Page 2 of The Ugly Stepsister Strikes Back

I saw that Scott Martin planned to run for the vice-president position. I gave his name the dirty look I wished I could give him. Loud, obnoxious and crude, he was like the anti-Jake. I couldn't figure out why they were friends. Most kids got their giggles out on the first day of school when the teachers called me Matilda as they took roll, but then they got over it. Not Scott Martin. He'd called me Matilda since the eighth grade graduation dance. He had asked me to dance during a slow song and I stammered out a no. Scott was cute, but not quite tall enough and I didn't know how to dance. We would have looked ridiculous. His face had flushed red and ever since then he'd hated me. I think it was because I publicly embarrassed him (although that hadn't been my intent), but Ella claimed it was because he liked me and I'd turned him down. I'd tried to explain to her that she needed to stop seeing the world through pretty-girl glasses. It skewed her perceptions.

I flicked my gaze up and saw the advertisements for upcoming charity events. Other schools had dances and proms. We had galas, masquerade balls and black-tie affairs.

I should probably mention that Malibu Prep was a really nice (read: expensive and exclusive) school. My dad even taught a semester here as a guest instructor for the advanced art class.

Wait. I forgot to tell you about my dad. He was only the world-renowned artist, William Lowe. Most artists weren't famous until they died (mostly because once they'd died they couldn't create any more art, so it would make it more valuable). Wikipedia said Dad was a child prodigy (a fact he would neither confirm nor deny), and his fame had only increased since then. I didn't really get his art. It looked like big blobs of color to me, but critics called it "amazing," "masterful," "bold," and "worth more than your house."

So, like everyone else here, we had plenty of money. But other than my manga addiction, I wasn't really the shopping type. Ella was the shopaholic of the family, but she would use her own money that she'd earned from her part-time job instead of the credit card my dad had given us as our allowances. (That should probably go on my List of Grievances as I'd been lectured about how Ella was such a hardworking go-getter and I was a lazy sack).

"Ms. Lowe?"

I jumped at the sound of my last name. I get startled frequently, because I spent most of my time in my own head. With Jake. Reality was not nearly as much fun.

"Please join me."

Honestly, Ms. Rathbone scared me a little. She was like a cross between a drill sergeant and a Southern debutante.

"Sit."

For a second I contemplated asking her whether she wanted me to roll over and beg too, but didn't dare. I immediately dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. She didn't have one of those stereotypical offices with stuffed, worn couches or bookshelves that overflowed with books. Instead it looked like something out of the IKEA catalog. All the furniture in the room was sleek and modern and, like the chairs outside of her office, highly uncomfortable.

She opened a file on her desk and started to read it. It was probably my English teacher's List of Grievances against me. I would own up to my misbehavior today. I had started out already annoyed because my best friend, Trent, had to park halfway across the parking lot and I ended up being late for calculus. That was not technically my fault. Seniors should've had priority parking next to the school. After suffering through four years of high school I thought the very least they could do was let us park closer. Neither Trent nor Ella would care that they were late. Trent because he was all antiestablishment and Ella because the teachers probably found it adorable when she showed up after class started.

This, of course, could've all been fixed if my dad would've just gotten us a car of our own so Ella and I could get there on time, but he'd mumbled something about "character building" and had refused.

So, I was already in a mood when Ms. Aprils started in on me. Well, not on me, but how great Mark Twain was. I should have just let it go. But I didn't.

Ms. Rathbone continued to read in silence, her forehead furrowing as much as it could despite the Botox injections. She had this very cool shade of silver hair, and big brown eyes obscured by her glasses. My fingers itched to draw her as a manga character. I'd make her eyes even bigger, give her a long silver Mohawk and some kind of warrior get-up. Black with silver buckles, I decided. I saw a long ruler propped in the corner and pictured altering it as her own personal samurai sword. I stuck my hands under my legs to keep from reaching for the blank paper and pencils sitting on the edge of Ms. Rathbone's desk. I figured she wouldn't appreciate my imagination.

Instead of drawing, I started running my tongue over my teeth. It was my new favorite pastime. I couldn't help it. Only a few days ago I had been freed from the prison of my braces and it was a revelation to feel these nice, smooth teeth. I had worn braces for so long that it was like I had to relearn my mouth.

"You said that Mark Twain was a, wait, let me make sure I'm reading this right." Ms. Rathbone put her finger under the writing and read each word slowly. "'A racist, sexist pig.'"

True. I had also said that I didn't think he was witty at all, but as that wasn't in her report, I wasn't about to admit to it.

It probably didn't help matters that Ms. Aprils had done her master's thesis on the works of Twain and that half the English room was decorated like some sort of Mark Twain shrine.

Ms. Rathbone peered at me over her reading glasses, waiting for my response. Her eyes bored into me, and I recognized that look. She was trying to shake me; to read my face to see if I had left things out.

Unfortunately for her, she was unaware of my secret superpower. I had a killer poker face. My dad said he would have been a professional poker player if the artist thing hadn't worked out, and thanks to all his training, I was sort of a card shark and in total control of my outward reactions. I didn't have a tell.

I held my features steady. She wouldn't get anything out of me that I didn't want to admit to.

"Yes, I said that."

Ms. Rathbone took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She looked tired. "Mattie, it's only the second day of school."

It all felt unfair. It wasn't my fault that Ms. Aprils was singularly obsessed with the idea that Mark Twain was some sort of literary superhero who could do no wrong. She couldn't fathom that other people didn't worship him. I disliked him just for what he'd said about digging Jane Austen up and beating her to death with her own shinbone. Because Jane Austen was all sorts of awesome.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rathbone." I started to say it wouldn't happen again, but I just couldn't. Sometimes stuff just came out of my mouth even when I didn't want it to. I had a low threshold for stupidity.

"You will be serving detention today for your belligerence in class, and I expect you to apologize to Ms. Aprils."

I grimaced at the idea of apologizing to Ms. Aprils. Malibu Prep had zero tolerance for disrespect to the staff. I had more leeway than some of the other students thanks to my quasi-minority status, but I knew there would still be an apology to my teacher in my immediate future. As far as sentences went, so far mine was pretty light.

I wanted to say I wouldn't do it again, but we both knew it would be a lie.

"You will try to refrain next time?"

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