Rebels Like Us. Liz ReinhardtЧитать онлайн книгу.
of his limbs, his dark eyes are calm.
When he repeats his question, more eyes turn to me from around the classroom. Shiny-haired cheerleaders and flexing jocks, slackers trying to pretend they aren’t dozing, nerds clutching their notebooks—two dozen faces fade in a kaleidoscope of dark and light as my vision tunnels.
Being the new girl sucks.
“Uh...”
“You hate snow?” He rubs a hand over his tight, dark curls and clicks his tongue when Khabria stomps her sneaker in frustration.
“No, you need to stop, boy. Who would hate snow?” She throws her arms out and rolls her eyes like it’s the most ridiculous concept she’s ever contemplated.
“You ever even seen snow?” He juts out his chin.
“No, but I want to. You trying to say you don’t want to ride on a sled? Or throw a snowball?”
“I heard snowballs hurt your hand.” He holds out his own hands, so big they could probably palm a basketball with zero problems. He flips them, studying his knuckles and then his palms like he’s trying to get a gauge of the damage a snowball could do.
I’m shocked silent. No snow? Ever? It’s a lot to wrap my frostbitten brain around. Despite the intense heat here, I feel like I still haven’t thawed completely from the last cold snap back home.
“Alonzo Washington, please stop harassing Agnes and come discuss the status of your term paper proposal with me immediately.”
The guy—Alonzo—leaps out of his seat and says, “Yes, ma’am,” like he’s a soldier in a very obedient army.
I’m about to go back to imagining a life devoid of snow when I hear a little alien-baby voice whisper, “Agnes? That cannot be her name. That name would be ugly if it were my grandmother’s.”
I swivel my head and face the kind of blandly vicious sneers that always seem to infect a select few in any group. My cousins in Santo Domingo would say they’re bocas de suape—mop mouths. In translation, they’re two losers who don’t know when to keep their traps shut. They’re so generically pathetic, if life was a movie, they wouldn’t even have names in the credits. They’re even wearing cheerleading uniforms. Could they be more cliché? Generic Mean Girl One is giggling like mad along with Generic Mean Girl Two. I turn full around in my seat and stare at them, ignoring my new teacher’s obvious throat clearing.
“Is there a problem, ladies?” she demands.
“My name,” I announce, still looking at the two overzealously spray-tanned, hair-tossing idiots in their cutesy matching uniforms. I love the way their cackles dry up and their perfectly made-up faces fall. “Apparently it’s hilarious.”
“Agnes.” I turn to look at my teacher, whose pursed lips and cocked eyebrows tell me she is clearly not amused. “Whatever this nonsense is about, it stops now. I don’t tolerate fools, and I don’t put up with time wasting. In fact, it’s really starting to piss me off that I wasted this much time already.”
A few people gasp or snort when she says piss, as if our innocent, nearly adult ears have never heard a single naughty word before.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I say, sitting straight at my desk. I can take care of the Generic Mean Girl Twins later. Right now, I’m going to make it a priority not to “piss off” this woman. For all I know, this class might be the highlight of an otherwise miserable few months.
“Ma’am.” She crosses her arms over her wide chest. The idiotic giggles start again. I’m drowning fast.
“Me?” I point at myself. Mrs. Lovett’s nostrils flare very slightly.
“Me.” She points a thumb at her chest. “When you speak to me, your instructor, you refer to me as ma’am. Clear?”
“So, not ‘Mrs. Lovett’?” I swear to baby Jesus, I ask only to double-check, but I guess I’ve already walked too close to the edge of the smart-ass line, and now my classmates are hooting like I’m the Pied Piper of classroom anarchy.
“Do not test my patience today, Agnes,” Mrs. Lovett snaps. She slaps a paper packet and a copy of The Old Man and the Sea on my desk.
I leaf through the tattered pages, hold it up, and attempt one last smile that’s basically just me grasping at straws. “No friend as loyal.”
Mrs. Lovett’s lips twitch, and I curl my fingers around the old misogynistic tale of oceanic triumph and New Testament allusions, waiting to see if her lips will twitch up or...
Up. Smile. Score!
But now that I bought her love back with a cheap quote trick, I have to be on my best behavior while we scribble notes about Hemingway’s boozing and hunting and womanizing—and that means keeping my mouth firmly shut. Because, despite my best intentions, whenever I open my mouth, trouble finds me.
Also, I’m still not sure about the whole ma’am thing.
When we’re finally dismissed, Alonzo drags Khabria over to me.
“Agnes, tell this know-it-all that it hurts your hand to make a snowball.”
“Um, if you don’t wear gloves, it stings,” I admit reluctantly. I’m breaking a deep, unwritten girl code by siding with Alonzo, even on a matter this insignificant, but...
“See! I told you! Ooh, you so wrong!” Alonzo crows, shimmying his arms at his sides and strutting around Khabria in a weird, end zone type celebration dance. “My daddy told me when he was in Lamaze class with my mama they made everybody squeeze an ice cube to let them get a taste of labor pain.”
“Um, it’s uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s anything like labor,” I cut in, but Alonzo is flapping his elbows like a chicken while Khabria sucks her teeth and sputters. I fear for Alonzo’s life if he keeps poking this very beautiful, probably lethal bear. “I mean, it’s mostly fun, not painful...” I trail off, and Khabria shakes her head.
“Ignore that fool. He actually enjoys being a dumb ass.”
It occurs to me that I could stick out my hand and introduce myself—no! Maybe that’s too weird?—but before I determine if the chance to make a new friend outweighs the incredible social awkwardness, Alonzo’s sauntered up to his group of cronies and Khabria is gliding away to join a clutch of girls wearing navy cheerleading uniforms that match hers—including both plastic airheads from earlier. Ugh, maybe I should be glad social awkwardness won out before I tried to befriend someone who hangs out with the twit twins.
I try to convince myself I dodged a social bullet, but it doesn’t feel awesome to be left hugging my books and wishing I could teleport to my next class so that I won’t have to suffer being the one and only student at Ebenezer High navigating the halls alone.
And then, suddenly, I’m not.
“Hey! Hey, Agnes!” Khabria’s tiny cheerleading skirt swishes around her long legs as she jogs down the hall after me. “I’m your peer guide today.” She tucks a loose red braid back into her updo and gives me a slightly bigger smile than when we first met.
It’s probably just a coincidence that the clutch of cheerleader clones she left down the hall erupts into squawks of laughter at that exact second.
Probably.
Panic feels like quicksand sucking at my ankles and threatening to pull me under. I half choke out my next words.
“Uh, no worries. I have this handy map.” I flutter the wrinkled paper between us like I’m waving a white flag. I surrender to social isolation—leave me alone in my misery. “I’ve been riding the subway alone since I was a little kid. I’m sure I can manage the halls of a high school.”
Khabria nabs my schedule and cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Because your next class is back that-a-way.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder as I grab the map back and try to get