Not That Kind Of Girl. Siobhan Vivian

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      She only invited Marci Cooperstein after that.

      I thought I’d lost her.

      Then the Fish Sticks incident happened, and I was the one person who stood by her. To everyone else at school, she was tainted. The boys were grossed out by her, and even some girls were snooty and snotty and suddenly too good for her. Marci actually laughed a few times at the jokes other people made. Right in front of Autumn.

      I told Marci that she was pathetic.

      And then I happily picked up the slack. I walked in front of Autumn, or struck up a loud conversation about absolutely nothing, casting the best friend force field to distract her from the sniffers and the stinky faces. I think some people were afraid of me. I became known as the nerdy girl with the scary intensity who’d do anything to protect Fish Sticks.

      A couple of weeks later, Marci apologized to Autumn in a note she’d written during chorus. Autumn showed it to me. It was full of grammatical errors. Your right to be mad at me, Marci wrote. Idiot.

      I thought Autumn would write Marci back, but she crumpled up the note and flushed it down the toilet. I’d never been more proud of her.

      With my help, Autumn turned her negative into a positive. Together we channeled our energy into schoolwork. Autumn was never a great student, and that first semester of freshman year, she’d nearly failed out from the stress of everything that had happened. But I helped her come around. We’d take our lunch in the library and study or do homework together. I even got her involved with student council. Autumn still didn’t do well enough to make it into AP classes, but she made regular honor roll, and so long as she didn’t royally screw up her SATs, she’d have her pick of colleges.

      After Chad Rivington, Autumn never had another boyfriend. It saved her from a lot of needless heartbreak. And me, well, the whole thing just let me be a good best friend. Which was all I’d wanted to do in the first place.

CHAPTER FOUR

      On Monday, I found one of my posters taped to the wall above my locker. The Friday before, it had hung near the main office, and my original pieces of masking tape were still stuck to the corners. The poster had a picture of me on it, holding a jacket in each hand during last year’s winter coat drive. It read, Vote for Natalie, A Leader with Experience.

      Mike (obviously) had taken a marker and done some doodling at my expense. He had given me a moustache, drawn two enormous penises (one for each of my hands) and a bunch of question marks hovering over my head. He’d crossed out leader and written VIRGIN on top of it. And squeezed the word NO in before experience.

      The hallway was empty, but it wouldn’t be for long. The classrooms were still locked from the weekend, so I couldn’t grab a chair. After jumping up a few times in a desperate and unsuccessful attempt to reach the poster, I headed straight for Ms. Bee’s office, walking so fast that my kneesocks slid down my calves.

      I had expected Mike Domski to retaliate for Friday’s pizza incident, of course. I knew he’d want to embarrass me like I’d embarrassed him. But his attack was worse than any grease stain. It was degrading.

      Ms. Bee sat at her desk, blowing through the cloud blossoming from the ceramic cup cradled in her hands. Even though she was in her early sixties, Ms. Bee was tan and fit and beautiful, in a loose black linen dress, a tangle of turquoise and red glass beads, and leather slides the color of honey. Her thick white hair curled off her forehead like the crest of an ocean wave and pooled at her shoulders. She had a stack of papers and folders before her. It took a few seconds, and a small fake cough, for her to notice me lingering outside.

      Ms. Bee looked up and said, “Natalie. Good. I wanted to talk with you today. Come in. And close the door behind you.”

      I was too angry to sit, so I stood just inside her office with the doorknob pressing into my back. “Mike Domski defaced one of my posters.” My voice quivered, and I sounded like a little baby. I hated that Mike could get under my skin so bad.

      “Are you sure it was him?”

      “Yes.” I glanced at the clock above her head. If we didn’t act fast, students would soon be arriving, looking at that poster, laughing at me.

      “You saw him do it?”

      “No.” My face burned. “But I know it was Mike. And he wrote terrible things about me.” I thought about telling her exactly what terrible things, only I was too mortified.

      “I see.” Ms. Bee set her cup down. “Is it true you threw a slice of pizza at Mr. Domski last Friday?”

      My chin hit my chest. “Yes, I did.”

      Each semester, I’d drive my guidance counselor crazy, shifting requirements around so I could take every single history class Ms. Bee taught, even her electives like Vietnam and the ’60s, which were way harder than electives like ceramics, but incredibly interesting. She supplemented her lectures with personal photos, memorabilia, even reading from her own diary. I had always wanted to impress her. And now, thanks to Mike Domski, I’d done the opposite.

      She took off her glasses, an angular pair of black frames, and slid them into a silk pouch. “Despite the fact that you’re upset, I must admit that I’m glad to hear about this poster issue. I was worried that I might have to discipline you, but since Mr. Domski has also chosen to take a less-than-dignified route in this campaign, these infractions can cancel each other out.” She leaned back until her wooden chair creaked. “Can I give you a little friendly advice, one girl to another?” I nodded. “Boys like Mr. Domski are intimidated by powerful women, Natalie. The only way he can think to belittle you is for simply being a female. But you must remain as strong and poised as you have been the last three years of high school. You must not let him beat you in this election.”

      A burst of energy flew through me. Ms. Bee was right. Mike could only resort to low blows because I outmatched him in every legitimate way.

      Ms. Bee pulled open a desk drawer and rooted around. “I wish I could say that you won’t meet a million more Mike Domskis in the course of your lifetime, but I’m afraid that simply isn’t true.” She handed me a glossy pamphlet. “There’s a leadership conference for young women in Boston during our spring break. It’s going to address exactly these sorts of challenges. The woman who runs it was my roommate during my master’s program, and I might be able to work out some kind of discount for you. Or at least the opportunity to network directly with some incredibly inspiring women at the very top of their fields. If you haven’t already packed your bikinis for Cancun” — she grinned — “I think it could be a formative experience for you.”

      “Thank you,” I said. But really, those two words didn’t even come close.

      I walked back to my locker with my head held high. The hallway was starting to get thick with students, the height of the morning rush. I found an empty trash can I could flip over and climb on, to be tall enough to rip the poster down. But I didn’t need to. Someone had beaten me to it.

CHAPTER FIVE

      On election day, I sat between Mike and Kevin in the front of the library. Kevin was a couple of inches away, but Mike was so painfully close that the arms of our chairs were touching.

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