Quelly and the Genie: Sisters of the Mystic Book I

Sixty-eight

CHAPTER One

If I told you that I saved somebody’s life, freed a slave, found and lost my true love and eternal soul mate, died and came back to life and…ooh, possibly saved the world…would you believe me? Would you listen?

No. You’d be all like, "Quelly’s just saying that because she’s so into the Drama. But I’m not like Monica The Monster. I’m not one of those, Oh look at me. It’s all about me," kind of girls.

Let’s see. Maybe I could make it like a pop quiz. (And wouldn’t that just suck for you?) Something like—

It all started:

a) with a kiss

b) with a necklace

c) when I died

d) tens of thousands of years ago

And the answer?

e) all of the above

Now, don’t you just hate trick questions?

I wasn’t looking for attention, you know. I was happy with my life. Had my two besties—Angela and Coral. Only one mortal enemy—the above mentioned Monica The Monster. Was even okay without Tyson—my totally immature, on again off again, (mostly off again) boyfriend. And was finally getting along with my parents. Yeah, right.

I had just gotten my driver’s license, and was really looking forward to getting my own car. (Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?)

One more thing. If you’re one of those people who think that all girls are sweet and nice and kind, and never say a bad word…well, you might as well stop right here. But that would be unfortunate for you. Cuz you need to know. Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Remember that.

Look, I probably should start with the snownami, cuz that’s the day everything changed. But I don’t always do what I’m supposed to.

So I’m gonna start with the day I met him.

It was near the end of summer, on the first day of the new school year.

And I was just about to get…

"Caught playin’ grabass in the back of the class! That’s what my best friend Coral would’ve said. Oh mygod Quelly! You guys are so totally, butt-ass-busted!"

And, knowing Coral, she would’ve been laughing.

Only I wasn’t laughing.

September 3rd 2014. The first hour of my sophomore year of high school and I was already bored off my sweet little, soon to be, butt-ass-busted butt, and hungry for lunch, which wasn’t for another three hours.

I was sitting in the back of Ms. Moore (Is Not Better)’s APUSH class. It made perfect sense to me that Ms. Moore (Than I Can Take) taught History. With that old beehive hairdo, those last century wire-framed glasses and that JC Penny’s wardrobe she looked like ancient history herself. All shriveled up, like she’d been chewed up and spit out, the juices of life sucked right out of her.

She was going through the syllabus for the semester, pointing with her little pointer to a U.S. map of the South on the SMART BOARD, talking about the Civil War. The Civil War! OMG! I mean like didn’t we learn this stuff in 4th grade?! Lincoln freed the slaves, right? What else do you need to know? Hello?! We live in Minnesota. Was it even a state back then? And what’s the diff? God, I hate history. Who cares what happened before, anyway? My motto is: Forget yesterday. Live today. Imagine tomorrow. Get it? For-get yesterday.

Angela, my other best friend, was sitting in the row across from me. Angela lives a couple of houses down from me on Turtle Lane in Shoreview. The summer before 4th grade Angela moved into the house on the corner. The minute she moved in we hit it off.

Right now though, Angela was paying way more attention to Ms. Moore (Dead Than Alive) than she was to me.

I stared hard at Angela, trying to will her to look at me. She didn’t. All I got was the soft, the delicate, the pouty curve of her profile.

If there’s one word that describes Angela Baza it’s soft.

It’s the word that always pops up for me when I look at her. She has these big soft doe eyes and this soft quiet way of talking. Angela’s made of sugar and spice and everything nice. No sharp angles or edges for her. Only soft gentle little slopes and curves.

But even more than the way she looks is the way she always stays in the background, too shy and timid and soft to step into the hard spotlight, which is good, cuz with me and Coral hogging it up, there really wasn’t any room left for her.

Discreetly, (cuz I can be if I want to), I reached into my skirt pocket and slipped out my new Samsung Android. No messages. Crap. What the blank was everybody doing? I checked out my photo of the day, a selfie featuring me in a cute little stars and stripes blouse with a navy blue skirt that I’d found at Forever 21 in the Mall of America.

(Just as an FYI: the best time to get a deal on Patriot school colors is after the 4th of July when all the red, white and blue clothing goes on sale.)

I had to admit I looked good. Then again, I always look good. That’s cuz I’m one quarter Thai, and that gives me a naturally slender figure, glossy black hair, an easy tan, exotic eyes and a dazzling smile. Just ask anybody.

I glanced outside. It was a dry, hot summer morning. Through the second floor window I could see the brown grass beaten down in a walking path that went behind the back of a life-sized bronze statue of a dude wearing a leather flying cap with flaps. The kind of flaps you’d find on one of those plaid winter hats that only a little kid or a dork would wear. I couldn’t see it, but I knew there was a plaque on the other side of the statue that read: CHARLES A. LINDBERGH and below that Pride of the Patriots. (Go Patriots!)

