The Swap Read Online Free PDF Page B

stomach. And it’s not, like, butterflies. It’s worse. And it’s not just that I get the last seat in the back next to Henry Hodges, who is making farting noises. It’s more that I catch a look from Sassy (front row, third desk by the windows), dressed in a tight-fitting black spaghetti-strap top, and the look she gives me does not say, “Ellie! Yay! We’re in the same class!”
    No, if this look could talk it would be more like, “Ewww, nice outfit . . . hahahaha! Not!”
    I watch her, and her glittery eye shadow and her black mascara-painted curly eyelashes stare me down. She starts at my sneakers, and I feel her eyes move right up my body until they reach my face, at which time she turns to Aspen, seated (surprise!) next to her, and whispers something. Then the two of them burst out laughing.
    I look around the room, first at Ms. González, who is writing something on the board, and then toward the door, still open because the bell hasn’t rung yet, and I imagine myself leaping up from my seat and sprinting straight down the almost-empty Thatcher hallway, past all the bright orange lockers, out the emergency exit door. Maybe I could run to the main office, call my mom, beg her to pick me up, beg her to let me homeschool, or just . . . gosh, anything but be here now. Anything but be me .
    Every class of my day is pretty much a repeated loop of this exact scene. Me walking into class, Sassy (plus whoever she’s sitting with who is not me) sneers, rolls her eyes, then bursts out laughing. At lunch, after I wander into the crowded cafeteria looking lost, I am in line with my melted-cheese bagel and my yogurt, almost to the cash register, when I hear her.
    Sassy.
    I look over my shoulder and see her by the soda machines in the corner, holding court like some sort of celebrity, obviously talking just loud enough for me to hear her.
    â€œNo offense,” she starts, then pauses to flip back her golden hair, as if she’s a famous actress waiting for her gathered audience to turn toward her (they do). Then she says it (drumroll, please): “Gotta love it when people don’t even, like, brush their hair! Eww. Embarrassing.” (Hahahahaaa!)
    Sassy stops again and looks up just long enough for her entire tribe of girls (Aspen by her side) to turn toward me and give me the death stare. “Not to be rude, but seriously, people, sneakers with jeans is so not okay. It’s hideous!” (Hahahaha!) “Just sayin’!”
    In chorus, the one class I absolutely love, Mr. Pratt puts me right next to Sassy. One song in, she leans over, whispering into my ear, “Some people should probably just mouth the words.” She pauses for a beat, overwhelmed by giggles. “Off-key much?’”
    By eighth period, my last period of the day, I have decided I really can’t take this anymore. I honestly hate my life. This has actually been the worst week ever. Today is Friday—how am I going to even make it through the weekend to Monday? I already said I’d go to Claire’s birthday sleepover. I supposedly have soccer tryouts. I have an entire Sassy Gaines–filled weekend, and I still have one more class with her—gym.
    Walking into the girls’ locker room, I am secretly praying the universe will strike me down with some sort of awful feverish sickness that forces me to stay in bed all weekend. Chicken pox? Strep throat? Appendicitis? Could I fake getting my period?
    Probably not.
    In what might be my only good luck so far today, there is an empty bathroom stall. I slip inside, hang my three-thousand-pound backpack from the hook of the flimsy metal door, and fish out my Thatcher-issued blue-and-orange shorts and T-shirt. At least I don’t have to change right out in the open, in front of all the other girls.
    Gym. I can get through gym, right? I’m faster than Sassy and probably more coordinated then she is. I picture myself