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  “Yeah. It looks good,” Mandy says. “I’ve got some if you want to try it,” she offers Phoebe.

  “And risk infection? At a time like this? No, ma’am. We’ve got a campaign to run.”

  “You’re just stressing everyone out, Martin,” Joey says to her. His latest method of annoying Phoebe is calling her by her last name, like they’re football buddies or something. “We’re not ready for posters.”

  “Yeah, Pheeb,” I tell her. “Remember? It’s still top secret. You might have to tune out your inner working breed.”

  “Did Dennis Kucinich ‘tune out his inner working breed ’?” she asks, seething. In fourth grade, Phoebe took an online quiz that told her Dennis Kucinich, who ran for U.S. president in 2008, was her ideal candidate, and she’s had a strange sort of loyalty to him since.

  “Um, Martin,” Joey starts.

  “I DON’T CARE IF HE DROPPED OUT!” she yells at him. Ms. Greenwood looks up, eyes wide, mouth shut. “Sorry,” Phoebe murmurs.

  Joey stifles a laugh. “It’s just so easy,” he says. “I don’t even have to say anything to you. You’re just on auto-idiot.”

  Phoebe’s right eye narrows and both nostrils start to flare. She takes a big breath as if she is about to seriously verbally assault Joey, but I flash back to our last session with Kisses, and I put my hand on hers. This is what they call a teachable moment.

  I give her this really mature and patient smile, and say, “Ignore him, Phoebe.”

  “But—” Her face is tight with frustration.

  “Sit down, Pheeb. Just stop. Relax. Don’t even look at him.” I glance at Ms. Greenwood, who appears, as always, to be engrossed in the papers on her desk. I whisper anyway. “Trust me.”

  Phoebe looks at me like she’s offended, her mouth gaping. “Why should I stop?”

  “We all have to ignore him. It’s just like when you first meet an aggressive dog. It may bark at you and try to scare you, but you have to completely ignore it until it calms down. It lets them know who’s in charge,” I explain. “So, for now, just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Which was being a Marcie,” Joey so helpfully reminds Phoebe.

  I put my hand on Phoebe’s elbow before she can launch into him. Then I say, “Boggle, anyone?” with a slightly forced, but still very wise, smile.

  Phoebe exhales loudly and starts packing up her markers.

  Delia reaches for the Boggle box, and Mandy starts handing out scrap paper—to everyone but Joey.

  “Let me shake up the letters,” Joey says. We ignore him. Delia gives me a look that says, This is awkward.

  “C’mon, guys. I’m sorry, okay?” he continues.

  Mandy stares up at the ceiling. Delia shifts in her seat uncomfortably. Phoebe has started laying out the game, her lips pressed primly together.

  “I was being a butt, okay?” Joey says through gritted teeth, and sighs. “Now, can I please shake the letters?”

  Sometimes you can see how twelve years old he really is. Mandy hands him the letters, and he suddenly looks completely, one hundred percent happy.

  Lucky me. On the bus home, I get a chance to practice that teachable moment all on my own. I’m feeling a little like a scientist who just tested something in the lab (the Bored Game Club being our petri dish) and is now ready to try it in the field.

  Today there’s the usual barking, but it sounds more like a couple of restless poodles rather than a herd of pit bulls. I can feel Brynne staring into me, and I try to pretend she didn’t just fake a cough and choke out “loser” as I walked by. I don’t even blink when everyone laughs. I’m also pretty busy trying to keep my shoulders from creeping up to my ears, which is one of the all-telling signs of submission in the human world.

  When I get to my seat, I pull out my Spanish textbook. With everything going on, I know I’ve gotten behind on my work, and to be honest, it’s almost a relief to get my mind off of the training. I open my book and finally breathe—and almost relax. Until Brynne comes to the back of bus. “Hey,” she says. “You.”

  I stare at the green vinyl of the seat in front of me and don’t say anything. I’m too busy trying really hard to relax. You know how some people think about a beach or a park or something like that to make themselves calm down? Well, here’s what I think about. Brushing my teeth. Washing my face. Those things you’re supposed to do every day but sometimes don’t because they’re so incredibly boring. Flossing my teeth. I mean, if your world was really falling apart, the last thing you’d be doing is flossing your teeth.