God, I was dying. And not only from hunger. I was dying from lack of entertainment/excitement/adventure/whatever. So I decided to make some. I took a quick pic of Ms. Moore (Or Less)’s face with my cell phone. Then I kept psssting at Angela ‘til I finally got her attention.

Hey, Gela I whispered.

She glanced over and tried to wave me off with her hand. But I’m irresistible (or at least persistent) so eventually she had to pay attention.

Check it out. I said.

I touched the Droid’s pad with one of my triple striped red, white and blue polished nails, and held the phone down low in the aisle between our desks.

Together we watched the screen as Ms. Moore (Often Than Not)’s wrinkles first distorted into a piggy face with fat cheeks and a nose like a snout, then morphed into a pinched face pinhead with ginormous ears and a witch’s pointy chin. The app I was using sucked her face into a whirlpool then pushed it back out until it was swollen, about to burst, like one half of a monstrous boob job on some porno star.

Come on, Quelle-e-e-y, Angela gritted her teeth and pleaded with me in a low voice. Knock it off. You’re gonna get me in trouble. But she loved it. She hunched over her desk with both hands clamped over her mouth, trying so hard not to laugh that she made little wet mouth farts. Her thick black bangs covered half her baby face. The half that I could see had turned a dark maroon, which would’ve made for a nice nail polish. At times like these she looked more like twelve, and not fifteen going on sixteen.

Every time I gave Ms. (Please Sir My I Have Some) Moore a new face lift I would show Angela. She would take a swipe at my Droid, and fight against not erupting like a volcano. Now I was having fun.

Raquel Martin! Angela Baza! a voice barked. We both jumped and looked up from the CGI image of Ms. Moore (Than You’ll Ever Know) to the real Ms. Moore (Than You Bargained For) standing next to the Smart Board with her arms crossed, tapping her foot and flaring her nostrils. Perhaps the two of you would like to share what’s so funny with the rest of the class.

No Ma’am, Angela said and retreated into her cute, shy, little girl shell. The dark red color drained from her face like somebody had pulled a plug. She hated getting into trouble. And normally she didn’t, unless she was with me.

I’m sorry, Ms. Moore, I said. Angela didn’t have anything to do with it.

For Angela a trip to the principal’s office would be like getting arrested. For me? Well, like Lady Gaga, I like the SPECTACLE.

Is this the way you want to start off the new year? Ms. Moore (Than Meets The Eye) asked. Only it wasn’t a question. Is that a cell phone? She pointed and started making her way to the back of the classroom. Well…Ms. Martin? she said looking straight at me.

Ms. Martin? Mizz Martin? Does she mean me? Ms. Martin, that’s my mom. I mean like I’m Raquel or Quelly or Quell or just Q. If I look in the mirror I don’t see Ms. Martin, I see me.

Okay, my parents say that I never met a mirror that I didn’t like. But I’m a sixteen year old girl. What do you want? Do you want me to have a bad body image? Like do you want me to be a Bulimia Betty and barf my lunch back up? On purpose?

Can I help it if I like the way I look? Look, I know too many girls who are really cute, but think that they’re too fat or too tall or too something. I mean I know I’m not perfect. Nobody is. (Well, except for my best friend Coral. But she’s the most beautiful girl ever. She has what they were looking for on that old Simon Cowell show, the X Factor. My Grangie says that Coral’s the It girl, whatever that means.)

But like I just said, I know I’m not perfect. I get pimples at the worst times. Last year I got a zit right in the middle of my forehead just before homecoming. My feet are too wide. I wish I was taller. And worst of all, I’ve got this ishy little birthmark hidden under my left boob. (Thank God I finally got some boobage to hide it.) But—so what?—I still think I look pretty good.

And can I help it if I like to look at myself? How am I gonna see how I look to other people if I don’t look at myself? To me it’s serious stuff. Seriously.

When my parents laugh at me cuz I smile at my reflection and turn this way and that—they just don’t get it. You’d think they’d never been teenagers.

Think about it. When you’re a little kid, you know who you are. You know what dolls you like to play with or what games you like to play. You know who the snotty girls in school are (Penny Febronozy is just one example), and the mean boys (Donald What’s-his-face), who always try to trip you on the playground or pull your ponytail when they sit behind you in class.

Then one day you become a teenager and BAM! it hits you—there’s a stranger in the mirror looking right back at you, and you don’t know who you are anymore.

I believe my job is to get to know myself all over again. Sure a lot of it is about learning what’s on the inside. But part of it is figuring out who’s on the outside looking in. So you see it is important…

"…and perhaps your current fifteen minutes of fame has somehow dimmed your memory."

Huh?

It took me a sec to realize that Ms. Moore (Bang For Your Buck) was still talking to me. I‘d forgotten all about her. Current fifteen minutes of fame? Oh, that.

She must have been referring to my near death experience, just before the start of the school year. Everybody seemed to know about it. I got caught in what they called a snownami, a freak flash snowstorm that happened over Labor Day Weekend. Yes, I mean the first week of September. Even for Minnesota weather that’s just plain bizarre. Normally I would have loved the attention. But ever since getting caught in the snowstorm things just hadn’t felt right. They say I almost froze to death, but I don’t remember any of it. So whenever somebody starts talking about it, I get really creeped out. It’d been gnawing at me like a rat (eew) ever since it had happened.

