Romance of the Snob Squad by Julie Anne Peters Read Free Book Online

ambulance siren every day. He was also getting fatter by the obstacle.
    “Are you sure Harley is a he?” I asked Max on Friday. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have named him Harlena?” We watched the fat rat scrabble over a car radio and squeeze through a milk jug. He used to wriggle through the jug a whole lot easier. I added, “We might be looking at a litter of little Harleys by tomorrow.”
    “No way,” Max said. She clucked. But she lifted Harley and studied his underbelly.
    “If he does have babies, they better come after the science fair,” Lydia said. “I refuse to document the live birth of baby rats.” She shuddered.
    “I don’t know,” I thought out loud. “We might get extra credit. In fact, maybe we should build one long tunnel. Harley starts at one end and by the time he reaches the other, there are eight Harleys. We claim cloning!”
    Everyone laughed. Prairie said, “C-can I name one of the babies Hugh?”
    “You can name all the babies Hugh,” I said to her. To myself I added, Except the one I’m calling Kevin.
    “Ain’t gonna be no babies,” Max said. “Except those Baby Ruth bars. Pass ’em over, Solano.”
    I opened the six-pack that we’d bought at 7-Eleven on the way over and tossed her one, all the while watching Harley/Harlena, and wondering if he or she had found a little rat romance out in the wreckage.

Chapter 9
    M innette bounced into the waiting room, the glow of good health illuminating her aura. “Hey, Jenny. Hey, Mr. Solano,” she greeted us. Even her teeth were gleaming. “Sorry I’m late. Whoo, sure is hot today.” She swiped her brow with a wristband.
    I muttered to Dad, “What, did she ride her Exercycle over?”
    He ignored me, he was so intent on reading the recipes in
Redbook
. Sometimes I wondered about Dad.
    “Come on in, Jenny,” she said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
    Long is relative, I thought. The ten minutes I’d been sitting here had churned up a major stomachache.
    Dad set the magazine back on the stack and stood. “I’m going down to the cafeteria for some coff—uh, some juice and a bran muffin.”
    Right, I thought. Sludge and a sugar doughnut is more like it.
    “So, Jen.” Minnette hopped up on the desk and motioned me to a chair. “How’s the food diary coming?”
    Call me Jen one more time, I seethed inwardly, and I’m outta here. We’re not bosom buds. Okay, Min? She was so perky. So jerky.
    She waited.
    I shrugged.
    “So”—she stuck out a hand—“let’s see it.”
    I exhaled wearily. For appearance’s sake, I rummaged through my backpack. “Wow.” My voice was flat as her chest. “I guess I lost it.”
    Minnette pursed her pink lips. Her eyes met mine.
    I vegged.
    She jumped off the desk and dropped into the chair next to mine. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
    I clucked. How’d she know?
    “Want to know how I know?” she asked.
    Geez. She was skinny and psychic, too. Life isn’t fair.
    “Because I didn’t do mine the first time, either. Oh, maybe I filled in a day or two, then thought, This is a joke. A food diary? How’s that going to make me stop eating? So I turned it into a joke. I wrote,
Dear Mrs. Butterworth, Today I ate a double stack of pancakes—with extra syrup. Yummee
.”
    It made me look over at her. “How come you had to keep a food diary?”
    She blinked. “Because I used to be fat. Very fat.”
    That surprised me. “How fat?”
    “Two hundred and sixty-nine pounds.”
    My eyeballs swelled. Fatter than Oprah at her peak.
    “Wow!”
    “Yeah, wow,” Minnette said. “We’re talking obese. I lost it, but it was a struggle. Sometimes I still get the urge to eat a whole cherry cheesecake, all in one sitting.”
    I might have smiled. “Maybe you should see a registered dietician about that.”
    Minnette laughed. “I do. And I keep a food diary. It helps me keep track of how I’m doing. Especially during the tough times.”
    My eyes slid down to study her petite feet. “What if all