Kim vs the Mean Girl

  Kim vs. The Mean Girl

  Meredith Schorr

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  PART TWO

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  PART THREE

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  PART FOUR

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  PART FIVE

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  HANNAH

  KIM

  PREVIEW OF BLOGGER GIRL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright 2016 Meredith Schorr

  Edited by Vicki Sly

  Cover Design by Loretta Matson

  Published by Meredith Schorr

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  ISBN - 9781544781693

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  Created with Vellum

  To my nephews and nieces: Jared, Sarah, Emily, Joey, Olivia, and “Little” Sarah

  PART ONE

  KIM

  October 2000

  Don’t do it, Charlie!

  When I flipped the page, it became clear Charlie was going to do it. I kept my finger on the top right corner of the page for ease of turning, and with each sentence I read, my breath came quicker until a tug of my hair from behind jolted me halfway out of my seat. I turned around in a huff. “What the hell?” I rubbed the back of my head with the tips of two fingers. Raul, the boy sitting behind me in class, raised an eyebrow and jutted his chin toward the front of the class as Hannah Marshak’s whiny voice piped in from somewhere to my right.

  “It’s math class, Long. Not reading hour at the library,” Hannah said, inspiring giggles from her many groupies.

  I glared in her direction as heat crept across my cheeks before sliding my book underneath my loose-leaf notebook and facing my tenth-grade trigonometry teacher, Mr. Walker. “I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice.

  Mr. Walker, who I guessed to be around my parents’ age, crossed his arms in front of his chest, hiding the protruding belly that was out of place on his otherwise skinny frame. His stern expression was a silent reminder to pay attention to his lecture, but as I watched his mouth form sentences with the words “hypotenuse” and “cosine” and nodded at what I hoped were the appropriate times, I silently willed the bell to ring. I had lunch next and couldn’t wait to resume reading Perks of Being a Wallflower.

  Ten minutes later, class ended, and I slung my backpack over my shoulder and bolted out of the class in a hurry to swap my math, science, and English textbooks for my social studies and Spanish ones at my locker before the next bell rang.

  Clearly not in on my plan, Hannah stood in front of the exit, blocking my way out of the door in her distressed flared jeans paired with a silver handkerchief top. Twirling a curly raven lock of hair around her finger, she blew a pink bubble with her gum and sucked it back in her mouth. “I’m exhausted from all the parties I go to and thought I’d stay home this weekend and read. Since you’re probably never invited to parties and have much more time to read, any recs?” She pretended not to notice her cronies, Plum and Marla, snickering behind her, and fixed her eyes on me with all the seriousness of an ER doctor.

  I smiled sweetly. “I would love to help you, Hannah, but all of the books I read require at least a remedial knowledge of the English language. Sorry.” Hannah’s eyes narrowed as her mouth stopped mid-chew, but before she could respond, I maneuvered my way past her. Ducking between Plum and Marla, I sped out the door. My smaller-than-average frame came in handy sometimes.

  I approached my locker, my hands tightly clenched in fists from my interaction with Hannah, but my mood instantly lifted at the flash of long red hair in my line of vision—my best friend, Bridget. Her locker was next to mine, but she usually didn’t stop there during this period. Surprised but happy to see her, I said, “Remember our plan to get Hannah Marshak extradited from the country? Can we get on that, please?”

  Bridget frowned. “What did Bitchy Pants do now?” she asked, leaning against her locker.

  I entered my locker combination with shaky fingers. As the door opened, greeting me with black-and-white pictures Bridget and I had taken at the video arcade in various poses from sticking out our tongues to blowing kisses at the camera, I conducted my book swap, closed the locker, and turned to her with a smile. “The usual, but I got the final word.”

  “Of course you did. Precisely why you’re my BFF,” she said, bumping her shoulder against mine.

  “Correction. I’m your BFFAEUDDUP.” We had devised the “secret” code back in the seventh grade to denote “Best Friends Forever And Ever Until Death Do Us Part,” but even though we were now too old to scribble “KL + BD = BFFAEUDDUP” on our notebooks, we vowed to keep the meaning of the acronym under wraps forever.

  “True dat.”

  I grinned, the altercation with Hannah already behind me. Same shit, different day.

  “Don’t look now, but—”

  I did a one-eighty just as Jonathan Middleton approached our lockers.

  Out of the side of her mouth, Bridget whispered, “What part of ‘don’t look now’ do you not understand?”

  In the instant Jonathan passed by our lockers, a single notebook tucked casually under his arm, my brown eyes met his soulful hazel ones, and he smiled. “Kim,” he said in acknowledgment before continuing on his way.

  I nodded in response as my knees wobbled. Watching his back, I counted silently to myself. On three, he turned around and caught my eye again. After smiling widely in my direction, he resumed walking as I leaned against my locker to regain my balance and catch my breath.

  “You’re so not slick,” Bridget said with a chuckle while adjusting one of her oversized hoop earrings.

  “Whatever,” I said, knowing she was right, but not caring.

