As of last period, I’d seen three people take copies of the flyer, and only one of them was using it to toss out her gum. Success!
Meanwhile, Brainzilla got busy laying out three alternate scenarios, estimating the likely size of the crowd based on weather, time of day, and whether we experienced resistance from some of the Nations. And once the rally was over, Eggy would deejay a dance party on the front lawn!
I feel like anything could happen, and that feeling lasts all the way through the final bell and out into the parking lot. The Freakshow and I are headed toward Zitsy’s car when I notice Marty Bloom staring at our flyer. He’s with his best friend/sidekick/henchman, Stoors.
“Join hands and share ideas?” Bloom makes a retching noise.
“Rip it down, man,” Stoors says.
So Bloom does. And just as I hear the paper tear away from the lamppost, Bloom looks up at me… and smiles.
The good feeling that has buoyed me all day dries up and crumbles.
“Put that back!” Eggy shrieks, but Bloom has already torn the flyer in half.
“Why don’t you stuck-up, perfect people go sing ‘Kumbaya’ somewhere else?” Bloom sneers. “Stop trying to spread your feel-good PC bullshit in everyone’s face.”
Brainzilla’s face has turned pale, but she stands her ground. Still, her voice is quiet when she says, “It isn’t bullshit to want to do something positive.”
“Shut up, slut,” Stoors snaps. “Or I’ll have someone else claw your eyes out.”
The memory of Jenna’s attack flashes through my mind, and I see Brainzilla flinch. We aren’t the only ones remembering the fight—I have to dive in front of Flatso, who had just barreled toward the Haters with—I believe—foul intentions.
“Don’t even think of threatening her!” Tebow shouts, and Bloom says, “Why don’t you try to stop me?” and I’m thinking that stuff is about to get seriously out of hand when Winnie Quinn appears and demands, “What’s going on here?”
In the silence that follows, I realize how crowded and still the parking lot is. Nobody is getting in a car to leave. Everyone is just watching us, as stationary as the lamppost beside me.
Winnie eyes the torn flyer in Bloom’s hand. “Did you take that down? Why would you do that?”
Bloom’s only response is a sneer, but it bounces off Winnie like bullets off Superman’s chest.
“These people,” Winnie says, pointing at us—well, really, at me, “are just trying to do something positive. If you don’t want to do it, fine. You don’t have to. But you don’t have to ruin things for everyone else, either.” He turns to face the gawkers. “And why don’t any of you speak up?”
Nobody says anything, which seems to irritate Winnie even more. “God! I’m so sick of stupid bullies ruining everything!” He points at Bloom. “You don’t get to decide what everyone else does! Now, apologize!”
Bloom crosses his arms and smirks. “Or what? You can’t really believe you have any kind of authority in this place. You’re just another weirdo like the rest of them—no idea how to just be normal.”
Winnie looks like he’s been punched. But just as I think he’s about to back off, he gets right in Bloom’s face.
“I’d rather be like the rest of them than some spoiled rich kid who pretends he’s happy but never gets enough attention from Daddy and doesn’t have any real friends because they’re all just using him for his money. I’d rather be one of these kids any day. In fact, I am one of these kids! Now. Apologize!”
And to my shock, Bloom’s face has gone pale. He mutters something that might or might not be an apology, but either way, he takes off, and Stoors follows. Then Winnie stomps to his MINI Cooper before anyone can say a word.
I call out, “Thank you!” but I don’t think he hears me—he’s already pulling away.
“That was so heroic,” Flatso murmurs with a wink and a laugh. She had given up on her crush on Winnie almost instantly, and then it became sort of an inside joke. But I wholeheartedly agree that Winnie is basically a superhero. It crosses my mind that I may be falling in love with Winnie Quinn. That may sound absurd and childish, but I don’t even care. It feels nice. And I’ve never been in love before. Except with Laurence.
Chapter 48
TINY EARTHQUAKE
Brainzilla sits down, right down on the asphalt in the parking lot, like she can’t stand up a moment longer. My good feeling disappears into the air, like a soap bubble popping.
“Are you okay?” Zitsy asks as Brainzilla puts her head between her knees.
I put my hand on her back and realize she’s shaking. Brainzilla is a tiny earthquake, quivering right here in the parking lot. “It’s okay,” I tell her.
“It’s not okay,” Brainzilla whispers. She wipes her hands down her face, then looks up at me. There are shadows deep as bruises under her blue eyes, and I wonder if she has been sleeping. Her pale skin and delicate features make her look fragile.
“Don’t worry.” I kneel down next to Brainzilla, ignoring the gravel that bites into my knees. “We’ll bring the Nations together, and the Haters will come around.”
“Will they?” Brainzilla’s expression is flat, as if she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Or will he just have someone try to beat me up again?”
My friends look at each other. I guess we’re all a little unsure. Brainzilla has always been so strong, but it looks like the increasingly tense situation with Bloom has left her feeling—well, scared, I guess. It’s as if she’s made of china and might shatter at any moment.
It’s confusing. Isn’t she the one who’s supposed to have it all together?
Chapter 49
FACEBOOKED
Igh fwabwagh arg dey.” Marjorie takes a huge, hiccupy breath and then starts speaking this weird alien language again. “I can’t blurgreve!”
Marjorie is crying her eyes out. She’s been this way since I walked through the front door, and I can’t understand a word she’s saying, but I’m trying really hard to be sympathetic. I would be more sympathetic if I knew what the hell was going on. Marjorie babbles some more, and I hope she’s not having a stroke. She’s a little young for it, but still.…
“Oh, Kooks!” she wails.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell her. Poor thing.
“You’re so strong!” She mashes her lips together, and now I really have the feeling I don’t know what’s going on.
“Really, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is,” I tell her.
“Wait!” Marjorie’s eyes go huge, and I worry that if she sneezes, they’ll pop right out of her head. “You don’t know?”
“What?” A heebie-jeebie skitters up my legs.
“You don’t even know what they’ve done to you! And here I am, wailing my head off, and YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW?!” She bursts into a new fit of hysterical tears.
This, incidentally, is an extremely effective way to freak someone out. Heebie-jeebies start parachuting out of the sky and landing all over me.
“Marjorie, do you think you could just, like, slow down and maybe do a yoga pose and explain what you’re talking about?” I’m begging, I know. But I figure that, no matter how bad the truth is, it can’t be that bad.