Be that as it may, Ms. Moore (Is A Bore) said. Your newfound celebrity does not entitle you to forgetfulness, selective memory, or special treatment. Electronic devices are not allowed in the classroom unless specifically preauthorized by the teacher of said classroom. She sounded like a flight attendant giving directions, In case of emergency…

I thought, God, if I didn’t almost die before I’m gonna die right now from total boredom. So I said something smartass, knowing it would get my Droid confiscated and my sweet little butt, butt-ass-busted, and sent to Principal Krause’s office, but I said it anyway.

Since she thinks she knows everything about the Civil War, I said, "I bet, Ms. Moore, that you didn’t know that the King of Thailand, which was Siam at the time, sent President Lincoln a letter during the Civil War, offering to send him elephants to help fight the war." Which is absolutely true. And don’t ask me how I knew that, I just did.

But before she could say anything back, HE walked in.

That’s when my life changed. Forever.

CHAPTER Two

Ms. Moore (Fun Than A Barrel of Monkeys) stopped dead in her tracks. The look on her face put my earlier Droid distortions to shame. Her mouth was half opened and her eyes were half closed, like she’d just had a brain fart. A trickle of drool leaked out the side of her mouth. She looked hilarious, because it was real and not a CGI effect. I thought everybody would be laughing. But nobody was even paying attention to her. The whole room was quiet. I turned toward the classroom door to see what everybody else was looking at.

Now believe me, I’m not the kind of girl who believes in LAFS (you know, Love at First Sight) but I was looking at him and I was having trouble breathing. I felt lightheaded. My knees went weak and I had to grab for the edge of the desk before I slid right down to the ground and melted into a pile of goo. An electric charged goo. All my worries about dying in that snownami vanished and I felt ALIVE for the very first time in my life.

Help! a girl close to the door squeaked.

Hubba, hubba, hottie! another girl said, then sighed and began fanning herself with her hand. He’s soooo hot, he’s making me percolate.

Oh. My. God! Angela whispered. He’s gorgeous.

Me? I couldn’t say a word. I didn’t know what to say, and I’m never at a loss for words. But what I was feeling couldn’t be put into words. My heart throbbed. The pounding reached my ears. I could hear the roar of the ocean. (Okay, so I’m trying to put it into words). A warmth spread all over my body. My hands, which were grasping the edge of my desk for dear life, and my feet, which were searching for the floor, felt deliciously numb. How else to describe it? How to describe him?

Just like Angela said, he was gorgeous. He stood in the doorway, turning his head slightly to check out the class. His movements were agile and graceful. His body reminded me of a swimmer’s body, with long lean muscles. He had on a pink Hollister short sleeved, button-up shirt, khaki skinnies and LaCostes. God, he looked good. Like a Hollister model. He was probably around six feet tall. His skin was an odd bluish pink, which I found to be very sexy, in a weird way. His thick, wavy black hair was cut short. And his eyes! His black eyes glistened, like liquid black fire.

There was something vaguely familiar about him, like I’d seen him somewhere before. But I knew that couldn’t be, cuz I would never forget somebody who looked like that. And then his eyes met mine and something scary wonderful happened. I felt a jolt, like a shot of lightning had hit me. I felt like a was gonna explode.

That ugly birthmark hidden under my left boob, and right over my heart, began to burn. What the ??? That’s never happened before! I put my hand over my heart. It was pounding so hard I was afraid it would burst out of my chest like in one of those old monster movies.

Suddenly everything just stopped. And the whole world became him looking at me and me looking at him. The classroom and everything else seemed suddenly far away. With every beat of my heart the air pulsated between us. It felt thick and alive, and like it was drawing me toward him. Everything moved in slow motion. That feeling lasted an eternity and disappeared in a second, like forever in a moment.

He shifted his feet and almost took a step forward, making me think that he felt it too. My breath caught in my throat at the thought that he was coming to me.

Then I saw he was moving because somebody behind him was pushing their way to get into the classroom. That’s when my heart, which had been floating in a bunch of silver-lined clouds somewhere in the sky above, did a free fall back down toward Earth. Reality set in. A red hot poker felt like it had been shoved up my butt all the way to my heart—Monica Elise LaFave. Monica The Monster had walked in behind him, touching his arm, making it obvious that HE was with HER!

And my feeling of euphoria? You know, sunsets on the beach, snuggling together at night beneath starry skies? It plummeted straight down to Hell when she opened her mouth.

That’s just wrong, I muttered. The Monster…with him!

Good morning, Ms. Moore, The Monster blathered in her too-sweet-to-be-for-real voice. This is Ash.

