The Biggest Scoop

by Gillian St. Kevern

  “Mom.”

  “And Taylor hasn’t called you back? He’s cutting it close. If he doesn’t call in the next couple of hours, you’ll have to go without him.”

  “I’m not going without him! I’m not going at all!”

  “I’m right here. There’s no need to yell.” Mom turned to the laundry. “I’m going to iron your suit. Just in case.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” I told her, pressing play again. “I wear that suit, it’s just coming home covered in pigs blood.”

  “You know, if I hadn’t gone to the medical students’ ball by myself, I would never have met your father,” Mom reminded me. “And if he hadn’t decided to go to the ball even though he didn’t have a date, he wouldn’t have met me. And that truly would have been a loss.”

  I hit pause. “I thought you met in Professor Green’s lectures.” I followed Mom into the laundry. “And that’s why I’m named Milo. After the professor.”

  “Of course we saw each other in class.” Mom already had the ironing board out. “But your father was so serious and so good-looking. I’d never have had the courage to talk to him if it hadn’t been for the ball. And the professor saw us dancing and decided to make sure that we were lab partners for his next assignment, and well— You know the rest. Go get me your suit.”

  I took it out of my closet. “But you always say how much you regret not finishing medical school, dropping out to have me and support Dad.”

  “It’s not how I thought my life would go,” Mom admitted, smoothing out my suit as she waited for the iron to heat. “If I had the time and money for medical school now— but I know it’s not happening.” Mom shook her head. “And your father… For all he acted like a modern man, he wanted what every Greek man does! Our marriage was not perfect, but I loved him all the same. And I never regret bringing you into the world.” Mom leaned over to squeeze my cheek. “If your father were still alive, he’d say the same. So none of this moping. Why don’t you try calling Taylor again?”

  “You know why! I told you why!”

  Mom held up her hand. “Isn’t that your phone? It might be Taylor.”

  “It won’t be Taylor!”

  “I think it is.” Mom hurried into the living room. “Milo, you’re going to miss the call.”

  “I don’t want the call! Mom— Mom, don’t answer it!” I hurried after her.

  I was too late. “Yes, he’s here. I’m sure he’d love to talk to you, Taylor.” Mom smirked at me. “Here he is.”

  “You don’t know that he’s calling about the formal!” I snatched the phone away. “Hello?”

  Taylor sounded amused. “I’m calling about the formal.”

  I shut the door of my bedroom behind me. “I’m not going.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Absolutely not. No way at all.”

  “But—” Taylor drew a deep breath. “After all the hard work you put into making this happen… Don’t you want to come?”

  “I— guess.” I flopped down onto my bed. “But school’s been… really weird lately. Everyone’s going to the formal with someone. I don’t want to be there on my own.”

  “You won’t be there on your own,” Taylor assured me. “I promise.”

  Even over the phone, his voice inspired a warm flutter in my internal organs. I felt a familiar lurch as my restraint gave. “It wasn’t me who told the press! I don’t know how they figured out you were at Bernhardt—”

  Taylor snorted. “Is that why you’re staying home? I’m not mad at you, Milo. I know that wasn’t you.”

  After all the time I’d spent worrying, it didn’t seem fair that Taylor could sound so certain. “How?”

  “Remember the tourists in the park? You took their photo with the monument.”

  I frowned. “What are you— no way. They recognized you?”

  “I’m a lot more well-known in the U.K. than I am here. That’s why I’m in the States for school— less chance of being recognized.”

  “So you thought.” Taylor knew it wasn’t my fault! “And they outed you?”

  “Yeah. Turns out that they’d taken some photos of us talking on the bench before they approached me for a photo. After your reaction, they weren’t sure if it was really me or not, but after they heard about Dad visiting our school, they sent the photos to a UK newspaper.”

  I breathed out a sigh of relief. “It’d be really easy to identify the school from our uniforms.”

  “Exactly. So— what? No, the red carpet’s for the entrance— the photographer’s booth.”

  I sat up. “You’re there now?”

  “Right. Helping with set up.”

  “But I thought—” I swallowed. “The media disaster, everything…?”

  “I had a really hard time convincing my dad this was a good idea,” Taylor confessed. “I don’t know if you know this, but—”

  I dug my fingers into my duvet. “You’ve got a reputation for partying hard?”

  “I was wondering when you’d look me up.” Taylor didn’t sound bothered. “Yeah. That’s all in the past now, but Dad’s worried that if this gets out, the media will jump on it as proof of me backsliding. He’s been super careful to make sure that there’s always someone keeping an eye on me. Harper and I have been marathoning Spaghetti Westerns.”

  Taylor had not been clubbing in L.A. and forgetting me! “You can’t blame me for that.”

  “You’re a bad influence. First classic Hollywood, then co-ed dances. Where does it end, Milo?”

  “I can see the headlines. ‘Tarrytown Tragedy: Student Attends School Sanctioned Social.’ Yeah, it’s all downhill from here.”

  “You think you’re joking, but there are reporters who will deliberately misconstrue anything.”

  “I’m a journalist, Taylor. I don’t believe everything I read.”

  “How could I forget?” Taylor sounded pleased. “Anyway, Dad didn’t want me to come, but Mom was all about it. She wants me to go to prom, too, have a proper high school experience. That’s why I’m here so early, to avoid the media noticing me. If we can pull this off, who knows? Maybe I’ll even be able to come back to school.”

