Our friendship finally came to an end in seventh grade. She got boobs, while I got a retainer. To make matters worse, at the spring fling, Marc had asked me to dance. Normally, this would be a good thing. Unfortunately, I’d come down with a terrible cold and sneezed mid-dance. I can still remember the look of disgust on his face as my drool-laden retainer flew out of my mouth and rebounded off his light-blue dress shirt.
Marc never spoke to me again, but that wasn’t nearly the worst of it.
As I fled the gym, I overheard Marissa telling everyone what happened. Even worse, I heard Fuller loudly exclaim the nickname that caused my classmates to howl with laughter, “Wren ‘the Retainer’ Carter,” later shortened to “Wrentainer.”
Marissa and Fuller started going out that night. He told her to stop being my friend, so she dropped me instantaneously. After that, I became an easy target for cheap laughs. To make matters worse, with Fuller at her side, she rocketed to the position of queen bee at our school. Between her relentless bullying and spreading gossip like wildfire, my remaining friends dropped me like a bad habit. No one wanted to get in her way, and by the end of the school year, no one wanted to be my friend.
Marissa’s shrill laugh pulled me out of my painful trip down memory lane. It made me furious that I was stuck in this stupid bathroom stall, but the thought of facing Marissa made my stomach twist into knots. If at all possible, it was easier to stay out of her and Fuller’s way.
“Oh, guess who Fuller nailed with those nasty mashed potatoes in the cafeteria today?” Marissa said.
“Who?” Courtney asked, smacking her lips together.
My chest constricted.
“Wrentainer,” Marissa replied, bursting into laughter.
Courtney joined her. “She is such a loser. Can you believe that we used to be friends with her?”
My eyes stung as I prayed they wouldn’t recognize my white, low-top Chuck Taylors under the stall. Blinking back the onslaught of tears that I refused to shed, I bit my lower lip and continued to clutch my bag.
“Ugh. We were so stupid.” Marissa said. “Anyway, enough about her. This mascara is everything. It makes my eyelashes look, like, twice as long.”
“I wish Mr. Ferguson would give us twice as long on our physics test next period.” Marissa sighed. “I had to study for, like, four hours last night. I better get an A.”
“Of course you will. You always ace his tests,” Courtney assured her.
After an eternity, Marissa and Courtney grabbed their makeup and left the bathroom.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I stood and exited the stall.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirror hanging above the sink. The yellow painted concrete bricks in the bathroom felt like they were closing in around me. Turning on the tap, I splashed some cold water on my face and ignored the tight feeling in my chest.
As I patted my face dry with a scratchy paper towel, my thoughts drifted back to Fuller and the way he stood there taunting me with that irksome smile. Most girls would have thrown their panties at him instead of potatoes.
Worst of all, I knew that neither Fuller nor any of the guys on the basketball team would get in trouble for the food fight. They never did. Those guys practically walked on water, and they followed Fuller around like he was some kind of jock Pied Piper. Even my best friend, Brandon, who played point guard on the team, would succumb to Fuller’s stupid antics from time to time.
Occasionally they’d pull a funny prank, like the time Fuller and Marc snuck out during last period and went to town with industrial-sized plastic wrap in the junior section of the parking lot. Brandon and a few of the other guys had helped them wrap dozens of cars. They made use of nearby light poles, which had acted as a makeshift barrier, completely sealing off the entire area. It looked like the cars had been quarantined by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention.
This wasn’t one of those occasions, though. This time, Fuller had attacked me with potatoes. Biting my lip, I thought back to the tirade I went on yesterday after school. I’d caught Brandon on his way to basketball practice. With my hands on my hips, I’d urged him to stand up to Fuller. To tell him that one player didn’t make a team and that all of Fuller’s hotshot moves wouldn’t mean a damn thing if the other team had a strong enough defense. Of course, Fuller happened to be walking by as I reached the height of my diatribe.
“Who died and elected you team captain?” The tone in his voice cut right through my confidence. Instead of responding, I turned and practically ran in the opposite direction.
Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I cursed myself for lacking the confidence to confront Marissa and Fuller. I ran my tongue over my perfectly straight teeth. At least I’d come up with a secret nickname for him, Fuller “Fuller than a Bag of Manure” James or F.B.M. for short. Of course, I’d never say it out loud, but thinking about it always brought a smile to my face.
I considered talking to my uncle, the boys’ basketball coach, about everything. It should have been easy. He was my dad’s twin brother. Too bad they had completely different personalities. Sadly, I’d learned my lesson after the last time I’d confronted him. I tried to point out the injustice of treating Fuller and a few of the other guys on the basketball team differently, but I knew it was a lost cause. His response was typical: “Boys will be boys, Wren.”
What a load of sexist crap. I knew plenty of boys who didn’t act like jerks on a daily basis. Like Brandon and my other best friend, Dae.
When it all boiled down to the basics, the only thing my uncle, the head principal, and pretty much everyone else at our school cared about was winning another state title. We’d never won back-to-back championships, but with Fuller leading the team, our chances of going all the way again this year were strong.
The bell outside the bathroom rang. I had five minutes to grab my AP Literature book from my locker and get to class—class with Fuller. Luckily, he sat a few rows behind me and, once I got to class, I wouldn’t have to see his face for at least forty-five minutes. I fished my phone out of my bag and sent Dae and Brandon a quick text message telling them what happened. We’d have a lot to talk about after school. Glancing at myself one last time in the mirror, I frowned. I’d missed a bit of mashed potato that was stuck to my ear.
I hate you, Fuller James.
…
As Mrs. Brewster wrote our homework on the board, I heard someone behind me giggle. When I stole a glance over my shoulder, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Lyla Burkman was practically sitting in Fuller’s lap, bent forward, with her cleavage on full display. I guess Haleigh is out of the picture already.
A small grin tugged at the corners of my lips for a fleeting moment. Marissa would be livid once she heard about Lyla flirting with Fuller. They were in the same clique, but Marissa always thought she was better than everybody else. This would definitely set her off.