She waved her hand at him in a flourish, and posed as if she was one of those bikini models on the Price is Right, showing him off like he was a fancy car to be won. Yeah, I know, she could actually be one of those models, right? Big hair, fat boobs, killer bod, a fake sugar smile. She stood there like a skinny, brunette, younger version, of Kim Kardashian. Can you say undercover ho? I can.

The way he was dressed, I should’ve known. He obviously had Monica’s fashion fingers all over him.

He’s an exchange student from Iraq, she said.

He doesn’t look like he’s from Iraq, Angela murmured.

Well, I thought, he sure doesn’t look like he’s from around here.

He’s staying with me, The Monster gushed.

There was a pained look in his eyes when she said that, and it pulled and tugged at my heart. Hello?! Did anyone else see it? I wanted to run up to him and hug him and let him know everything was gonna be okay. Just when I started to get up from my seat—don’t ask me what I thought I was gonna do—Monica moved closer to him.

She gave his arm a little squeeze with one hand. Her other hand reached up to her throat and played absently with the oddly shaped oval pendant on her obviously new necklace. Probably something she’d just gotten for her birthday. Like me, she was a summer baby. Monica and me used to be close—like really close. We used to share birthdays together when we were little. I know, right?! But now we’re Best Friends For NEVER.

It’s hard for me to believe that only a few years ago, in Turtle Elementary School, we were BFFs and had been since we’d met in kindergarten.

B F F. Look, I know that phrase is so not cool now, I know now it’s so Paris Hilton, so back in the day, but back then that’s what we called each other. And it was cute. We were cute. We were inseparable. We did pajama parties, campouts at Itasca Park, hung out at the State Fair together or whatever, and like I said we even celebrated our birthdays together. We shared everything. Even mono. Which we both got at the beginning of first grade. It was pretty bad. We kept relapsing, and it kept us both in bed for months. Our moms decided that they didn’t want us to miss out on our first grade experience. Either that or they got bad advice from a school official. I’m not sure which is true. I’ve heard both versions. We ended up repeating first grade. (So we’re a year older than everybody else in our class.) But we did it together.

Monica rolled the pendant back and forth between her fingers, fondling it. She always touched things in a gross, obvious way, to draw attention to what was hers, like the necklace. Or what she thought was hers, like the new guy, Ash.

The sound of her voice had broken the spell that I was under. I looked around. Ms. (Gimme Some) Moore, like the rest of the classroom, still looked shell-shocked.

Ash? Ash? I thought to myself. What kind of a name is Ash? Short for Ashley? Isn’t that a girl’s name? Ashley Tisdale? No wait it’s like that character in my mom’s all time favorite movie, Gone with the Wind. Yeah, that dude’s name was Ashley. Ashley…I kind of like that. Or maybe it’s Ashton like Ashton Kucher. He’s hot. And like Coral always says, I’d get Punk’d by him any time.

We’re his host family, The Monster said.

Meanwhile Ms. Moore (Grisle Than Meat) had regained her composure. Oh my, I was unaware the Mounds View School District had an exchange program with Iraq. She was almost apologizing for her lack of knowledge. Whatever is our sister city? Baghdad? Samarrah?

The Monster harrumphed and flipped her hair. I’m taking him around to meet all my teachers. He’s gonna have the same schedule as me.

Ash is short for Ashley, I presume, Ms. Moore (Than Is Decent) said.

Ashur, he said, quietly. It is short for Ashur.

His voice sounded foreign, exotic. It was soft and smooth, like silk. I know that doesn’t make sense. You hear a voice. You touch silk. But you know exactly what I mean. Like French Silk Chocolate, he looked and sounded yummy!

I see, Ms. Moore (Than Before) said. And your last name?

Oh you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, The Monster chimed in.

Jeez, I thought. Can’t you let the poor guy speak for himself?

It took me a minute to realize it, but Ms. Moore (Than I Could Ever Imagine) was smitten. She had become all girly. She pawed at the floor with her low-heeled, orthopedic brown shoes and smoothed down the front and sides of her grass-stain green skirt with her hands. She fluttered her skimpy eyelashes and smiled wide at Ash, showing yellow front teeth stained with pink lipstick.

Wait a minute, I thought. Is she flirting?! OMG. That’s pathetic.

Let me be the first, I hope, of the faculty, she said, to welcome you to Charles A. Lindbergh High School. Her voice was all breathy. "May I also be the first to offer you a proper tour of the Twin Cities: The Capitol Dome, the Basilica of Saint Mary, the Walker Art Center, the Guthrie Theater (I swear she said ‘Theatah,’), Fort Snelling…" she continued to rattle on.

It should be me giving him the tour, I thought. I could show him the Mall of America, or even the Rosedale Mall. We could drink Campfire Mochas at Caribou, lay out on the beach at Snail Lake. Or any lake. Heck, this is the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. Or we could just hang. But I mean like really?! The Capitol Dome?!

