Kim vs the Mean Girl Read online

  “Miss Long?”

  “Huh?” I looked up toward the front of the class where Mrs. Dennison was glancing at me curiously.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, the sides of her mouth turned down.

  As Bridget glanced over her shoulder at me with a wrinkled forehead, I frowned. “Nothing’s wrong. Sorry for the disruption.” I refused to let Hannah’s stupid note get to me. She might feel superior now, but we’d have the last laugh thanks to Plan Bad Diary. I stared down at the blank page in my notebook and, remembering why I had opened to it in the first place, began writing.

  Hiding her face behind a giant history book, Becca listened to Marnie’s musings as she scribbled in a journal from the next table at the school library. Chances are, Marnie wouldn’t have noticed if Becca sat right next to her and blatantly stared—Becca was invisible to popular girls like Marnie. Still, with her fair complexion, color rushed to her cheeks at the first instance of embarrassment, and the thoughts Marnie was having about her crush were certainly blush-worthy. Becca hadn’t gotten a good handle on the object of Marnie’s affection except he was a senior and was apparently as oblivious to Marnie’s existence as Marnie was to Becca’s. Becca concentrated harder, pushing aside the brainwork of everyone else in the library. She was getting something. His name started with a G … Gabe. Gabriel. Gabriel Manning! Wait … what? Gabriel Manning was Becca’s older brother!

  Taking a break to shake out my hand, which ached from writing so furiously, I stole a glance at the clock. There were only two minutes left in class—not enough time to finish the scene—but between back-to-back periods of lunch and study hall, I hoped to complete it before the end of the day.

  HANNAH

  The first thing I noticed when I walked into trig was a fat lady with bleached blond hair sitting in Mr. Warner’s seat—another sub—but she couldn’t be the casting director. Kim said it was a man. Or did she? I cursed myself for not stealing the diary while I had the chance, so I wouldn’t have to rely on my memory. I would have expected a Hollywood insider to know better than to dress head-to-toe in soft pink, but maybe it was a ploy to throw us off. Just in case she was my golden ticket, I would have to capture her attention the same way I did with the sub in Earth Science. He, I was pretty positive, was not “The One.” Unless he had a professional-level poker face and had only pretended to be unfazed by my charisma. My tactics would have to change to enchant a female, but I was up to the task. I was a natural actress, after all. Even if the casting director was too blind, deaf, and definitely dumb to appreciate what was right in front of him (or her), maybe I’d audition for the school play. Someone should benefit from my talent.

  Before I’d even sat my butt in the seat and opened my notebook, the mousy girl next to me gushed, “Your hair looks amazing, Hannah. What a great shade of red.”

  I could have sworn I heard little Kim Long groaning behind me as I darted my eyes to the front of the room in the hopes of garnering the teacher’s attention —if she really was a teacher. Ignoring Kim, I turned my attention back to my fellow classmate, who was biting her chapped lips as if second-guessing her decision to speak to me. Wanting to put her out of her misery, I said loudly, “Thanks so much …” I knew she had a name, but I had certainly never bothered to learn it. I cleared my throat. “Thank you kindly. I’m thrilled you love my red hair.” I spun my head toward the teacher, but her back was to me as she wrote her name on the chalkboard—Ms. Rothschild. Was that her real name or a pseudonym for when she went undercover?

  Another obnoxious sound slipped out of Kim Long’s surprisingly big mouth, and I whipped around and gave her a stony glare. “What’s your problem?”

  Kim regarded me with wide brown eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hannah,” she said before burying her head into her textbook. If I didn’t want to make a positive impression on Ms. Rothschild, I’d have reached over and grabbed the novel Kim was hiding inside the pages of her math book. Kim Long without a story to read was like a dog without its chew toy. I gave my attention to the teacher as she addressed the class.

  “Okay, everyone. Let’s get started. I’ll be your sub for the rest of the week. My name is Ms. Rothschild, but you can call me Ms. Rothschild.” She chuckled to herself before blushing at the failure of her joke to elicit a laugh from anyone else. If Ms. Rothschild—between her fashion sense and lousy sense of humor, it was no wonder she wasn’t married—was responsible for finding America’s talent, the entertainment industry was in big trouble.

