The Bling Queen Page 4

“I have not!” I defend myself. “You know, it’s super-shady that our entries look the same. Plus, we both wrote about glitter yesterday. Only, we said completely opposite things about it, of course.”

  “Probably because your friend here gave us both such stellar inspiration with her accessorizing,” Kayte says, gesturing toward Deirdre. “Speaking of which, have you found your ring?”

  I narrow my eyes at her, instantly suspicious. “How did you know about my ring?”

  “Oh please,” Kayte says, leaning her shoulder casually against her locker as if we were having a friendly chat. “Everyone and their mother knows about your stupid ring, the way you three were squawking about it in the hallway.”

  I glance from Bree to Deirdre, reading their expressions, and it’s clear they’re not sure they believe Kayte either.

  “I really don’t want to fight with you,” I tell her. “But you make it awfully hard.”

  “Yeah, why don’t you just leave us alone?” Deirdre adds.

  “Leave you alone?” Kayte begins. “As I recall, you’re the one who started this. Believe me, I would love to leave you all alone, you and your hideous, busy outfits.”

  “Like what you wear is so awesome?” Deirdre retorts. “Here’s a tip: it’s not.”

  “Okay, come on,” I say, pushing both Deirdre and Bree away from Kayte. “We don’t have to listen to this.”

  “Go ahead. Run away, Maven,” Kayte calls after us. “Just like you always do. You never could stand up for what’s right and admit when you’re wrong. I learned that the hard way in fifth grade, didn’t I? You’ll never change.”

  I continue to walk toward our homeroom, forcing myself not to turn around. The three of us duck through the doorway.

  “I honestly think you should tell Castleby what she did,” Deirdre says before heading to her seat.

  “That’s really the only way to stop her,” Bree adds, carrying her flute to her desk. I don’t answer either of them as I slide into my chair. I merely stare at my hands, picking at my plum-colored nail polish and trying to ignore the sound of Kayte’s words bouncing around in my brain.

  I decide that the best way to forget about my Kayte problems is to distract myself with the missing ring situation, so I excuse myself during our science class to check the Lost and Found again. Nothing new seems to have appeared since yesterday afternoon, and Mrs. Latara isn’t even interested in saying “good morning,” let alone helping me search through the bins. I take the long way back to our classroom so that I can look around the hallways while they’re empty. We hardly ever have to go into the sixth-grade wing anymore, so there’s not really a need to look there, and I don’t have any classes in the eighth-grade wing. So I concentrate my search on all of the common areas: the halls by the gym, the locker room, the cafeteria, the auditorium, the computer lab. But no matter how hard I scan, my infinity ring never appears, and I walk toward Science even more disheartened than I was earlier.

  When I turn the corner, I look up to find Deirdre at the other end of the hall with her back to me. I would recognize that long red hair anywhere, so I begin to call her name, but then I realize she’s talking to someone. I walk quietly heel-to-toe down the hallway until I can peer around her humongous mane to see who it is, just to make sure it’s not a teacher. I’m hoping for Bree and not Mrs. Matchinski, or else she might start asking what took me fifteen minutes to go to the bathroom.

  When my view isn’t being blocked by Deirdre’s hair, I peer over her shoulder to see who is with her. Rocco Votello. He’s pretty much the smartest kid in our class. Did Mrs. Matchinski just assign them as new lab partners?

  I begin walking faster to surprise Deirdre, and then I hear it. Whispering. But not just whispering—whispering with giggles. What could Deirdre possibly be whispering with Rocco about, let alone whispering and giggling? The boy is many things—smart, nice enough, not completely bad-looking. But funny? Highly doubtful.

  “Hey,” I call when I’m a few feet from the classroom door. Deirdre whips around, startled. “What’re you two up to?”

  “Oh, hi—what are you—nothing,” Deirdre says in a rush. She tucks both sides of her hair behind her ears, which is what she does whenever she’s nervous.

  Nervous?

  I raise my eyebrows at her, silently asking for the real answer to what’s going on, but Deirdre only breezes past me to the door.

