Read Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do? Online
Authors: Cynthia Voigt
Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do?
1. At the Bottom of the Food Chain
3. At the Bottom of the Pecking Order
4. All the World's a Tennis Court
5. A Little Hope Can't Hurt, Can It?
6. There's Bad, and Also There's Worse
10. Detective Margalo on the Case
17. Everybody Can Use a Little Help
23. Failure and Other Educational Experiences
24. Back to NormalâWherever That Is
Mostly, this book is dedicated to the people who work to make this world a better place for its inhabitants (Betsy and Joe spring to mind), And also to the folks at Ovenworks, who opened my eyes to the joys of dishwashingâKen and Pete and Emily.
Hadrian's Fall
â 1 â
At the Bottom of the Food Chain
N
inth grade stinks,” said Mikey. “Big-time.”
Margalo agreed. “Stinkius, stinkior, stinkissimus,” she said, partly for the fun of trying out her new Latin skills and partly for the fun of irritating Mikey.
“It's overloud and overcomplicated and overpopulated. And it's taking a long time.”
It was the third Friday of ninth grade. The ME twins, Mikey Elsinger and Margalo Epps, best friends since fifth grade, sat at their usual table at the rear of the high school cafeteria. The tables farthest backâback from the entryway, back from the cafeteria linesâwere, socially speaking, the least desirable, the social cellar of high school.
Keeping up her side of the disagreement Mikey reminded Margalo, “Gazillions of people speak Spanish.”
“As if you care about communicating with people,” Margalo said, and bit into her sandwich.
“Latin's a dead language,” Mikey recited, separating each line of the poem into its own sentence to increase the annoyance value. “It's dead as dead can be. First it killed the Romans.”
“I told you in June I was taking Latin. You could have signed up for it too.”
“And now it's killing me,” Mikey concluded. She unwrapped her own sandwich triumphantly.
They both brought lunch from home, Margalo for financial reasons, Mikey from culinary concerns, so for the moment they were alone at the back of the room and could take advantage of the relative privacy to have a nice little quarrel.
In contrast to Margalo's peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwich on lightly toasted supermarket whole wheat bread, Mikey had thick slices of leftover roasted chicken on thick slices of homemade multigrain bread. Between them they also had six Oreo cookies, a banana, an apple, andâtorn between her desire to show off her baking and her disinclination to share, Mikey had brought a double servingâtwo generous slabs of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.
“Thanks,” Margalo said, accepting the piece of cake, setting aside her sandwich. When you were hungry, the thing that was going to taste best was the thing to eat first. That was one of the few things she and Mikey absolutely agreed
on. After the first bite she offered her usual style of compliment, “Pretty good, Mikey,” and waited for Mikey's usual style of acceptance, “I know.”
But, “Uh-oh,” Mikey said.
Margalo had her eye on the cake in her hands. “Uh-oh what?”
“Uh-oh that.”
By now the tables were filling up. Students from all four grades shared each of the three lunch periods, so that all sizes and ages were represented in the cafeteria, all types and both genders, not to mention the usual variety of teenage humanity: blonde and brunette and redhead, both natural and artificial, the hair short, shorter, and shortest or, conversely, long, longer, and longest. (Blondest and longest being considered the best for the female gender.) There were tall students and short students, ranging from skinny to overweight, buff to totally unexercised, and a large mass of regularly sized and normally muscled. (Tallest and buffest being the most desirable for boys, in general.) Although the majority of students were standard Caucasians of one style or another, they were not an overwhelming majority; more than a third of the school was the usual mix of Asian, African American and Hispanic, and by senior year of high school there were as many mixed-up groups seated together as self-segregated groups seated separately. But even in that big, crowded room, the ninth graders were recognizable. They stood out by standing shorter and scrawnier and fewer.
Margalo scanned the room. “Uh-oh, there,” Mikey pointed and then Margalo saw.
It was Hadrian Klenk, of course. Somebodyâa big, stocky boy wearing a
Star Wars
t-shirt (bright red, with an image of the
Millennium Falcon,
under which was printed
HAN SOLO RULES
)âheld a full lunch tray up over Hadrian's head, and Hadrian was reaching up to try to reclaim it. The tray passed over to a pair of raised hands behind Hadrian, another boy in another
Star Wars
t-shirt (black, with an image of the
Death Star,
and written under it,
DARTH VADER RULES
) who continued the game of keep-away by passing the trayâwhich dropped a fork and knife onto Hadrian's head as it went byâto a third boy (blue, no image, just
YODA FOR PRESIDENT
).
As Hadrian turned, still reaching, he was tripped by the first boy which caused him to stumbleâarms outstretched to break his fallâinto a passing girl who was trying to ignore the little scene taking place between her and her table. The girl's plate of salad greens slid off of her tray and bounced onto the floor, spraying her shoes with lettuce and oily dressing. She glared at Hadrian. Hadrian ducked his head and backed away.
People watched this, some amused, some pitying, some irritated, and some just relieved that whatever was happening was happening to Hadrian Klenk, not to them. The general opinion about Hadrian seemed to be
Poor kid, but you'd think he'd figure it out.
(Figure what out wasn't clear. Things? Life? High School?
And what, having figured out whatever it was, Hadrian was supposed to do about it also remained an unanswered question.)
