixteen
  24. Chapter Seventeen
  25. Chapter Eighteen
  26. Chapter Nineteen
  27. Chapter Twenty
  28. Chapter Twenty-One
  29. Chapter Twenty-Two
  30. Chapter Twenty-Three
  31. Chapter Twenty-Four
  32. Chapter Twenty-Five
  33. Chapter Twenty-Six
  34. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  35. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  36. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Acknowledgments
  47. Excerpt from Dead Little Mean Girl by Eva Darrows

“Oh, I know. It’s gross, but boys are gross.”

As I tucked back into my lunch, my mind racing with thoughts of STDs and clinics and a couple hours of DNA swap, I could only hope boys weren’t that gross.

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Monday came, no clinic. Too much homework, I told myself. Plus, I was stewing over Jack. Sadly, Michelle didn’t know who he or Olly was, never mind where they were from. She looked at me blankly after I asked and then complained that her father had come home and grounded her for the rest of her natural life for the lawn getting torn up after the party.

It sucked to be Michelle.

Tuesday, I tried to psych myself up to go to the clinic, but no, that didn’t happen, either. I justified it with the paper I had due for English class...next week. Devi read me the riot act again, and so I made a promise. Wednesday was the day. I’d drive myself to Planned Parenthood and get my testing done. I dreaded it still, but Devi’s bit about peace of mind was spot on. I’d rather know that I had crotch fungawookie and get treated than to find out the hard way with itches or oozes or worse later on.

A plan. I had one.

But then Aaron came along and screwed it up because that’s what he did best.

Logically, I understand that it’s not his fault that I didn’t make it to PP. He didn’t hold me down and tell me I couldn’t go. He didn’t slash my tires or lock me in a closet. I already had a trash record of going because I was scared. No, what Aaron did was absolutely ruin my day, decimating me so much I shirked all responsibilities so I could lick my wounds over chocolate ice cream.

Wednesday afternoon, five minutes after last bell. I stood at my locker stuffing books into the pit of disorganized despair that was my book bag. We didn’t carry many books anymore, a lot of our stuff was online or printed out in packets, but close to finals, three of my teachers had volunteered textbooks as study aids. Like a true nerd, I’d signed them out to take the chapter reviews to make sure I knew the material. I’d just wrestled my Algebra II book in between my file folders when Aaron appeared, sliding in beside me and leaning against the lockers.

He looked good. Collared shirt, white T-shirt underneath. New jeans and sneakers. He had a fresh haircut and he’d switched his cologne to something that wasn’t the nose-killing Axe body spray he’d preferred when we were dating.

“Hey,” he said in greeting. “Got a minute?”