Things Are Gonna Get Ugly Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN M!X

  Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Text copyright © 2009 by Hillary Homzie

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc., and related logo is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ALADDIN M!X and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2008934660

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-9507-4

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-9507-2

  Visit us on the Web:

  http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

  To the graduate program in children’s literature at

  Hollins University, and especially to Professor J.D. Stahl,

  whose magical Myth and Folktale class inspired this book—

  my take on the tale of King Tarush Beard

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  Breaking Protocol

  I know how to restrain myself. Some other people aren’t so lucky. Like Maggie Milner, who styles her drab brown hair so it curls under her chin. Maggie thinks it makes her look bouncy. Really, she looks like a dried porcini mushroom. Or there’s Winslow Fromes, who’s wedging into his desk, his shirt hiked up in the back, revealing a band of freckled flesh above SpongeBob underwear.

  Some people just don’t get it. I do. I get that right now I need help on the social studies test, which means I’ll have to make public contact with Winslow. Some students are chatting in little clumps around the room, while others are hunched over textbooks, cramming. For me, it’s too late for cramming.

  “Just let me glance at your answers to the multiple choice,” I say to Winslow. His thick fingers tap the little tuft of hair on his lower lip. But he’s not saying anything like, Sure, Taffeta! or Anything you want, Taffeta! Can Winslow really be that stunned that I have spoken to him?

  While Mr. Dribble, social studies tyrant, shakes his fist at the intercom, there’s another announcement (something about free doughnuts tomorrow to celebrate another great standardized-test-score victory at La Cambia Middle School, home of high achievement). Winslow continues to ignore me. What is his problem? He’s reading from his scrubby black notebook that he guards like it’s the latest video player.

  Leaning forward, I hold my cell under my desk and text Caylin and Petra. First, I google images of a zombie, then send the link and type WINSLOW.

  I sniff Winslow’s soapy smell and breathe on his neck so that the hairs that have fallen out of his ponytail blow upward like chick fluff. Surely, that ought to do the trick. But he continues to gaze straight into his notebook, which is covered in pictures of the undead and metal-clad warriors, and then, finally, mumbles something that sounds like, “Wow, I dunno. Maybe. Got to think…. I dunno.”

  All the eyes in the class swivel toward the door as the Girls make their BIG entrance. Something I’ve taught them well.

  The Girls: An Insider’s Guide

  Caylin Barnes. Five feet two inches. Elbow-length bouncy blond hair usually pulled back into a ponytail. Upturned nose. Blue eyes. Has taken jazz dance since she was two and three-quarters, although she’s a klutz, which makes her the bravest human being I know. Adept at secretly studying but prone to nasty stomach cramps. Charms frumpy teachers after class who are desperate for a little glamour.

  Petra Santora. Five feet eight inches. Dark brown hair highlighted “Tawny River” every six weeks at The Arrangement with Roxanne, the hair goddess. Green eyes. Linebacker physique. Not afraid to wear wedge sandals. Wants to be a meteorologist or daytime anchor when she grows up because she wants to do something important on TV but doesn’t care much for the news.

  Caylin smiles at me and Petra rolls her eyes at Mr. Dribble as they glide into class with the newly xeroxed tests cradled in their arms and drop the bundles onto the front table.

  “Put on your happy faces, folks. It’s test time!” trills Mr. Dribble, who’s blocking up the intercom with purple masking tape apparently so he’ll never be able to hear another announcement again. The man acts strange—like a deranged game show host. His real name is Mr. Drabner. John T. Drabner, but to students he’s privately just called Dribble. Mostly because of his habit of dribbling food out of the corners of his mouth and talking too much.

