Thirteen by Lauren Myracle Read Free Book Online Page A

“Is that the juicy part, that Gail and Malena and Amanda drank? Or is there more?”
    â€œWhy were they even there?” Dinah said. Out of all three of us, she probably felt the most threatened by the seventh grade popular girls, because she was the most different from them. Or maybe I was misreading? Maybe she wasn’t threatened by them at all, for that very reason. Maybe I was the only one threatened?
    â€œBecause Brad invited them,” Cinnamon said in a duh voice. “Because they’re wild.”
    â€œAmanda didn’t used to be wild,” I said.
    â€œShe is now,” Cinnamon said. “She kissed Alan Bauer in the hot tub.”
    â€œWhat?!” I cried.
    â€œThat’s the juicy part,” Cinnamon said, clearly pleased with my reaction.
    â€œBut Alan’s an eighth grader—”
    â€œSo is Lars,” she pointed out.
    â€œâ€”and he’s not even cute. Or nice. He told Carmen De La Cruz she needed to wear deodorant!”
    Cinnamon shrugged. “They kissed in the hot tub. That’s what Steffie said.”
    â€œThat is just gross ,” Dinah said.
    Cinnamon downed the last of the milk, then dropped the carton through the bars of the play structure to the ground below. “Anyway, I just thought you should know, so you’d be prepared for Bryce’s next weekend.”
    â€œOh, God,” I said. Bryce’s parents were throwing a party for Bryce in celebration of the end of junior high. Well, the end of junior high for the eighth graders, since unlike us, they’d be moving on to high school. Bryce was an eighth grader. He was Lars’s best friend. And because Lars was his best friend, Lars got to invite me. Which, when he called last week and told me, made me fizz up with happiness.
    Now the fizziness turned to dread.
    â€œAh, it’ll be fine,” Cinnamon said. Now that she’d cranked up my worry, she switched gears and acted dismissive, as if I were making a bigger deal of it than necessary. I didn’t know why Cinnamon liked to do that. “His parents are going to be there, right?”
    â€œRight…” I said hesitantly.
    â€œSo that means no wine coolers. So you have nothing to worry about.”
    Dinah shook her head. “I’m glad I’m not going.”
    An expression crossed Cinnamon’s face that told me she wished she was. I wished she was, too. Then I wouldn’t be alone.
    â€œYou do know what this means, though, don’t you?” she asked.
    â€œThat I’m destined for abject humiliation and a terrible outbreak of zits?” I said. “And I’ll have to order Proactiv Solution from that infomercial? Which supposedly Kelly Clarkson uses, but somehow I’m thinking not really?”
    â€œ No ,” Cinnamon said. She looped her legs over the topmost bar on the jungle gym, swung upside-down, and dropped off. She didn’t pick up the milk carton. “It means, my friend, that if Amanda can kiss Alan Bauer, you can kiss Lars. Finally and at last.”
    Dinah giggled, but didn’t disagree.
    Cinnamon looked up at me with her hands on her hips. “Winnie? Babe? It’s time.”
    Â 
    In the olden days, boys had to do all the work. They brought girls flowers; they held hands on charming wooden porch swings. Eventually, they made the bold move of kissing. The girls just had to be pretty and charming and demure.
    Unfortunately, I was in no way demure. We didn’t have a porch swing, and I preferred Junior Mints to roses.
    But while the olden days may have had some perks, did I really want to return to a way of life when girls had to wear stockings and flutter their eyelashes? My feminist leanings might not be up to Sandra’s standards, but of course I thought that every human should get to do what he or she wanted to do. Boys should be able to wear pink and play with dolls; girls could be tough and rowdy skateboarders or whatever.
    But the