I sought out better reading on the stall door. Being a new bathroom and all, there wasn’t much. Of course, there was the requisite Kori Kitzler bash; every bathroom stall in Kismet probably had one—this one was: Kori Kitzler invites you to her Rainbow Party! Beneath it was a couple of words that looked like the poor person didn’t even know how to spell. The first attempt—apparently Who is you—was smeared. What remained looked to be the question:

Who are you?

What a stupid thing to write on a bathroom wall. The bubble gum font made it clear it was one of the BBs. I pulled out a marker and wrote I’m Chelsea Wetrag beneath it.

“Jesus, Marci,” Chelsea sniped, “how much did you eat anyway?”

Marci groaned and then muttered, “Too much.”

I shook my head as I heard her heave again. I really didn’t want to be late because some bulimic cheerleader ate two too many french fries.

Flush. “You got any mouthwash?”

“Here, have some gum. You know, throwing up is so bad for you.”

“So are uppers and laxatives, but I don’t see you stopping,” Marci growled.

My ankles burned and my toes were falling asleep, but I didn’t try to readjust, for fear I would fall off the toilet seat. And that would just be embarrassing.

“God, Mar, bitchy much? Come on, we’re late.”

And out they went. Idiots.

The bell rang just as I turned the knob on Mr. Click’s door. Karma was returning the favor for my making Poor Josh late. Unfortunately, Dick has a zero-tolerance policy on lateness. One he never expected anyone to actually break, which explained why his beady eyes swelled at the sight of me and confusion flopped like a fish across the deck of his face. Heaven pity the fool who missed the first minute of his lecture. Since he read verbatim from the book, they might never get caught back up with the rest of the class.

“Principal’s office,” he declared with a dramatic jab of his javelin-esque map pointer. Clearly its impressive length was making up for inadequacies in other areas.

My trip to the principal’s included a “we-are-going-to-talk-about-this-when-you-get-home-missy” phone call from my mother.

I spent the remainder of the period “thinking about what I did,” whilst being subjected to the torture of extreme air-conditioning and the sight of the office staff—aka hot-flashing, menopausal women in elastic-waistband capri pants—fawn all over Adrian17. He apparently cut last period and was ballsy enough to flaunt it in front of Principal Teasley, who did nothing but clap him on the back and tell him to slaughter the Rolling-wood Ravens this weekend. I swear, as star quarterback he gets his ass kissed more than a new Pomeranian at the dog park.