Then she went on to give the same boring freshman orientation speech that she gave every year, Charles Lindbergh High School was built here in Shoreview, a second-ring suburb north of Saint Paul in 1927, shortly after Lindbergh’s plane ride across the Atlantic, the first trip of it’s kind in history. (History? Gag me). The building itself was based on The Beaux-Arts style, commemorating the historic trip Lindbergh made from New York to Paris…, etc, etc, etc. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like whatever! Did I mention how much I hate history?! I mean who cares about something that happened almost a hundred years ago?

For me Charles Lindbergh High School is a big-huge dull squat gray building that tries to be fancy with some columns out front and curlicues on top. The insides are so old they’re petrified. They remind me of a museum. The place is decrepit and dusty and should be torn down so we can have a new school, one from this century. It’s like some ginormous tornado sucked up one of those old downtown buildings in Minneapolis or Saint Paul and plunked it down right here.

My mom has a hobby where she presses flowers from her garden into books. Ms. Moore (For The Taking) had always reminded me of a dried, pressed flower, the fun and joy of life squeezed right out of her. Until now. With Ash, she was acting like, well, like Angela does around boys. I glanced over at Angela, who sat enthralled by Ash. God, I thought, I hope that’s not Angela’s fate, to become another Ms. Moore (Is Not Better).

Will you be staying here in Shoreview? Ms. Moore (If You Want It) asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

Ashur looked to Monica for the answer.

Monica gave her an as if look. North Oaks, Ms. Moore. Like I just said, he’s staying with me. Then she spoke really slow, like she was talking to a two-year old, We’re his host family.

I see. North Oaks. Ms. Moore (More, More) pushed up the back of her permed hair playfully, Not far.

No, Ms. Moore. Monica repeated in a snide way (the way only really rich girls can). Not far. Just across Hodgson Road. Monica gave her an impatient look. I’m sorry, Ms. Moore, but we have to leave now. We’ve got a lot of people to meet.

The Monster was looking so pleased with herself, that I was surprised she didn’t run around in circles, like Gigi, her little Pomeranian dog, and pee all over the place. She took a possessive stance as she hooked an arm through one of Ash’s arms.

I felt miserable. MISERABLE! The guy of MY dreams walks into my life with my only living mortal enemy on his arm. (Yeah, we skipped frenemies and went straight to mortal enemies. And I didn’t even know I had a dream guy until now. Could it get any worse? (It could).

It was the first time I’d seen Monica The Monster since the end of the last school year, when we’d both been freshmen. Now she somehow looked even more beautiful. It made me dislike her even more. Maybe it was because she was standing next to Ash that she looked so good. You know…beauty by association.

Okay, let’s face it. Monica is a guy magnet. The only girl in school hotter than Monica is Coral. How hot is Coral? Last year, Lindbergh High School broke with tradition and voted Coral Homecoming Queen as a freshman. An honor only given to seniors up ‘til then. But whereas Coral is always perfect, she’s never too perfect. Monica always seems too perfect, so brunette Barbie doll that it isn’t real. But now, with Ash on her arm, she seemed perfectly perfect too.

Before she pulled him away, Monica gave a quick sweep of the room with her eyes to make sure everybody knew she and Ash were together. When her gaze landed on me, it made me want to get up and slap her right in her made-up too-beautiful face. I could feel her cranking up that smile, rubbing it in. The Bitch.

Okay, I don’t swear…much…

When I was seven years old I said shit in front of my mom and dad, and my dad washed my mouth out with liquid soap. I think it was anti-bacterial. Now sometimes I start to taste that taste when I think about swearing and I feel like I’m gonna gag. Not all the time, but enough so that it makes me stop and think twice before I cuss, most of the time, anyway. I wish it worked out that way with everything I say. Then I wouldn’t put my wide foot in my mouth half the time. So, anyway, it takes a great effort on my part to swear. But sometimes there’s no other word that will do. Even Monster was too good for her on this occasion. I don’t hate anybody. But I come close to it with Monica.

Monica held out her hand and Ash took it. They walked hand in hand out the door. Ms. Moore (Bark Than Bite) watched the doorway for the longest time after they had disappeared. After a moment she visibly wilted. She turned back to the class and started right where she’d left off on the syllabus. She totally forgot about my Droid and me.

The rest of the class was like a blur.

I sat stunned, my whole body numb.

Somewhere in the distance I heard the bell ring. Students got up from their desks and started filing out of the room.

After a few seconds I realized Angela was standing over me, trying to get my attention. Quelly. Quelly. Quell. She nudged me.

I looked up at her.

Oh my God, Quelly. The new guy was totally checking you out.

I looked around. The room was empty except for us.

Really? I said. So I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Did you see The Monster? She’s already got her hooks in him.

How lucky is that ho-bag?

God, Angela, I snickered (okay, I like to snicker). You are so starting to sound like Coral.

Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

I was just about to text Coral about the whole thing when I looked down at my Droid screen and saw Ash’s face. Somehow, I’d taken a picture of him. I studied the pic. His eyes looked right into me, right into my heart, right into my soul. It brought back the other feeling I’d had, like we’d had a connection, or were somehow connected from before. But there was something else too. It showed in his eyes. A constant struggle going on inside of him. Probably it was being with The Monster. That would make anybody squirm.