  “You think you can ignore me?”

  And when flossing fails, sometimes hair washing works.

  “I said, you think you can ignore me?”

  Lather, rinse, repeat!

  “Well, you can’t,” she says. She leans down close to my face. “No one ignores me.”

  LATHER, RINSE, REPEAT! I look back down at my book. My hands are gripping it so intensely that my thumbs are turning white. So much for relaxing.

  But my nervousness actually works to my advantage. Because Brynne reaches her fist under my book and punches upward, but, as it turns out, I am holding on to it so tightly that nothing moves. And she looks kind of stupid trying to make it happen.

  She stands up straight, nostrils flaring. “You are a loser.” She holds her palms out and adds, “All’s I wanted was a piece of gum,” like she’s a victim or something. Then she tries to storm back up to the front of the bus. Fortunately, we are making a turn and her balance is thrown. She plows into Kendall Kim, who, though pinned against the window, reminds her that his father is a lawyer. This time everyone in the back of the bus—the other losers like me—laughs. Not as loudly, not as surely. It might even be nervous laughter. But it still counts as laughter. And the best part about it is that no one is laughing at me.

  It’s a tiny victory, one barely visible to the naked eye, but still I feel a little rush of hope.

  WEDNESDAY AT LUNCH, Mandy walks in and slumps into her seat at the table. “Someone stop me before I strangle Corbin Moon. He is so aggravating.”

  She says this through lips that are especially black today, like she did a double dose of Sharpie. It also looks like she went outside the lines a little. “What did he do?” I ask.

  “He commented on my lips. He kind of tricked me,” she says, like she’s a little embarrassed. “First, he goes, ‘Wow, Mandy, there’s something different about you today.’ And the way he was saying it, I thought he was actually being cool for once. Then he tells me I look like I have a disease. This ignoring thing is really hard, Liv. I so wanted to tell him I’d give him a black eye disease if he didn’t shut up,” she says, balling up her fist as she talks.

  “But you didn’t,” I say. Just to make sure, I ask, “Right?”

  She sighs. “No, I didn’t. But it’s been such a sucky day.”

  “I know,” Delia says, pulling strands of hair from her ponytail. Her skin may not be smoother, but since she and Mandy went shopping, it’s a lot more even-toned. Not that it seems to matter at this moment. She’s so upset, she hasn’t taken a bite of her soyburger.

  “Want to know what happened to me?” She glances around at all of us. “Tamberlin kept calling my name in third period. I tried to ignore her, but it got really annoying, and everyone else started poking me and calling me like they thought I couldn’t hear her. So I finally turn around, and she gasps and makes this face like she’s about to throw up, and tells me thanks, and says that looking at my face”—her voice cracks—“works a whole lot better than the appetite suppressants she’s been taking.”

  I wince. Then I give her a shoulder-hug. “I’m sorry, Dee. It’ll get better.”

  “Yeah, Delia,” Phoebe adds.

  “I just want to”—Mandy holds up her fist—“pummel her. Pummel them all.”

  “I’m sure your day wasn’t worse than mine,” Joey says, unwrapping a Ding Dong and stuffing it into his face. He talks through a full mouth. “I was copying the math equations
from the board when Danny Pritchard just stole my pencil from me.”

  “And?” Phoebe asks, removing the crust from her turkey sandwich. “So what did you do?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “I just sat there looking like a total wuss, doing absolutely nothing. He laughed in my face.” He picks up the wrapper and smells it. “This ignoring thing blows.”

  “You mean you just sat there without writing anything for the entire class?” I ask.

  “Well, Erin Monroe ended up giving me a pen. Except it was stupid. It was one of those pens with the big flowery thing at the end.”

  In popularity rankings, Erin Monroe is no school celebrity, but she’s not a total Marcie either. “So someone bailed you out,” I say. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Whatever,” he says with a shrug, fishing into his lunch bag for another treat. “I just think this is stupid.” He pulls out a package of baby carrots and makes a face. “No idea what my mom was thinking here,” he says, and then grabs my banana, which is weird, because the closest thing to a naturally occurring food item he’s ever eaten in front of us was a packet of sugar. I decide not to fight for it.