  “We all better get back inside before Matchinski freaks out,” she says, and she hightails it to her lab stool faster than I’ve ever seen Deirdre enter Science.

  And, among the many mysteries of my day—what happened to my ring, how Kayte figured out how to copy my journal, and what is up between Deirdre and Rocco Votello—at the moment, the last one is definitely the most intriguing.

  Chapter 7

  At the end of class Deirdre manages to run out before Bree and me, calling something over her shoulder about having to go to the bathroom. I walk over to Bree’s lab table, deposit my purple gel pen—my Friday favorite—in my pocket, and wait for her as she gathers her things.

  “So I saw Deirdre in the hallway . . . ,” I begin in a low voice.

  “Yeah?” Bree asks impatiently, as if I’m telling a very boring story. But she has no idea what’s about to hit her.

  “Whispering with Rocco Votello . . . ,” I continue.

  “Yeah?” Bree asks again as we walk out the classroom door, my books in my arms and her flute case in hers.

  “But not just whispering—whispering and giggling,” I say. “What is that about?”

  “I have no idea,” Bree answers. “I mean, Deirdre and Rocco could not have less in common.”

  “Right?” I say. “Are they lab partners now or something?”

  “No, we didn’t get new lab partners,” Bree says. “Maybe they’re . . . friends?”

  “Please,” I begin. “Deirdre never makes new friends. Not real friends anyway—not like us. She’s definitely the least friendly of the three of us.”

  “Maybe she’s turning over a new leaf,” Bree says with a shrug.

  “You don’t think she likes Rocco, do you?” I ask. “Like, likes Rocco?”

  “Ew, no way,” Bree says. “Maybe they were just whispering about—”

  “Whispering and giggling,” I correct her.

  “Whispering and giggling about . . .” Bree trails off. “Nope, still can’t figure out a single thing they’d have to say to each other.”

  I pull my books closer to my chest as Bree and I weave down the packed hallway silently. At the very least Deirdre somehow managed to get my mind off my missing ring and my copied journal for a few minutes.

  Not that it’s making me feel any better about my day.

  Bree and I don’t have a chance to ask Deirdre about Rocco until we are all gathered around our table in the cafeteria.

  We always sit in the same spot—third table on the right, all the way against the wall. Deirdre and I sit on one side, and Bree (and her flute case) on the other. Deirdre always buys her lunch, Bree brings hers, and I rotate between the two. But no matter what, Deirdre grabs extra containers of ketchup for us, because ketchup goes well with more things than people give it credit for.

  We truly have our lunchtime routine down to a science.

  I have brought my lunch today, so I sit with Bree and wait for Deirdre to return with her tray.

  “We’re going to confront her about this Rocco thing, right?” Bree asks.

  “Well, we don’t have to confront her,” I say. “We can just ask.”

  “Same thing,” Bree says. “Here she comes.” Deirdre places her tray on the table next to me and sits down on the bench, swinging both legs around at the same time like a spinning top. The tip of her untied sneaker hits me in the arm.

  “Hey, ow!” I yell. “You’re supposed to be the graceful one, you know.”

  “Sorry,” Deirdre says. “Any more run-ins with the Reynolds monster today?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “But we have Ms. Castl
eby next period, so we’ll see how that goes.”

  “Okay, okay, enough with the small talk,” Bree says.

  “I don’t really think that was small talk, but—” I begin, but Bree waves her hand to shush me.

  “What were you doing with Rocco Votello in the hallway during Science?” Bree asks Deirdre.

  Deirdre turns to me and stares. “You told her? Wow, it wasn’t even a big deal.”

  “You seemed awfully whispery,” I say. “And giggly.”

  “So?” Deirdre asks, tucking the sides of her hair behind her ears. Nervous.

  “What is it, do you like him or something?” I ask. I try to make this last part sound like a joke, because there is no way Deirdre can like Rocco, right? What do they even have in common? Deirdre is smart enough, I guess, but Rocco is genius-level. And he doesn’t seem to be the type who likes to walk around the block, let alone do gymnastics like she does.

  “No,” Deirdre says coldly. “I was just talking to him. Is talking not allowed now?”

