The Ultra Violets Page 13

  Iris brought her pretend camera down to focus in on her three best friends.

  “They only met every day. But it changed their lives FOREVER!”

  Close-up of them laughing. The camera’s kind of shaky because the director is laughing, too.

  “From the studio that brought you A Slug’s Life and Honey, I Unfriended the Kids,” Iris said, struggling to keep her voice deep. “Sync City Pictures presents . . .The Lunch Club. Now playing in a cafeteria near you!”

  “Iris,” Scarlet said, even though she did think the imitation was funny. “No matter how much you make it sound like a movie, this is still just another lunch period.” To prove it, she popped open her brother’s Batman lunchbox. “PB and J again,” she noted, scanning the other girls’ plates to see if there was anything worth trading.

  Standing at their usual table, Iris pointed out each corner of the tiled cafeteria with her rhinestone stylus. “But look,” she said. “Everyone is grouped off. All the nerdy kids are over there.”

  Opal and Cheri both looked to where Iris was aiming her stylus and saw Albert Feinstein, his back to them, bent over his laptop. The other students at his table—mostly boys—were doing the same.

  “And the trendsters hang under the school banner,” Iris continued, gesturing to a gaggle—mostly girls—in mostly expensive jeans, showing off the latest tech toys to each other.

  “Hey, I’m still friends with some of them,” Cheri said, reaching beneath her seat to give a little scratch under the chin to her clandestine pet of the day, an energetic Chihuahua. “Don’t hate on them just because they like to dress up!”

  “I’m not a hater,” Iris said with a wink. “I’m a creator!” She sat down next to Cheri at the table.

  “The sporty types are in the middle, making all the noise,” Scarlet noticed. As if on cue, Brad Hochoquatro pumped his arms in a Hulk-like grip and bellowed, “Touchdown!” Then spiked his water bottle on the floor. The lunch monitor blew his whistle and called foul, throwing a penalty napkin on the mess while Brad ignored him and did a knee-knocking end-zone dance.

  Scarlet snorted, her feet swinging back and forth beneath the table. “You call that dancing? Please.” For a change, she had brushed her hair back into a ballerina’s bun. All the kids in their class had been gaping at her all morning, but the girls assured her it looked tight, so she was sticking with it.

  Opal glanced around the rest of the room, seeing the cafeteria’s social network as clearly as Iris. “And the troublemakers and weirdos kind of hover around the edges,” she observed.

  “Yup,” Iris said. “Everyone has their own little lunch club. Coming soon to a school cafeteria near you!”

  “Then what are we?” Cheri asked, breaking off a bit of Opal’s taco to feed to Dogiego Boneata, the shelter Chihuahua.

  “Viomazing?” Iris suggested, before taking a bite of her cheese ravioli, the cafeteria’s special of the day.

  The four girls laughed at that. Ever since Candace had first muttered the word at the sleepover, one after another they had all started using it. “But seriously,” Scarlet pressed, “what does that even mean?”

  “I think it means . . .” Iris answered, because she’d actually thought about this, thought about it a lot, “that we’re amazing in a very violet way.”

  “Oh, like that makes sense,” Scarlet said, tearing another edge off Opal’s taco, to feed herself. “You’re the only one with purple hair.”

  “But we all got soaked with the, um, Heliotropium,” Opal said in a low voice. “Isn’t that what Candace called it? And that’s violet.”

  “Ultra,” Iris agreed, also speaking quietly. “And we all absorbed the candle wax. So, like, we’re all violet on the inside.”

  “Violet on the inside,” Cheri repeated. She poked at the avocado rolls she’d bought from the salad bar, pushing the wasabi aside. “It’s all too weird,” she said. “I don’t feel any diff—” She stopped midsentence to lean over her seat. “Again, Dogiego?” she hissed at the top of the tote bag. “But you just went before PE this morning!”

  “Anyway”—Iris skirted her chair a little bit away from Cheri’s, just in case Dogiego Boneata decided to go wee-wee—“we have to remember what Candace said. We have to keep our—”

  “Superpowers—” Opal murmured wistfully.

  “Secret,” Iris said. “From now on, I’m keeping my experiments in color to my bedroom wall.” Unless, she thought, I ever cross paths with a certain graffiti boy again.

