“Obviously nothing in this wicked world is safe from vandalism,” she wailed.
I decided to change the subject. “I wonder how Jasper’s getting along? On his own with all those French kids. And he never got good marks for French. I bet he can’t even ask the way to the toilet, poor thing.”
Guess what, my tactics worked. The mention of Jasper’s name made Persephone forget Mr. Snuggles right away. “Yes, but that has its good points—he won’t be able to chat up the pretty French girls,” she said cheerfully. “I mean, it’ll be difficult for him to flirt in a language he doesn’t know.”
Yes and no—intelligent conversation wasn’t exactly Jasper’s strong point, so his attempts at flirtation might actually be more successful if he just gave a dazzling smile, whereupon they’d probably overlook his language problems. But I didn’t say so to Persephone. I was just relieved that we’d stopped talking about that silly box tree.
However, my relief lasted only until the lunch break. Even on the way to the cafeteria, I had a sinking feeling, and not just because everyone was staring at me again. It was as if there was something in the air, something nasty (and I don’t mean the smell of steamed cabbage, which was on the menu for lunch today). The sinking feeling got even worse when a text from Mia arrived. Mia never usually texted me. Texting on the ancient numerical keypads of our phones was pure torture. It took you a full minute to type in Hello. Four twice, two once, five six times running but with a little pause in between them, then six three times. And too bad if you made a mistake, because then you had to begin again at the beginning.
Mia’s text had only two words in it: giy aaat. I stared at the display, frowning. Giy aaat? What was that supposed to tell me? Was it an abbreviation? A secret code? Or had she just hit the wrong keys? I thought of texting her back, but given the time it would take me to type What do you mean? and send the text, I could just as well go over to the lower school canteen and ask her in person. Only, I didn’t feel like it. I was so close to my own cafeteria now that I could smell the food, and I was hungry. Also I wanted to see Henry. I’d better simply call her.
“Hey, Liv!” A couple barred my way. “Is it true?” asked the girl. I knew her—she was one of Persephone’s friends. Itsy. Unfortunately that wasn’t her real name any more than her best friend’s real name was Bitsy, but for reasons I didn’t understand, I could never remember what they were actually called. So I just said, “Hi!” in a friendly voice. “Is what true?” I added.
The boy with Itsy on his arm was Emily’s brother, Sam. He and Itsy had been a happy couple since the Autumn Ball.
“Is what Secrecy writes true?” asked Sam. He didn’t like me because last year Emily had made him ask me to go to the ball with him and I’d said no.
“You read Secrecy’s Tittle-Tattle blog?” Even worse: Was he interested in my sex life? But maybe Sam and Itsy themselves were in a similar situation and were unsettled by the whole discussion. In which case, they just wanted my advice, which was … well, kind of nice. So I looked first Sam and then Itsy straight in the eye and said, “Yes, it’s true. But it makes no difference at all. There isn’t a set time for these things. Everyone can make up their own minds when and whether to do it. So don’t let other people influence you—you just go your own way, never mind what anyone else thinks.” That was the stuff to give them! I ought to be a speechwriter. Or a pastor. Stand by what you think is right! Dare to be yourselves!
But obviously Sam didn’t agree. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, and Itsy added, “I’d never have thought it! Shame on you. Come along, Sam.”
Shame on me? What was the matter with them? I turned back to my cell phone and almost collided with Arthur. Like me, he’d been staring at the display of his own phone.
With great presence of mind, I put on my enemy-general expression and raised my chin. “Arthur.”
Oddly enough, Arthur’s expression wasn’t as cool and superior as usual, but almost a bit … could it be sympathetic? “Oh, hell, Liv,” he said. “Maybe you’d better not go in there.”