  The rest of the class are in their seats now, sitting upright, eyes forward, holding freshly sharpened pencils as Mr. Dribble scans the room, oblivious to his static-cling polyester pants. “Whoops,” he says, covering his mouth. “Some of you didn’t hear me say there’s a test, did ya? Because of the constant interruptions!” His eyes, which are the color of olive pits, glare accusingly at the taped-up intercom. Then he stops in front of my desk, gazing at me directly with his loopy mustache woobling up and down. “Well, surprise!” He throws up his arms. “There is, in fact a test today that nothing will get you out of.” For a moment, with his coffee-stained teeth, he grins at Justin Grodin. Last year, Justin pulled the fire alarm seven times to get out of tests until somebody figured it out.

  I glance at Caylin as she winces at the big capital letters on the board that say, TEST TODAY! I get a text from her:

  Wish I culd hlp u

  Under my desk, I thumbjockey back:

  Any moment now, I’m going to have to become an expert on the Articles of Confederation when I didn’t have time to read that chapter. Last night, I had swim practice until 5:00 p.m. and then helped Caylin through another boy drama. My stomach muscles belt together so tightly I’m afraid I’ll need an oxygen mask to revive.

  “Winslow,” I whisper frantically. “You’ve got to help me. Pleeeease. It’s like a life-or-death thing.” My mother will cancel the limo she’s reserved to take my friends and me to Winterfest on my birthday if I don’t pass the test. Of course, my dad would be semicool about it but that doesn’t help since he’s down in L.A. now—permanently stuck in traffic.

  Sitting in the front row, Olivia, the medieval poet wench, scowls and shakes her calligraphy pen at me, spraying ink on her flowing velvet dress. Just because she said no the last time I asked her if she could assist me doesn’t mean I can’t give someone else the opportunity. If she doesn’t want the reflected popularity I offer, it’s her loss.

  Winslow flips his eyelids so I can see the insides of his lids, which are all red and veiny. In a loud voice, he cracks, “Why do dwarves have such big nostrils? Look at the size of their fingers!” Then he snort laughs.

  “Winslow, shut up. Just show me your paper.”

  “Wow,” he says, tapping his pen on his chin. “You sound stressed.”

  Uh, yeah. Welcome to my life.

  As Mr. Dribble hunches over, carefully counting out his precious social studies tests, which are thick and full of multiple staples, as if they needed to be brought under control by force, I kick the back of Winslow’s chair. “I’ll do anything. I swear.”

  Winslow swivels his head in my direction and gives me real eye-to-eye-lock. He seems like a creepy super villain with X-ray vision.

  Smile, I tell myself. You’re in control, on top of your feelings
—otherwise, EVERYTHING going on, like Mom and Dad and the move, will spew out. Like when you’re drinking soda and crack up at a joke and bubbly stuff gushes out of your nostrils.

  Petra and Caylin peer at me, all worried. They’ve seen me negotiating with Winslow so I wink at them and pretend I’m not in full panic mode.

  As Mr. Dribble bounds toward the class, Winslow unflips his eyelids. “You mean that, Taf? About doing anything?”

  I speak quickly and in a very low voice. “Yeah. Whatever.”

  As Winslow clears his throat, I get that sinking feeling in my stomach.

  I’m about to become the girlfriend of Chewbacca, as in that long, hairy creature from Star Wars.

  Chewbacca’s Girlfriend

  “Okay, tell me, then,” says Winslow. “Tell me something you’d like to do.”

  I’m absently tapping on my cell phone key pad, thinking. “Something I’d like to do?” There is nothing—NOTHING—I’d like to do with Winslow Fromes except get VERY far away from him. But I have to come up with something that would please him and not absolutely disgust me. Blinking at the Winterfest poster taped to the cinder block wall, I babble, “Um, well, like, Winterfest is coming up, so I could…”

  “Dance with me?”

  “Sure,” I hear myself saying. “Okay. Whatever. One dance. Not a slow one, though.” That would involve bodily contact. Today, his T-shirt shows a hotel door with a sign that says ALREADY DISTURBED. I get a sudden panicky feeling like I’m about to be trapped in a dark, broken elevator in an abandoned hotel.

