"So, why is someone like you hanging out with those bitches?" Sandra said as we got into the car.
"You know, they aren't all, like, mean like that. If you knew them better you might like them."
"Yeah, right. So why do they always look at me like I'm some piece of trash?"
"They just don't understand you," I said, and gestured to her "what you're trying to do with your outfits and everything. Most of them don't, like, know about the stuff you and I do."
"I don't really get them either. I mean, cheerleading? Ugh..."
"Hey, it's something to do, and it gets you in shape."
She looked over at me.
"I'll say."
