The Princesses of Iowa by M. Molly Backes Read Free Book Online Page A

was the wrong thing to say the second before it came out of my mouth. Now I sounded like some pitiful girl whose boyfriend makes all her decisions for her, who can’t go against him, who will end up in some crappy marriage where she has to show up at work telling stories about running into doors. And I was
so
not that girl. The idea that the Freshman would assume such a thing about me pissed me off.
    “Nobody makes me do anything,” I said coldly.
    He held up his hands. “Whoa, I didn’t say that —”
    In the front of the room, Mrs. Mueller clapped her hands, cutting him off. “Fifteen minutes left, everyone, and then you’ll present your partner to the class!”
    “She took an entire fifty-minute period to explain what a journal is, but she’s only giving us twenty minutes for this?” the Freshman asked, with a look that was part apology, part peace offering.
    I decided to be charitable. “I know, right?”
    He picked up his pen. “Children, this is a pen! Can anyone tell me what you use it for?”
    “Seriously,” I said.
    Mrs. Mueller shrieked over the low chatter of the class; in the distance, a thousand dogs probably started barking. “If you get stuck, ask about plans for next year! Are you going to college? Where are you applying?”
    The Freshman propped his chin on his hand and crossed his legs. “What are your plans for next year? Are you going to college? Where are you applying?”
    “I’m going to Northwestern, just like everyone else in my family.”
    “A legacy, hmm?” He nodded. “I thought about Northwestern, but during the tour this extremely haunted-looking dude grabbed my arm and told me that if I was at all interested in writing, I should stay far, far away, as they would”— he made finger quotes —“eat my soul.”
    “Weird.” Across the room, I could hear Randy telling a story about turning a plastic flamingo into a bong.
    “So,” the Freshman said cheerfully, “good luck with that!”
    “Thanks.”
    “You must get pretty good grades to get into Northwestern. Or is it one of those things where you can just sort of buy your way in?”
    “Jesus,” I said, surprised into giving him my full attention.
    He shrugged. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I suppose. Personally, I will be racking up the student loans. The good news is that once it’s in your head, they can’t come and take it back. It’s not like the bank can repossess your brain.” He feigned a worried look. “At least, I don’t think they can. . . .”
    “My grades are fine.”
    “Dude, it was the best thing ever. We called it the Pink Flaming-go. Get it? Like, flaming?”
    “Flabongo,” the Freshman muttered.
    I looked at him. “What?”
    “If you’re going to build a bong out of a plastic flamingo, the proper name is Flabongo, not Pink Flaming-go,” he said.
    I shrugged. “Randy’s not known for his great intellect.”
    Mrs. Mueller screeched, “Ten minutes, people!”
    The Freshman snapped into action. “Okay! What did you do over the summer?”
    I immediately felt defensive. Every time I said anything about the summer, Lacey rolled her eyes and changed the subject as quickly as possible. “Don’t even get her started on Paris,” she’d said yesterday at lunch, lounging back against the picnic table where we always gathered. As though my stories about Paris were so glamorous — and as though she’d completely forgotten that it was her fault I’d been exiled in the first place. Well, Nikki’s fault, technically. But Lacey’s fault, too, because if she hadn’t been such a bitch about Prescott, the whole rest of the night would have been different. The whole rest of the summer would have been different.
    For a second I thought about lying, about just making something up, but a tiny part of me wanted to dazzle the Freshman a little, to intimidate him. “Actually I was in Europe for most of the summer. Paris, mostly.”
    He whistled. “Fancy. Must be nice to be you.”
    I