  “Before we get started on today’s lesson, are there any questions?”

  I raised my hand and did a one-eighty of the room, silently daring anyone to compete for her attention.

  “Yes, Miss …”

  “Marshak. Hannah Marshak. Fifteen. Five foot six. One hundred and six pounds.” Approximately.

  Ms. Rothschild flashed me a wide grin, clearly enchanted. “Thank you, Ms. Marshak. Your stats are quite impressive.”

  “Thanks,” I said, flipping my hair.

  “What’s your question?”

  “My question. Yes. My question is this: Did you know only two percent of the US population has naturally red hair? Why do you think that is?”

  Appearing stunned, Ms. Rothschild opened and closed her mouth repeatedly like a fish before eventually responding. “You ask an intriguing question, Hannah, but it’s one I unfortunately don’t have the answer to. I imagine it has something to do with genetics, but I suggest you ask your science teacher. In the meantime, it’s a good thing the remaining ninety-eight percent of us can rely on Clairol to provide what Mother Nature did not. Right?”

  I gasped. She was not suggesting I bought my hair color at a CVS store. Getting nowhere with this line of questioning, I raised my hand again.

  “Yes, Hannah?”

  “Can I have a bathroom pass?”

  In order to provide Ms. Rothschild ample opportunity to conclude I was the perfect girl for the role and she could call off the undercover operation, I slowly glided toward the front of the class. Once I reached the exit, I peered over my shoulder red-carpet style and beamed at her. “Ciao.” Once I was out of eyeshot, I released the breath I was holding and let out my stomach. Reaching the bathroom, I threw the door open and stopped in my tracks. “What do we have here?”

  Bridget separated from the girl she was embracing. The girl wiped her wet eyes before walking to the sink and splashing water on her face.

  “This is interesting,” I said, darting my eyes between Bridget and the crying girl. “Lovers’ quarrel?” I snorted. If only Bridget was gay. Kyle would feel so stupid.

  “Whatever,” Bridget said, before joining the girl at the sink. Looking at me through the mirror, she said, “Nice hair. I thought red hair was for losers. Remember?”

  Of course, I recalled saying those words to Bridget more than once. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And by the way, all shades of red are not created equally. Case in point: mine is rich whereas yours …” I pointed at her hair with disdain. “Is poor.”

  “Whatever,” Bridget mumbled. To the other girl, whose lips were still quivering, she said, “You gonna be okay?” The girl offered a hesitant nod before Bridget grasped her gently by the elbow and said, “I’ll walk you to the office.”

  Without another glance, they both walked out, leaving me alone in the bathroom to ponder what I’d just witnessed. Not that I really cared.

  KIM

  From across the dinner table, Erin, her mouth full of creamed spinach, asked “Are you going to try out for the school play?”

  I grimaced at the sight of her green-stained teeth. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s gross.”

  Erin swallowed and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Sorry. But are you?”

  There were still flecks of green in her braces, but I wasn’t going to point it out. My teeth had come in naturally straight, and I’d blessedly escaped the need for orthodontia, but I didn’t want to rub it in. “No. Why?”


  “What play is it this year?” my mom asked.

  “No idea,” I said, before reaching across the table for another biscuit.

  “It’s Gypsy. Hannah Marshak is trying out for a part, although as a sophomore, she might not get a lead role even though she deserves one,” Erin said matter-of-factly.

  The sound of metal against ceramic filled the air as I dropped my knife onto my plate in surprise. “Where are you getting this information?” And why do you care?

  “Nicole’s sister is best friends with Hannah’s cousin Allison, who told her that Hannah joined the Thespians.” Silence filled the air until Erin looked at us, her lips curled in a pout. “What?”

  “Who’s Hannah?” my dad asked.

  “She’s the most popular girl in Kim’s class,” Erin said.

