The Lipstick Laws Page 2

  "Now, girls, time for your gym partners."

  Groans flood the gymnasium. She's the only gym teacher in the school who doesn't let students pick their own partner. This worked out to my advantage last year, when I was paired with Haley. I hope my good fortune continues this year.

  The squatty teacher begins calling off names. I pray that I don't get paired with Britney or any of her idolizing worshipers. I don't think I can handle the pressure of comparing myself to their perfectness. Unfortunately, I jinx myself.

  "April Bowers and Britney Taylor, please pair up and stand with the rest of the line."

  Darn it! Haley would die if she knew this was happening to me right now. She hates Britney.

  I make my way over to the blond goddess as she whispers "Who?" to a pretty brunette.

  "Hi, I'm April," I say politely.

  "Oh, hi." Her menacing brown eyes shatter the little confidence I have. "Are you new here or something? I've never seen you."

  I pause before I answer. Britney and I were in the same math class last year. In fact, I sat a few seats behind her. Is she so self-absorbed, she's never noticed me? Or worse, am I so uninteresting that I've never been noticed? Feeling like a complete loser already, I can't bring myself to remind her of this.

  "Yeah, I'm new."

  She stares me up and down appraisingly.

  "Welcome to the Roc," she says. The Roc is a term that some people living around Rochester, New York, use to make it sound cooler than it really is.

  "Thanks," I say, shocked that she's being so welcoming.

  Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrow in superficial judgment. She nods hastily in acknowledgment and then sneers at Ms. Hoopensteiner's back, blurting, "It's total bunk that we don't get to pick our own partner."

  What an endearing comment. Immediately, my self-consciousness skyrockets. I have a sneaking suspicion that Britney has this effect on everyone. She flips her bouncy, long blond locks, just barely smacking me in the face, and turns to join the line of pairs. I follow her scent of expensive shampoo to the wall. I can't help but wonder if the rumor about her having a birthmark in the shape of a Playboy Bunny is true.

  After a horrendous fitness test during which I realize that I have the upper-body strength of a soggy green bean, Ms. Hoops releases us to get changed. Being Britney's gym partner means that I'm assigned a gym locker next to hers. The horrifying notion of having to change around her nearly gives me a heart attack. I try to think of every possible way not to change my shirt in front of her. Someone with her kind of body won't be able to sympathize with the torment that's led me to a tissue addiction. Awkwardness creeps up my spine. I can tell she's curious to see if I have any cellulite, ugly moles, or unshaven hair underneath my clothes that she can gossip about later.

  "That's a really cute skirt," she says with surprise that I should probably be offended by.

  Brilliant! I think this is my chance.

  "Thanks. Check out the designs on the back pockets." I'm a genius. I swiftly turn my butt around to face her while simultaneously changing my shirt. Diversion—it works every time.

  "Super cute," she says, not even catching on.

  I smile at her compliment, hoping she's being sincere. Fashion praise from Britney Taylor is like a Grammy to a new vocal artist.

  "Crap," she gripes, fumbling through her makeup bag. "My lip gloss must've fallen out in my cousin's car."

  I dig around in my book bag and pull out my new lip gloss. "I have an extra one. You can have it."

  "Oh my God, you're such a lifesaver. Are you sure?" Britney asks, smearing it on her full lips.

  "Oh, yeah. No problem. I have a ton of 'em."

  "Thank you so much. I owe you one." She pauses in thought briefly. "Actually, when's your lunch period?"

  I can tell my face is getting red. Red and hot. Why is she making me so nervous? Why is she asking when my lunch period is? When is my lunch period? Eighth? No! Second? No! December?—grrrrr—Get it together, April. My mind has gone blank. Think!

  I take a deep breath and choke out, "Fifth period."

  "Mine too." Britney smiles. "Why don't you sit with me and my friends at lunch today? We can fill you in on all the hot gossip, newbie."

  I can't believe my ears. She just invited me to sit at her table? Is she serious? Maybe being Britney's gym partner isn't so bad. After all, she's the conductor on the fast-track train to popularity. Act cool, April ... Don't let her know you're excited.

  "Definitely! Ah ... I mean, yeah ... sure. Really?" Okay, so I blow the cool bit.

