Revenge of the Snob Squad by Julie Anne Peters Page A

“Believe what she says.”
    Droopy Dietz sighed. “Is there anything about life that isn’t psychologically damaging?” He looked at Lydia. “Don’t answer
     that. Okay, if it’ll reduce the mental anguish, I’ll move the scale into the office. But people, I need to get your heights
     and weights for the next phase of the fitness test.”
    As we herded toward the office door, I inched my way to the back. Talk about mental anguish. The last time I’d weighed myself
     I experienced one of Vanessa’s psychotic episodes. Dizziness over the digital readout.
    Prairie said, “At least you’re t-taller than me. And my prosthesis weighs a t-ton.”
    “Thanks, Prairie.” I smiled meekly. Wish I had something to blame my tonnage on.
    Ahead of us, Ashley stomped out of the office. “The scale’s broken,” I heard her say to Fayola. “It weighs at least five pounds
     heavy.”
    “Oh, great,” I muttered. That’d put me over the top. That’d jam the works.
    Sweat was streaming down my sweats by the time my turn came. Terlitz the Terminator, who was doing the honors, asked my full
     name and birth date. I was tempted to give him false information, but prior consequences with fake names nixed that notion.
     “Okay, step up onto the scale,” he ordered.
    I did, then jumped off. “Wait,” I said. I kicked off my shoes and peeled away my socks. Tiptoeing back on, I exhaled my last
     breath. “Okay. Shoot.”
    He adjusted the little metal indicator. Up, up, down a notch. No warning sirens sounded. Terlitz scribbled on the form attached
     to his clipboard. “That’s it,” he said. “Get down.”
    That’s it?
    Here’s where you’re going to confirm your suspicion about my sanity, or lack thereof. Here’s where you’re going to agree with
     my mother that I do indeed need professional help.
    I said, “So, how much do I weigh?”
    He pursed his skinny lips at me. “You really want to know?”
    No, I want Ashley Krupps to know so her father can announce it to the whole friggin’ school. I shrugged. “Why not?”
    He showed me the form. My kneecaps disintegrated. When I stumbled out, the Squad waited in the wings. Lydia grabbed my arm.
     “Jenny, are you okay? You’re white as a ghost.”
    Ghost. That was a good word. I was a ghost. A ghost of my former self. “I lost six pounds,” I said.
    “All right!” Max held up a palm and I smacked it.
    “P-plus five,” Prairie said, “if Ashley’s right about the s-scale.”
    Hey, yeah. I decided to believe Ashley Krupps was telling the truth, just this once. Eleven pounds. “I don’t know how this
     happened,” I said, slowly shaking my head.
    “I do,” Lydia said. “You’ve been sharing all your candy with us—that’s how.”
    I looked at her. She might be right.
    “Okay, folks, I have a few announcements,” Mr. Dietz said. “Could we rally round?”
    In slo-mo we all shuffled over to the tumbling mats. “First,” he said, “I have the results of the relay races.” He consulted
     his sheet.
    We all zoned out, or at least I did.
    “Best overall time, the Oakland Raiders.” I applauded, to be polite. I wished it’d been Kevin Rooney’s team since I’m deeply
     in love with him. He came in second. “Worst overall time,” Mr. Dietz paused. He caught Lydia’s eye and sighed.
    Oh, great, I thought. More public humiliation. More suffering, more defeat…
    “The Neon Nikes.”
    There was a loud intake of breath in front of us. Ashley wailed, “That’s impossible!”
    “ ’Fraid not,” Dietz said. “You girls missed two races. I had to give you zeroes. I don’t know what was so all-fire interesting
     up there in the bleachers, but I didn’t think it was my responsibility to come up and drag you down for your heats.”
    “They were probably plotting to get us,” I whispered to Max. She smirked. Lydia heard and snickered.
    “And you kept dropping the baton, too,” Melanie said to Ashley.
    “I did not.”
    “Did, too. And you never