  Cheri gave her an imploring look and pointed toward her feet.

  “Okay,” Iris yielded. “I’ll change the Helter Shelter animals if it’s helping them get adopted! But we have to be careful about it.”

  Cheri nodded eagerly. “Pinkie swear!” she promised.

  “And you’d better keep your dog-whispering to, you know, a whisper,” Scarlet said, drumming her fingers on the lunch table. “And save the advanced calculus for . . . whatever people use advanced calculus for.”

  “But what about you, Scarlet?” Opal asked. “Can you control your dancing?”

  Maybe she was feeling particularly sensitive because of her hair bun, but to Scarlet that sounded like a taunt. “I’m working on it!” she sniped, tugging at the twist.

  Just then the girls became aware of a commotion coming from the other side of the cafeteria, at the border where Nerdsville met Trendster Nation. As they all turned to look, they could see Albert flinching in his chair. Using her plastic spoon as a slingshot, queen-bee mean girl Karyn Karson was lobbing raviolis at his back. They splatted against his white shirt and slid down, leaving tomato sauce skid marks before settling in his seat. Albert was pretending to ignore them. He just kept typing on his laptop keyboard. But there was no way he didn’t feel the hot pasta pockets of humiliation as they hit their target: him.

  At their table beneath the school banner, Abby O’Adams, Rachel Wright, and all the other trendoids cackled and shrieked like jackals.

  “Oh, poor Albert!” Cheri exclaimed. Opal whipped her head around to glare at her, snapping what was left of her taco in half.

  “Thanks, Opes,” Scarlet said, snatching the last piece right out of her hand and stuffing it in her mouth. She was so mesmerized by the Fling Cheese Incident that she didn’t even notice Opal’s expression of supreme irkedness.

  Iris was more than irked. The bullying of Albert Feinstein made her furious! She knew she was still considered the new girl, and she tried to get along with everyone. But she hadn’t forgotten those first few days at school, the snickers and stares and finger-pointing as she walked the hallways with her strange purple hair. She could only imagine how Albert must feel, having to face the same mean girls in math class who had attacked him with their lunch!

  It was just wrong.

  So wrong.

  Too wrong.

  “Hey, girls?” Iris said, pulling their attention away from the pastastrophe. “You know that stuff we were just saying about keeping our superpowers on the downlow?”

  “Yeah?” Scarlet said, one eye still on the ravioli massacre. Cheri and Opal nodded.

  “How about we start that . . . tomorrow?”

  The four friends exchanged glances. Iris could tell they all felt the same. Cheri put one hand, pinkie finger up, in the center of the table. “Count me in,” she said. The other three followed, linking fingers in a chain. They pounded the table fast, one, two, three! then broke apart.

  Scarlet stood up and scanned the length of the cafeteria. “Cher,” she asked, “about how far—?”

  “Time being distance divided by speed,” Cheri said, “and the speed of light being 186,000 miles per second . . .” She looked at Scarlet and smiled. “If you go now, you’ll be there, like, yesterday.”

  “And we’ll be right behind you,” Iris added.

  Scarlet nodded. “
Cover me,” she said. Cheri and Opal stood on either side of her as she dropped into a crouch. And sprung like Spider-Man. If Spider-Man had been a schoolgirl. As she jetéed across the cafeteria, her ballerina bun finally came loose, and her straight black hair flew behind her like a cape.

  She overshot the landing, brushing against the school banner, which fell from the wall to cover the cackling trendoids like a net. Then she bounced back, landing en pointe right in front of Karyn. And just as the girl was about to catapult another ravioli grenade, Scarlet hooked her foot in a coupé, flipping Karyn’s entire lunch tray into the air.

  Tray and bowl and ravioli spun as if in slow motion high above the trendoids’ table while Scarlet backflipped in a blur, beyond the range of the impending fallout. Karyn stumbled to her feet and started to scream, “Nooooo!” But her raviolis came crashing down. Followed by the clunk of her bowl. Followed by the slap of her plastic tray.

  The entire cafeteria stared at Karyn in stunned silence. Her trendoid friends clawed their way out from underneath the school banner, then wrapped it around their shoulders like a blanket, trying to shield themselves from the horrible sight: Karyn Karson with a bowl of ravioli on her head, tomato purée streaming down her face like marinara tears.