  "Sure. My family's full of philanthropicalists, and you look like a decent charity. Kisses..." She blows me a kiss and walks out of the locker room with the strut of an actress on the red carpet ... leaving me utterly confused.

  Philanthropicalists? I think she meant philanthropists. Whatever she meant, it doesn't matter at this point. What matters is that she called me a charity case, and that's just sad. All of a sudden, I find myself in a dilemma. I don't really want to sit with someone who's comparing me to the Salvation Army. But on the other hand, she's my gym partner, and I have to see her three times a week. If I don't sit with her she may be insulted, and getting on Britney Taylor's bad side is something I just can't risk.

  The next few periods go by quickly, and I begin to panic during the last fifteen minutes of fourth-period math. What have I gotten myself into? What am I going to talk about? What if I trip walking up to their table? What if someone recognizes me from last year and blows my "newbie" cover? Yeah, right, who am I kidding? The only people that know me are my brother and Jeffrey Higgins, who both have lunch sixth period, King Stalker McGerk of Loserhood, who eats lunch in the library ... and Haley, who's all the way in Kansas. I think my cover is safe.

  Before I know it, the bell rings and I'm among teenage royalty in the cafeteria. It's amazing how many worshipers Britney has. She can hardly get a word in edgewise between all the flirting from vying guys.

  "Jeez, Brit, they're like crazed paparazzi without the cameras," Erin, Britney's sidekick and chauffeur, says, laughing enviously.

  "What do you expect? Some of them haven't seen me all summer. It'll settle down in ten minutes," Britney insists with a heavy sigh, pretending to be burdened by her good looks and popularity.

  I quietly take in the circus scene surrounding the table of girls, hoping I won't have to explain how I got here. I'm clearly out of place, and feel judging eyes critiquing me from every angle. I feel like a used Honda in a Mercedes lot.

  "This is Aubrey, guys. She's new."

  "April. My name's April," I correct her shyly.

  "Whatever." She shrugs her shoulders carelessly. "April, this is Erin, Jessica, and Brianna."

  The girls stare at me coldly, seemingly unconvinced of my worthiness to sit with them. I bounce timid glances off each of them like a Ping-Pong ball.

  "Hi," I say nervously. "It's nice to meet you guys."

  "I know," Brianna snaps, primping her shiny auburn hair. She narrows her honey brown eyes, looking utterly annoyed by my presence.

  "How did you two meet?" Erin whispers to Britney with a perplexed expression.

  Britney rolls her eyes.

  "In gym class. Mr. Futch paired us." She holds up the lip gloss I gave her. "April saved my lips from dehydration."

  The girls glance from me to Britney to the lip gloss, still skeptical of my worthiness. I can't help but bite my lip with angst.

  "Anyway." Jessica, the petite raven-haired girl sitting on Britney's left, changes the subject. "Isn't Kyle Smith looking delicious this year?"

  "Yeah, but who's the girl with him?" Brianna says disparagingly.

  Brit's attention immediately pans to Kyle and his new love interest. Judging from her sour expression, it pains her to see anyone else getting male attention—especially from a senior football jock.

  "Ewwwwww," they exclaim in unison. "Hilary the hooker!"

  "Which reminds me." Britney grins deviously. "Let's play Rank-a-Skank
."

  The girls clap; their eyes grow wide with excitement. I smile politely and place my hands in my lap, suddenly not knowing what to do with them.

  Britney takes the lead. "How 'bout Bridget Michaels?" She points to an average-looking girl eating a pickle. "Definitely a four!"

  Erin's hazy blue eyes twinkle as she nods. "Oozing with skank."

  "No way. She's a five," Brianna says. "Look how she's handling that pickle!"

  Everyone laughs ... including me, even though I feel for poor, unknowing Bridget, who's just trying to enjoy her pickle in peace. Not to mention, I don't really know what I'm laughing at. Then, to my dismay, they turn to me.

  "What do you think?"

  Could this be more awkward? I have no clue what they're talking about, and they're asking my opinion. I'm terrified that my nerves are going to propel me to yell out something bizarre like "llama" or "gnocchi." Thankfully, my tongue lassos any looming nerd-words down as I sit motionless with a dumb deer-in-headlights kind of look.

  "Well?" they say impatiently.

  "Ummm," I pause to think. When in doubt, agree with the queen. "I agree with Britney. Definitely a four."

