Out of Order Read Online Free Page A

crams in quarter after quarter and hands me the little clear plastic bubbles that spill out of the machine. I pop them open and empty the shiny rings into her cupped hands. They are ultra-tacky, with chunks of glass for stones: blue, red, green.
    â€œPick one,” she says.
    They’re all a bit too big. I take a gold one with a green stone and slide it onto my thumb.
    Zelia slips a matching ring onto her finger and turns her hand toward me, palm out. I hold my hand against hers in a slow-motion high five.
    â€œBest friends forever,” Zelia says.
    My breath catches in my throat. “Best friends forever,” I whisper. In this moment, I am happy.
    We try on all the sunglasses from the drugstore racks, making faces and laughing at each other. Zelia perches a pair of reading glasses on the end of her nose.
    â€œGertrude,” I say quickly. I feel a little twinge of discomfort. My grandmother has a pair just like that.
    She laughs. “Yup, they’re definitely Gertrude glasses. Points for speed.” She puts on a pair of pink-rhinestone-studded sunglasses and strikes a pose.
    â€œTiffany?” I guess.
    â€œYup. Points for accuracy.” She hands me a simple black pair. “Here, try these ones.”
    I slip them on and look at myself in the small mirror on top of the rack. I look so different with my eyes hidden. Older. More interesting. More like Zelia. The sunglasses make my red hair look kind of dramatic—kind of striking—instead of just out of control.
    â€œYou should get those,” she says.
    I look at the price tag. “Can’t. I only have a couple of bucks on me.”
    Zelia takes them from me, glances quickly around, and then she shoves them in her jacket pocket.
    I stare at her.
    â€œCome on,” she says, like nothing is wrong. “I need to get mascara.”
    I follow, my heart pounding. A fragment of memory pokes through, a sharp little ghost. Girls’ voices:
Teacher’s pet.Chickenshit. Think you’re something special, don’t you, Fatso?
    I push the voices back beneath the surface, hold them under. I say nothing.
    â€œHere,” says Zelia. “I’ll just buy this.” She pays for her makeup and we head out into the brilliant sunshine. We’re only a few steps from the store when Zelia pulls out the sunglasses and hands them to me. “Present for you,” she says.
    I cram them hastily into my pocket. “Thanks,” I say, and together we walk through the quiet streets to my house.
    My mother is in the kitchen, reading a magazine while she microwaves a cup of leftover coffee. Her red hair falls loose to her shoulders, and she is wearing a cream silk blouse and beige dress pants. This means she has been seeing clients; when she isn’t working she pretty much lives in sweats.
    We never hang out at Zelia’s place, but I met her mom once when she drove by the school to drop off some things for Zelia. She is stunning, like Zelia, with the same straight black hair and blue eyes. I bet she doesn’t even own sweat pants. She pulled up to the curb in a white sports car, and Zelia grabbed my arm, drew me over and introduced me. Her mother smiled, all shiny red lipstick and white teeth, and told me to call her Lee. Then she murmured something about an appointment, handed Zelia a duVel bag and sped off, blowing us a kiss over her shoulder. She reminded me of someone in a movie. Kind of glamorous.
    Mom takes her coffee out of the microwave and stirs a spoonful of sugar into it. She doesn’t say anything about our being late, but she gives me a look that lets me know she has been waiting for us.
    â€œSo how was school?” she asks.
    â€œFine,” I say.
    I would rather just go up to my room, but Zelia pulls up a kitchen chair and sits down. She always wants to visit with my mom. At first I thought she was just being polite, but now she and Mom talk all the time.
    â€œHi, Dr. Keller,” Zelia says.