  “You were whispering, like you didn’t want anyone else to hear,” I say.

  “Plus, you never talk to anyone except us,” Bree tells her. “I mean, not really. Like a full-on conversation.”

  “That’s not true,” Deirdre protests. “You don’t see who I talk to when I’m not with you.”

  “Because you’re always with us,” I point out. “Or with your gymnastics girls. But mostly us.”

  “You make it sound like I’m some kind of snob,” Deirdre says defensively. “I talk to other people.”

  “Then why did you run away so quickly when I saw you with Rocco?” I ask her.

  “To be clear, I didn’t ‘run,’ ” Deirdre says, snippier than normal. “I walked briskly.”

  “You scampered,” I say. “And since when are you eager to get to Science?”

  “Forgive me for trying to save us all the wrath of Matchinski,” Deirdre says. “And honestly, is it such breaking news when one of us talks to another person?”

  “It’s not that you were talking to another person; it’s that you were talking to Rocco,” I explain. “It just seems like an odd choice. What do you two even have in common?”

  “Why, am I not smart enough to talk to Rocco?” Deirdre asks.

  “You know I would never say that—” I start.

  “But it’s what you meant,” Deirdre persists, her dark eyes staring into mine in a way I don’t recognize. She’s really mad. This conversation is getting out of hand quickly.

  “No, you’re putting words into my mouth,” I say calmly. “I was just wondering how you two became friends.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Deirdre says.

  What is up with her?

  “You must like him,” Bree says. “There’s no way you’d be getting so crazy right now unless you had a crush on him.”

  “I. Don’t. Have. A. Crush. On. Rocco,” Deirdre insists. “We are friends. I’m allowed to have friends who aren’t the two of you.”

  “But it makes it weird when you don’t tell us about your new friends,” I explain. “When you’re secretive about it. That’s why we’re asking you.”

  “And I still don’t understand how you’re friends,” Bree agrees. “And how you became friends in the first place.”

  “We’ve known Rocco forever,” Deirdre says. “It’s not like he’s a stranger.”

  “But you’ve never been friendly with him before,” Bree points out.

  Deirdre shrugs. “You two don’t know him. He’s a really nice guy.” The three of us sit quietly for a few moments, each lost in our own thoughts. I don’t care that Deirdre has a new friend, not really.

  But I do care that she is being super-shady about the whole thing.

  “Didn’t he throw up during reading time in second grade? I think I remember that,” Bree says, interrupting our silence, and this memory makes me laugh. Loudly.

  “That’s right!” I say. “And they had to send Mr. Stan, the custodian, in to clean it up. The whole room smelled like popcorn.” I hold my nose just at the memory of it, which now makes Bree laugh hard too.

  “Seriously? That was second grade,” Deirdre says, her face flushed with annoyance. “You’re really going to hold something that happened in second grade against him?”

  “Well, it’s still gross,” Bree says. “And why are you being so defensive about him? Unless you really do have a crush on him.” She tries to say this last part jokingly, but Deirdre is having none of it.

  “For the last time, I don’t have a crush on Rocco,” she says. “I just don’t think you two should be making fun of him. You don’t even know him.”

  “We’re not making fun of him. Really,” I tell her. “We can’t help it that it’s a fact that he threw up popcorn in second grade.” This comment makes Bree laugh hard all over again, which only seems to make Deirdre angrier.

  “Sorry. We’ll stop,” I say, wishing for peace to return to our table. “Let’s just drop the whole thing, okay? And go back to having a normal lunch.” Bree nods in agreement before taking a giant bite of her sandwich and then making a face. She moves her hand around as if looking for something to dunk the sandwich in. “Hey, where’s our ketchup?”

  “I forgot it,” Deirdre says curtly. She swishes her macaroni and cheese around in her bowl, but she never lifts the fork to her lips. Clearly my attempt to put this conversation behind us hasn’t worked.

  “Look, if you’re friends with Rocco now, that’s fine,” I begin.

  “Of course it’s fine!” Deirdre yells. “We’re allowed to have other friends, you know!”