  Psst, Dogiego! Cheri thought hard. See that girl over there, all covered in sauce? Don’t her Fugg boots remind you of a fire hydrant? Go, Dogiego, go!

  The hyper Chihuahua didn’t need any more encouragement. He leaped out of Cheri’s tote bag, not nearly as fast as Scarlet but as fast as a little dog with a little bladder could. Scampered right up to Karyn’s ankle. Lifted a hind leg. And did number one on her boots.

  “Aaaaaaagh!” Karyn screamed, raising her red sauce hands up to the ceiling.

  The cafeteria monitor tooted his whistle again and announced, “Foul! Health code violation! No dogs allowed!” Not that anyone in the cafeteria was listening to him. He ran after the Chihuahua, tearing the banner off the huddled trendoids as he raced past them. They unfurled like balls on a pool table, spinning and slipping in the tomato sauce and dog pee.

  The monitor had the banner by the corners, ready to throw it over the fugitive Dogiego, when the dog seemed to disappear right before his eyes. The teacher skidded to a halt and stared across the floor, under the tables. But all he could see were old linoleum tiles and sneaker scuffs and book bags.

  Cheri herself didn’t see Dogiego until he jumped back up and burrowed into the safety of the tote bag under her arm. Oh, there you are! she thought, relieved. Good dog! She felt him settle in the bottom and turn around a few times, getting comfy. When she discreetly peeked inside the bag, she saw a tiny Mexican breed with camouflage fur the pattern of old linoleum tiles and sneaker scuffs.

  “Thanks, RiRi,” she whispered, looking straight ahead again.

  “No problem,” Iris said. “We’ll change him to something prettier than floor tile later.” She stepped to the side, adding, “I’ll be right back.”

  While the rest of the students in the cafeteria were rubbernecking at the ravioli train wreck that was now Karyn Karson, taking out their smartphones and filming videos to post on their Smashface pages, Albert Feinstein took the opportunity to sneak out of the cafeteria. Maybe he could wipe down his shirt in the boys’ room or find a clean tee in the gym. He closed his laptop, picked up his backpack, and skulked toward the exit with his head down, hoping no one would notice him. But just as he got to the doors, that artsy new girl with the dazzling purple hair blocked his escape.

  Great, he thought, his glasses fogging up. Another popular girl, just waiting to torment me.

  The girl put one hand on his shoulder, twirled a violet ringlet with the other, blinked her blue eyes for a second or three, and said, “Hi, Albert. Lunch period kind of bites, right? See you later, in math.”

  And with a bounce of her royal ringlets, she walked back into the cafeteria.

  Probably slapped a “Kick Me” sign on my back, Albert thought, hurrying out through the double doors and toward the bathrooms. It’s probably stuck to all the tomato sauce. As he walked, he tried to scratch at his back. He didn’t reach the sign he expected was there, but he did brush a couple of embedded ravioli off his butt.

  Once Albert got into the boys’ room, he dropped his backpack in front of the door, hoping to stall anyone who might follow him there. Then he tore a paper towel from the dispenser, squirted it with liquid soap, and ran it under the faucet to work up a lather.

  But when Albert Feinstein turned around, ready to scrub the back of his shirt by looking at his reflection in the boys’ bathroom mirror, he came to a stop. The soapy wad of paper dripped in his fist.

  Albert’s shirt was spotlessly white. He rubbed his glasses on his thighs and put them back on. But no matter how closely he peered, he could find no trace of the cheese ravioli skirmish. No oily stains. No tomato sauce. And no “Kick Me” sign.

  Back out in the cafeteria, a frantic Karyn Karson stood in a puddle of Chihuahua pee and pasta sauce, babbling to the monitor about some giant high-speed superfly that had landed on her table and overturned her lunch. Iris, Scarlet, Opal, and Cheri didn’t give her a second glance as they strolled by. From her messenger bag, Iris tore open a pack of spicy cinnamon gum and offered it around.

  “Hey, Iris?” Scarlet said, taking a piece.

  “Hmm?” Iris answered.

  “Why didn’t you tell us,” Scarlet teased, “that you do laundry?!”