  Winslow is staring at me, but not yet responding, so as Mr. Dribble hands out tests to the front row, I commit further blurtation: “You can even ride with us to the dance in a Hummer limo.”

  He gazes into my eyes and smiles so big I can see all of his molars, which have silver fillings in them. “D’accord, ma cherie,” he says, “Which translates into, ‘Okay, my dear.’” Then he winks. “You got it.”

  Outside Math

  As The Girls gather around me after social studies, I stare at my boots, which are so peanut butter suede I could eat them—they are that delicious to look at. But right now, I want to hurl. We’re standing outside in the hallway, and I don’t have my jacket so I’m freezing. When I say “outside” I mean outside outside. All of the covered hallways are in the open at La Cambia. Something I had to get used to when I moved to the West Coast from Philadelphia.

  “How’d the test go?” asks Caylin. It’s okay to be asking about schoolwork publicly because everyone is packed into the halls and it’s hard to hear a thing. Of course, I don’t need to ask Caylin how she did. She always gets As.

  Petra elbows me in the shoulder. “I saw you all talking and scoping on Winslow’s answers.”

  “Did you cheat?” asks Caylin, her voice rising. For a moment I think she’s upset but then she’s smiling at me. “Did you? ’Cause you’re just so good at being sneaky, you sneakster.”

  “Whatever. It was no big deal,” I say, staring at the palm trees lining the back of the amphitheater. I’d love to climb one and get away. What had I just promised Winslow? What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t!

  Caylin steps forward so we’re almost nose to nose. “Look at me. No, look at me and tell me you’re okay.” And I do. I look right into her perky blue eyes, which makes me insist that I’m fine. Caylin, with her freckled ski-jump nose and rosy cheeks, resembles a very cute elf. Half the time, I expect her to be making toys for Santa Claus.

  A pack of sixth-grade boys moves past us in the hall and Petra pats a fuzzy-haired one on the head. I know he’s grateful. Suddenly, Petra squeezes my arm. “You are going to so luuv the b-day prezie I got for you. Let’s just say everyone will be saying ‘Gucci Gucci goo’ when they see you stepping out of the limo.”

  Limo? LIMO? As things are now I will also be stepping out with Winslow. The only thing anybody will go is “EWWWW!” What happened to me? As it is, this limo is a big splurge for my mom. I hate to ruin her efforts. Why didn’t I offer him something simple like a double fudge brownie? I see the banner taped to the gym.

  LAST CHANCE TO BUY TICKETS FOR LA CAMBIA PARENTS’ CLUB HOUSE TOUR! $200 PER PERSON.

  Our school is always doing some kind of fundraiser. Not that my family will be participating again anytime soon. Okay, calm down, Taf. But somehow, these words push out of my mouth. “Did I tell you that the Hummer is going to be the largest stretch available? Seriously, it’s usually reserved for VIPs, but, girls, we got it.” What I am saying? It’s true, for my birthday (December 19—only seventeen more days!!!), Mom’s renting a Hummer limo to go to Benihana where the servers flip knives and don’t even kill you. But…well, I can’t stop myself from further blurtation. “My dad special-ordered it. Some Hollywood people who he knows from his movie have some connections up here. Stanford grads.”

  The words keep bubbling out like water in an overfilled Jacuzzi.

  “From his movie?” asks Petra.

  “Yeah,” I say. “His movie. Free Range Cop.” He doesn’t have a movie. But if my Dad actually finished writing a script it would definitely be called something like Free Range Cop. Luckily, I don’t have to explain more because we have to go to math. The Girls are gazing at me with even more awe and I love it but I am now feeling the guilt thing.

  Top Five Reasons I Have Felt the Guilt Thing Before:

  I’m an eighth grader

  I told Caylin that I only wore my braces for nine months because my orthodontist, Dr. Wolf, is so awesome. Actually, I wore my braces for two years and my orthodontist is named Dr. Silvers. But if I could have named him, he would definitely be called Dr. Wolf.

  I am still an eighth grader.

