From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer Read Free Book Online Page B

“honestly.”
    “Thanks.”
    Maggie pats Clarice’s shoulder. “So when are you officially benefriends?”
    “I think we are already. We kissed in the back of the gym last week. And he put his hands on my waist.”
    “That’s good, then.” Would it work? Could she change him by easing him into the whole idea of togetherness? I thought you were supposed to wait for someone you didn’t want to change. Like Lucas. Lucas is perfect.

Didn’t anyone get a new razor for Christmanukahzaa? What is it with guys and shaving? We’re out of school for two weeks and they all revert to caveman-gorilla antics. I mean, it’s like they forget the truth, and the truth is—boys can’t grow beards.
    I have never in my life seen so many spotty Brillo pads. And not nice, even Brillo pads, but the kind Aunt Erma used for thirty years and couldn’t bear to part with, so it’s all sparse in sections and blotchy in others.
    There isn’t a single manly-boy in our school who can successfully grow any facial hair without looking like an armadillo in a Spider-Man costume. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example, but can you imagine how bad that armadillo looks?
    What’s with the fuzzy cheeks and single strands on chins? Just because they don’t shave doesn’t mean it belongs there. It’s like us not shaving a section of our calves and calling it fashion. It’s not sexy, it’s inept.
    And what’s with the soul patch thing? Who thinks that’s attractive? It just looks like he missed a spot. And what’s with touching the hair all the time? Is it the same primordial instinct that has them grabbing their penises just to make sure they’re still attached? Scratch the chin, pull the peter and it’s all good.

Don’t mind me. I’m just in the crappiest mood ever. It’s the Monday after Christmas break. Which means we’re no longer counting down to vacation, but instead starting back at square one. Summer’s too far away to count down to and spring break doesn’t count because it’s close to summer.
    I have official post-vacation traumatic syndrome. I am a victim of the system. Oh, there’s Adam. We have Introduction to Ceramics and Photography this semester. Thank Holy-Mother-Registrar for that one. At least I have a chance to see him without Tim around. Though want to bet I will be their official Pony Express for notes they don’t feel like texting?
    “Gertie.”
    “Addy.” I hate that nickname, Gertie. Sounds like something your grandmother buys to keep her boobs from dragging on the ground. We walk to class together and get seats next to each other.
    He laughs. “So, I heard the first couple of weeks are yoga.”
    “In art?” Maybe this isn’t such a miraculous event.
    “It’s to get our Shakira all flowing smoothly.”
    “You mean chakra?” I clarify.
    “Whatever. It’s weird.”
    “Why are we taking this class?”
    “It’s a graduation requirement.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Maybe graduation isn’t so important,” Adam whispers as silence falls in the classroom.
    Ms. DaVoe glides in wearing black Lycra shorts with an ancient tube top, draped in one hundred colored polyester scarves and wearing earrings that qualify for landmass proportions. Her hair is three different shades of boxed reds with jet-black roots and a black swath down the middle of her head like a roadkill skunk. Her wrists are covered with silver bangles and each finger sports at least one ring, most with stones the size of boulders. Her feet are tucked into striped socks that have been darned several times and Birkenstocks that must have actually been at Woodstock. Have I mentioned she’s like a hundred and three? And she emits an aroma seriously resembling pot. There’s an almost visible haze surrounding her. How did she get this job?
    “Children of my heart. Welcome to this sacred space. We are going to have a beautiful time together.” Her voice is raspy and deep, like she’s obliterated her vocal cords inhaling one too many