"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" she asks, biting her lower lip. "I wouldn't want-" She stops herself and I wonder if she's going to say something about Bridget. But she just shakes her head and continues gathering up the papers, working quickly now.

The idea of telling on Anna Cartullo for sleeping with Alex after what I've just done-after Mr. Daimler-is hilarious. I've got no right to say anything to anybody. I'm smoking weed in a bathroom, I have no friends, my math teacher stuck his tongue down my throat, my boyfriend hates me because I won't sleep with him. I'm dead, but I can't stop living. The absurdity of everything really hits me in that second and I start laughing again. Anna's gotten serious. Her eyes are big bright marbles.

"What?" she says. "Are you laughing at me?"

I shake my head, but I can't respond right away. I'm laughing too hard to breathe. I've been kind of squatting next to her, but I'm shaking so hard, the laughter heaving through me, that I tumble backward, landing on my b.u.t.t with a loud thump. Anna cracks a smile again.

"You're crazy," she says, giggling.

I take a few gasping breaths. "Least I don't barricade myself in bathrooms."

"Least I don't get stoned off half a joint."

"Least I don't sleep with Alex Liment."

"Least I don't have b.i.t.c.hy friends."

"Least I have friends."

We're going back and forth, laughing harder and harder. Anna cracks up so hard she bends to the side and supports herself on one elbow. Then she rolls over all the way so she's just lying there on the bathroom floor making these hilarious yelping noises that remind me of a poodle. Every so often she snorts, which just makes me go off again.

"Let me tell you something," I say, as soon as I can get the words out.

"Hear, hear." Anna pretends to pound a gavel and then snorts into her palm.

I love the feeling of thickness around me. I'm swimming in murk. The green walls are water. "I kissed Mr. Daimler." As soon as I say it I die laughing again. Those must be the four most ridiculous words in the English language.

Anna heaves herself up on one elbow. "You did what what?"

"Shhhh." I bob my head up and down. "We kissed. He put his hand up my shirt. He put his hand..." I gesture between my legs. I bob my head up and down. "We kissed. He put his hand up my shirt. He put his hand..." I gesture between my legs.

She shakes her head from side to side. Her hair whips around her face, reminding me of a tornado. "No way. No way. No way."

"I swear to G.o.d."

She leans forward, so close I can smell her breath on my face. She's been sucking on an Altoid. "That is sick. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Sick, sick, sick. He went to high school here, like, ten years ago."

"Eight. We checked."

She lets out a loud howl of laughter, and for a second she lays her head down on my shoulder. "They're all perverts," she says, the words quiet and directed straight into my ear. Then she pulls away and says, "s.h.i.t! I'm so dead."

She stands up, steadying herself with one hand on the wall. She teeters for a moment as she stands in front of the mirror, smoothing down her hair. She takes a small bottle from her back pocket and squeezes a couple of drops into each eye. I'm still on the floor, staring up at her from below. She seems to be miles and miles away.

I blurt out, "You're too good for Alex."

She's already stepped over me on her way to the door. I see her back stiffen and I think she's going to be angry. She pauses, one hand resting on the chair.

But when she turns around she's smiling. "You're too good for Mr. Daimler," she says, and we both crack up again. Then she shoves the chair out of the way and tugs the door open, slipping into the hall.

After she's gone I sit with my head back, enjoying the way the room feels like it's doing loops. This is what it's like to be the sun, This is what it's like to be the sun, I think, and then I think how stoned I am, and then I think how funny it is to know that you're stoned but not be able to stop thinking stoned thoughts. I think, and then I think how stoned I am, and then I think how funny it is to know that you're stoned but not be able to stop thinking stoned thoughts.

I see something white peeking out from underneath the sink: a cigarette. I lean down and find another one. Anna forgot to pick them up. Just then there's a sharp knock on the door, and I s.n.a.t.c.h both cigarettes up and get to my feet. As soon as I stand the circling and the feeling of being underwater gets worse. It seems to take me forever to push the chair out of the way. Everything is so heavy.

"You forgot these," I say, holding the cigarettes up between two fingers as I open the door.

It's not Anna, though. It's Ms. Winters, standing in the hallway with her arms crossed and her face pinched up so tightly it looks like her nose is a black hole and the rest of her face is getting slowly sucked into it.

"Smoking on school property is forbidden," she says, p.r.o.nouncing each word carefully. Then she smiles, showing all of her teeth.

THE PUGS.