My hidden birthmark itched something fierce and I tried to rub it with my elbow without Angela seeing.

And like can you believe it? Angela said. How come her family gets to be his host family? How lucky is that?

CHAPTER Three

Like multi-colored camels, kids humped their backpacks on their backs, through the crowded halls from one class to another

(There’ve been studies about the effect of having to carry all that weight on your back and how bad it is for you. I know cuz Angela told me about it.)

Angela was touching up my fingernails at Coral’s locker while we waited for Coral. She repainted the red and white stripes and little blue stars. Angela wasn’t on the Riot Squad, but she was kind of an honorary member because she could do things like this. She was also best friends with me and Coral which automatically gave her cred.

I’ll be glad when volleyball is over, I said, so I can grow my nails out.

(Okay, just cuz I know it’s a confusing world out there, here are three things for clarification purposes.

1. Riot Squad: Us girls self-named the Patriot’s Dance Team the Riot Squad or simply Riots. Get it? Pat[riots]? Riots?

2. Patriettes: The Patriettes is the name of the Patriot cheerleaders [boo! hiss!] or cheer deer [deer in the headlights? Totally clueless?] as we so fondly refer to them.

3. Lady Pats: The Lindbergh Girls Volleyball Team is called the Lady Pats.

There. Hope that helps.)

We checked out what the other girls in the halls were wearing. Since it was the first day back at school every girl was trying to make a statement. Some tried harder than others. Others tried hard not to look like they were trying. I was happy with my outfit. I was coordinated from head to toe, right down to my white strapped wedges. And Angela looked cute as can be in her little sleeveless satiny white blouse and green skirt.

Tyson, my ex (sort of), passed by. At least I thought he was passing by. Unfortunately, he stopped at Coral’s locker.

Tyson Marsh is big and blond. He’s six foot three, 220 pounds and plays defensive end and linebacker for the Lindbergh Patriots. (I know that last part because he’s told me again and again and again.) Whatever.

Believe me when I say, I’ve learned more about football than I ever wanted to know in my entire life. Hey, I’ve got as much school spirit as the next girl. I’m on the Patriot’s Dance Team and I play JV volleyball. But as far as football goes, I just want our team to win. I don’t need to know all the details.

He was wearing his favorite shirt, a purple Minnesota Vikings jersey with the number 69. It was his favorite number worn by his favorite ex-Viking’s player, Jared Allen. Again I say, whatever. The Vikings really got a number ‘69’ Q! He had told me this repeatedly until I was ready to hurl, like he didn’t know he’d already told me a bajillion times. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world. 69. 69. It’s a sexual reference. Yes, I get it already. Geez!

He raised an arm up and leaned all casual-like against the locker next to us. I noticed the old scars running across his wrist. They reminded me of our past together.

He looked down at me and grinned. Imagine if one of those babies on food jars at the grocery store had grown up to be a teenager, with cute little dimples and a little blond mustache. That’s Tyson.

Yo, Quelly, he said, staring at me with crystal blue eyes that had always made me sigh. Something he knew all too well.

Yo yourself. Strangely, his eyes didn’t have any affect on me right now.

He glanced at Angela and said, Hey.

She giggled like a six year old girl and blushed.

Come sit with me at lunch, he said. I got something I want to talk to you about.

He reached out to touch my hand and I pulled back a little, thinking about what had happened over the summer with him and Coral.

It was hard to imagine behind those dimples, blue eyes and baby face was a menace. With girls Tyson was all flirts and giggles. But with the guys who did him wrong, that face turned cold and hard, the blue eyes going dead like they say sharks do.

In grade school Tyson had been a scrappy, scrawny little bad boy with something to prove. That’s what had been so appealing about him. Then, the summer before middle school, just like Monica, he had a growth spurt. He went from being a cute little flirt to being a serious hottie, almost six feet tall. He continued growing so that by the time he got to high school he was six foot three. He also spent lots of time in the weight room and got all buffed up. Since his last name was Marsh, the other guys started calling him Swamp Thing, from some old 1980s monster movie they’d found on Netflix. Then they shortened it to Swamp. He loved that nickname. I hated it. It made him sound all smelly and disgusting.

Before, when he was small, I thought his nasty streak was from always being bullied and picked on. I remember, he always stood up for himself, never backed down, even though he got beat up a lot. But I knew he didn’t forget. He had made a mental list of every kid that had ever done him wrong. I’m waiting to pay it forward, he told me way back in sixth grade.

I should’ve figured it out back then, that we were totally wrong for each other. Now I was doing what I thought I was suppose to do, date one of the hottest, most popular, guys in school.

And now Tyson practically ran Lindbergh High. Along with his football buddies, Chazz Salazar, Snake Johnson, Perry Wells, Pearce Argent and Ray Rainey. Chazz was probably the most popular guy in school. A real hottie…and smart. He was actually really sweet and everybody liked him. He was the leader in both football and basketball. Pearce and RayRay were also hotties. Perry was an all right guy, really mellow. Snake Johnson, on the other hand, that dude creeped me out.

