The Predicteds Read Online Free

thick, black leather headband, like a girl whose mother did her hair for picture day. Only sexy. The others follow suit, sticking out their hands toward me.
    We are back in chemistry class, although Mrs. McClain is out indefinitely, because her nerves are frayed , and we’re also in a new classroom, a meeting room in the library, formerly used for school board meetings. Crammed around a tiny, rectangular metal table, I feel like a sardine. And it isn’t helping that Dizzy and her brood of followers are crowded around me, fighting to introduce themselves. It seems that being the girl from the cupboard has made me a kind of celebrity.
    â€œLet me introduce you,” Dizzy says, slapping her hand against the table. The substitute teacher is wandering around the room, trying to find a dry-erase marker. Nobody is paying any attention to her pleas for help. “This is Brooklyn Bass.” I look at the tiny little girl called Brooklyn. She is one of those pinch-faced girls who probably irons her socks and alphabetizes her panties by color. “Brooklyn,” Dizzy tells me, “is the star pitcher on the girls’ softball team. And,” she adds proudly, “she’s a professional pageant girl.”
    â€œOh,” I say to Brooklyn.
    â€œI’m Miss Calf Fry,” Brooklyn reports.
    I obviously look confused.
    â€œCalf fry is an Oklahoma delicacy: deep-fried bull testicles,” Dizzy explains.
    â€œOh, how nice,” I say, making a face.
    I try not stare at Brooklyn’s sparkling tiara, but I obviously fail, because she reaches up to her head and says, “It’s just for show,” in case I was under the impression that she was the reigning queen of the library.
    â€œShhhh!” the substitute teacher says, trying to get us all to shut up. Dizzy just talks louder. “And this is Lexus Flores.” Lexus waves and scoots her skinny butt into the tiny space next to me in my chair. “Hey, girl,” she says.
    â€œWe’ve met,” I say, thinking about that first day of school.
    â€œLexus has a golden retriever, loves the color purple, and just got a brand-new car for her birthday—a Lexus, of course!”
    â€œHow wonderful for you,” I say without meaning it. It seems clear that Dizzy is going to continue with this party chatter until she’s properly introduced each girl at the table. I count five more besides Brooklyn, Lexus, and the current girl she is introducing, a ditzy, giggling thing named Cuteny.
    â€œYou know, I really have some things to do,” I say suddenly, interrupting Cuteny’s introduction. “It was nice to meet all of you,” I lie. I scoot my chair back, grab my coat and my backpack—we still don’t have lockers until the new paint dries—and walk toward the door. The sub doesn’t even notice. The girls watch me leave.
    How can these girls act like what happened that day was no big deal? Sure, everybody is talking about it, but it’s like something that happened to other people, not to us. Nobody says his name. He’s just the shooter or that psycho , or sometimes, just him . That part is fine with me, because I don’t think he deserves a name. But I can’t just forget about what happened. How is it that they can?
    A safe distance outside the classroom, I flop into a chair between two racks of paperbacks. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take long before I feel myself drifting off, sleep coming faster than it has in days, a welcome relief. Curled up with my red raincoat as a blanket and my backpack as a pillow, I kick my plaid Rocket Dog shoes to the floor and use the small table in front of me as a footstool. The chair is old and squishy, broken in by hundreds of lazy students before me—a chair meant for napping. But the library itself feels like whoever designed it wanted to ward off any restful thoughts or happiness. Everything is gray—including the librarian’s