The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball (2 page)

So I take it you want to be one of the lucky five?” Lindsay asks with a smile, revealing the giant dimple in her left cheek that she hates.

I sigh. “I would kill to be one of the lucky five. Do you have any idea how good this trip would look for college? Plus, I'd get to go to Italy without my parents. How cool is that?”

Samantha shrugs. “It would be cooler if you didn't have to go with dorks from AP Art History. So what are you going to write about for your essay?”

This is the problem. I've been staring at that flyer the whole day, trying to think of a compelling reason for the Committee of Tenth Grade Teachers to pick me. But, so far, I haven't been able to come up with anything even remotely interesting about myself. Except for maybe the thing about my two rows of teeth. People always wanted to see them. I even thought about turning it into a business opportunity and charging fifty cents to take a look. It was that cool. At least, it was until I had to get them pulled, and then it just sucked.

“I have no idea,” I admit. “Let's face it, you guys—I'm boring. I've never had anything happen to me. My parents aren't divorced, they're not immigrants, and both of them have medical degrees. Nobody in my family has ever had a debilitating disease. I've never had an eating disorder, a crack addiction, or autism. I've never broken a bone. Not even a toe or a finger. I don't have exciting hobbies. I mean, what do I like to do? I like to read. And do crossword puzzles. And Sudoku. And last summer, did I do community service in Africa, or volunteer at Children's Hospital? No. I did normal things. I worked at Gap Kids. I went to a Barry Manilow concert. I—”

“That's not normal,” Samantha and Lindsay interrupt at the same time.

I purse my lips while they giggle. “Whatever. I'm telling you, I am the most boring, normal, regular girl with the most boring, normal, regular life ever. I mean,
look
at me.”

I glance at myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door and take myself in: straight, super-fine brown hair that refuses to hold a curl (or a style) no matter how many layers I have cut into it; thin, unexciting lips; plain brown eyes; a regular, normal-sized nose; and, of course, an average height, thin, curveless body. I'm not being modest either. I know I'm not ugly or unattractive. There's just nothing special about the way I look. I have no defining characteristics, like Samantha's hair, or Lindsay's dimple.

I turn back to them. “The truth is, the only reason I even want to go on this trip is because I feel like it might make me a little bit more interesting, so that when I apply to colleges, I'll at least have something to actually write about and not have to make up a bunch of BS. But it's not like I can
say
that.”

Lindsay and Samantha both nod in agreement. I love that they don't argue with me or try to convince me that I really am interesting. I'm not being sarcastic either. I really do love that about them. Honesty is the mark of a true friend.

“Well, at least you're not tortured every day by Megan Crowley,” Lindsay offers, trying to cheer me up. “I'd give anything to be boring enough for her to leave me alone.”

Megan Crowley is what Hollywood or certain clueless grown-ups would call a “mean girl” or a “queen bee.” Translation: she's an insecure bitch who makes fun of other people so that nobody will make fun of her. And Lindsay just happens to be her favorite target.

It all started when we were in third grade. You see, back then, Lindsay used to be kind of mean too. Which is hard to believe, because now she's, like, the cheeriest, most harmless person on the planet. Samantha can't even picture it, not even if she closes her eyes and tries really, really hard. She says she just can't get past the dimple, or maybe it's the peace-loving hippie vibe that Lindsay gives off, but either way, I see her point. It
is
tough to imagine. And yet, it's true. Lindsay
was
mean. Not to me—we've been best friends almost since birth—but, you know, to other people.

If I had to psychoanalyze the situation, I would say that Lindsay was probably going through some sort of sibling jealousy phase brought on by the births of her two younger sisters when she was four and seven, respectively, which then manifested in the form of meanness toward other girls at school, since school was the only place where she was able to attract attention anymore, even if it was negative attention. But that's just my opinion.

