Number 8 by Anna Fienberg Read Free Book Online

I get to school. They’re looking at color printouts, and a few kids are clustered around, peering over their shoulders. Lilly looks up and beckons me over. As I walk up to them, calling out “hi!” I spot Jackson strolling down the path toward us. I blush again, all over my body. What, is this going to happen every time I see him?
    Jackson is walking faster now, toward the tree. I don’t want to greet him, with everyone looking. I’m still red and sweaty.
    I do a sudden dog-leg turn, miming something to Lilly about the bathroom.
    But out of the corner of my eye I see Jackson raise his hand. “Hey, Esmerelda! ESMERELDA!” His voice is as loud as the school bell.
    I turn back. All the kids look up at me. They glance from him to me and back again. But Lilly keeps her eyes on Jackson. I watch her take him in, from head to foot. And then she gives her neon smile.
    â€œES-MER-EL-DAAA!”
    It’s Badman, mimicking Jackson in a soppy soprano voice. He minces out from behind the tree, wiggling his stupid Badman hips. “Oh, Esmerel-
daaa
!” he calls again.
    I’m paralyzed, as if lightning really has struck. My facemust be scarlet. Sweat is breaking out like a flash flood on my top lip.
    I know I should just make some smart comment and ignore him. Normally, I would. I used to be queen of Badman insults. Now I should say “hi” to Jackson and smile back at him, cool as hell. But I can’t. This has never happened to me before. I just can’t take everyone looking. I mumble something no one can hear and start toward the bathroom. But as I turn I see Jackson’s face. It’s open and bewildered, with all his feelings rushing across it, clear as day. Then suddenly it closes over. He reminds me of those night flowers, the ones whose petals just fold up at dusk until you can’t see the heart at all.
    â€œHey, where you going,
Es-mer-elda
? Can’t you see the new jerk’s in love?” Badman makes a kissy face, with his stupid fat lips pursed up like a chicken’s butt.
    I look at him and shake my head. That’s all I can manage. I’m thinking about the way Jackson said “Esmerelda.” No one says my full name anymore—well, only Dad when he’s angry with me and then he says it short and sharp like bullets firing, and you can tell he can’t wait to get it over. But Jackson, he said my name as if he relished it—he went the long way around instead of taking the short cut. He said it as if he was enjoying the view.
    When I get back from the bathroom Badman and the rest of the kids are still gathered around the tree. Jackson is standing in the same position, his hands in his pockets. His face is red, too. Oh, why doesn’t he just go? Maybe he’s rooted to the ground with shame, like I was.
    I hang back. I’d like to help but whatever I say here will only make it worse. Won’t it?
    â€œWhat’s wrong, girlie?” says Badman to Jackson. He flicks back imaginary long hair and waggles his hips again. “Cat got your tongue, or maybe,” he grins evilly around, “did you leave it with Ez?”
    â€œWhy don’t you shut up?” says Jackson.
    Oh, walk away! Leave it alone, Jackson!
    â€œWhy don’t you?” spits Badman. His tone changes. He’s not playing now and his voice is like gravel. “You’re a jerk, Jack
ass
.”
    â€œYou’re a seven,” says Jackson, real softly.
    There’s a strange kind of silence.
    â€œA what?” says Badman.
    Everyone is quiet, trying to think what new kind of insult this is. Deep, he must be very deep, this new guy. I remember the Italian crossbow story, and smile.
    â€œYou’re dead, Badman,” I call out. “He’s just pointed the bone.”
    Badman is staring at Jackson. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. “Whaddya mean?”
    Jackson says nothing. He takes his hands out of his pockets and takes a