  I haven’t come up with a decent idea for a new lipstick line in two days. My last idea was le Lickety Split. But I think it sounds like it splits your lips. I’m running into a dry spell.

  I thought about kissing Justin Grodin again just to get more experience, even though he must have an overactive salivary gland or seal genes because there was so much liquid coming out of his mouth I had needed a life preserver to stay afloat.

  Charm Mafia

  After suffering through math and English, I finally sit down at our usual table in the cafeteria in front of the Quik Cart. For privacy, we, The Girls, perch as far away as possible from the feeding line and curious ears. This is, hands down, the best spot, and I staked it out the first day of school.

  Petra eyes Maggie Milner sitting at the lower end of the cafeteria table with her two tragic wannabe friends who try their best to dress like us. She says loudly, “Could those cows at least pretend to have their own conversation and stop listening to us?”

  Maggie reddens. Sitting next to us at the lunch table has been her only claim to fame.

  Gazing at me through honey-colored eyes that ooze sweetness, Maggie goes, “Hey Taffeta, love your necklace.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Your hair looks so good today,” says one of Maggie’s friends, the one who always flanks her left. I’m never sure of her name so I call her Invisible Girl. At this, I half nod. My hair looks good every day.

  “Are those new?” asks Maggie, eyeing my boots.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, shrugging—as if I’d ever wear something old. Old is taboo at La Cambia Middle School; even the lost-in-the-seventies trailerlike buildings have been recently remodeled with sunroofs and green building materials. Petra clears her throat. This is the signal for them to turn around and let us eat our lunch and work on our decorations for Winterfest.

  “This is going to make such a perfect moon,” Caylin says, shaking glitter onto her paper decoration. I sip my yogurt shake and stare at our stack of Elle Décor, Teen Vogue, and sheets of colored paper. I have just spent an hour scoping out the gym, thinking about decorating ideas. But, for obvious reasons, namely Winslow Fromes, I can’t get into it now.

  I’m sprinkling more glitter when Caylin clears her throat in a warning kind of way.

  She points, a
nd I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  Insane Boy with Ponytail

  “Winslow’s waving at you!” Petra yells.

  Yes, there in all his thickness is Winslow, in his duct-taped shoes and ALREADY DISTURBED T-shirt, waving at me.

  His best friend Sneed bangs his fist on the table and stands up, swaying on his skinny legs. He looks like Abe Lincoln minus the hat and beard. “Taffeta? I’ve heard something very interesting about you. Winslow says that you and—”

  Winslow clamps his hand over Sneed’s mouth.

  Noooo! Not in front of The Girls before I’ve had a chance to explain, not in front of Tyler Hutchins, who’s absolutely cute, who wants to GO WITH ME to Winterfest and is already on TV commercials for his dad’s Porche-Audi dealership. I glance over at Tyler, who is sitting with his usual swimming buddies. With his fingers he combs through his blond hair, which looks almost albino white, except for this greenish glow from too much swim-team chlorination. He asked me to go to Winterfest but I put him off because I don’t like appearing too eager since EVERYONE likes him. It’s all because of his being kidnapped last year.

  My heart whams against my ribs, but not because I’m excited. It’s sheer terror.

  SHUT UP!

  “TAFFETA!” Sneed booms in front of the entire cafeteria. “Winslow says he’s going to Winterfest with you. In a Hummer!”

  Noooo! I’m Taffeta Smith!

  There is a complete silence as everyone lining up at the Quik Cart to buy something orange—a slice of pizza, bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, mini-carrots, or maybe a real orange—stares at me, INCLUDING I-have-been-kidnapped Tyler Hutchins.

  I can hear the crackle of Mr. Morley, the cafeteria monitor’s walkie-talkie, and feel the stares of Olivia and her friend Ninai, their braces shining under the fluorescent lights. Caylin and Petra are bugging out their eyes and Tyler, who’s sitting with Justin Grodin, pulls on his beautiful hair.

  My lips are le stuck. I can’t take it anymore.