Talk about what? I said, looking up at Tyson as he leaned against Coral’s locker. If it’s me and you, you already know, it is so over between us. I don’t know how many times I’d said that before and had really meant it, just to have him suck me back into his little grasp.

Only this time, I knew it was for real.

Hey Quelly, Kiki Vandenberg said as she passed by. Oh, hi Tyson, she added, looking back over her shoulder, giving him a little wave and a smile.

I watched him watch her as she wiggled away.

Kiki was what Angela called a Nordic-Blond-Minnesota-Type. Everybody thought she was pretty, blonde curly hair and all. But to me her face had these sharp hatchet-like features.

Don’t get me wrong, Kiki was a friend, but she was also a serious flirt. Just like Tyson.

Are you checking out that girl’s butt? I said. Although I don’t know why I cared. I knew that it was over between us. Maybe it was just force of habit. All I could think about was Ash and the way he’d looked at me. Even with Tyson giving me those lovey-dovey eyes.

Don’t be like that, Q. I heard about what happened last week. Is it true? I mean like did you almost die?

Maybe, I shrugged.

No shit?

And where were you? I said, again more out of habit than a feeling of really caring. You didn’t text me, you didn’t call me, not once the whole time.

Come on, Q. It was Labor Day Weekend. You know we always go Up North to Grand Marais to my grandparent’s cabin. I’ve been like so worried about you."

Really? Do they live in the nineteenth century up there?

What?

Aaaagh! You are so good at being, stupid!

I turned to Angela, What did they call it when they delivered mail back in the olden days, before cars even?

Angela shrugged. Pony Express? Angela was the girl that knew about people and things, like cultural stuff and events from the past. All that stuff that took up too much brain space for me.

Yeah that. Which reminds me Ty, thanks for sending me a post card. Not! You know how much I like to get mail. And thanks for checking on me to see how I was after my ordeal. Again. Not!

Sorry. He gave me that puppy dog look that would normally have melted my heart. You know I’m not good at stuff like that. But it’s the thought that counts, and you’re always in my thoughts. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

As so often happens, Angela remained silent throughout the conversation. I love her to death. But she has this habit of clamming up. Especially if there are boys that she thinks are hotties. And with all his faults, and all our history of ups and downs together, Tyson was still a number one hottie. But that didn’t matter now. I needed rescuing. I kept giving her glances, hoping she’d come to my aid. Unfortunately, it’s just not her style to stand up to other people. She just stood there looking cute, like a little kitten. So I thought to myself, will Someone, Anyone, come save me, please?! And like a knight in shining armor—

"Freak! Coral yelled. Get away!" She’d come up behind Tyson quietly, hidden from view by his size, waiting for the perfect moment to jab him in the ribs with her finger. He jumped and yelped.

Jesus, Coral, what the hell’s your problem? he said.

We all laughed at him.

His flash of anger was followed by what can only be described as a combination of desire and admiration, as he stared down at Coral.

Because of Tyson and Coral’s little incident at the Shoreview Community Center, earlier in the summer, I broke up with him. Me and Tyson are pretty much off for good now. And since that little incident the way he stared at her had gotten even more intense.

Sometimes, I’d catch myself staring at Coral too. Most of the time I’d catch other people staring at her. The thing is, there are times when I see her, it’s like I’m looking at her for the very first time.

Coral Cynthia Christensen got that look from everybody. Everybody.

She’s a petite, blonde haired, baby-blue eyed marvel. Her perfect face exudes the kind of confidence and radiance that I can only dream of. I say these things without being facetious (because they’re true). It’s just a fact of Nature and everybody who knows her accepts it. Think about the most beautiful statue you’ve ever seen, or the most wonderful fragrance you’ve ever smelled, the most luxurious, smoothest silk you’ve ever felt, the most luscious dessert you’ve ever tasted. Put them all together and that’s Coral. I guess it’s because of all those things that she can talk the way she does and get away with it. She’s like a Disney princess who has come to life and stepped right out of a Disney movie. Only she wasn’t born poor and helpless like Cinderella. She was born rich, with a salty edge. A princess with attitude. Cinderella with a bite. And a mouth that would put a gangsta rapper to shame.

Coral lives in North Oaks in a house that’s twice the size of my house. Her Dad’s some kind of brain surgeon or something. And her Mom has a series of successful on-line self-help books she writes from home. Coral calls them Chicken Noodle Soup Du Jour books. Coral has everything going for her, but doesn’t seem to care about any of it. I mean like she doesn’t act rich. She doesn’t act beautiful. She doesn’t act all prissy. She isn’t a diva.

Coral and I had known each other since Turtle Elementary School, but we didn’t become close until we got to middle school at Chippewa. That was the same time that I had my huge split with Monica. Now me and Coral are best friends.

