Big Boned

Chapter 3

"Crushed!! Crushed!! Crushed!!" everyone echoed.

"All thanks to our star center, Jake Jones-Evans!" The coach gave a totally lame salute and I paused. I wanted to take a second and allow this moment to sink in. This was the kind of place that had actual sports stars, who were not fictional characters in American teen movies. This was the kind of place that crushed and had teams named after marine animals and sang war cries in assembly. We didn't even have sports at art school! A freezing Jupertonian moon might actually be preferable to this place. At least it would have been more familiar.

"Stand up, Jake!" the man shouted, and this time, I turned to look. I had to see this Jake, who had another double-barrel surname. This jock of jock legends who crushed mere mortals with his thumb and was probably . . .

H . . . ooo . . . ttt!

My mouth fell open. He was leaning against the wall, not seated like everyone else, arms folded, legs crossed, oozing this kind of nonchalance that was strangely attractive. He was so not my type—allow me to make this very clear. And yet, he was stupidly good-looking. The kind of good-looking that should not be allowed to exist in nature. It was almost unnatural. As if he was the product of some secret CRISPR experiment. All the good genes in the world had been spliced together to form . . . him.

A shaft of light streamed through a window, illuminating just one side of his face, and plunging the other side into a dramatic shadow. Usually this kind of play of light and shadow, called chiaroscuro, has to be painstakingly created with the deft strokes of an artist's paintbrush, but his was totally natural.

But then Jake fist-pumped the air a few times (which quickly made him a lot less attractive to me).

"I don't think I have to remind you that it's regional finals next Friday!" the sports coach said. "We'll be playing the Blue Bay Marlins"—(what the hell was with all these animal names)—"and as you know, it's compulsory to support the team!"

Compulsory?! To support the water polo team?! The mind boggled.

"Also, some great phys ed news—now that the new shark nets are up, surfing can start again."

A massive cheer rose up from the crowd and reverberated around the room, building and amplifying. What the hell? There were just so many things wrong with that statement I didn't even know where to begin. Sharks, surfing, bathing suits . . . on the beach! The last time I'd worn a bathing suit in front of my classmates it had ended very badly. I really, really hoped surfing wasn't also compulsory. The thought made my heart bang against my rib cage so hard that it felt like it was attempting an escape. I tried to take a deep breath but my lungs weren't pulling enough air into them and suddenly, I'm drowning again. The sports coach left the stage and two more gorgeous girls walked up carrying a velvet-draped stand.

"Hi, everyone," one of them gushed, and smiled. Again, it was massive. Did they all go to the same dentist here at BWH?

"I know you're dying to know what the theme of this year's summer dance is going to be."

Another cheer rose up from the crowd. This couldn't get any worse if it tried. Not only had I arrived at this strange, alien place, but I'd arrived at this strange alien place in the middle of dance season, which was possibly the worst time of the year for girls like me.

"So, without further ado, the theme is . . ." She paused, and a collective inhalation was taken by every single person in the room—except me. The only inhalation I would ever be taking when it came to the dance was the massive in-breath I'd need in order to squeeze myself into a dress. If I was going. Which I wouldn't be.

"The theme . . . is . . ." She dragged the words out, building a tension in the air that was palpable. "Royal Wedding!" She whisked the cloth off the stand to reveal a kissing photo of Kate and William. The whole hall burst into applause. "So, guys, think morning suits, ballgowns, and tiaras."

Amber walked onto the stage, clutching her hand to her heart as if genuinely touched by the brilliance of this magical, amazing idea. Where on earth was I?

"I think I can safely say, on behalf of everyone here at BWH, that you guys, Katlego and Nina-M and everyone else on the dance committee, have totally outdone yourselves," Amber said, and they all fell into a group hug.

I blinked, trying to make sense of everything. I felt so uncomfortable that I wanted to crawl out of my skin, and then, when it couldn't possibly get any worse, Amber turned and looked straight at me.

Her lip-glossed lips were moving but I couldn't hear any words. My brain buzzed and raced a million miles an hour, and my ears filled with a static that drowned out everything around me. Throat expanding, hands clammy . . . I couldn't move.

"Lori! Don't you want to come up here and introduce yourself?" She flashed me a massive smile.

My head started shaking all by itself. I wasn't even aware of the shake until I noticed the shapes of the world blurring in front of me.

"I know everyone is dying to meet you!" she said, but I was still frozen to my seat.

"Lori!" This time I could see her smile was forced, and when I still didn't move, she shook her head and marched off the stage. I breathed a massive sign of relief—not so massive as to pop my buttons, though. But then, to my horror, she veered toward me with the most determined-looking face I'd ever seen before. And before I could register what was happening, I was on my feet, being dragged to the stage, her hand digging into mine. My head spun, my lips and fingers tingled, cold sweat prickled on my forehead, and that was when I knew I was in the grip of full-blown panic. My inner mantra kicked in. It was something that Dr. Finkelstein had taught me, phrases I needed to repeat in order to ground myself.

My name is Lori Patty Palmer.

I'm seventeen years old.

My birthday is on the fourteenth of November, and I live at 101 The Exchange Stree—wait! I didn't live there anymore. Wait! What the hell was my new address?

"Wait!" I didn't realize I'd opened my mouth and said it until I heard Amber gasp.

"Wait, what?" She stopped pulling me.

"Wa . . . uh . . . uh . . ." My tongue tripped over the words as I tried to break free of her grip, but for someone with such delicate-looking wrists, she was surprisingly strong.

"You're embarrassing me," she hissed through a clenched jaw. "I get extra credits for this."

My heartbeat felt like it was getting more and more irregular. My breathing more labored. I put my free hand on my diaphragm, In for three, hold for four, out for three. In for three, hold for four, out for three . . . but it wasn't working. Please, please, please, don't let this happen. Not here. Not now.

And then . . . a bloody miracle!

"Fire alarm!" someone screamed as the sound of an alarm ripped through the room and everyone scrambled to their feet again. I seized the opportunity and pulled my hand away from Amber's. But I pulled so hard and fast, using all my weight, that Amber tumbled to the floor.

"Sorry." I stepped forward apologetically, only to be met with an angry glare. I tried to dissipate the tension with a smile, but it didn't work. And then her eyes trailed down to her hand. I followed them and saw three snapped, false nail tips lying on the floor next to her.

"Crap," I whispered when her eyes came back up to mine. I could see what she was thinking. She made no attempt to hide it. Great, day one and I'd already pissed off a girl like her.

***

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