Bounce by Natasha Friend Page A

in the toolshed, and she’d better go pick up her daughter right now, before something bad happens.
    But somehow I don’t have the energy. Somehow, all I want to do is collapse on this bench and cry.
    Stella? It’s me, Evyn.
    Did you hear what they were saying about me? Do you know what they’re going to do to me?
    Now the tears are flowing.
    Oh, honey, Stella says. Don’t cry.
    For the first time ever, I get mad at her. That’s all you cancome up with? “Don’t cry”? That’s the best you can do? You can’t do any better than that? Thanks, Stella. Thanks a whole lot.
    Stella shakes her head. You can’t let those girls get to you.
    Right, I say.
    She ignores my sarcasm and keeps going. Whatever they call you, just tell yourself, “I’m rubber, you’re glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”
    I stare at her. What is this, first grade?
    Stella smiles. Hey, it works.
    Right.
    Let’s try one, she says. Call me something.
    What?
    Call me something. Something mean.
    I roll my eyes.
    Humor me, honey.
    Fine, I say. You’re a horrible mother.
    Again, she smiles. Bounce!
    Your advice is for crap.
    She smiles wider. Bounce!
    And I’m glad you’re up there instead of down here because if you were here I would hate you…I DO hate you.
    Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!…See? Stella says. Not a dent.
    She looks down at me, and her eyes are warm and soft, even though the things I said to her were beyond harsh.
    I know I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, which is what a good daughter would say to her dead mother right now. I’m sorry, Mom, and thank you for giving me the tools to cope in this cold, cruel world.
    But I don’t feel sorry—I feel mad. At everyone.
    Mad at the sweater twins for dressing me like this. Mad at Ajax for dancing with Maya Glassman instead of Andrea. Mad at the It Girls for being so brutal. And at Jules for not being home when I need her, and at Mackey for never listening to a word I say, and at Birdie for falling in love and moving us here without asking and for morphing into someone I don’t even know anymore. Mad at Eleni most of all.
    It’s not you , I tell Stella.
    She smiles. I know it’s not, honey.
    I don’t really hate you.
    I know.
    You must hate her as much as I do. Probably more. You hate her guts, don’t you?
    And Stella says, Hate is a strong word, Evyn. She gives me a little lecture on the Golden Rule and deliberate word choice. Then she sighs. Yeah. I hate her, too.
    Just like I knew she would.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    I am in bed feeling sorry for myself when I smell something. French toast, I think. Also bacon. Part of me wants to eat, but the part that remembers last night doesn’t want to move. Ever. Staying in bed for the rest of my life sounds like a good plan. I can finish eighth grade through one of those Internet correspondence courses and never go to school again. I can forget everything that happened.
    â€œOh my God. How was the social ?”
    Unfortunately, the sweater twins aren’t going to let me.
    â€œDid you get, like, a million compliments on your hair? Who did you dance with?”
    â€œDid you hook up with anyone? Was there alcohol?”
    From their loft beds, the two of them are staring down at me. They have matching mascara rings around their eyes, like raccoons. And matching bed-heads.
    For a second I think about telling them what really happened, how in one evening I managed to 1) wear the completely wrong thing, yet again, 2) get asked to dance exactly zero times, and 3) incur the wrath of the most popular girl in school. For a second I wonder if maybe they’d have some advice for me—a smackeral of “sibling support” in my time of need.
    But then I remember who I’m dealing with—the people who dressed me.
    â€œRemember in eighth grade when Vinny Petrizzo spiked the punch with vodka and Jocelyn Weintraub puked