In the Thomas Jefferson High School R & R (Rules and Regulations Handbook) R & R (Rules and Regulations Handbook), it says that any student caught smoking on school property is subject to three days' suspension any student caught smoking on school property is subject to three days' suspension. (I know this by heart because all the smokers like to tear this page out of the handbook and burn it at the Lounge, sometimes crouching and sticking their cigarettes in the flames to catch a light, as the words on the page curl and blacken and smoke into nothing.) But I get off with only a warning. I guess the administration makes exceptions for students who have dirt on a certain vice princ.i.p.al and a certain gym teacher/soccer coach/mustache fan. Ms. Winters looked like she was going to have a ma.s.sive coronary when I'd started going off about role models role models and and my poor impressionable mind my poor impressionable mind-I love that expression, as though everyone under the age of twenty-one has all the brain power of dental plaster-and the administration's responsibility to set an example the administration's responsibility to set an example, especially when I'd reminded her about page sixty-nine in the R & R R & R: it is forbidden to engage in lewd or s.e.xually inappropriate acts in or around school property it is forbidden to engage in lewd or s.e.xually inappropriate acts in or around school property. (That one I know because the page has been torn out and hung up about a thousand times in various bathrooms on campus, the margins decorated with drawings of a decidedly lewd and s.e.xually inappropriate nature. The administration was totally asking for it, though. Who puts a rule like that on page sixty-nine?) At least the hour and a half I spent with Ms. Winters has sobered me up. The last bell has just rung, and all around me students are sweeping out of cla.s.srooms, making way more noise than is necessary-shrieking, laughing, slamming lockers, dropping binders, shoving one another-a jittery, mindless, restless noise unique to Friday afternoons. I'm feeling good, and powerful, and I'm thinking, I have to find Lindsay I have to find Lindsay. She won't believe it. She'll die laughing. Then she'll put her arm around my shoulder and say, "You're a rock star, Samantha Kingston," and everything will be fine. I'm keeping an eye out for Anna Cartullo, too-while I was sitting in Ms. Winters's office it occurred to me that we never switched shoes again. I'm still wearing her monster black boots.

I swing out of Main. The cold makes my eyes sting, and a sharp pain shoots up my chest. February really is the worst month. A half dozen buses are idling in a line next to the cafeteria, engines choking and coughing, letting up a thick black wall of exhaust. Through the dirt-filmed windows the pale faces of a handful of undercla.s.smen-all slouched in their seats, hoping not to be seen-are featureless and interchangeable. I start cutting across the faculty lot toward Senior Alley, but I'm only halfway there when I see a big-a.s.s silver Range Rover-its walls thudding with the ba.s.s of "No More Drama"-tear out of the alley and start gunning it toward Upper Lot. I stop, all of the good buzzy feeling draining out of me quickly and at once. Of course, I didn't really expect Lindsay to be waiting for me, but deep down I guess I was hoping for it. Then it hits me: I have no ride, nowhere to go. The last place I want to be is at home. Even though I'm freezing, I feel p.r.i.c.kles of heat rising up from my fingers, crawling up my spine.

It's the weirdest thing. I'm popular-really popular-but I don't have that many friends. What's even weirder is that it's the first time I've noticed.

"Sam!"

I turn around and see Tara Flute, Bethany Harps, and Courtney Walker coming toward me. They always travel in a pack, and even though we're kinda-friends with all of them, Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.

"What are you doing?" Tara always has a perma-smile, like she's constantly auditioning for an ad for Crest toothpaste, and she turns it on me now. "It's, like, a thousand degrees below zero."

I toss my hair over one shoulder, trying to look nonchalant. The last thing I need is for the Pugs to know I've been ditched. "I had to tell Lindsay something." I gesture vaguely in the direction of Senior Alley. "She and the girls had to jet out without me-some community-service thing they do once a month. Lame."

"So lame," Bethany says, nodding vigorously. As far as I can tell, her only role in life is to agree with whatever has just been said.

"Come with us." Tara slips her arm in mine and squeezes. "We're headed to La Villa to shop. Then we thought we'd hit up Kent's party. Sound good?"

I briefly run through my other options: home is obviously out. I won't be welcome at Ally's. Lindsay has made that clear. Then there's Rob's...sitting on the couch while he plays Guitar Hero, making out a little bit, pretending not to notice when he tears another bra because he can't figure out the clasp. Making conversation and waving while his parents pack up the car for the weekend. Pizza and lukewarm beer from the garage stash as soon as they're gone. Then more making out. No, thank you.

