The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things by Ann Aguirre
For my daughter, Andrea.
Every word of this book is for you.
CHAPTER ONE
I know what they call me. The goth girls started it, all ripped black fishnets and heavy kohl, with chipped black nail polish and metric tons of attitude, like any of that makes them cooler than anyone else. It so doesn’t, but high school is full of people who think what they wear matters more than who they are. But I should talk. Before I came to stay with Aunt Gabby, I was worse than those girls. But she’s taught me a lot in the years I’ve been living with her, mostly how to stop being angry about things I can’t control.
Like my mom. My dad. And especially the nickname.
It echoes as I walk past the burners, which is what I call the pot and pill heads, who cluster near the emergency exit. They disable the alarms after each inspection, so they can slip in and out for a smoke. A bleary-eyed guy who’s failing to rock a soul patch says, “What up, Princess?” and holds up two fingers in what’s supposed to be a victory sign … or maybe peace, I dunno.
I ignore him, though it’s not easy. There’s always a part of me that wants to make people sorry when they piss me off, but I’ve swallowed her whole, wrapped the shadow me in plastic, and I’m waiting for her to stop breathing. I walk on, brightening my smile through sheer determination. I’ve heard if you pretend long enough—or maybe wish hard enough—faking normal becomes real. I’m counting on that. Until then, I’ll carry on.
Everybody at JFK has a thing. For the drama dorks, it’s huddling up in the auditorium, singing or running lines every chance they get. They all have big Broadway dreams, fattened by watching Glee. Since we’re also in a podunk Midwestern town, they figure the show speaks directly to them. I don’t mind the concept, but it’s ironic that they get twenty-five-year-olds to play high school students. Which explains why all the performers have such poise and polish. I’d like it more if they looked real, if they occasionally had zits or bad hair.
The burners take pride in not doing anything. Most of them have a 1.2 GPA, barely attend class, and are heavily into recreational drugs. The preps are all about grades, sports, and pretending to be awesome in front of adults. Ironically, they also drink the most; a few of them do it binge style and suffer from blackouts on a regular basis.
I fit in with the crunchy granola do-gooders. I’m involved in eco-related clubs, partly because it looks good on your college application, and I don’t intend to stay in a crappy Midwestern town. When I graduate, I’m getting out of here, where everything feels small. Maybe that sounds like I don’t appreciate Aunt Gabby, which is the opposite of true, but I can love her without thinking this is the best place ever.
“Is she ever gonna stop with that?” one of the goth girls asks.
“Whatever. Let Princess Post-it do her thing,” says a dude with a safety pin in his ear.