Things Are Gonna Get Ugly Read Online Free Page B

white as the tips on Petra’s French manicure.
    I Am Not Ernestine
    She used my real name. I can’t believe it. The name that shall not be spoken. The one I was born with. How many times have I told her NEVER EVER use that name in public? She knows why. Usually my real name is like Bigfoot. It does not exist. But now Bigfoot is back from my Big-Mouth Mom.
    Mom furrows her unplucked eyebrows. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “What’s the matter with you today? What can I do?”
    â€œBe invisible,” I hiss under my breath, thinking I will never just show up and blabber to my kid’s friends at key bad moments with bushy hair and elastic waistband pajama bottoms. But that is not what you do, is it, Mom? You are always opening your Big Mouth and I am constantly shutting it.
    For a moment, she pauses, and for a moment,I feel myself flinch at the pain in her face. “I get it,” she says, clutching her photography equipment and storming out of the family room. I can hear her muttering, “I’m definitely going to talk to Tosh about this.” Some people go to therapy, my mother goes to Tosh, Reiki healer, medium, and spiritual advisor. Okay, I feel a little bad, but not bad enough to run after her. Maybe if nobody else was in the house.
    Maybe in a different life.
    Uh-Oh
    And that’s when I think about how I didn’t really have anyone. To go to the dance, that is, with everyone expecting me to make the BIG appearance in the limo on my birthday.
    Sure, Tyler Hutchins had asked me, and I had put him off to play it cool—but not for long. I mean, the truth is, I’ve never had an actual boyfriend. Just guys, like Justin Grodin with too much saliva, that I’ve kissed at a party.
    As I sit on the couch, The Girls crowd around. They want to hear about my next move. “Tomorrow’s Tyler’s lucky day,” I say, “since I’m going to talk to him at lunch.”
    Condemned
    Somehow, I make it through my morning classes and through most of lunch avoiding direct contact with Winslow Fromes. I take a breath and decide, yes, after gym, I’m going to talk to Tyler about Winterfest. Not that he’s going to say no. It’s just that I’m sick of everyone watching me all of the time. It’s like I’m on stage and I’m not supposed to blow my lines.
    At least being in gym always calms me and makes me feel confident because it’s just a place I totally excel. Right now, I’m standing in front of the free throw line, ready to take a shot when suddenly there’s a man hovering over me.
    That Man is Mr. Dribble
    â€œI need to speak with you, Ms. Smith.”
    Whenever any teacher uses your last name, it’s definitely not a good sign. We’re not talking extra credit and a smiley face here. And it’s most definitely even worse when that teacher shows up in the middle of your gym class—the only class I don’t worry about because there are no tests.
    Dribble knows. Dribble knows I cheated. But he’s never figured out anything before. How many timeshave I texted all of the questions for Petra and he’s NEVER once caught me?
    In the bleachers reading a book, with another excuse to get out of gym, sits Olivia Marquez. Her long, straggly, hennaed hair shields her eyes, but I can still see that she’s got this funny little smile on her face and looks absolutely, disgustingly happy, which is very strange because the girl is ALWAYS depressed. She told him. I can tell. That poet wench told him I copied off of Winslow Fromes.
    Olivia bites down on her tongue, smiles, and begins to mutter something that sounds like “fodderus frot.” I bet it’s some kind of ancient incantation. I feel a little chill.
    She deserves what we did to her last year. All of it! A couple of months ago, she started speaking only in Old English. By the water fountain right outside the music room, I once found a poem that she