I scan the parking lot once more, looking for Anna. I feel kind of bad about taking off with her boots-but then again, it's not exactly like she's she's made an effort to find made an effort to find me me. Besides, Lindsay always said a new pair of shoes could change your life. And if I was ever in need of a serious life change-or afterlife change, whatever-it's now.

"Sounds perfect," I say, and if possible Tara's smile gets a little wider, teeth so white they look like bone.

As we leave school I tell the Pugs-I can't help but think of them that way-about my trip to the office, and how Ms. Winters has been getting her freak on with Mr. Otto, and how I got off without a detention, because I promised her I would destroy a camera-phone pic of one of her love sessions in Otto's office (fabricated, obviously-there's no way I'd ever hang on to evidence of their coupling, much less in high-digital format). Tara is gasping she's laughing so hard, and Courtney's looking at me like I've just cured cancer or developed a pill that makes you grow a cup size, and Bethany covers her mouth and says, "Holy mother of Lord Cocoa Puffs." I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it's definitely the most original thing I've ever heard her say. It all makes me feel good and confident again, and I remind myself that this is my day: I can do whatever I want.

"Tara?" I squinch forward. Tara's car is a tiny two-door Civic, and Bethany and I are crushed in the backseat. "Can we stop at my house for a second before we hit the mall?"

"Sure." There's her smile again, reflected in the rearview like a piece of sky. "Need to drop something?"

"Need to get get something," I correct her, shooting her my biggest smile back. something," I correct her, shooting her my biggest smile back.

It's almost three o'clock, so I figure my mom should be back from yoga, and sure enough her car is in the driveway when we pull up to the house. Tara starts to pull in behind the Accord, but I tap her shoulder and gesture for her to keep going. She inches her car along the road until we're hidden behind a cl.u.s.ter of evergreens my mom had the landscaper plant years ago, after she discovered that our then-neighbor, Mr. Horferly, liked to take midnight strolls on his property totally in the buff. This is pretty much the answer to every problem you encounter in suburbia: plant a tree, and hope you don't see anyone's privates.

I hop out of the car and loop around the side of the house, praying my mom isn't looking out one of the windows in the den or my dad's study. I'm banking on the fact that she's in the bathroom, taking one of her infamously long showers before going to pick up Izzy at gymnastics. Sure enough, when I slide my key in the back door and slip into the kitchen, I hear the patter of water upstairs and a few high, warbling notes: my mom is singing. I hesitate for a split second, long enough to place the tune-Frank Sinatra, "New York, New York"-and say a prayer of thanks that the Pugs aren't witness to my mom's impromptu performance. Then I tiptoe into the mudroom, where, as usual, my mom has deposited her enormous purse. It is sagging on its side. Several coins and a roll of breath mints have spilled out onto the washing machine, and a corner of her green Ralph Lauren wallet is just peeking out from under the thick leather loop of a shoulder strap. I remove the wallet carefully, listening, all the while, to the rhythm of the water upstairs, ready to cut and run if it stops flowing. My mom's wallet is a mess, too, crammed with photos-Izzy, me, me and Izzy, Pickle wearing a Santa's costume-receipts, business cards. And credit cards.

Especially credit cards.

I fish out the Amex carefully. My parents only use it for major purchases so there's no way my mom will notice it's missing. My palms are p.r.i.c.kly with sweat and my heart is beating so hard it's painful. I carefully close up the wallet and slip it back into the purse, making sure it's in the exact same position as before.

Above me, there's a final rush of water, a screeching sound as the pipes shudder dry, and then silence. My mom's Sinatra rendition drops off. Shower over. For a second I'm so terrified I can't get my feet to move. She'll hear me. She'll catch me. She'll see me with the Amex in hand. Then the phone starts ringing, and I hear her footsteps heading out of the bathroom, crossing the hallway, hear her singsonging, "Coming, coming."

In that second I'm gone, slipping out of the mudroom, crossing the kitchen, out the back door-and running, running, running around the side of the house, the frost-coated gra.s.s biting my calves, trying to keep from laughing, clutching the cold plastic Amex so hard that when I open my palm later, I see it's left a mark.