  HANNAH

  “You left your tongue on the floor,” I said to an oblivious Kim Long as she walked by with her slightly taller Siamese twin, Bridget.

  Bridget flipped me the bird and whispered something to Kim, who giggled in response. They walked away arm in arm, content as young lovers. “1990s grunge style went out with the cancellation of My So-Called Life,” I called after them. Neither of them cared at all about fashion. It was an embarrassment to our school’s reputation.

  “That goes for you, too,” I said to a passing freshman dressed in a dull-colored plaid shirt and baggy jeans.

  The girl’s face crumbled and, not wanting her to cause a scene by crying, I smiled sympathetically. “It’s okay. You’re still young enough to learn. Want my advice?” I knew she’d say “yes.”

  The girl twisted her wrists and nodded wo
rdlessly.

  I pointed at her shirt. “If you really like plaid, pair it with tighter jeans and maybe choose brighter colors next time.”

  Looking at me with shiny eyes and panting like a puppy, the girl asked, “How do you know so much about clothes?”

  I shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”

  She beamed at me. “Thank you.”

  Since she was no longer on the verge of tears, she was no longer my problem, and I said, “You’re dismissed,” before giving her my back.

  My best friend, Plum, turned away from her locker mirror, her face drained of color. “Did you say someone’s tongue was on the floor? Where?”

  I followed her line of vision down the hallway and tapped her on the shoulder. “That was so five minutes ago. And no, Plum. I was referring to Kim Short and her pathetic crush on Jonathan Middleton.”

  Plum’s blue eyes opened wide. “Oh! You scared me.” She resumed checking out her reflection in the mirror. “Are Kim and Jonathan dating?” she asked, her mouth slack as she reapplied mascara.

  “Who cares? Jonathan Middleton?” I snorted. “Not worth our time.” I leaned against my locker, waiting for her to finish perfecting her face.

  “He’s cute, no?”

  Plum asked the question with trepidation, and I swallowed back a smile in the knowledge she was reserving her final answer to see if I agreed. She was arguably tied with our other best friend, Marla, for second most popular girl in the tenth grade, but, it was no contest. I was numero uno. “I guess he’s okay for someone of Kim’s insignificant social standing. Not like she’d ever have a chance with Frank or Kyle.” Frank was Plum’s boyfriend since freshman year, and I’d made out with Kyle—one of the most popular guys in school and a junior—the weekend before.

  Plum held up two lip glosses, a lighter and darker shade of pink. “Which one?”

  My initial reaction was the darker pink, as it would complement Plum’s platinum locks and bring some color to her fair skin, but I was tempted to choose the lighter pink. Plum was a prettier Kirsten Dunst and didn’t need any help from me. I pointed to the darker one. “This one.” She was my best friend after all, and how she looked reflected on both of us

  KIM

  After school ended for the day, I slid into a seat on the yellow school bus and cracked open the window, hoping to air out the combined smell of dirty sneakers, CK One, and CHEETOS. I glanced with longing through the smudgy glass at the rows of cars in the school parking lot. I was only a year from turning sixteen, but it seemed like a lifetime away, and I could already taste the freedom awaiting me once I talked my parents into buying me a car. I’d drive anything. Except maybe an SUV or a station wagon. Bridget’s dream car was a station wagon—a vintage one from the 1970s, complete with wood paneling, a backward-facing rear seat, and peace signs on the back window. When I promised she’d never have to worry about giving me rides since I would adamantly refuse to set foot in her eyesore of a moving vehicle, she responded, “Your loss. The Bridget Mobile will be epic. The boys will be lining up for rides,” to which I replied, “I’m sure they’ll be itching for a ride, but I don’t know if your car is what they’ll have in mind.” Bridget’s cheeks and neck turned the color of a pomegranate. Her experience with boys was even less than mine. We’d both been to first base, but Mike Carl had felt me up over the summer during a heated make-out session at the movie theater. We were watching Cruel Intentions, and I bet he hoped I’d give it up like Annette did for Sebastian. It wasn’t going to happen.

  “You look pensive,” Bridget said, sitting down next to me, her butt making a popping sound as it hit the red vinyl seat cushion.

  I laughed. “Just thinking about the Bridget Mobile.”

  Bridget smiled knowingly. “You’re warming up to the idea, aren’t you?”

  Rolling my eyes, I said, “And that would be a no.” I took a glimpse out the window as my friend, Denise Porter, hopped into the backseat of Judd Ratnor’s midnight blue Honda Civic. Judd was just one of the older classmates Denise had befriended over the summer while volunteering at the local ambulance corp. Bridget and I guessed these new peeps were the reason Denise hadn’t come to our sleepovers since the beginning of the school year.

  As if reading my mind, Bridget said, “She’s so lucky she gets a ride to school. We need to make it a point to make some older friends STAT.”

  I nodded in agreement as the bus pulled away.