  Brianna raises a dissatisfied eyebrow. "Do you even know what you're rating, April? You seem totally clueless."

  My face steams up like a teakettle. I can feel sweat droplets forming in my forehead pores. She called my bluff.

  "Brianna, leave her alone," Britney defends me. "Do you know how to play Rank-a-Skank, April?"

  Shaking my head slightly, I mutter, "Not really."

  Jessica's dark eyes glisten with thrill. "It's totally easy, April. You pick a girl and rank her on a skank scale of one to five."

  Annoyed, Britney holds her hand up to Jessica's pouty lips. "Shut it! I created the game, Jess. I'll explain it."

  Jessica's tanned face turns red as she recoils shamefully.

  "Okay, so the skank scale is set up from one to five: one is a pinch of skank, two is a partial skank, three is a full-fledged, certified skank, four is oozing with so much skank, it's a health hazard, and five is the skunk of skanks," Britney explains.

  Erin chimes in, "You need to soak in a baking-soda bath for at least three days to get the stench of a Skunk Skank off you."

  I don't like the sound of this. Is this what girls do at lunch around here? I never did anything like this with Haley last year. This is way out of my comfort zone. I'd much prefer gossiping about boys and shopping.

  "Okay, April, take a stab at it. Pick a skank, any skank ... there are plenty to choose from!" Britney laughs.

  Put on the spot again, not knowing what direction to look in, I immediately point to Darci Madison and her bursting chest twins sitting two tables away. After my torturous bus ride this morning, she seems like a suitable Rank-a-Skank contestant.

  "Double-D Darci." Britney approves with a thoughtful nod. "Good call."

  "I heard she wears a double-E bra," Erin says.

  "News flash," Brit says. "She doesn't wear a bra. She wears a couple of parachutes fastened with seat belts!"

  The girls laugh.

  "I heard she practices frenching with her stepbrother," Jessica adds.

  "Sick!" they hiss simultaneously.

  "So..." Brianna says eagerly, indisputably enjoying the social butchering. "What d'ya rate her?"

  My conscience tugs my lips shut momentarily. Yes, Darci's boobage meter is on overdrive, but I think they're being a bit harsh. I mean, she can't control her overflowing boobage meter any more than I can control my empty boobage meter. Although her revealing shirt isn't helping her cause ... and she can definitely control her wardrobe. I hesitate for a few seconds, mediating between the envious devil and the empathetic angel on my opposing shoulders. Then, after glancing around at the four sets of expectant eyes piercing my principles, I blurt out, "She's a five. A Skunk Skank!"

  I don't even know where that came from. Call it peer pressure, or succumbing to a serious case of boobicus maximus envy syndrome ... Either way, I know it's wrong ... and I'm not proud of it.

  "Aw—she's caught on!" Britney beams with pride. "I love having naive newbies around. I'm a teacher at heart, y'know."

  Before long, the girls turn their criticism to a stylish, pretty blonde in the corner of the cafeteria. Wait a second—I recognize her. That's Melanie Elmer. Why are they talking bad about her? I thought she was best friends with these girls. Melanie and Britney seemed inseparable last year. In fact, I thought they were sisters until Haley informed me otherwise. Obviously I can't say anything. Since they think I just moved here, I shouldn't know this.

  "She totally deserves to eat alone," Britney says callously. "She's not even worth our insults."

  For the rest of lunch, Britney and her partners in crime saturate me with gossip, enlighten me with fashion tips, fill me in on who's hot and who's not, and even teach me some of their lingo. I know for a fact that I never want to be called a meatball packer (fatty), chumpnut (hopeless idiot), nerd herder (king of nerds), scag (crusty like a scab and ugly like a hag), or freak funnel (outcast), among other things.

  In addition, I find out that Erin is Britney's cousin ("Second cousin!" Britney is quick to point out). Erin also reveals that she's obsessed with spray tanning. No surprise there. Her orange-marbled palms are evidence that she hasn't quite gotten the gist of an even tan yet. At least I know I'm not the only one at the table with a shallow addiction.

  By the end of the period, my head is clogged with so much superficial static, it's practically seeping from my ears. I'm actually pleased to get a break from the group when Britney suggests that I dump the garbage.

  "Every newcomer has to throw out our lunches. It's like the first rite of passage or something. Really, it's a compliment."