After three Fridays, however, Hadrian had figured out what he
could
do. He scurried across to the side of the room, making his circuitous way to where Mikey and Margalo sat.
“Who are those guys?” Mikey wondered, watching Hadrian creep along beside the walls.
“I think they're juniors. Or maybe oversized sophomores?”
They kept their eyes on Hadrian, who had reached a corner of the big room.
“I think if Hadrian can just get a part in the fall play,” Margalo predicted, “then people will start accepting him. At least some people. At least sort of.”
“It didn't happen after last year's play,” Mikey pointed out.
“But the part he had in that wasn'tâand besides, last year everybody was all excited about Shawn, who can't even act. He's just handsome.”
This opinion Margalo presented with a sideways glance at Mikey, who assured her, “He'd have to be a lot handsomer than he is to justify being such a total twithead.”
“Anyway,” Margalo continued, reassured that Mikey was still over her big eighth-grade crush on Shawn Macavity, “nobody even noticed how good Hadrian was. Except me. Not even the director. Shawn was all anybody talked about, you remember.”
Mikey smiled.
I remember that and I remember more, too.
“Not after the dance. Not me.”
They watched Hadrian negotiate the back of a table.
“I'm going to make Hadrian come to Drama Club with me today,” Margalo said. “Now that they've got someone to teach Drama, Drama Club is starting. What do you think?”
“You know I'm playing tennis. Coach Sandy plans to make the regionals again next spring.”
“We were talking about Hadrian,” Margalo reminded her. “And Drama. And the wayâI don't much like the way people are treating Hadrian in high school.”
“I wish he'd just mace those guys,” Mikey said.
“Or you could do it,” Margalo suggested.
“Or you could think of some way to get at them,” Mikey countered.
“Like what?” Margalo asked, sarcastic. “Like, beat them up? Sic Rhonda Ransom on them?” But then once she'd given voice to that sarcastic idea, she couldn't help thinking about it, wondering if it would work and how she would fool Rhonda into going along with it.
“Where do you buy Mace, anyway?” Mikey asked.
“And someone else would just step up to take their places,” Margalo realized. “Besides, I bet Mace is illegal at school.”
“Or pepper. They can't make a rule against pepper, can they? He could just throw pepper in their faces.”
“I can't picture Hadrian doing anything that aggressive,” Margalo said.
“Does that mean
we
have to do it for him?” Mikey asked.
They had determined on the first day of ninth grade to stick together, and they had shaken hands on the dealâas if they needed to, as if they hadn't been sticking together through thick and thin (a lot of thick, and a lot of thin, too) for four years already, and not a one of those years any easier than its predecessor. On the first day of ninth grade, after the opening assembly and before splitting up for most of the day (they had only Earth Science and Lunch A together), Mikey and Margalo had stood facing each other in the middle of the hall, ignoring the people moving around them. They had faced each other and reached out right hands to shake on it, and they shook, two World War II pilots about to take off on a two-plane mission where they were going to have to be at each other's shoulderâto guard and defend, also to lead the wayâif they wanted to have any hope of coming back alive.
“I don't know that we
have
to,” Margalo answered thoughtfully, thenâseeing that people were arriving to sit at their tableâshe finished hastilyâ“but I don't see anybody else doing anything. Of course, they may know something we don't.”
“They just think they do,” Mikey muttered.
“Yeah, but they may be right,” Margalo said as she turned to greet Hadrian. “Hey.”
“I'm sorry, Mikey,” he greeted them. It was Mikey who loaned him lunch money every day. He repaid her on Monday mornings, before anybody could take it off of him.
Hadrian was an under-age ninth grader, the victim of not merely one but two grade skippings. He had a big, square head and he moved his scrawny seventh-grade-boy's body with its narrow shoulders hunched forward under his heavy knapsackâtotally dorky looking. No ninth grader should be wearing that kind of shirt, and if a ninth grader for some reason had to, he should have the sense not to tuck the shirt into his pants, and if he didn't even have that much style sense he should at least know enough not to wear a belt. No ninth grader should look like he couldn't wait to turn fifty.
Hadrian sat in a chair facing them, which put his back to the room. Probably he was hoping that no one would notice he was there.
Who knew what might happen to someone like Hadrian in high school? The most visible potential victim in the ninth grade, in a system where everybody took it for granted that ninth graders were the natural prey of every upper class? Anything could happen, and none of it much fun for him.
“I'm sorry that I couldn'tâ,” he said, indicating the room behind him and the people in it with a short, jabbing gesture of his head.
“I'm not sharing,” Mikey told him.
“That would be out of character. I'll get a banana on my way out. I still have a quarter, and they put out enough fruit for all three lunches. But can I stay even if I'm not eating?”
“Be my guest,” said Mikey, waving her hand at the table. As far as she and Margalo were concerned, Hadrian made up
for his various and several personal deficiencies by being incredibly intelligent and also interested in a wide variety of subjects. There was nothing Hadrian didn't know something about, and he never pretended to know something when he didn't. But that didn't seem to be a recipe for success in high school, any more than it had been in middle school. The only real difference was that before high school Hadrian had had only one real tormenterâLouis Caselli, class clown, class idiot, long-time sworn enemy of Mikey, and therefore Margalo. But in high school every grade had its share of bullies. From about the first day of school this
Star Wars
trio had singled out Hadrian. Everybody knew that.