"Kaye, Marilyn - Replica 05 - Secret Clique" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kaye Marilyn)

"Oh, you just have a problem with Jeanine," Tasha said.
"Can you blame me?"
Tasha cocked her head thoughtfully. "Well, considering that she probably put poison in your soup at the National Essay Competition, I guess not."
"Jeanine Bryant is bad news," Amy stated flatly. "I'm glad she's got all those new friends. Maybe now she'll be less interested in me."
The morning passed in its usual way—math, geography, English. Lunch was mystery stew, along with some beige things that looked like fries but tasted like cardboard. There was nothing new about that. After lunch, Amy had French.
The French teacher smiled as Amy came in. "Bonjour, Amy."
"Bonjour, Madame Duquesne," Amy replied.
She passed other students who were frantically cramming. Madame Duquesne always gave quizzes on Mondays. Amy took her seat in the back of the room, opened her textbook, and pretended to study. She didn't need to study, of course—she'd completed the assignment the night before in five minutes. She wondered how long it had taken the other students to learn the past tenses of eight irregular verbs. More than five minutes, that was for sure. It was at times like this that Amy appreciated being . . . different.
A pretty girl with long blond hair slipped into the seat next to her. She leaned over to see what Amy was looking at in the textbook. "Are we supposed to know that stuff?" she asked in dismay.
"That was the assignment," Amy reminded her. "Past tenses of the verbs on page a hundred and twenty-two."
"I thought we were supposed to learn the verbs on page a hundred and twenty-one!"
"We had to learn those verbs for the test last Monday, Tracee. Don't you remember?"
Tracee Bell sighed. "I guess not." She opened her book. It was too late, though. The bell rang, and Madame Duquesne went into the Monday routine. She said "Bonjour" to the class and told them to clear their desks. Then she opened her briefcase and took out the quizzes.
As the tests were passed out, Amy glanced at Tracee with sympathy. Tracee had failed this class twice, so she was the only ninth-grader taking seventh-grade French. This didn't particularly embarrass or bother her. She was always cheerful and friendly. In fact, she was one of the few members of the front-steps clique who said "Hi" to Amy when she passed by.
Even though this was her third time around, the poor girl was still having trouble in French. Madame Duquesne had assigned Amy to be Tracee's conversation partner for the five minutes of "free expression" they had every day at the end of the class. Unfortunately, after they'd asked each other "How are you?" there wasn't much else Tracee could say, so making conversation wasn't easy.
Today was no different. When Amy asked her, "Comment зa va?" Tracee responded with a gaping yawn and nothing else. At least the yawn provided Amy with a topic for conversation.
"Est-ce que tu es fatiguйe, Tracee?"
Tracee looked at her blankly. "Huh?"
They weren't supposed to speak any English, so Amy opened her French-English dictionary and pointed to the definition of the verb se fatiguer—to be tired.
"No kidding," Tracee said. "I'm wiped out."
"En franзais, Tracee," Amy reprimanded her. "Oui, je suis . . ." and she pointed to the word again.
"Oui, je suis fatiguйe," Tracee repeated obligingly. She looked at Madame, who was conferring with two other students on the opposite side of the room. Immediately Tracee shifted to English.
"I was at a sleepover last night, and I didn't shut my eyes till two! Normally I'm not allowed to stay at someone's house on weeknights, but this was a special occasion. Melissa's home!"
"Qui est Melissa?"
Tracee actually managed to understand the question. "Melissa Mitchell! You remember, she was in that terrible car accident at the start of the school year. She's been in the hospital six months, and this is her first day back at school."
Amy tried to translate part of that into French. "C'est son premier jour—" but then the bell rang. Melissa Mitchell, Melissa Mitchell . . . she couldn't come up with a face, but the name was definitely familiar.
The name became even more familiar as the day wore on. In the halls, in the cafeteria, in the locker room, half the school was talking about the return of Melissa Mitchell. Dressing in the locker room after phys ed, Jeanine went on and on about her.
"She almost died, you know. She was in a coma for months, and she had like a hundred operations on her head. But you won't believe it when you see her—she's just as great-looking as before. You can't even see any scars on her! And the crowd is so happy to have her back, everyone's giving her welcome-home parties." Jeanine's voice dripped awe and respect. Apparently this Melissa was a major member of the clique.
By the end of the school day, Amy was tired of hearing about the great Melissa Mitchell, and she hoped Tasha wouldn't talk about her all the way home. She was really happy to find Eric waiting just inside the exit when she and Tasha were leaving school. If he walked home with them, there would be other topics of conversation.
"Don't you have basketball practice today?" she asked him.
Eric shook his head. "Coach has a toothache. I'm waiting for Kyle. We're going to shoot baskets."
Tasha's eyes narrowed. "Here or at home?"
"Haven't decided. Why?"
"Because the last time Kyle came over, he ate the whole cheesecake Mom made for a company dinner. Mom was not happy, remember? So just keep him out of the kitchen."
Eric responded in the authoritative big-brother voice he could use only with Tasha. "Don't give Kyle a hard time, Tasha. He's got problems today."
"Like what?" Amy asked.
"Well, he lost the election for ninth-grade treasurer, for one thing. To Lori Kessler. I still can't believe she's going to be treasurer. I had math with her in seventh grade and she could barely add."
"Maybe she's improved," Amy suggested.
"It wouldn't matter," Eric told her. "I warned Kyle that no one can beat that clique in an election. They have total control over the student government. And now Kyle's about to get kicked off the basketball team."
"How come?" Tasha asked.
"He's never been a good player," Eric explained. "He tries hard, but he just doesn't focus very well. It didn't matter much before, when we were losing, but now that we have a shot at the regional championships, the captain thinks he's becoming a liability. And Kyle knows it." He eyed Tasha sternly. "So if the poor guy wants a little cheesecake, don't bug him."
A group of girls passed by, and one of them, tall and dark-eyed with short hair, called out, "Hi, Eric."
"Hi," he responded. "Welcome back."
Now Tasha looked at her brother with new respect in her eyes. "You know Melissa Mitchell?"
"She went with Spence Campbell last year," he said. "He brought her to a few basketball parties."
Amy gazed at the girl's back as she moved through the doors with her friends. So that was the famous Melissa Mitchell. She was certainly pretty, and she moved with confidence, but somehow, from the way people spoke about her, Amy had expected to see someone more . . . extraordinary.
"Hi, guys." Eric's pal had arrived. Both Tasha and Amy turned to him with big smiles. "Hi, Kyle!" they exclaimed in unison.
Kyle Osborne gave them a forlorn grin. "Okay, don't overdo it, I'm not that depressed."
They started out the door. A crowd was gathered at the bottom of the steps. "What's going on?" Kyle asked.
"It's the Melissa Mitchell Fan Club," Eric said. "Remember when she used to go with Spence?"