Devilish by Maureen Johnson

cautiously. She waved me over with a manicured hand,wrapped in an adorable pair of green-and-white-striped fingerless gloves. These went right up to her elbow, where they met the sleeve of a tight white angora sweater.
    “I got you a drink already,” she said, pushing something steamy and vaguely minty in my direction. This movement sent our rickety table wobbling, and some hot brown liquid lurched out, dripping off the table and immediately onto my lap. “It’s a soy something. If there’s anything else you want, I’ll get it for you.”
    She waved her hand at the counter, but then, realizing how unappealing the offerings were, withdrew it.
    “I just wanted to go somewhere different to talk,” she explained. “Somewhere private.”
    She rubbed at the back of her left hand and smiled weakly.
    “Okay,” I said. “What’s up?”
    “All the things that I’ve been getting recently,” she said. “They haven’t been from my aunt. But you probably guessed that. You’re smarter than me. I can’t lie very well.”
    “I thought it was strange,” I said. “But why were you lying? Where’s it from?”
    She pressed her lips together, and they wobbled a bit.
    “I got an … offer. That’s all. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t think you would like it.”
    “A credit card offer?” I asked.
    “Not exactly,” she said. “It’s sort of a scholarship.”
    “There are no scholarships for getting your hair colored, Al. There are no scholarships for sweaters.”
    “No, listen,” she said. “This is a special scholarship. They give me money for things I need—money for clothes, money to get my hair done, to go out. They believe in investing in image. They say it builds self-confidence and brings out your potential.”
    “They? Who is they?”
    “Just people,” she said, shifting the table nervously. “Rich people who like to invest in the people they feel have potential but need some help.”
    I leaned back in my chair just to the point where the back started to give, then came down with a thump, shaking the table again and sending soy milk foam everywhere.
    “This sounds a little weird to me, Al,” I said. “Where did you meet these people?”
    “They came to school. And they liked me. And it’s working, Jane. I feel good for once. I look good. I feel confident. Like the other day in class. Before, I would have just panicked when Sister Charles asked me something. But I didn’t. I remembered what was in the book, and I gave the right answer. This is what I’m really like, Jane. I’m not stupid or ugly.”
    “Of course you’re not,” I said. “You never were.”
    “Yes, Jane. I was a freak. That’s why I got left at the prom. Because I was ugly and weird. That’s why I got nervous and puked all over that freshman. That’s why every part of my life has been a failure.”
    Her hands were shaking a bit now. She gripped the cup in front of her.
    “That’s why you’re my only friend.”
    I drew back at that.
    “I don’t mean
that
,” she said, grabbing my hand. “You know I love you. I just mean you’re the only real friend I’ve ever had. No one else has ever seen anything in me. But these people do.”
    “What’s it called?” I said.
    “They’re called the Margarita Society. Not the drink. Margarita’s an old name. They’re not very public, just a bunch of private investors.”
    Everything about this stank.
    “I wanted to talk to you about something else,” she said. “And you aren’t going to like it, but just hear me out.”
    “Okay …”
    “I want us to do something like we used to do, you know, before?”
    “Before?”
    “You know, before. With Elton.”
    This had taken a very unexpected turn. A lump suddenly developed in my throat. I felt like I’d swallowed a cork.
    “I want us all to go Boston, like we used to,” she said. “All three of us.”
    I took a long drink from my lukewarm, soy mint whatever.
    “What for?” I finally brought myself to