Breakfast at the Standish house on Monday morning turns out to be a crowded affair. Mr. and Mrs. Standish insist on eating breakfast together even though Claire can't remember the last time they did that – probably because they had never done it before. Mrs. Standish flips pancakes while Mr. Standish reads the Chicago Tribune as he absent-mindedly sips at his coffee mug. Like a perfect little suburban family.

"I like that shirt you've got on today, sweetie. It's nice, isn't it, Harold?" Mrs. Standish tries, sitting down at the head of the table finally.

"Yes, very nice," her father grumbles, "Is that silk?"

"Linen, daddy."

"Ah."

Judging from her father's clipped, robotic tone, Claire can perfectly visualize the scene that must have transpired last night before her mother and father went to sleep.

"Did you see him, Harold? Walking in here like he owned the place. I mean, the nerve!"

"He's just a kid, Mildred. And, to be honest, I don't see how this could possibly last. He doesn't look like he runs in Claire's crowd at all. She's probably trying to be a little rebellious right now. It's only natural. But it can't last. The whole thing'll blow over in a couple days, a week tops, trust me."

"It's not a matter of trust, Harold! We're talking about our daughter here! Don't you care? Don't you care that she's associating herself with someone like that? He was wearing an earring for Christ's sake! He probably has tattoos, too. Who knows what they do together! I only dread to think!"

"Oh, Mildred, come on. Stop overreacting."

"I'm not overreacting! The bottom line is this – do you want a boy like... a boy like that dating, god forbid, touching our daughter?"

That is definitely how her mother had temporarily forced her father onto her side. It's touching, almost, to see her parents united under a common flag. It's the first time this has happened in years.

Guess this morning is full of first-time-in-a-long-time's.

"Well, this was a delicious breakfast, mom, but I should really get going," Claire smiles as sweetly as possibly, hoping to get out of there with no more discussion.

"Already? Isn't it a bit early?"

Perfect set-up. Thanks a bunch, mom.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet someone early..."

"Is it that boy? John Bender?"

It's almost too easy.

Mrs. Standish's eyes bulge out of her head while Mr. Standish shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"Yeah. Mom, stop looking at me like that, it's not a big deal..."

"Sweetie, this is a big deal to us," Mildred Standish takes Claire's hand dramatically, "Your father and I are, well, more than a little bit concerned about your... choice. I mean, don't you want someone more-"

"Bourgeois?"

"Civilized?"

Claire shrugs, "John's perfectly civilized, thanks very much."

"Oh, come on, Claire. He's hardly like us, is he? Where does he live?"

Claire feels herself blushing involuntarily. She tries to imagine where John Bender might live. In a trailer, perhaps? Or a shoe? Or maybe he bucks all expectations and actually lives in a very nice house two blocks away from Claire.

"What does it matter?"

But Claire knows that where you live in Shermer is tantamount to a bank account statement to predicting how much money you have.

"Listen, Claire, your father and I just want to make sure that you're being careful," Mrs. Standish eyes her husband with a look that is clearly meant to prompt him into saying something to back her up, "God forbid that something happens – and with that kind of people you can never really tell, Claire..."

"Mom, stop it! You're being so elitist!"

"Don't blame this all on me, Claire," her mother's voice begins to rise to pitch levels that she only reaches under severe stress and agony at her point not coming across right, "Your father and I are both concerned. We agree that those kinds of people are not to be trusted."

"Seriously?"

Spotting the look of outrage on Claire's face, her father feels the need to chime in with that tone of self-righteousness that most aggravates Claire.

"Now, don't go putting words in my mouth, Mildred!"

"Don't you dare back out of this one, Harold! We discussed this last night."

"Claire, sweetie, I never said that those kinds of people are not to be trusted."

"Great! Now I'm the bad guy for wanting our daughter to be safe and not end up murdered in a ditch somewhere!"

"Now, come off it, Mildred!"

"I've got to get going. See you later," Claire says.

And as her parents continue to bicker at each other over every stupid little thing, they barely notice their own daughter catching a ride to school with Sarah.

Had they noticed, they wold have been thrilled. Sarah is the kind of upper-crust, preppy, daddy's girl that Claire should be associating herself with in their eyes. This is one of the other few things that they both agree on.

"Hey, Sarah," Claire smiles as she hops into the red Mustang.

"Hey," Sarah barely glances her over, "Nice blouse. I like that color on you."

The second compliment today. Pink must really be her color. Claire can't quite tell if Sarah is being sincere or sarcastic which, as it turns out, can be a very fine line. She decides to assume the best of people, at least today.