  “She’s also the reason you brought Kim home from school early a few weeks ago. She’s not a very nice person,” my mom said with a sympathetic nod in my direction.

  “It is what it is,” I said into my plate. Bridget and I were almost ready to implement phase two of Plan Bad Diary. We wanted to put some time between the stages to make it more plausible. I hoped phase two was more successful than phase one. Sure, Hannah bought it hook, line, and sinker—becoming a ginger despite years of teasing Bridget about her unfortunate coloring and demonstrating her talents to every substitute teacher within the walls of the school—but she didn’t seem any worse for wear. Compliments were still coming in about her hair from all directions, including fellow students, teachers, janitors, and administrative staff. According to my sister, she’d found her calling in the dramatic arts. With her luck, she’d be the first underclassman ever to be cast in a starring role in the school play.

  “What did Hannah do to you?” Erin asked.

  Not wanting to discuss it with Erin, I simply said, “She was Hannah.”

  With her brow furrowed, Erin said, “Okayyyy.” She glanced hopefully at our parents. “If she gets a part—which I’m sure she will—can we see the play?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, sweetie,” my mom said. Catching my surprised glance, she mouthed, “Not gonna happen,” while my sister, oblivious, smiled into her roast beef.

  PART THREE

  KIM

  As we walked out of English class the following morning, Bridget said, “All set for phase two?”

  “You know it,” I said, running my hands along my backpack and the hard surface of my fake diary inside. We had created a bunch of normal entries to throw Hannah off from suspicion, but the latest one was a killer. “I’m not sure this one’s gonna work,” I confessed. I had trouble believing Hannah was as gullible as she’d need to be to fall for our latest trick, especially considering she hadn’t been discovered by any talent scout and neither had any other redhead (natural or not) in the school.

  Bridget waved me away. “Oh ye of little faith. It will work. Every princess needs her prince. And we did our research in case she searches for backup evidence.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, with more than a lingering of doubt.

  “Yes, we will. Good luck. Be smooth ...” Her voice dropped off as her eyes followed Kyle Moore, who had just walked by without a glance in her direction. After coming on so strong the day they collided in the hallway, his interest had disintegrated out of nowhere.

  “Guys can be so fickle,” I said. Bridget would never admit it, but I knew she was disappointed.

  “Makes no difference to me,” she said, staring down at her hands.

  I frowned at her. “Not like Jonathan has followed through with our supposed lunch date, either. We can be spinsters together.” I wasn’t exactly pleased with the prospect, but if it garnered a smile from Bridget, it would be worth it.

  Bridget met my eyes and grinned. “If I’m going to be an old maid, I can’t think of better company to keep, especially since I’m allergic to cats. Now go make me proud, girl.”

  “I’m on it.”

  HANNAH

  Who would have dreamed Fred Gordon was royalty? I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears. I was riding my bike home from Bridget’s house when a stretch limo pulled up into his driveway. Curious, I hid my bike behind a tree and watched as two men stepped out, dressed in long velvet robes followed by an old woman with a gold, jewel-encrusted crown and then two more men in robes. I blinked repeatedly to make sure I wasn’t missing anything and then quietly followed behind as they made their way to Fred’s front door. When he opened it, the robed men referred to him as Prince Frederik and curtsied. Curtsied! To Fred. Little Fred Gordon. Yes, I know it’s hypocritical of me to call him little considering my lack of height, but he’s a guy, and he’s not even five feet tall. But what’s height when you’re in line to become the next King of Denmark?

  Alone in the locker room, I stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed into the diary. This time, I’d watched Kim shut her locker before heading to her next class, but since she didn’t use a combination lock, the door didn’t catch, and it dangled open, tempting me with its contents.

