Some Girls are by Courtney Summers

Author:Courtney Summers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-01-04T16:00:00+00:00

friday

“I’ll drive you to school today.”

I choke on my coffee. “What?”

“I’ll drive you to school today,” Mom says, and I’m all over it, protesting—no, it’s okay, forget it— when she holds up her hand. “No arguments, Regina.”

I get the kind of uneasy feeling that begs for an antacid. This cannot mean anything good. I finish my coffee, get my things, and follow Mom to her car. It’s total silence as she pulls out of the driveway, and then when we hit the road she says, “We have a meeting with your principal today. It should be fun.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the seat, and the word fuck just repeats itself over and over in my head, because fuck.

“So do you want to tell me what’s going on before we get there, or do I have to play twenty questions with your principal? Because I don’t have the time—”

“It’s nothing.” I open my eyes. “It’s just—”

“Cutting so many classes in such a short amount of time isn’t nothing, Regina. Your father and I are very concerned. We don’t know where you go, what you’re up to—”

“Someone spray-painted the word whore on my locker, okay?”

“What?!”

She actually stops the car. Pulls over and turns it off. She stares at me, looking equal parts disbelieving and devastated.

“Someone spray-painted the word whore on your locker? Who? Who would do something like that to you? Why didn’t you tell me? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The last part sounds the worst. Like it really bothers her that I didn’t tell her. I’m sure it does, but I feel bad enough as it is, and I need to organize my thoughts enough to lie, because I’m not interested in dealing with the truth and feeling even worse. I just need her to go into Holt’s office on my side, feeling sorry enough for me to forgive me if I miss more days after this. And I’m sure I will.

“It was a few weeks ago.”

She starts spluttering. I cut her off before she can start demanding answers to questions I haven’t prepared answers for. “I didn’t . . . tell you because it was embarrassing. I mean, who wants to tell their mom something like that?”

I cross my arms and try for a petulant teenage look. Like it doesn’t bother me. Like being reminded of it every time I open up my stupid red locker doesn’t bother me.

“Who did it?” she demands. “What did the school do?”

“I don’t know. Holt had my locker repainted.”

Mom sighs and rests her head against the steering wheel, and then I feel really bad. Really, really bad. I look out the window. After she’s had her moment, she reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. Like a mom.

“Oh, Regina . . .”

My throat tightens. She sounds really—like she cares. I mean, I know she does, but I haven’t heard that in anyone’s voice in a long time.

“I just hate being there,” I say.

“Well, what about your friends?” Mom asks. “Anna, Kara .

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