"Thanks."

On any other day, this would have been a very big deal. Claire Standish finally moving up to the highest rungs of the social ladders via bomb-shell extraordinaire Sarah Westerman. Claire had spent way too much time fantasizing what that would be like. She would drive up to the school with Sarah Westerman. Everybody would stare as they climbed out of the Ferrari (in her imagination, Sarah drove a Ferrari). Their hair and makeup would be perfect, their clothes would flutter in the breeze, as if they were in a modeling shoot. And then a whole world of opportunities would open up to Claire. Ultimate popularity brings ultimate influence.

And now it was actually happening. Her and Sarah conversing, making early morning small talk. And instead of paying attention, all Claire can do is re-play the scene from last night in her head. The thought of that gleam of mischief in John Bender's eyes when he looked at her makes her dizzy.

"Claire?"

Sarah's voice snaps Claire back to reality. They are pulling up to the school already.

"Are you okay? You seem a little... off today."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine."

"Detention must've gotten to you. Sucks that you had to throw away an entire Saturday like that. It must've been so hard for you," Sarah looks at Claire with challenging eyes.

The two look at each other. Sarah's eyes are dark and mocking and Claire racks her brain for the right thing to say. She could tell the truth. She could prove everyone wrong. But right now there is too much at stake and it's not the right time.

"It was okay. I just don't want it to happen again."

Apparently satisfied by Claire's answer, Sarah gets out of the car and starts walking toward the Shermer High School building. Can she hear Claire's heart nearly pounding out of her chest as she scours the parking lot for familiar faces? She's looking for four faces in particular, but one face particularly above all...

People come up to them and Claire feels for the first time what it could be like to have the entire school in her hand. Boys throw themselves at Sarah even before they get into the building and then worse once they do. Girls flock around her and begin to talk hysterically, nearly begging for her approval. And Sarah barely deigns many of them with so much as a glance. That is real power at least here at Shermer High School.

Claire follows Sarah inside and to her locker and still there is no sign of any Breakfast Club members. Who will Claire run into first? Brian, maybe? She would say hi to him and he would blush because she will have proved him wrong. Or maybe she'll run into John Bender first. He would look at her with a challenge etched on his face and she would go over there and in front of all his friends and all of hers, she would smile at him and flirt with him and leave him with his jaw hanging open, that look on his face, just like the time when she had kissed him on the neck.

Sarah finally arrives at her locker and several girls, some that Claire knows and some that she doesn't, gather around. They are in the middle of recounting the details of their spoiled, uneventful weekends (nothing has changed for them) when one of the girls, Marsha, stops and wrinkles her nose.

"What is it, Marsha?"
"Major weirdo alert at two o'clock," Marsha says, not even bothering to be subtle when she jerks her head to the right.

Claire's heart drops. Standing just a few lockers away, in all her eyeliner-wearing, converse-rocking glory is Allison. This looks nothing like the Allison Claire had last seen departing from Shermer High on Saturday. That had been a re-energized girl, a girl who dared bare her face to the world and hold a jock that was way out of her league on her arm. No, she is very much back to the old Allison. The Allison that told crazy stories about sex and shrinks and used dandruff as an ingredient in her drawings. In other words, this is the kind of Allison that has no chance in a million years to ever get accepted by her friends.

It barely registers in Claire's mind that this is the moment she's been looking forward to ever since John Bender glared at her and yelled in her face that she was a terrible person for thinking that everything would go exactly back to way it always was on Monday morning.

It's a burden, always being right.

"Look at her hair."

"I mean, ew, right? Do you think it's a wig?"

"Yeah, a Morticia wig with the ends hacked off!"

"And what's with the eyeliner? Is she a goth, or something?"

"Do you think she's one of those people that cuts herself? I bet she is!"

Claire sees Allison's shoulders tense as she sifts through the contents of her locker for way too long. That's when Claire registers the lull in conversation. She looks up. Eight pairs of eyes are locked on her. They all blink at her at once. They are expectant eyes, waiting for her to take a swing, too. Like kids around a pinata, if the pinata were a human being.

The words come out of mouth out of sheer reflex.

"It's like she doesn't even need a Halloween costume, she's all ready to go!"

The girls laugh. Sarah looks at her approvingly and slams her locker. Claire and the girls follow her to class. Just like the had done on Friday. Just like they will do tomorrow. Not a single fucking thing has changed.
It's a burden always being right.