What You Always Wanted Read Online Free

Tiffany. “To go to the Olympics?”
    â€œI dunno.” She tears out the middle of her wheat roll and shapes it into a cube with her fingers. “Momma would love it, but . . .”
    â€œBut?” Angela prods.
    Tiffany shrugs again. “I’m not sure yet. Let me make it through high school first.” She laughs. “One thing at a time.”
    â€œOne day at a time,” Angela adds, raising her can of pop in the air like a toast.
    Tiffany rushes to lift her Gatorade bottle, and after they tap them together, they take a swig. I don’t ask.
    â€œYou’re from Chicago, huh?” Tiffany asks after a few minutes of silence. “I went there once. It was freezing.”
    â€œYeah, it gets pretty cold back home.”
Home
. I stifle a whimper and shove the remains of my sandwich back in my lunch box, appetite stolen from me. “I don’t suppose it snows this far south?” I brace myself for the answer. I love my snow.
    â€œMaybe once every couple of years, but it doesn’t stick,” Angela says.
    â€œThat’s so depressing.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what’s depressing,” Tiffany says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That no one told me we were wearing stars on our cheeks today. Who’s got the marker?”
    A smile spreads over my face as I reach into my purse for my liquid eyeliner pen. I think I just made my second friend.
    The school’s theatre is massive. Not just the stage, which is complete with state-of-the-art lighting and sound equipment, but the seating too. It must seat over five hundred people. Back at my old school, the theatre was cramped and way past its prime. It reeked of mildew, sweaty costumes, and the teacher’s stinky old-man cologne.
    A circle of black folding chairs takes center stage and some kids are already seated, a few of them getting a head start on their homework load. There’s nothing signifying the teacher’s seat, so I sit among a group of empty chairs and take a quick survey of faces. I recognize one girl from Spanish class, but I only know her by the name she picked out for herself: Anita. Now that I see she’s into acting, I wonder if she named herself after the character in
West Side Story
. I chose Manuela, Judy Garland’s character from
The Pirate
.
    Two boys—the only ones in class?—slip in just before the bell rings, and Mrs. Morales appears from backstage, taking the seat to my left. My heart soars. I
am
the teacher’s pet already!
    I fight to rein in the pride. That’s exactly the type of thought that precedes a major ego-kick, and I don’t want any of that. No. It’s only a coincidence.
    â€œAnother school year,” Mrs. Morales begins. “There’s something promising about a fresh start, isn’t there?”
    Murmurs come from the class, which seems worn down from a very long first day.
    â€œAnd most of you are upperclassmen this year, one step closer to breaking free, setting out on your own, and leaving your mark on the world.”
    â€œAnita” sits taller at this, the corner of her mouth hitched, eagerness in her eyes. Oh, yeah. She definitely got her name for Spanish class from
West Side Story
.
    â€œI’m Mrs. Morales, for those of you who don’t know me, and this”—she spreads her arms wide as if to encompass all her surroundings—“is the big stage. I like to begin the year here, but we’ll meet in the black box theatre starting tomorrow. While most of you are familiar with one another, we’re adding some new talent to the group this year.”
    Several of the girls across the circle exchange nervous glances.
    â€œBut don’t worry, they’re all transferring highly recommended from their former programs, and I’m confident everyone will get along famously. This is going to be the best dramatic year Fernwood High has ever seen.”
    The boys