  Scarlet leaped just a little to high-five Iris, and Cheri joined in, laughing along. Opal trailed behind, still hungry, and nibbling on Scarlet’s abandoned PB and J sandwich.

  The grape jelly should have been sweet.

  But all she could taste was bitter.

  Mwah?

  CINNAMON GUM IS SPICY, GRAPE JELLY IS SWEET, AND Opaline Trudeau is bitter because she’s violet on the inside only. With no superpowers on the outside to show for it.

  Iris, Scarlet, and Cheri had gone to Chrysalis Park again. After their stealth victory over the Fugg-booted bully Karyn Karson in the cafeteria, they wanted to practice their skills some more. Cheri thought she might be able to round up a few stray animals and “be one with the squirrels.” Scarlet had a lot of extra energy to burn. And Iris was up for some fun with camouflage.

  But Opal had begged off sick and walked home alone. She was sick, sort of. Sick of standing in the shadows of the other three, with their breathtaking hair and rainbow palette and infinity bag of lollipops. Their sandwich-stealing and balletic combat. Their secret psychic shelter pets and math prowess!

  Math prowess . . .

  Opal thought of Albert, hunched over in the cafeteria, under ravioli attack. She was surprised to realize that, instead of feeling sorry for him like Cheri had, she was a bit disgusted. Why didn’t he stand up to Karyn? Why did he just let her bully him like that?

  Next thing you know, Albert, she thought, Karyn will be ordering you to bring her bendy straws and snatching the tacos right out of your hand.

  Opal input the code to lock her apartment door behind her. Her mom wouldn’t be home from work for another couple of hours. She had the place to herself. She dropped her backpack on the floor, peeled off her loafers, then padded into the kitchen and poured herself a cold glass of pomegranate juice.

  Cheri’s favorite! she thought, downing half of it in one gulp. She put the glass on the counter and pretended to roller skate across the kitchen floor in her socks.

  “Look at me!” she said to no one, imitating Cheri’s breathy baby voice. “I’ve got luscious strawberry red hair and the super-shiniest nails! All the animals follow me like I’m Snow White, and the captain of the mathletes wants to be my boyfriend!”

  Opal came to an abrupt stop, crashing against the counter. She felt a blinding pain cut across her forehead, and for a moment her vision clouded. “Owie,�
�� she said softly, rubbing her temples with her thumbs. It must have been her barrettes, pulled too tight.

  That was another thing. The barrettes. Every day, her mom insisted she wear her hair clipped back. But Opal was over the goody-two-shoes look.

  She clawed at the barrettes, tearing them out and throwing them across the room. She could feel the sharp sparks of static electricity on her fingertips as she ran her hands through her hair raking out the strands until they were dented waves.

  “That’s better,” she breathed. “But not good enough.”

  With a twist of her thumb, she undid the top button of her shirt, running her finger around the collar. Then she undid the next button. And the next. And the next. She freed the buttons at her wrists, pulling so forcefully that one popped off, and rolled her sleeves up past her elbows.

  “Look at me!” she said again, laughing joylessly at what a joke it all was. “I’m a ballet dancer! And if you don’t believe me”—she spun on her tiptoes across the length of the apartment—“I’ll beat you up!”

  The pain sliced across her forehead once more, and Opal doubled over in the middle of her living room, seeing only a terrifying whiteness.

  “Okay, whoa,” she said, dropping to her knees on the carpet. She shut her eyes and rocked back and forth, arms covering her head as if she’d been caught in a thunderstorm. When she braved opening her eyes again, the blurry outlines of the coffee table and the couch appeared before her. She was so relieved that she blinked out a few tears.

  What was the matter with her? Why was she acting this way? Cheri and Scarlet were her best friends, weren’t they? True, Scarlet was always bossing her around and eating her lunch. And yes, Cheri had blatantly gone after the only boy she had ever liked, but . . .

  But . . .

  Opal crawled over to the couch and climbed up onto it, crouching in one corner and hugging her knees to her chest. Her thoughts moved from Cheri and Scarlet to Iris. How could she imitate Iris, even if she wanted to? The girl could turn things different colors! That was just freaky. But at least Iris was her friend, wasn’t she?