Normally at the mall I have a very strict spending limit: twice a year my parents give me five hundred dollars for new clothes, and on top of that I can spend whatever I make babysitting for Izzy or doing other servant-type things my parents ask me to do, like wrap presents for our neighbors at Christmastime or rake the leaves in November or help my dad unclog the storm drains. I know five hundred dollars sounds like a lot, but you have to keep in mind that Ally's Burberry galoshes cost almost that-and she wears those in the rain. On her feet. On her feet. So I've never been that big into shopping. It's just not that fun, particularly when you're best friends with Ally Endless-Limit-Credit-Card Harris and Lindsay My-Stepdad-Tries-to-Buy-My-Affection Edgecombe. So I've never been that big into shopping. It's just not that fun, particularly when you're best friends with Ally Endless-Limit-Credit-Card Harris and Lindsay My-Stepdad-Tries-to-Buy-My-Affection Edgecombe.

Today, that problem is solved.

First stop is Bebe, where I pick up a gorgeous spaghetti-strap dress that's so tight I have to suck all the way in just to squeeze into it. Even then Tara has to duck into the dressing room and help me zip up the last half inch. I kind of like how Anna's boots look with the dress, actually, s.e.xy and tough, like I'm a video-game a.s.sa.s.sin or an action hero. I make Charlie's Angels Charlie's Angels poses at the mirror for a bit, shaping my fingers into a gun, pointing at my reflection, and mouthing, poses at the mirror for a bit, shaping my fingers into a gun, pointing at my reflection, and mouthing, Sorry Sorry. Pulling the trigger, and imagining an explosion.

Courtney nearly loses it when I hand over my credit card without even looking at the total. Not that I don't catch a glimpse. It's pretty hard to miss the big green $302.10 $302.10 flashing on the register, blinking up at me like it's accusing me of something. My stomach gives a little hula performance as the saleswoman slides over the receipt for me to sign, but I guess all those years of forging my own doctor's notes and tardy excuses pays off because I give a perfect, looping imitation of my mom's script, and the saleswoman smiles and says, "Thank you, Ms. Kingston," like flashing on the register, blinking up at me like it's accusing me of something. My stomach gives a little hula performance as the saleswoman slides over the receipt for me to sign, but I guess all those years of forging my own doctor's notes and tardy excuses pays off because I give a perfect, looping imitation of my mom's script, and the saleswoman smiles and says, "Thank you, Ms. Kingston," like I've I've just done just done her her a favor. And just like that I walk out with the world's most perfect black dress nestled in tissue paper at the bottom of a crisp white shopping bag. a favor. And just like that I walk out with the world's most perfect black dress nestled in tissue paper at the bottom of a crisp white shopping bag. Now Now I understand why Ally and Lindsay love shopping. It's much better when you can have whatever you want. I understand why Ally and Lindsay love shopping. It's much better when you can have whatever you want.

"You are so lucky your parents give you a credit card," Courtney says, trotting after me as we leave the store. "I've been begging mine for years. They say I have to wait until I'm in college."

"They didn't exactly give it to me," I say, raising one eyebrow at her. Her mouth falls open.

"No way." Courtney shakes her head so fast her brown hair whips back and forth in a blur. "No way. You did not-are you saying you stole stole-?"

"Shhhh." La Villa Mall is supposed to be Italian-themed, all big, marble fountains and flagstone walkways. The sound gets bounced and zipped and mixed around so it's impossible to make out what people are saying unless they're standing right next to you, but still. No point in pushing it now that I'm on a roll. "I prefer to think of it as borrowing, anyway."

"My parents would strangle me." Courtney's eyes are so wide I'm worried her eyeb.a.l.l.s will pop out. "They would kill me until I was dead."

"Totally," Bethany says.

We hit the MAC store next, and I get a full-on makeover from a guy named Stanley who's skinnier than I am, while the Pugs try on different shades of eyeliner and get yelled at for breaking into the unopened lip glosses. I buy everything Stanley uses on me: foundation, concealer, bronzing powder, eye shadow prep, three shades of eye shadow, two shades of eyeliner (one white for under the eye), mascara, lip liner, lip gloss, four different brushes, one eyelash curler. It's so worth it. I leave looking like I'm a famous model, and I can feel people staring at me as we walk through La Villa. We pa.s.s a group of guys who must be in college at least, and one of them mutters, "Hot." Tara and Courtney are flanking me and Bethany trails behind. I think: This is how Lindsay must feel all the time. This is how Lindsay must feel all the time.