  Fred Gordon was royalty? He wasn’t exactly Prince Henry from Ever After. In fact, he might have been the last boy in our grade (or the school, for that matter) I would have pegged for a prince. If he was trying to fly under the radar, he was doing one heck of a job. I pictured Fred in my mind’s eye—from his curly brown hair to his blue eyes. Or were they green? It was difficult to see them behind his coke-bottle eyeglasses. But they were a nice color. And he had a creamy complexion, unlike some of the boys who were perpetually sweating. If you could get past the height, he wasn’t the ugliest guy in the school. And he was only fifteen, so he could still grow. And if not? Hello, Your Majesty! With Kyle out of the picture, I was once again the most eligible sophomore in the school. But at least I had put an end to Kyle’s silly infatuation with Bridget Donahue. It amazed me how quickly confiding to my best friends something as minor as witnessing two girls innocently embracing in the ladies’ room spiraled into a school-wide inquisition as to the sexual orientation of said girls.

  Wishing I had a camera with me, I committed the journal entry to memory, placed the diary back in Kim’s locker, and scurried as quickly as I could—managing to look like I was taking my sweet time, of course—to my next class where social studies awaited me. Too bad my next class with the future heir to the throne of Denmark wasn’t until science the next morning.

  The more I thought about it—and let’s be real, I thought about it the entire duration between the beginning of seventh period and the conclusion of my first meeting with the Thespians—the more convinced I was that Kim had misheard what the men in robes said to Fred. Maybe they said, “Please, Frederik” and not “Prince Frederik.” Perhaps the limo driver got lost, and they stopped at Fred’s house for directions. All I knew was there was no way I was going to talk to Fred, much less lower myself to date him, unless I was positive he was royalty and not merely a vertically challenged, nerdy loser.

  For once, I was happy my dad was working late, and asked my mom if I could use the computer in his home office for a few minutes before dinner. Of course, I lied and said it was for a homework assignment. No doubt Rory Gilmore would spill all to her mom, but this was one secret I was withholding from mine. After reminding her not to use the phone, I dialed up to the Internet and quickly accessed the AltaVista search engine, where I typed in Prince of Denmark. I skimmed the contents of the top search result, my heart beating like I’d just sprinted to the finish line of a marathon. I read it again to make sure I’d seen it correctly the first time. After reading it a third time, I was positive my eyes were not deceiving me. The current Queen of Denmark had two sons, and the name of the eldest was Frederik. There were no pictures, but it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  I leaned back against my dad’s leather-upholstered desk chair and let out a long breath. Hot damn. Kim Short was right: little Fred Gordon really was a prince.

  KIM

  Although the idea of Ma
rnie having a crush on Becca’s brother—the same boy who refused to bathe through much of his twelfth year and constantly left his underwear on the bathroom floor—was gag-worthy, it could work in Becca’s favor if only she could find a way to bring it up to Marnie without sounding like a lunatic or crazy stalker. Considering she was able to read other people’s thoughts and went out of her way to eavesdrop on the most popular girl in her class, she pretty much qualified as both.

  “I really like your glasses, Fred.”

  I stopped writing but kept my eyes on the paper as Hannah worked her magic on Fred Gordon … correction … Prince Frederik. The first bell hadn’t even rung yet, and she was already on him like whiskers on kittens. Only one thing could make the show better—watching it with Bridget. But I would do my best to memorize every word so I could fill her in during English class.

  I heard Fred’s hesitant voice from my left. “You do?”

  At a loss of self-control, I turned my head toward them just as Fred adjusted his thick glasses above his nose.

  “I do,” Hannah confirmed as she scooted her chair closer to his desk. “Few people know this, but the right glasses can actually make your eyes pop. And you, Fred, have beautiful … blue eyes.” She reached over, gracefully removed his glasses, and peered into his eyes for a moment. “Yes, definitely blue.”

  His baby face a red blanket, Fred smiled. “Thank you, Hannah.”

  I snickered into my hand and turned back to my notebook.

  “You’re welcome, Fred. I’m a whiz at fashion accessories, and apparently, so are you.”

  As I stole another glance at Fred, whose smile had reached his eyes—his beautiful blue eyes—I felt a knot of guilt forming in my stomach. It was one thing to trick Hannah into dyeing her own hair red and parading around the hallways like it was one big television audition, but bringing an innocent party into the mix was kind of messed up, and I hoped no one—meaning Fred—would get hurt in the process.