“Okay,” I said, putting down my sandwich. “Quit screwing with me, Madison. Maybe you’re having some kind of postpartum thing, only instead of getting really depressed you got all friendly. But I am not interested. What do you want?”
“I want to eat lunch with you,” she said calmly. Her own lunch—a roast beef sandwich on thick, expensive white bread—the kind you bought by the loaf at the grocery store and sliced yourself—was packed neatly into a Tupperware container that had room for carrot sticks and apple slices, too. She offered Dustin Jr. a carrot stick but he let loose with a lusty wail.
“Isn’t he too little for solid food?” I asked cautiously. Madison shrugged.
“I’m trying to get him to advance,” she said. “Breastfeeding totally sucks.” And then, without further ado, she pulled up her shirt as if daring me to say something. Dustin Jr. latched on to his lunch with gusto.
Dustin Sr. had opted for cafeteria pizza. The smell was something else. If there was anything that would seal my decision to bail on Kansas forever, it was cafeteria pizza. “Mmmmm,” he said unconvincingly.
“D, that stuff is major no way,” Madison said, rolling her eyes.
“No, seriously, rewind,” I said. “Why are you guys here? What is this about?” I waited for the other shoe to drop. For Madison to play whatever mean joke she had up her sleeve, or to say something horrible about my hair or my clothes, or drag the whole cafeteria over to laugh at me.
Dustin looked between us nervously. “It’s not like that, Sal—um, Amy,” he said. “I mean, not anymore. I know Madison was kind of uncool to you—”
“Kind of uncool?” For all the things I’d endured in Oz, I couldn’t keep the hurt out of my voice. Madison had made my life in Kansas a living hell. She was the one who’d made sure I didn’t have any friends. She was the one who made sure I got mocked every day for my secondhand clothes. She was the one who’d spread rumors about all the times my mom had come home too drunk to even walk straight, or with strange guys who didn’t even stay the night. I don’t even think she knew how close to the truth they were.
“All right, look,” Madison said. “Real talk, okay? I know I was a bitch. I know I am a bitch. At least I own it. But see where I’m coming from. I thought I was on top of the world—” Her voice dripped scorn as she waved a hand around the cafeteria. “Queen of this entire shithole—what a high-class job, am I right? And then I got knocked up, and it was too late to do anything about it by the time I realized I was pregnant—I mean, we’re in the middle of Kansas, it’s not like I could find somebody to drive me to New York to take care of it. Football-star’s-fiancée-prom-queen-preggo Madison Pendleton was everybody’s idea of a great mascot—but slutty-single-mom Madison Pendleton dragging her bastard kid all over Dwight D. Eisenhower Senior High after she ruined the football star’s life? Not so much. I was supposed to drop out when I popped the kid out so no one had to look at us, or adopt him out, or act sorry, and I didn’t do any of that stuff. I had to stand in Strachan’s office for twenty minutes, screaming, before he finally agreed to let me bring the kid to school so I can actually graduate on time. And so now, if you want to know the truth, Amy Gumm, I don’t have any friends either. It’s you and me, babe. Now we can be boss bitches together. Assuming you’ve got it in you.”
“Hey, don’t forget me,” Dustin said, half wounded. Madison smiled at him, that same warm smile she’d given his kid, but her eyes were sad. “She didn’t ruin my life,” he added. “I blew out my knee in a game right before Dustin Jr. was born anyway.”
I stared at Madison, totally speechless. I’d never heard her talk so much at one time without letting an insult fly, let alone admit anything like vulnerability. I thought suddenly of all the times I’d pretended to be something I wasn’t in Oz—to protect myself, to get by. And I thought about what it must have been like for Madison, pregnant and barely seventeen, knowing she was probably going to be stuck in this dump for the rest of her life. I didn’t forgive her, exactly, but I thought I might understand her.
“What about . . .” I made a vague gesture, trying to remember the names of Madison’s Clone Wars besties.
“Amber?” Madison snorted and looked across the cafeteria. Amber—dressed in an outfit uncannily identical to the glitter-heavy blinged-out gear Madison was sporting—was holding court at the head of the popular table, surrounded by admiring jocks, acolytes in matching ensembles, and a couple of hangers-on. As if she could sense the force of Madison’s gaze, she glanced over at us and sneered. Madison raised a single, slow middle finger. Amber blanched and looked away. Queen bee or no queen bee, Madison was still pretty scary. “I got demoted,” she said almost cheerfully. “Whatever. Saves me a lot of time.”