  Joey peels the banana and stuffs it into his mouth, almost violently. “Next time, Danny Pritchard’s getting a tameshi-wari to the gut,” he says, and while still chewing, demonstrates a karate punch.

  Normally, this would be grounds to make some fun of our yellow-belt friend, but today I decide to leave it alone. If he’s eating a banana, he’s clearly upset.

  “I know this is hard, you guys,” I say, keeping my voice quiet. “But look, Joey, Danny’s a terrier. He’s determined—that’s probably how he got Brynne to be his girlfriend in the first place. But now he’s using this determination to try and bring you down. You just can’t let him. Terriers aren’t easy to control at first, but it’s not impossible.”

  Phoebe lets out a sigh. “Brant’s a sporter,” she says, staring dreamily across the cafeteria at him.

  Mandy scrunches up her face as if to say, Where the heck did that come from?

  But Joey holds back a smile and says, “Yeah, I guess I can see that, Martin.”

  “Really?” Phoebe asks, surprised. For once Joey’s not arguing with her.

  “Well, yeah. ’Cause he’s definitely playing some kind of game with you,” he says.

  “You know, Joey, you’re just a—” Phoebe yells, and hurls a desperate last-resort insult, “a dum-dum.” She pushes back from the table, bunches up her still-full lunch bag between her hands, and storms out of the cafeteria. She’s about as graceful as an ox, so it does look a little funny, but it unfortunately looks even funnier when the über-beautiful Peyton Randall gets up and does an impersonation—with just a little more flailing.

  The entire table of Brynne minions laugh. I wonder if being that mean feels pretty good, because it certainly looks like they’re enjoying it.

  Mandy grits her teeth like she wants to say something, or worse, do something. Delia shoots me a worried look. Joey, as usual, is directing his angst toward anything edible, practically turning his lunch bag inside out in search of a treat.

  “Just ignore them,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Remember. The. Plan.”

  But I glance back at Brynne’s table, and I secretly wonder if we need to step it up somehow. Because you know that expression Nice guys always finish last? I’m starting to suspect that it’s true.

  MONCHERIE’S WEARING a pink sweater that has thick shoulder pads in it. It looks like she’s got boobs sprouting up near the sides of her neck. Even I know it’s disastrously unfashionable—and keep in mind, I’ve been known to wear Velcro-strapped sneakers to school before. Not that I’m proud of it or anything. I’m just saying.

  I follow her into her office. She takes her seat in the armchair, and I sit in the folding chair facing her. It’s cold and hard, and I think I’ve learned where my coccyx is—we studied it on the skeleton in Science today. I move around in my seat and end up perching on the side of my thigh.

  “Oh.” Moncherie crinkles her nose. “Not comfy, huh?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Sorry to hear that. So how are you otherwise?” She squints. “Are you wearing mascara?”

  “Do you like it?” I ask.

  “I think—” she starts. “Never mind. It’s not important what I think. What’s important is how you feel about it. But I’d go with a brownish-black, if I were you. But I’m not.” She smiles.

  I nod, like it’s an acceptable answer.

  “So, how’s school?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good to hear.” She checks off something on her notepad. “Now—” she says, and at the same time I say, “It still sucks,” and we sit there staring at each other, like each of us is afraid to keep talking.

  She takes a breath. “Okay, you’re sending mixed messages, Olivia. Which is it?”

  “Well, it still sucks, but you’re not going to believe this,” I say. After our last session, I think she might really want to hear this. “My friend Phoebe? Well, this totally popular guy asked her to the Fall Ball. It’s got to be a joke but—”

  She is nodding, but she has this pained look on her face, like I’m giving her the details on a frog dissection or something. I stop and ask her what the matter is.

  “Well, Olivia, it’s just that you’re here for a reason. We’re supposed to be talking about the issues regarding your mother.” She taps the notepad with the tip of her pen, leaving a stipple of frustration on the page.

  Just when I was actually beginning to like her.

  Her eyes go a little soft. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you always find other things to talk about.”