Next is Neiman Marcus: a store I never go into unless Ally drags me, since everything costs a billion dollars. Courtney tries on weird old-lady hats, and Bethany takes pictures of her and threatens to post them online. I pick up this amazing forest green faux-fur shrug that makes me look like I should be partying on a private jet somewhere, and a pair of silver-and-garnet chandelier earrings.

The only snag comes when the woman at the cashier-Irma, according to her name tag-asks to see my ID.

"ID?" I blink at her innocently. "I so so never keep it on me. Last year my ident.i.ty was stolen." never keep it on me. Last year my ident.i.ty was stolen."

She stares at me for a long time like she's thinking about letting it slide, then pops her gum and gives me a tight smile. She pushes the shrug and the earrings back across the counter. "Sorry, Ellen Ellen. ID required for all purchases over two hundred and fifty dollars."

"I prefer Ms. Kingston, actually." I give her a tight smile right back. b.i.t.c.h. That gum-popping trick? Lindsay Lindsay invented it. invented it.

Then again, I'd be a b.i.t.c.h too if my parents had named me Irma.

Suddenly inspired, I root around in my purse until I fish out my membership card to Hilldebridge Swim and Tennis, my mom's gym. I swear, security there is tighter than an airport-like obesity in America is somehow a terrorist plot, and the next big thing to go will be the nation's elliptical machines-and the card features a tiny picture of me, a membership ID number, and my last name and initials: KINGSTON, S. E.

Irma screws up her face. "What does the S S stand for?" stand for?"

My mind does that thing where it hiccups and then goes totally blank. "Um-Severus."

She stares at me. "Like in Harry Potter Harry Potter?"

"It's German, actually." I should never never have offered to read those stupid books to Izzy. "You can see why I go by my middle name." have offered to read those stupid books to Izzy. "You can see why I go by my middle name."

Irma's still hesitating, biting the corner of her lip. Tara's standing right next to me, running her fingers over my Amex like some of the credit line will rub off on her. She leans forward and giggles.

"I'm sure you you understand." Tara squints a little, like she's trying hard to make out the name tag from a distance of six inches. "It's Irma, isn't it?" understand." Tara squints a little, like she's trying hard to make out the name tag from a distance of six inches. "It's Irma, isn't it?"

Courtney comes up behind us, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a gigantic feathered robin sprouting out of its side. "Did people ever call you Worma Worma when you were little? Or when you were little? Or Squirma Squirma?"

Irma folds her mouth into a thin white line, reaches for my card, and swipes.

"Guten Tag," I say as we leave: the only German I know. I say as we leave: the only German I know.

Tara and Co. are still laughing about Irma as we pull out of the parking lot of La Villa. "I can't believe it," Courtney keeps repeating, leaning forward to look at me, like I'm suddenly going to disappear. This time they've given me shotgun automatically. I didn't even have to call it. "I can't freaking believe it."

I allow myself a small smile as I turn to the window, and am momentarily startled by the reflection I see there: huge dark eyes, smoke and shadow, full red lips. Then I remember the makeup. For a second I didn't recognize myself.

"You're so awesome," Tara says, then palms the steering wheel and curses as we just miss the light.

"Please." I wave the air vaguely. I'm feeling pretty good. I'm almost glad Lindsay and I got into a fight this morning.

"Oh, s.h.i.t, no way." Courtney beats on my shoulder as a huge Chevy Tahoe, vibrating with ba.s.s, pulls up next to us. Even though it's freezing, all the windows are down: it's the college guys from La Villa, the ones who checked us out earlier. Who checked me me out. They're laughing and fighting over something in the car-one of them yells, "Mike, you're a p.u.s.s.y"-pretending not to see us, the way guys do when they're just dying to look. out. They're laughing and fighting over something in the car-one of them yells, "Mike, you're a p.u.s.s.y"-pretending not to see us, the way guys do when they're just dying to look.

"They are so hot," Tara says, leaning over me to get a clearer view, then ducking quickly back to the wheel.

"You should get their number."

"h.e.l.lo? There are four of them."

"Their numbers numbers, then."

"Totally."

"I'm gonna flash them," I say, and am suddenly thrilled with the perfect, pure simplicity of it: I'm going to do it. So much easier and cleaner than Maybe I should Maybe I should or or Won't we get in trouble? Won't we get in trouble? or or Oh my G.o.d, I could never Oh my G.o.d, I could never. Yes. Three letters. I twist around to Courtney. "Do you dare me?"

Her eyes are doing that bug thing again. Tara and Bethany stare at me like I've sprouted tentacles.