Cannie Shapiro 02 Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner Read Free Book Online Page A

whispering. A second later, I saw what they were whispering about: twelve frosted sugar hearts heaped on my desk. It was unbelievable. Not even Amber Gross had more.
    I checked to make sure I was in the right classroom. Then I counted to make sure I was looking at the right desk, the third from the front. I picked up one of the cookies, waiting for someone to say something, to tap me on the shoulder and say, "Um, sorry, that's actually mine."
    TO: Joy. FROM: Martin. MESSAGE: Happy Valentine's Day!
    The only Martin in our school is Martin Baker, Amber's boyfriend, who always wears his cleats to class so there's no chance of you forgetting that he's on the soccer team. I turned the cookie over in my hands, holding it carefully. "Gentle touches!" my preschool teacher would say during show-and-tell when we'd pass around the toy the kid of the day had brought to share. "Gentle touches" meant you could hold it, but it wasn't really yours.
    I picked up another cookie. TO: Joy. FROM: A Secret Admirer. MESSAGE: I think you're sweet.
    My cheeks flushed. A Secret Admirer. I had a secret admirer. I looked at the cookie, then, quickly, at Duncan Brodkey. Just as fast, I looked away.
    I shuffled slowly through the rest of the cookies until I came to one that made my heart stop thudding and skitter to a stop. TO: Joy. FROM: Amber Gross. MESSAGE: Happy V Day!
    Amber Gross. Amber Gross sent me a cookie. Amber Gross wants me to have a happy V Day. At any minute, the world will spin off its axis, hell will freeze over, and monkeys will fly out of my ears from where my hearing aids should be.
    Just when I was sure that the day couldn't get any weirder, when I was positive that it was all a dream and I was going to wake up in my room underneath my flowered comforter and the stuck-on stars with my mother standing at the door asking about oatmeal, Amber Gross herself sauntered toward me with her thumbs hooked into the belt loops of her ultra-low-rise jeans. ("No, I am not buying you those," my mother said when I pointed out a pair at the mall. "Why?" I'd been dumb enough to ask. "Because they're obscene," said my mother. "And you'd need all new underwear.")
    "Hi, Joy," she said. Hi, Joy. Like we were actually friends. Like we IM'ed each other every night and sat together on the bus in the mornings.
    "Thanks for the cookie!" I squeaked in what I hoped was a normal-girl voice. I couldn't believe she'd said my name. I wasn't even sure she knew it.
    "No prob," she said. Her braces glittered as she smiled. "Hey, do you want to sit with us at lunch?"
    "Oh. Um. Sure, I guess," I said. I thought that even if my voice sounded weird, my words sounded right. Very casual.
    "Cool!" she said, and walked back to her seat.
    Tamsin whirled around, wide-eyed. "What was that about?" she whispered, exaggerating the syllables and adding a big shrug so there'd be no chance I'd miss her meaning.
    I'd just opened my mouth to say something--what, I wasn't exactly sure--when Mr. Shoup dropped his briefcase on his desk. "Settle down," he said. At least I thought that was what he said. Mr. Shoup had a mustache, and the longer it grew, the harder my life got.
    He turned toward the blackboard, and I bent my head, hoping nobody else could hear the way my heart was pounding.

    "You're not really going to sit with them, are you?" Tamsin said directly into my right ear four endless periods later, as I was collecting my lunch from my locker.
    I ducked my head and mumbled, "Dunno."
    "She's just using you," said Tamsin. To make sure I'd heard, she shoved up the sleeves of her gray sweatshirt, stepped in front of me, and signed the words: "Using you!" (American Sign Language is one of the languages offered at the Philadelphia Academy, along with Spanish, French, and Latin. Tamsin has taken all four.)
    "Using her for what, though?" Todd said as he caught up to us in the hall. He was in his usual school uniform of crisp khakis and a button-down shirt that he'd ironed himself. His