Anyway, back in third grade, Megan Crowley peed in her pants at Charlotte Reese's birthday party, and tried to pass off the huge wet spot on her crotch as spilled water. Everyone probably would have believed her too, only Mean Lindsay was sitting next to her when it happened, and she knew that Megan didn't spill any water. But rather than just letting it go, Mean Lindsay yelled out, “
She did not spill water! She peed in her pants! I saw it happen.
” And then Megan Crowley burst into tears and Charlotte Reese's mom had to take Megan upstairs to shower off, and Megan had to borrow a pair of Charlotte's underwear and a clean pair of Charlotte's pants. Which would have been bad enough, except that Megan is really tall, and Charlotte Reese is what people politely call “vertically challenged,” and so poor Megan looked like she was wearing lederhosen for the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, somewhere around fifth grade Lindsay totally mellowed out and became, like, the Nicest Girl Ever, while Megan has morphed into a full-fledged villainess/varsity cheerleader (which, I think an argument could be made, is really the same thing). And when you take into account the fact that Megan has never forgiven Lindsay for the pee incident, well…if you have ever watched any teen movies at all, then you know that this is not a good combination.

To make a long story even longer, what happened was that, in eighth grade, Lindsay accidentally passed gas in the girl's locker room after gym class, and she had the unfortunate luck of being right next to Megan when it happened. Instead of ignoring the perfectly human function the way any polite person would do, you guessed it, Megan made a whole big deal about how disgusting and gross Lindsay was, and she began calling her Fart Girl. And the name stuck. So now, even though it's been two entire years since it happened, whenever Lindsay walks into a room, Megan inevitably comments, “Watch out everybody, it's Fart Girl.” Ha, ha…not.

But the worst part is, lately, Megan's been getting even meaner. A few months ago, Lindsay found a can of beans sitting on her desk when she walked into homeroom, and just last week, there was a huge picture of Supergirl taped onto Lindsay's locker, but with a big F written on her chest in thick, black Sharpie and wavy lines coming up from her butt…as if to depict, you know, a wafting odor. And everyone is so afraid of becoming Megan's next victim that people who used to be friends with Lindsay just stay away from her now. Even boys have been avoiding her. Samantha and I are the only stalwarts. Lindsay and I have been best friends since preschool, and I'm not about to abandon her because of an idiot like Megan Crowley. And Samantha…well, Samantha just doesn't care. She thinks that everyone at our school is a loser anyway.

But it's a shame, because Lindsay is really cool and funny—not to mention super-cute. (Just don't ever call her that to her face, because she'll launch into a diatribe about how “cute” is not exactly a compliment, unless you're a puppy or a newborn baby.) She's short (though she prefers the term “petite”), but she's got a great body and she already wears a size 34C (okay, I'm jealous). She has thick, perfectly straight chestnut-colored hair with natural red highlights that never frizzes, not even in the middle of August, and she's got crazy blue eyes that are so blue that strangers sometimes stop her to ask if they're real or if she's wearing colored contact lenses. And that dimple, of course. You could bury treasure in that dimple, it's so deep.

If Megan had just been absent that day in eighth grade, or standing on the other side of the locker room, I know Lindsay would be way popular now. Although, the truth is, I'm not really complaining. I know it's selfish, but I kind of like that Samantha and I have her to ourselves.

***

A long, thin finger of lightning cracks open the sky and, for a moment, my room lights up like it's the middle of the day in August. I realize that I'm going to have to ask my mom to give them a ride home. I can't let them go out on bikes in this kind of weather.

“Oh, I totally forgot!” Lindsay suddenly announces. “Speaking of Megan Crowley, wait until you guys see what I bought.” She goes over to her backpack which she dumped next to my door and pulls out a brown paper bag. “I know this is going to work. I just know it. It's
the
top seller for eradicating evil.”

Samantha and I roll our eyes at each other. That's the other thing about Lindsay: ever since this feud with Megan started, she's gotten progressively more new agey on us. First it was protective healing crystals and sacred essential oils, and then it was tarot cards and runes, and God only knows what she's discovered this time. She found this place in town called Ye Olde Metaphysical Shoppe (yes, its real name) and whenever Megan Crowley does something really mean, Lindsay goes there and blows her entire allowance on whatever the crazy lady behind the counter says will help. Samantha and I are both convinced that Lindsay and Lindsay alone is keeping Ye Olde Metaphysical Shoppe from filing for ye olde bankruptcy. But hey, whatever works.

