My Ex From Hell (The Blooming Goddess Trilogy, #1)

Beauty is in the Lie of the Beholder

Amidst the hordes of slutty cats, Lady Gaga impersonators, drag queens, and superheroes, Theo, Hannah and I were definitely "three of these things are not like the others."

You know how little kids make chains of paper loops to string on Christmas trees? Imagine two long loops, one blue, one green, intertwined and strung over Hannah in her flesh colored shirt and leggings. Yep, my friend had gone as DNA. Or, as she corrected, "a double helix."

"Did you give yourself an extra chromosome for the boob gene?" I asked, peering at a loop from our sidelines of the dance floor in the gym.

Shout-out to the decorating committee, they'd really outdone themselves with that lone disco ball spinning lamely on the ceiling.

"Be nice, or I'll take my hockey socks back." Hannah started to stuff her hand into my highly padded chest.

I swatted it away. "You made me lopsided." I dug my hand in and adjusted.

"Dang Soph, show a little class," winced Theo.

I pinned him with my scowl. "Class. Really. Coming from a guy dressed as a crime scene."

Theo glanced down at himself. "What?"

Hannah and I exchanged looks. Not only was Theo wrapped in a bloody shower curtain, which was held in place by bright yellow "Do Not Cross" tape, he also had a plastic knife sticking out of his liver. I often thought that Theo was morbid beyond his years.

Once I fixed my chest, I was quite happy with my costume. My bamboo yoga wear was hues of mud and sand, supposedly very Gaia chic. They were left over from the one time Felicia dressed me up and sent me out to the yuckapalooza that is hot yoga. My long, red rayon wig was masterfully cut in the same layered locks as Bethany's. A red Bindi sat squarely between my eyebrows and I'd even henna tattooed my hands. I was a vision of "white chick oms out," which, considering who I was impersonating, was perfect.

Anil Patel, star wrestler and main meathead at our school, strutted up to us and posed in front of Hannah. His attempt to make his muscles as large as possible was at odds with the crack whore dress and smeared red lips he sported. Not to mention his hot accessories of cauliflower ears and taped-up fingers. This season's must-haves for the fresh-from-the-mats young wrestler.

Two kinds of kids attended Hope Park: the rich ones, whose parents stuffed them here so they could get on with running huge corporations, arms dealing, or just pretending they're still young and fancy free, and the others, put here for ideological reasons. Their parents liked the fact that we sat around in discussion groups instead of rows, that we were (in theory) supposed to be responsible for our own learning, and that no subject was taboo to explore. All in all, it was a pretty diverse student body.

Seeing how Hope Park attracted the wide range of kids that it did, you think that we'd all be outcasts on some level. One giant "Breakfast Club." Alas, no. I don't know if it was biological imperative or conspiracy theory, but somehow it was always the jocks and the cheerleaders who were the popular kids.

My school might not have believed in sports like basketball or football meaning no cheerleaders, but we had the equivalent. Hope Park's philosophy of "celebrating the individual" just meant our popular kids were wrestlers, track stars, and, of course, Bethany's crew.

The guys tended to leave me and my friends alone, probably because they were hoping to get into Hannah's pants at some point and figured that jamming her friends' heads down the porcelain throne would be a real deal-breaker.

Didn't mean I couldn't give them maximum grief.

"I'm guessing that's a costume and not you finally announcing your lack of a dick to the world," I said to Anil.