Revenge of the Snob Squad Read Online Free PDF

deceptive.
     It looked like she’d grown a spinal tap. On me the bulge would’ve dissolved into all my layers of blubber. Maybe I should’ve
     claimed the honor.
    We asked Dingy Dietz if we could run first. You know, to get the agony out of the way. We needed to be done with our race
     for the Prairie Plan to begin.
    Max lined up for the first leg.
    Mr. Dietz set his stopwatch. “Get ready, set, go!” He blew his whistle to start the first heat.
    From the sidelines, we whooped a war cry.
    We ran a perfect race. Perfectly awful. Max was okay on her leg. But about halfway around the track I slowed to a walk. Why
     work up a sweat? I figured.
    Max seemed miffed. “You could at least try,” she said as I jumped backward over the finish line, twirling the baton in the
     air before handing it off to Prairie. “At least Prayer tries.” She motioned to the track, where Prairie Cactus dragged up
     a dust storm with her bum foot.
    Prayer, I repeated to myself. That fits. As in, You know she doesn’t have one, Max. Nevertheless, next time I’d trot, at least.
     For some reason, I wanted Max’s approval. Craved it. Maybe because my life depended on it.
    Max cheered Prairie on. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Behind me, Lydia said, “I can’t wait to see their faces. This is going
     to be so sweet.” She beamed. I beamed back. For once, she was right.
    Finally the moment we’d been waiting for. Prairie dragged over the finish line. “Good job.” Max clapped Prairie on the back
     as Lydia bounded away on the last leg.
    “Really good.” I added my praise.
    Prairie’s eyes sparkled. “Th-thanks,” she wheezed.
    Lydia trudged around the track. It took her an ice age. “Go! Run! Atta girl, L.B.” Max clapped and cheered. Prairie and I
     picked up the beat. Out of the bleachers a faint yet distinctive sound drifted down: “Quack. Quack.”
    Max stopped cheering. Deep in her throat, she growled. Prairie and I exchanged terrified glances and stepped back a couple
     of feet.
    At the far end of the track, Lydia shifted the baton to her right hand. That was my cue. “Oh, my stomach,” I moaned real loud.
     “I think I’m going to be sick.” Face contorted, I stumbled over toward Fayola on the first riser of the bleachers, and wretched.
     She screamed. Everyone turned to look.
    I burped. “Ah, much better. Must have been those burritos from lunch.” I bounced a fist off my stomach. Disgusting, I know.
    Fayola torched me with her eyes. The class resumed whatever they’d been doing—sleeping, molting, laughing at Lydia.
    “We’d better get lined up for our race,” Ashley said. She stepped daintily down the bleachers. Her mule team followed. As
     she passed me she said, “Sick.”
    I wanted to trip her so bad, but it wasn’t part of Prairie’s plan.
    The second heat of runners was rousting them-selves from their nap when Lydia finally flat-footed over the finish line. She
     crouched, catching her breath, or pretending to, as Ashley waddled up and stuck out a hand. “Baton, please.”
    Here’s what was
supposed
to happen. The Prairie Plan. Lydia would plop the baton in Ashley’s hand as she sprinted over the finish line. Ashley would
     run her leg then hand off to Fayola—or try to. “It’s all sticky!” Ashley would wail. “It’s… it’s covered with glue.”
    “Not glue,” Lydia would say at my side.
    “Honey,” we’d jump in. “A little bit o’ honey.” We’d emphasize the play on words. Then we’d all lapse into hyena hysterics.
    Unfortunately the Prairie Plan bombed. About halfway around the track the lid on the honey bear bottle worked itself loose.
     Probably as a result of Lydia’s hammering flat feet on the gravel. Honey dribbled down the rear of her pants. Then the bottle
     slipped loose and rolled down Lydia’s left leg, lodging in the elastic cuff at her ankle.
    By the time Lydia limped across the finish line, her left foot had collected about a yard of sand, and her red Keds were