  From the seat behind us, Hannah Marshak’s voice bellowed, “My cousin, Allison, offered to drive me to and from school every day, but I said no since her car isn’t big enough to fit you guys.”

  “You’re the best friend ever,” Marla said.

  “Yeah,” Plum agreed.

  Next to me, Bridget mimicked in a soft voice, “You’re the best friend eva, Hannah!” Kissing her own hand, she said, “Can I wipe your ass, Hannah? Please, oh, please!”

  My stomach quaked in amusement until I had to bite down on my lip to avoid laughing out loud. While staring straight ahead, I pleaded, “Stop it.” I couldn’t meet her eyes, or I’d lose it again. Once I regained control of my senses, I said, “I taped Dawson’s Creek for you.” Her overprotective parents didn’t let her watch it. My mom watched it with me and my annoying younger sister, Erin, every week, but double viewing meant twice as much Joshua Jackson.

  Bridget clapped. “Yay.”

  “Did you hear about Jonathan Middleton, Kim Short?”

  My heart beat in double time as I rotated my head to face Hannah, who was leaning over our seat so close I could see up her nostrils. I was used to the nickname, but since when did Jonathan register on Hannah’s gossip scale?

  “What do you want, Hannah Mar-trash?” Bridget asked, staring pointedly at Hannah as I distracted myself with the houses passing quickly out the window. I was grateful for Bridget’s fierce protectiveness and fearlessness where Hannah was concerned, but whereas I really was the shortest girl in the class, making my last name an easy target, Hannah lived in the most expensive development in the county and was far from “trash.”

  Barely giving Bridget a glance, Hannah continued. “Did Jonathan tell you about his new girlfriend? You guys are good friends, right?”

  Maintaining eye contact with Hannah, I swallowed hard. “We’re acquaintances.” Technically not a lie since all of my dates with Jonathan so far had either been in my head or fodder for my diary.

  “She goes to Liberty West. I overheard him telling Pete how much she looks like a model and is like five foot nine. I had no idea he was into height.” Hannah frowned. “Too bad. I always thought the two of you would make a cute couple. Maybe you’ll grow some more.”

  “Maybe you will, too,” I said as my eyes darted down to her chest and back to her face. My boobs had come in fast and furious over the summer, and I was busting out of my B cup. From the looks of it, Hannah could still fit into her training bra.

  Hannah flipped her hair. “You don’t have to be nasty about it. I was trying to be nice.”

  “Try harder,” Bridget mumbled.

  “What’d you say?” Hannah asked.

  “Did I stutter?” Bridget said before slinking down in her seat.

  Not relenting, Hannah said, “I heard the Salvation Army is having a sale. Maybe you should skip Dawson’s Creek and go shopping before the prices go back to normal. That is where you buy your clothes, right?”

  Bridget’s parents were college professors, but Hannah got it in her head they were on welfare and food stamps—maybe because Bridget’s family recycled and liked to dress in vintage clothes—and wouldn’t let it go. Bridget insisted she didn’t care enough to correct Hannah, but the “poor” talk always got a rise out of me. Standing up, I grabbed Bridget’s hand and said, “Our stop. C’mon.” Without another word, we hightailed it off the bus while I tried to ignore the clenching of my stomach.

  Jonathan had a girlfriend?

  HANNAH

  I started reading Dreamland by Sarah Dessen. It’s so realistic and be
lievable. Reminds me of Freaks and Geeks but better. I wish I could write like her.

  Yawn. If I’d known how boring Little Kim Long’s diary would be, I might have left it on the dirty floor of the bus with the gum wrappers and dust balls. Maybe some equally dorky loser would have found it more scintillating. Clearly, the concept of a key alluded her. It was almost like she wanted someone to see it. Her face when I lied about Jonathan’s new girlfriend was priceless.

  The scent of my mom’s Hanae Mori perfume filled the air before I heard her voice call out, “Dinner’s ready.”

  “Coming,” I said as I tucked the pink fabric journal under my pillow. The outside was pretty even if the inside was duller than Connie Shepard’s sleepover party the prior weekend. Until I spiced things up with my suggestion to play Truth or Dare, getting slashed in a Scream movie was looking more enjoyable than spending the entire night pretending to bond with some of those girls.

  Grabbing a piece of paper from my school bag, I headed to the kitchen where my mom had set a plate of chicken in the middle of the table. “Is the chicken grilled or fried?” I asked.

  “Grilled.” My mom flashed me a perfect-teeth smile. “And I didn’t add any butter to the rice dish. I told you I’d support your cause to lose five pounds.”

  “It’s not because I need to lose weight. I just want to get in the habit of eating healthy, so I don’t have issues in college. Right?” I sucked in my stomach and perfected my posture.

  “Of course, honey,” my mom agreed, straightening out her own size two dress before sitting down at the table next to my dad, who was uncharacteristically home early enough from work to eat dinner with us.

  I handed the note from the school to my mom. “Parents’ Night is next week.” I watched my mom’s eyes scroll the paper.

  “I’ll be there,” my mom said.