A Long Stretch of Bad Days

Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Twenty-Nine Thirty Thirty-One Thirty-Two Thirty-Three Thirty-Four Thirty-Five Thirty-Six Thirty-Seven Thirty-Eight Thirty-Nine Forty Forty-One Forty-Two Forty-Three Forty-Four Acknowledgments About the Author Books by Mindy McGinnis Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher Guide Cover Contents One iii v 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 343 344 345 346 347 348 349 350 351 352 353 354 355 356 357 358 359 360 361 362 ii iv Dedication For my hometown One I don’t mind living in a small town; I just don’t want to die in one. I also am not interested in serving time in one, either, but that possibility is growing exponentially, as I seriously consider murdering the guidance counselor’s secretary. But, of course, I’m not allowed to do that. For one thing, it’s illegal. For another, I’m Lydia Chass, and being a Chass in a small town like Henley means something . . . mainly that you’re good and kind, earning the respect of everyone around you. “I’m sorry, what?” I say it the right way, the nice way. With a smile. But my eyes must be hard, or maybe my smile is showing too many teeth, because Mrs. Pascale can’t quite meet my gaze. “We don’t know how it happened, Lydia, truly,” she says, her hands fussily rearranging things on her desk. A coffee mug that reads pencils but holds only pens. A photo frame that proudly announces My Grandchildren! that exhibits only one child. A red Expo marker cap that sits loosely over the tip of a black Sharpie. Nothing makes sense here, and everything is wrong, yet Pascale still somehow manages to seem struck with wonder that a mistake has been made in this office. A very big one. One that could stop me from graduating. “Walk me through this again,” I say calmly, leaning forward. “I don’t have enough history credits to graduate, is that right?” “Yes,” Pascale says, nodding in apparent relief that I have grasped the conversation so far. “And we’re very sorry about that.” She adds a quivering smile to this, maybe hoping that that particular silver lining will be relayed to my parents, along with the news that their only child just got screwed—even though I’m still totally a virgin. Which has nothing to do with morality; it’s much more a factor of having overloaded myself with courses, college credits, extracurriculars, teams, boards, and advisory committees. I put my sex drive on hold in order to organize blood drives, food drives, dog-adoption drives, and anything else that would look good on a résumé. Because Ivy Leagues aren’t impressed when you’re the valedictorian of a graduating class of sixty-eight students. And they’re definitely not impressed when you don’t even graduate. “I’m very sorry about that, too, Gladys,” I say, glancing at the plaque on her desk for her first name before dropping it. She winces, and I know that particular bomb hit the target, as it should; Gladys is a terrible name. “But being sorry doesn’t put me any closer to what I need,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “So, before I go home and tell my parents that the guidance department at Henley High has ruined any chance I have of getting into a first-class journalism school, why don’t you tell me how this is going to be fixed?” There’s a rapping of knuckles on the door behind us, which stands open. I know it’s Principal Walton without turning around in my chair. He’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t have the confidence to walk through an open door without permission. “We have an idea about that, Lydia,” Walton says, coming around to Pascale’s side of the desk. She visibly relaxes, like having a witness means I will back down. The Chass veneer has always kept me on the