and less conspicuous Have-Nots — the kids whose parents work for the rich Jackson Holers. To see the great divide between these groups, you only have to look from Kay, in all her coiffed perfection and Frenchtipped manicured fingernails, to Wendy, who, though undeniably pretty, usually wears her sun-streaked hair in a simple braid down her back, and her fingernails are polish free and sports clipped.
So where do I fit in?
I’m quickly starting to figure out that our large house with a mountain view means that we have the big bucks, money Mom never mentioned back in California.
Apparently we’re loaded. Still, Mom raised us without any idea of wealth. She lived through the Great Depression, after all, insists that Jeffrey and I save a portion of our allowance each week, makes us eat every morsel of food on our plates, darns our socks and mends our clothes, and sets the thermostat to low because we can always put on another sweater.
“Yes, you accepted me, but I’m still trying to figure out why,” I say to Wendy. “I think you must be some kind of a freak. Either that or you’re trying to convert me to your secret horse religion.”
“Darn, you got me,” she says theatrically. “You thwarted my evil plan.”
“I knew it!”
I like Wendy. She’s quirky and kind, and just solidly good people. And she’s saved me from being labeled as a freak or a loner, as well as from the sting of missing my friends back in Cali. When I call them, already it feels like we don’t have much to talk about now that I’m out of the loop. It’s obvious that they’re moving on with their lives without me.
But I can’t think about that or whether I’m a Have or Have-Not. My real problem has nothing to do with being rich or poor but instead with the fact that most of the students at Jackson High have known each other since kindergarten. They formed all their cliques years ago. Even though my natural inclination is to stick with the more modest crowd, Christian is one of the pretty people, so that’s where I need to be. But there are obstacles. Huge, glaring obstacles. The first being lunch. The popular crowd usually goes off campus. Of course. If you have money, and a car, would you stay on campus and dine on chicken-fried steak? I think not. I have money, and a car, but the first week of class I did a 180 on the icy roads on the way to school. Jeffrey said it was better than Six Flags, that little spin we took in the middle of the highway. Now we ride the bus, which means I can’t go off campus for lunch unless someone gives me a ride, and people aren’t exactly lining up with offers. Which leads me to obstacle number two: apparently I’m shy, at least around people who don’t pay much attention to me. I never noticed this in California. I never needed to be outgoing at my old school; my friends there kind of naturally gravitated to me. Here it’s a whole different story, though, largely because of obstacle number three: Kay Patterson. It’s hard to make a lot of friends when the most popular girl in school is giving you the stink-eye.
The next morning Jeffrey wanders into the kitchen wearing his IF IDIOTS COULD
FLY, THIS PLACE WOULD LOOK LIKE AN AIRPORT shirt. I know that everyone at school will think it’s funny and not be at all offended, because they like him. Things are so easy for him.
“Hey, you feel like driving today?” he asks. “I don’t want to walk to the bus stop. It’s too cold.”
“You feel like dying today?”
“Sure. I like risking my life. Keeps things in perspective.”
I chuck my bagel at him and he catches it in midair. I look at the closed door to Mom’s office. He smiles hopefully.
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go warm up the car.”
“See,” he says as we slowly make our way down the long road to school. “You can handle this driving-on- snow thing. Pretty soon you’ll be like a pro.”
He’s being suspiciously nice.
“Okay, what’s up with you?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“I got on the wrestling team.”
“How’d you pull that off if tryouts were back in November?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“I challenged the best wrestler on the team to a match. I won. It’s a small school.
They need contenders.”
“Does Mom know?”
“I told her I’m on the team. She wasn’t thrilled. But she can’t forbid us from all school activities, right? I’m tired of this ‘we better lay low, or someone will figure out we’re different’ crap. I mean, it’s not like if I win a match people are going to say, who’s that kid, he’s a really good wrestler, he must be an
“Right,” I agree uneasily. But then Mom isn’t the type to make rules simply because she can. There has to be an explanation for her cautiousness.
“The thing is, I need a ride to some of the practices,” he says, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Like, all of them.”
For a minute it’s quiet, the only sound the heater blowing across our legs.
“When?” I ask finally. I brace myself for bad news.
“Five thirty a.m.”
“Ha.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Get Mom to drive you.”
“She said that if I was going to insist on being on the wrestling team, I’d have to find my own ride. Take responsibility for myself.”
