“Tiffany,” I said, my voice dangerously pleasant, “I want my clothes back, and I want them back now.”
There was a long silence.
“Tiffany!”
Then finally, she began speaking again. “You know how sometimes in spy movies, they’ll send someone a note and it will be all ‘this message will self-destruct in ten seconds’? Well, your shirt …”
“Self-destructed?” I asked through clenched teeth.
“It was more like assisted suicide.”
I wrapped the towel tighter around my body, threw the curtain back, and leapt at Tiffany.
She held her hands out in front of her body. “Stage Six!” she shrieked. “We’ve been authorized for a Stage Six makeover!”
I was about to show her six stages of pain, but when Brittany came sauntering over with something that looked suspiciously like lingerie and a teeny-tiny jean skirt, I realized I had bigger problems than pink sparkles.
“I don’t do skirts.”
Brittany was less than intimidated at the threat of impending violence in my voice. “You’re the hacker. We do fashion.” She held up the jean skirt. “Today, the entire school finds out you made the squad, and unless you want to blow your cover the first day on the job, you have got to get a sense of style.” She leaned forward. “Stat.”
I’m not proud to admit this, but five minutes later, I was sitting in first period wearing a pink sparkly shirt, a skirt so mini it might not have qualified as such, and my combat boots, which I’d managed to get back from the twins before they had them incinerated. I had come to the conclusion that Brittany needed to die. The verdict was still out on Tiffany.
“That’s her?”
I heard the whispered question, but didn’t tune in. Instead, I adjusted my highly uncomfortable strapless bra and played around with the idea of stuffing one of those “special” socks into Britt’s over-glossed mouth.
“That’s her. I heard she transferred here from Europe.”
“Well, I heard that her dad is like this way-famous movie star, and she came here and changed her name because she’s totally not talking to him right now.”
They were speaking loudly enough that it was hard not to listen to them, but the teacher was busy reading some romance novel and didn’t notice that the vast majority of the class wasn’t exactly working out geometric proofs in our spare time.
“What’s her name, anyway?”
“Toby Klein.”
And that’s when I realized they were talking about me.Silence fell over the classroom, and in one coordinated motion, everyone and their dog leaned toward me, Toby Klein, newly appointed member of the God Squad. They awaited my words with bated breath.
I narrowed my eyes at the whole lot of them, but they just stared curiously back at me. “Boo,” I said, trying to dispel their interest.
One of the girls tossed her hair over her shoulder. “That’s European for hot,” she said loudly, and the entire class looked at me with newfound respect. For the first time in my life, I found myself wishing that a teacher would regain control of her class, but everyone was just way too far gone.
“Toby, you look like totally boo today.”
Mortified, I glanced back down at my pink sparkly shirt and renewed my vow to terminate the twin fashionazis.
“Talk about boo, where did you get those shoes?”
And now my oversized, clunky, unfashionable boots, the one article of clothing that I’d managed to retain, were being called boo. It was beyond all tolerance.
“I am in hell.”
The girl who’d asked me about my boots tilted her head to the side. “Is that in the mall?”
By lunchtime, I’d given up on the idea of homicide. I’d moved on to genocide. I would personally rid the school—nay, the world—of cheerleaders.
“Toby, sit with us.”