  "Wait, I'm not done." Erin scarfs down a few more Tater Tots.

  "Tater Tots are repulsive. Pure thigh stuffers. Remember Law Three, Erin. You better watch it!" Britney scolds.

  Whatever Law Three is, it must mean something to Erin. She quickly puts down the greasy bites and tops the garbage pile with her half-eaten tray of food. Before I venture to the large trash cans, Jessica notices my uneaten lunch.

  "You didn't even eat, April. I totally get you. You're just like me. I stuck to a diet of raw veggies and Diet Cokes for a whole month this summer until my mom forced me to go to a nutritionist," she says, pinching her nonexistent belly.

  I nod and smile as if she's spot on. Really, though, I'm not dieting ... not even close. The truth is that I was too stressed to eat all period. The last thing I want is for the girls to critique how I put food in my mouth, lecture me on calorie intake, or laugh at ketchup on my face. They definitely aren't the kind of friends that would subtly tell me to use my napkin. Although I'm sitting where tons of girls yearn to be, I've felt like I'm going to throw up this whole time.

  However, the rush of adrenaline I get from my walk to the trash can is amazing. I'm checked out by every other guy I pass and whispered about reverently by multiple groups of girls. Really, I don't know if they're admiring me, or curious about all the garbage I'm carrying ... but either way, I've gone from a boring nothing to an interesting something just by sitting with these girls. This flattering attention is almost worth the social slaughter I've just contributed to.

  I dump the trash and turn around like a model to start my catwalk-stroll back. I look up, and I'm instantly love-struck! Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood is staring me up and down. How had I not noticed him this whole time? Act cool, April ... Act cool! But how can I walk with a master of hotness watching me? My knees buckle. I start to panic. Then I remember, hey, I'm sitting with school celebrities; why wouldn't he be staring? This bolt of confidence gives me the boost I need to walk my best strut yet. He smiles as I walk by, and I get up the nerve to speak.

  "Hi." Okay, so it isn't Shakespeare or anything, but give me a break—I made the first move.

  "Hey," he says, showing his delicious smile.

  I almost faint ... but I don't. I want to
sit on his lap, run my fingers through his thick, scruffy brown hair, and lick his face from top to bottom. Say something else, April ... open dialogue! I can't. Words escape me. So, I decide that the next best thing to do is to leave him wanting more. I walk away with my heart pounding like a rock concert all the way back to the table, wondering if he's watching my butt.

  "She has total puppet potential," I overhear Britney say as I sit back down. The girls smile at me with plastic grins of acceptance.

  "What?"

  "Oh, nothing. Who's that hottie you were ogling at over there?"

  "Oh!" I'm caught off-guard. Ogling? Oh, gosh, had it been that obvious? "He's nobody. Just some guy in my homeroom. His name's Matthew."

  I don't trust them enough to let them know that he's my future husband and I've renamed him Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood.

  "Nobody? He doesn't look like a nobody! You were practically drooling over him." Brianna snickers.

  I want to stick my head into the ground like an ostrich to hide. I had been so proud of my femme fatale act ... but it seems as though I was the opposite—a drooling, ogling mess.

  "You—have—a—crush!" Erin singsongs like a second-grader.

  "Not really," I say nervously. "Well, I just think he's hot, that's all. No big deal."

  "You're pretty and you have good taste in guys."

  I smile bashfully, astonished that Britney Taylor, the princess of pretty, thinks I'm pretty, too.

  She continues, "It's like you're a mini-me or something ... just slightly bigger. Which, I guess would actually make you a jumbo-me, but whatever."

  I instantly feel huge and self-conscious. I'm glad that I didn't eat my lunch.

  "We won't tell anyone, April," Britney adds, sliding her freshly manicured finger over her mouth like a zipper. "Your secret is our secret."

  "Thanks," I say, knowing full well that I can't trust a girl who created the Rank-a-Skank game.

  Chapter Three

  After a torturous ninth-period history class with the dreaded Mr. Stuart, I can't rush home quickly enough. Flinging open the door of home sweet home, I immediately race Aaden to the phone. "I've got dibs," I yell as I slide across the kitchen floor to wrest the phone from him. He always does this. He never even gives me time to run to the phone in my room. If we both hadn't lost our cells last week, this wouldn't even be an issue right now.