Lindsay opens up the paper bag and pulls out a small doll made from what appears to be old dishrags. It has blond hair made from yellow string, it's wearing a badly sewn, miniature replica of a GCHS cheerleading uniform, and its eyes have been sewn shut with black thread in the shape of small
x
's. “What is that?” I take it from her and turn it over in my hands.

“It's a voodoo doll,” Lindsay answers excitedly. “Of Megan. I sewed her eyes shut so that she can't see me coming. And now,” she pulls a small pin cushion out of the paper bag and removes a sewing needle from it, “I'm going to stick this in her mouth, so that her tongue will hurt whenever she's about to say something mean.” She pushes the needle through the doll's red lips, and it emerges out the back of its head. “There,” she says, smiling with satisfaction. “Take that, biyatch.”

Samantha and I both laugh.

“Okay, really, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen,” I tell her. “Please tell me that you don't really think that this is going to work.”

Lindsay lets out a heavy sigh, as if I'm the one who needs to be reasoned with. “You're so closed-minded,” she says. “Why can't you just accept that there are things in this world that aren't concrete? Veronica says that people like you are just threatened by the idea that you can't control everything.” (Veronica being the crazy lady behind the counter who, apparently, has received her Ph.D. in armchair psychology.)

“I'm not threatened,” I tell her. “I'm logical. And sane. You should try sanity some time. It feels pretty nice.”

Lindsay pretends not to hear me, gazing into the
x
's where the doll's eyes used to be.

“Let me see that,” Samantha says, reaching out for the doll. She takes the pin out and sticks it through the top of the doll's head. “Oooh,” she says, in a falsetto, Megan Crowley voice. “It's a good thing I don't have a brain, or that might have hurt!”

Lindsay and I giggle. Samantha tosses the doll back to Lindsay, who carefully removes the needle and puts it back through the doll's mouth.

“Lindsay, you should talk to my mom. She's becoming more and more like you every day,” Samantha says, flopping down on my bed. “Seriously, did I tell you? She just started seeing a psychic. Madame Gillaux. She does readings for all of these celebrities and socialites, and my mom flies her down from New York every other week. Because, you know, why give your money to starving children in Africa when you can spend it in so many other, more important ways? Anyway, last week, Madam Gillaux said she saw a baby in our family's future, and my mom totally freaked out and made me go to the gynecologist, and now I'm on the pill.” Samantha tosses her hair back. For a second, she seems a lot older than sixteen.

“Really?” Lindsay asks, laughing. “But you don't even have a boyfriend.”

“Thank you, Lindsay, for reminding me,” Samantha groans. “But don't worry. I will. Aiden is going to see the light and dump that fleabag slut of his one of these days. And when he does, I will be ready. And, thanks to Mommy Dearest, protected from unwanted pregnancies.”

I shake my head. Aiden Tranter is a somewhat popular junior—emphasis on “somewhat.” In my opinion the only reason that Samantha is even interested in him is because he has absolutely no interest in her. In fact, he totally hates her. Ever since he got his license last year, his mom has been forcing him to drive Samantha to school every day, because Samantha's mom doesn't want to have to get up at the crack of dawn to drive her own daughter herself. (Or, as Samantha would say, she needs to get her ugly sleep.)

The thing is, Aiden lives two blocks from school and Samantha lives in this fancy, gated neighborhood that's, like, fifteen minutes in the other direction. So Aiden has to get up extra early in order to pick up Samantha and make it back by 7:30 a.m. It's a completely ridiculous arrangement; there are tons of other kids who live closer to Samantha, not to mention tons of boys who would gladly drive three hours every morning for the chance to sit in a car with her for twenty minutes. But Aiden's mom is a social climber, and she desperately wants to join the snotty, exclusive country club that Samantha's parents belong to. So Samantha got her mom to promise Aiden's mom that if Aiden would drive Samantha to school every day, she would put in a good word with the membership committee.