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of a pink-veined piece of raw shrimp.
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    *** Chapter 5
    Perhaps it didn't bode well for my senior year of crap school, I mean high school, to start it with a mild hangover, but there ya go.
    Helen was in just as bad shape as me. She had her hand against her forehead when I found her in the cafeteria at lunchtime. "Oh," she groaned. "Headache. Hey, who was the guy you left with last night? He could give a girl serious trapped-in-the-tundra fantasies all night."
    The skin on my arms crawled like worms were creeping underneath it. "SHUT UP!" I said. "My stomach is just starting to feel better--don't say things like that. Alexei the Horrible is an annoying protégé of my dad's. I hate him, except I kinda owe him now for helping me skate past the parents last night. But if you ever see him again, don't let on you think he's hot. ICK! His ego is bigger than those Hulk biceps he has."
    With this sarcastic grin on her green-lipsticked mouth Helen said, "But you're all about Shrimp, right?" I stuck my tongue out at her. Her likewise response flashed a tongue piercing. Ouch.
    All these arty types who are friends with Helen and Shrimp sat down with us at the cafeteria table, a totally new experience for me. If I were Cyd Charisse, private investigator, creating a flowchart detailing the lunchtimes of the past school life of Cyd Charisse, reformed bad girl, it would look like this:
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Time Period
Lunchtime Activity
Elementary school
Alone at end of cafeteria table, wearing black and frowning, eating PB&J sandwich and passing off healthy treats to Gingerbread. Chase cute boy at recess, try to kiss him.
Middle school
Repeat elementary school, add in unnecessary training bra.
Boarding school
The "hot weird girl" (to quote evil ex Justin's friends) picking scabs on her f arms while waiting in the cafeteria corner for big man on campus Justin, lacrosse team captain, to ditch his popular friends and take her to his dorm room to fool around.
School for "special" kids (freaks, bless 'em)
The "Goth transfer chick" (to quote ' soon-to-not-be ex Shrimp's pals) I hanging out near the smokers outside. ' not close enough to get her hair smelling like smoke but close enough
    Helen handed me a vitamin C packet. She said, "Mix this into your water to help with the hangover. Do you want to come over tonight to help me dye the copper hand out of my hair? I am so grounded for life if I don't get it out today, but I was too wasted to do it last night."
    This guy sitting next to Helen, with a Ronald McDonald clown-color Mohawk of red hair and black eyeliner smudged
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    around both his eyes, said, "Helen of Troy, you oughta leave the copper hand--it rocks." He turned to me. "So with Shrimp gone, is anyone at this school gonna actually get to know you now?"
    I was startled enough by the question, but even more startled by the Crayola assortment of Mohawk and asymmetrical '80s-cut heads of dyed hair that popped up at his question. There must have been seven sets of eyes, more with eyebrow piercings than not, waiting for my answer.
    I was all, I guess so? This was as close to being in a clique as I have ever been. Don't think that means my skin's about to experience some piercing/tattoo body art makeover situation just cuz that seemed to be the popular form of self-expression at the table. I have a high pain threshold, but it's an emotional one, not a physical one. And the secret fact about me is I am a big ole priss. Still, actual almost-friends in my own peer group. At the rate I'm going I'll be a cheerleader by graduation.
    Everyone wanted to know about Shrimp--where was he? I mentioned the postcard from Shrimp in Fiji, but people had heard other rumors. By the time I finished my PB&J sandwich and gave the apple to Helen and kept the pudding for myself, Mission Shrimp had determined that Shrimp was away from school because of any of the following: (1) He was building grass huts for the natives in Papua New Guinea; (2) he had been adopted by a tribe of