Whip It Read Online Free Page B

offspring. And yes, I’m including myself.
    But that’s all behind me now. Today is the first day of the rest of my bus-free life. I hear Pash’s car screech to a stop outside my window at exactly 8:32 A.M . She has the music cranked so loud the use of a horn is unnecessary. Not that it stops her. On Pash’s horn-blaring cue, I slip out of my bedroom and tiptoe to our not-so-great room.
    I stealthily grab my pack, throw Sweet Pea a kiss, and bolt for the door. But just as my hand reaches the knob, I hear my arch nemesis holler from the kitchen.
    “Bliiiiiss! What about your breakfast?” I turn and there’s Brooke in the throes of some kind of TV mom fantasy moment. She’s holding a plate of piping-hot eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast.
    It’s almost touching, except for the fact that I haven’t eaten eggs since I was, like, five, and my vegetarianism has been in full effect for at least two years. Brooke knows this. (I sent her a press release, not to mention the monthly reminders in my “Guide to Parenting Bliss” newsletter.) She refuses to learn.
    So, here she is, decked out in pearls, foisting a plate of dead animal soul in my face first thing in the morning. Yum yum. I am this close to vomiting all over her Martha Stewart apron from the smell alone (& half-tempted, believe me).
    But she’s got this crazy look on her face, like the roof will cave in if I decline to dine, and suddenly I feel a brief but potent mix of guilt and sadness for her. I forgo my typical eye-rolling, you-don’t-respect-my-beliefs monologue and do what any teen does when she is trying to get out of the house quickly in the face of a parental ambush: I kiss ass.
    “Oh, my God, you’re, like, the best mom ever!” I gush. “That smells amazing.”
    “Really? You really think so?” she asks, not wanting the real answer.
    “Of course. But, Mom, do you think I could get this to go? I want to get to school in time to talk to Mrs. Luntz about trying out for cheerleader, since they’re replacing Jerri Lynn Templeton,” I say.
    “They’re replacing Jerri Lynn Templeton?” Brooke gasps with way too much excitement. “Oh, I prayed for this!”
    It takes my rah-rah worshipping mother exactly twenty seconds to whip up a breakfast sandwich, wrap it in a charming little diaper-napkin, and shove it in my hand as she ushers me out the door.
    “Don’t be late, Bliss. Go, go, go! You’re gonna be a cheerleader!”
    “Thanks, Mom!” I say, kissing her cheek. I book it to Pash’s car before Brooke can inhale the perfume of irony I leave behind.
    Pash greets me by cranking up an appropriate classic by our beloved Ramones. (RIP, Joey!)
     
Well, I don’t care about history.
Rock, rock, rock-’n’-roll high school!
’Cause that’s not where I wanna be.
Rock, rock, rock-’n’-roll high school . . .
     
    I feel better already. Pash hits the gas as we zoom past my former bus stop brethren. Ciao, suckas!
    Closer to school, I make Pash pull over so I can pawn my breakfast sandwich off on some all-too-eager freshman boy who looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal since third grade.
    “That’s so Girl Scout of you,” Pash remarks, applying her signature black eyeliner in the rearview.
    “Not really. I’m planning on getting into a lot of trouble, so I’m trying to bank some Karma points.”
    “Ooh. What kind of trouble?” She smiles.
    “A-hem.” I clear my throat with dramatic innuendo.
    “Oh riiiight, that Roller Derby thing,” she taunts. “Is that this weekend? I can’t remember—you’ve only reminded me twenty million times!”
    It’s true, I’ve nagged like a maniac 24/7, hiding reminder Post-it notes all over her room, even in her box of tampons, which she acted vaguely annoyed about (but I know she secretly loved for the creative effort).
    “Oh, c’mon!” I scream. “Just say yes, already! Consider it my birthday present.”
    “Your birthday is six months away, dork. If I give you a gift now, you’ll