Tiffany Tumbles: Book One of the Interim Fates by Kristine Grayson

name. She always drops things when people throw them at her, and she complains when we have to do laps. “That’s what they say on the Olympics.”
    Helen gives this evil smile and she says, “The Greeks invented the Olympics. They put in running because they’re good at it.”
    I roll my eyes. “You’re confusing marathons with the Olympics. The original Olympic games didn’t have distance running. There were footraces and a pentathlon and some wrestling and stuff. And some poetry contests sponsored by my…um…by Aphrodite and the muses and stuff. But the marathon is something else.”
    “Wow, girls,” Helen says. “Listen to that accent. It even makes garbage sound good.”
    “Look it up,” I say, sounding just like my mom. “You’ll see how wrong you are.”
    “I’m never wrong, honey,” Helen says.
    “You’re never right, either,” I say and pull on my favorite white shirt. I bought it at the mall with the money Mom gave me, and it fits better than some of the stuff I magicked over the years. I slip on some jeans too. I’m just sitting down for my socks when Helen puts a manicured hand on my shoulder.
    “You think you’re something, don’t you, Little Miss I’ve Lived All Over The World.”
    Actually, I don’t think I’m much of anything these days, but I’m not admitting that to Helen. Instead, I say, “I’ve met people who are something. I can’t keep up with them. What does it say about you that you can’t keep up with me?”
    Helen frowns at me. I can tell she knows I’ve insulted her, but she can’t tell how. Then she flushes bright red.
    Mission accomplished. I take her hand off me like it’s a dead squirrel and let it drop. Then I finish getting dressed. Most of the girls need an extra five minutes for makeup, but I don’t. I decided not to wear any this year after my early attempts at putting it on manually failed.
    Instead, I walk out of there like I own the world. I get some water at one of the fountains and I’m halfway to Mr. McG’s lame American History class when Jenna catches up to me.
    “You shouted down Helen?” Jenna asks.
    I shrug. “I wasn’t shouting.”
    “Wow,” she says. “No one stands up to Helen.”
    “Why not?” I ask, expecting the whole Mean Girls answer, y’know, Helen’s too mean to people who cross her and her parents are rich and the school bows down to them, and as a result bows down to Helen.
    I’m so prepared for that answer, I almost don’t hear the real one.
    “She’s the smartest, prettiest, most successful girl in school,” Jenna says with something like awe. “She’s good at sports, she’s in college prep, and she never misses on a test. She’s had the same friends her whole life and she’s really loyal. And she’s always going out with the best guys.”
    Jenna actually admires Helen. Maybe because Helen doesn’t scowl at her from the gym floor.
    “I don’t like her,” I say, which isn’t exactly true. I’m a little intimidated by her too. That scowling thing is pretty powerful. “Do you like her?”
    “She doesn’t even know who I am,” Jenna says, which really isn’t an answer. I mean, you can like someone without them knowing you, can’t you? I like Brad Pitt—or I did until I learned about the whole Angelina/Jennifer thing—and I’m sure he has no clue who I am or even that there are mages in the world.
    I decide to push it. “Yeah, but you know who she is. So do you like her?”
    “I want to be like her,” Jenna says as the bell rings. We hurry to Mr. McG’s class and get to our desks just before he closes the door, which is to say, in the nick of time.
    He’s talking about revolution today. Battles and stuff like that. I grew up hearing about battles. Epic battles still celebrated in story and song. I really don’t care about some minor revolution in some faraway land called Massachusetts.
    So I sit there thinking and looking at Jenna out of the corner of my eye. She’s hunched over her book,