  I study my cuticle and find a spear of skin to pull off. My houndlike destructive behaviors always seem to kick in when I’m stressed.

  “Olivia?”

  I don’t answer. I hit blood and reach for a tissue to blot it.

  “How do you feel, Olivia, about your mother—and where she is now?”

  I just shrug. I have no desire to unpack that Space Bag, to unload any of the baggage in my brain-trunk. Everything is fitting back there nicely enough, thank you.

  She sighs and slumps a little, which makes me feel like I’m letting her down. So I decide to give her a little something for her notepad. I don’t have to dig too deep in the trunk for this one. It’s sort of like the souvenir you might pack in your carry-on luggage. Not like a snow globe or anything fun, but something with some shock value, like the paperweight with a dead scorpion in it that my dad brought back from a trip to Arizona. I remind myself that I’m breaking my bathroom-wall rule yet again for her. “I think she’s got a boyfriend.”

  She sits up a little straighter and her eyebrows move into that concerned position. “And how do you feel about that?”

  So I tell her. “It’s just gross.”

  She’s quiet, like she’s waiting for me to add more, and I wonder, doesn’t she know me by now? Good thing she’s not holding her breath.

  “Okay, Olivia, good,” she says gently, showing me mercy. “Why don’t you finish telling me about your friend?”

  “Phoebe?”

  “Sure.”

  So I start to tell her about Phoebe again, and she puts down the pen. It’s always better when she puts down the pen. She’s actually a lot easier to talk to when she stops trying so hard to make me speak.

  IT’S SATURDAY, and it’s been an exhausting week. I’ve had to do a lot of ignoring. On Monday, as I walked by her on the bus, Brynne sniffed the air and said, “German shepherd! No, Rottweiler! No, wait! I got it! Husky!” On Wednesday, in P.E., Brynne publicly declared that she didn’t want me on her soccer team because I was “overheight.” What was even worse was that Mr. Mack assigned me to her team anyway because he said “overheight” wasn’t a real condition—like it would have been an acceptable reason if it was. And on Thursday, Carolyn harassed me because my jeans were a millimeter too short, and then Tamberlin took over and carried the joke even
further, into my socks. “Is that a tube sock? Oh. My. God.” And even though it wasn’t a tube sock, I kept my mouth shut.

  After such a grueling week, I’m glad to be in the company of Loomis, the neurotic bike-hating dog.

  “Places, everyone,” Corny says, like she’s directing a play rather than running a dog-training drill. She stands on Mrs. Taylor’s lawn, with her hands clasped together in front of her chest and a hopeful look on her face.

  Mrs. Taylor steps to the sidewalk, holding Loomis’s leash, and glances over her shoulder at me with a worried look on her face. I steady myself on the bike and turn around to smile at Delia, who is sitting safely on the hood of the pickup truck. She gives me a thumbs-up, fully playing up her role as my moral support.

  “And, go,” Corny directs.

  Mrs. Taylor starts down the sidewalk with Loomis, who, at this point, is behaving like a show dog. He’s a little chow and a little golden retriever, so of course he’s too mixed-up to make it into one those snobby shows, but right now he’s pretty convincing.

  I wait for them to get about two houses away, and then I push off, bringing my standing leg to the pedal and lifting my butt off the seat to get some speed. As I get closer to them, I see Mrs. Taylor’s shoulders stiffen, and I hear her voice getting higher in tone and pitch. “No, Loomis. No, Loomis. No, no, Loomis!” And then Loomis goes crazy and starts cussing me out with these big, loud, insulting dog barks, which startles me and makes me freeze up. I fall to the ground, my helmet thudding against the pavement.

  Corny and Delia rush toward me, cooing concern. Mrs. Taylor apologizes and strains to hold back Loomis, who looks like he’s grinning, but he’s really just threatening me with his fangs.

  I sigh, completely humbled. “I’m okay,” I say. I start to brush off the pebbles and leaves sticking to my whole left side. Corny latches one of her bony hands around my forearm and pulls me to standing. She may be old, but she’s strong. Delia slaps the debris off my jeans, so it looks like she’s spanking me.

  “You got a rip,” she tells me, still absentmindedly beating the crap out of me.