Things Are Gonna Get Ugly Read Online Free

predicted. No doubt you’d always list the best, cutest boys like Tyler Hutchins and Justin Grodin and then, before you could stop them,someone would write down Winslow Fromes, just to mess with you. Back then, Winslow didn’t have a ponytail but he was tubby, with Pokemon T-shirts that were too tight and revealed the contours of his man-boobs. He’d race up to anyone, telling dumb space knock-knock jokes, and then, cracking up, his cheeks flushed like strawberries, his eyes practically shut into slits, would collapse onto the floor.
    Anyway, once I got stuck in the game with “marrying Winslow, having fourteen kids, living in a tree house in Greenland.” And every time Winslow would pass by me, Petra would call out “Greenland fourteen,” and we’d all go crazy laughing. It became a thing I got tired of. I wanted to scream STOP IT! a thousand times, but I didn’t. I just don’t do things like that. Everyone expects me to be immune from normal, everyday annoyances like Winslow Fromes.
    â€œShe’s a geek magnet,” proclaims Petra, smiling conspiratorially with me.
    â€œI know,” says Caylin, “What’s up with that? Why do the nerds like you so much?” For a moment, I fear they’re reading my mind or something. It’s like they know I used to spend my days splitting open rocks looking for crystals and rereading Harriet the Spy .
    Caylin gets a big gummy smile on her face. “So who are you going with to the dance? Seriously.”
    I can’t handle this anymore so I toss out a complaint as a distraction. “Giving out tests during December is SO annoying,” I say, thinking of Mr. Dribble’s dumb social studies test. As I clear my throat to tell them just how freaky Dribble truly is, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Something about the hand feels heavy, and adult.
    I whirl around to face…
    My Big-Mouth Mom
    My mother. Yes, my mother, Phyllis Finelli Smith, toting a tripod and giant black cameras slung around her neck. When she said she was taking photography classes in the afternoons and evenings, I had no idea she would pop up at the house during daylight hours. She’s not even wearing real pants. She’s wearing flowery flannel PAJAMA bottoms that she bought at the thrift store in East Palo Alto. If my mom looked like Petra’s mom, the Realtor Aldea Santora, who has a blond bob and was on ads for Coldwell Banker that said MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE, she might be able to pass in those pants.
    Her mantra is: “It’s just a pair of pants. Does it matter what label they slap on it?”
    Yes.
    â€œIf they fit well, does it matter if they’re meant for daywear or sleepwear?”
    Yes.
    â€œDoes it matter that someone else wore it?”
    Yes, when it is someone else you don’t know, a stranger who could have some rare and contagious disease.
    I remember when we first moved to California, before the divorce, when my parents were in luuuuuuv, Mom used to buy her mauve lip liner from the Laura Mercier counter at Nordstrom at the Stanford Shopping Center, and go to spinning class in tight leggings and a matching low-cut V-neck top. Now she’s graduated to stretch pants with elastic waistbands and oversize tees.
    It’s as if she’s given up. She could be that way again.
    Mom blinks hard like there’s something in her contact lens. Her breath smells like sesame sticks which no doubt she has been hoarding again. “When I was standing in the entranceway, I heard you mention something about a test.” At the very mention of the word, my heart goes all flip-floppy. “You had a test today, Taffeta?”
    â€œUh, yea-ah. I studied for it, Mom.” I am staring at the Whole Foods bag of sesame sticks she has hidden by the floor. It is all eaten. Of course, she didn’t ask me or my friends if we would like some sesame sticks. Not that we would, but most likely, this is the last of the