  “We never said we weren’t,” Bree pipes up. “We just think it’s weird you didn’t tell us.”

  “Whatever,” Deirdre murmurs under her breath, and she continues to shift her pasta from one side of the bowl to the other. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and begins scrolling across the screen, her face turned away from us. I look across the table at Bree, and she shrugs.

  “I’m going to get ketchup,” she announces, but only I nod in response. Deirdre’s head stays turned away from me, so I pull my own phone out of my bag and open Miscellaneous Moxie’s page, because if there’s anything I need right now, it’s to be cheered up. At the very top of the page is a banner that reads, in fancy text bubble letters, BLING CONTEST. I click on it immediately, the tips of my fingers prickly with anticipation.

  Have a fantastical idea for the newest, hottest piece of bling?

  We are now accepting entries for Miscellaneous Moxie’s first annual BLING CONTEST.

  Here’s your chance to design some bling of your very own! Scroll down for details.

  “Look at this!” I say, my eyes still focused on the screen. “This is amazing. I can’t believe—” I reach my hand out to show my phone to my friends, but Deirdre has disappeared from the table, and Bree still hasn’t returned with the ketchup. I feel a tiny knot form deep within my neck. But not even sitting at a cafeteria table alone can take away my excitement at possibly being an accessory designer for Miscellaneous Moxie.

  At least, it can’t completely take away my excitement.

  But it can take it away a little bit.

  Chapter 8

  Deirdre is already sitting at her desk when Bree and I arrive in Ms. Castleby’s classroom. She is rolling strands of her hair into curls around her index finger while looking straight ahead at the board. Only, there isn’t anything written on the board, so she’s not really looking at it at all.

  She’s just not looking at us.

  I tried to explain the MM contest to Bree as we walked down the hallway, but it was too noisy for her to hear me, and after I spotted Kayte behind us, I was too afraid of her eavesdropping to talk any louder. Not that I think she would actually enter an accessory design contest. It’s not like she ever wears any, so she better not. But if Kayte heard I was interested in it, she might do it for spite, just like she copied my journal style.

  “Place your journals in a neat
pile next to my desk, please,” Ms. Castleby calls as the rest of our class files in. If I’m going to say anything, now is the time, before she realizes how closely Kayte’s and my journals resemble each other. I approach her desk, journal in hand, and try to think of what to say.

  “Hi there,” she greets me, glancing up from rearranging another class’s pile of journals. “I’m looking forward to reading yours.”

  “Yeah, about that . . . ,” I begin. “So I kind of did mine like a fashion journal, sort of thing. With each entry on a different trend, or object, or whatever. And I tried to make it look fancy with different colors and stuff and—”

  “Sounds great,” Ms. Castleby cuts me off. She walks out from behind her desk, and I notice then that her stockings today are sheer black with tiny hearts splattered all the way up her legs. They kind of look like something a five-year-old would wear.

  They also kind of look amazing.

  “Wow, I love those,” I tell Ms. Castleby sincerely. She looks around the room like she’s not sure what I’m referring to, and I point to her ankles.

  “Oh, these,” she says. “Yeah, I thought they were fun.”

  “Where did you get them?” I ask.

  “There’s this little boutique on the main drag—Threads,” Ms. Castleby says. “They have some cute things.”

  I open my eyes wide in shock. “I adore Threads,” I tell her. “It’s pretty much my favorite place ever.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Ms. Castleby says with a smile. “I can tell you like your accessories.” She walks to the front of the room before I can say anything else about the journal, or Kayte, or Threads. I reluctantly place my journal in the pile with the rest of my classmates’ and return to my seat.

  “Hey.” I tap Deirdre on the back with my purple gel pen. “Are you really not going to speak to me all day now?”

  “Stop tapping me,” Deirdre says instead of answering my question, and she keeps her face forward. I look across the room at Bree, who only raises her eyebrows.

  As soon as the bell rings, Ms. Castleby begins handing sheets down each of our rows. When it’s Deirdre’s turn to pass to me, she tosses the remaining three papers over her head, and they flutter to the floor.