Coral’s perfect body was dressed in a simple fuzzy pink Mossimo sweater from Target (which in this weather would have been too hot for anybody else to wear, but that kind of stuff never bothered her—I mean like I’d never seen her sweat or seem uncomfortable at all). She wore huggers she’d picked out at American Eagle in the Rosedale Mall with me, and black canvas flats from DSW. But it didn’t matter what she wore, she always looked incredible.

(I used to borrow her clothes cuz they looked so good on her. Only when I wore them they never quite looked as good. Okay I’m not the smartest chip in the circuit, so it took me a little while to realize everything looked good on Coral.)

She cocked her head to one side, and looked back up at Tyson. Like you’re in my frickin’ way. That’s my locker, Bitch. And don’t even try that shit-eating grin of yours on me, Dickweed. Cuz it doesn’t work.

Tyson turned to me for some kind of moral support.

I just shook my head.

Knowing he was no match for Coral, and clearly feeling outnumbered, he dropped his arm, ducked his head and silently slunk away. I thought about the scars running across his wrist. I had the same identical scars on my wrist, reminding me just how serious I’d been about Tyson. He introduced me to cutting. Something I did, four years ago, in 6th grade when we first started going together. Something I’d never do now. Hey, I may be immature, but I am growing up. Unlike some people.

He also introduced me to other things, like French kissing. It had thrilled me once upon a time. Now the idea of his tongue in my mouth made me want to retch.

Shoo, fly, shoo, Coral said. She fluttered her fingers at him as we watched him go. Then she did her Tyson impersonation, sucking her cheeks in, shoving her chest out and jerking her head up and down like a rooster. Young dumb and full of…

Himself? Angela asked.

Well, Coral said, that’s not exactly what I was gonna say.

We all watched Tyson’s retreat down the hall. After a few more yards his slinking changed to strutting as he marched up and introduced himself to a couple of freshman girls, who immediately started straightening their skirts and postures and touching their hair to make sure it was in place.

Why do girls have to worry so much about how they look, Coral said to nobody in particular, and boys have to be so stupid?

Me and Angela exchanged a look. For the rest of us girls, beauty was a constant work in progress. Something that beautiful, perfect Coral would never understand.

Coral, Coral, Angela cried, as the three of us huddled together. Did you see him? Did you see the new guy? Dude, he is totally—Awe-some! She was hopping up and down, breathless, as she spoke. I mean, OMG, what a hottie.

Okay, Coral said. I want to hear the blowjob by blowjob account.

Angela went on to tell her about how Ash had appeared at the front of Ms. (You Can’t Have No) Moore’s class, standing in the doorway like a dream.

I stood by listening silently.

What a bizzare sort of day, I thought. Angela’s doing all the talking about the new hottie and I’m hardly making a peep. What’s wrong with me? That got me thinking about all the little things that were wrong with me. Reasons why Ash wouldn’t like me. Maybe he doesn’t like short girls. I’m about the same size as Coral and Angela, but I’m short for volleyball. Too short to be a front row hitter, which is what I really want, cuz it’s where all the action and glory is. And what about my wide feet? Nobody else seems to notice, but I do. I think it’s the hazards of going barefoot everywhere when I was little. I complained to my parents about it once. My mom said it’s something I got from my Thai roots, like her. Thai people always wear flip flops instead of shoes, she said, so their feet spread out. My dad said it gives me a strong base, makes me sturdy, like a good Minnesota girl. Then there’s the zit I could feel, starting to grow right in the middle of my forehead. (The one that always seemed to appear right before something important, like the homecoming dance last year). That stuff doesn’t usually bother me too much (except for the zit).

But my birthmark…that bothers me a lot.

And it was bothering me right now. It wasn’t tingling anymore. Now it was itching like crazy. Without being too obvious I tried to scratch it by rubbing my elbow over my boob. It didn’t work.

God, I hated that birthmark. My mom told me it was just a teensy little dot when I was born. Like a pin point the color of fresh blood, right over my heart. You can see it in all my naked baby pictures. When I started growing the birthmark grew too. Like a blood blister or a mole the color of blood. The doctors told my parents it was harmless, and it might leave a scar if they took it out, so they didn’t do anything about it. They thought it was cute. Are you serious? When I got older it stretched out. It looked like a bloody tear drop. I know, right! Since it was under my blouse, my Mom told me nobody would ever see it. She said it made me unique. I didn’t care. I whined until she put a band-aid over it to cover it up.

Now it’s like an inch long and it’s starting to curve. It’s shaped like one of those Pillsbury crescent rolls standing on its tip. It’s still the color of fresh blood and freaks me out every time I look at it. Thank God I finally got boobs. Okay, I ain’t got superboobs, (not like that ho ho Monica) but I got enough of a swell to hide it. Now it’s right under my left boob enough so it’s hidden unless I raise my arms up. But just in case, every morning I use a glob of concealer to cover it before I get dressed. Not even Angela or Coral, or Thank God, Monica The Monster, knows about it.

It’s the one and only secret I’ve ever kept from anybody but my family. Only my Mom and