  Not a bad thought. I perked up. “Really?”

  “Let me guess. ‘Class President Revealed to be Weirdest Teen in the World: Actually Wants to go to School.’”

  “You’re getting better. Maybe you are newspaper club material after all.”

  Taylor laughed. “I’ll see you later. Bye, Milo.”

  “Bye.” It wasn’t until I’d ended the call that I realized my mistake. Taylor thought I was going to the formal. “What is wrong with me?”

  Maybe I’d watched Carrie one time too many, but Taylor’s kindness had acquired a sinister dimension. I couldn’t forget what I’d seen in the bathroom, how he’d been practicing my mannerisms, or his sudden friendliness with Logan.

  Logan, who, according to Boomer, was planning something at the formal.

  I groaned. “I don’t want to be a Stephen King novel!”

  “Put your suit on. You’ll look great.” Mom bustled into my room, to lay the suit over the back of my chair. “You get your good looks from your father’s family.”

  The only thing I got from my father’s family was the nickname “Marco Polo,” which had lasted all the way through to middle school. I thought about correcting Mom, but it seemed like too much work. That, and Spaghetti-O was bad enough. “I’m still not going.”

  “I wish I could be there to see you.” Mom sighed as she started picking up my laundry from the floor. “I used to love a good dance.”

  I sat up. “Mom. Do you want to go?”

  “Me? This is your dance, Milo.”

  “But I have the two tickets. You don’t want to waste two tickets.”

  Mom stood up, arms full of wrinkled clothes. “You really want to take your old mother with you? Won’t your friends think that’s odd?”

  “Let them,” I said grimly. If I had to be remembered as the weirdo who t
ook his mom to the formal or the weirdo who wound up covered in blood, I would choose Mom. Besides, the explosion that would happen if anyone dumped blood on me when she was around would hopefully be enough to take out Logan, if not one or two of his friends.

  “Spaghetti-O.” Mom gave me a tight hug. “My hair’s a mess— do I have time to wash it?”

  ****

  “Mom, you look fine.” I had been repeating myself since we left the apartment. Maybe she did need to get out more if going to her son’s school dance resulted in this much fuss.

  Mom patted her hair. “I wish I’d had more time to do something with it… Doesn’t everything look nice! Was this all your idea?”

  “It was the formal committee’s idea. And their hard work. I just cut out tickets and printed things, mostly.”

  “And no one could have been better at it.” Mom clutched my arm. “Is that a photographer?”

  I stood on the red carpet with her, grinning at the photographer’s command and trying to avoid catching the eye of any of the students waiting for their photographs. “Please don’t make this our holiday greeting card.”

  “Milo, it’s perfect.”

  I led her away before she could decide she wanted a second photo, just in case. “No, Mom. I absolutely forbid it.”

  “Two copies then. One for me, one for Yaya—”

  I had made a terrible mistake. I looked around in desperation. “Look! Principal Kim’s here. You know. The one who doesn’t appreciate me enough.”

  Mom looked with me. “Is that him? He’s a lot younger than he sounds on the phone.”

  I gave her a nudge. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

  Mom squared her shoulders. “You know, I think I will.” She marched over to him.

  I took shelter beside a large potted palm, using its bulk to screen me as I sized up the ballroom.

  The winter formal was obviously a success. The dance floor was full of enthusiastic couples and friend groups, dancing to the swing band’s covers of pop songs in jazz styles. A projector had been set up, throwing dancing scenes from black and white Hollywood movies onto a wall. Dry ice drifted across the dance floor, catching the images so that the movie stars mingled momentarily with the students on the floor and the silhouettes created by the decorating committee.

  The students at the tables around the dance floor, or mingling in front of the buffet, looked equally unreal. It wasn’t just that in crisp suits, dresses, heels and updos, my classmates did not seem like themselves. They had taken on something of the glamour of the evening. Or maybe I wasn’t used to seeing them awake and alert?

  As I tried to put my finger on the cause of this strange transformation, a ripple of interest went through the room. Candice had arrived. Her cocktail dress was as startlingly red as her lipstick. Part of her hair was caught up in elaborate cornrows that ended in an explosion of curls. Her high heels looked deadly. As she surveyed the ballroom in satisfaction, calculating her next headline, I heard one of the seniors turn to his friends.

  “When did Candice get hot?”

  When Lily stepped into place beside her, there was another murmur. Lily took the attention in stride. She’d forsaken a dress, but her black trousers were paired with a glittery bodice, and in place of a belt, she wore an elegant sash tied around her waist. Her black hair was set in loose curls, and as promised, her hand rested lightly on the camera hanging from one shoulder.

  “Lily! Candice! You look amazing!” Fern detached from the group she was standing with to welcome Candice and Lily. I smirked as I saw Fern’s dress. That shade of pink, matched with gloves and a chunky bracelet? I didn’t need to see her from the front to know that Fern had been inspired by Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. And why not? If anyone in the school could pull off Monroe, it was Fern.

  Feeling better now that I’d identified three friendly faces, I scanned the room. Boomer was not hard to find, literally head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. His suit was definitely the same suit he’d worn to homecoming, but the vest was new, and matched that worn by Declan standing next to him. As if the couple look wasn’t bad enough, Declan had chosen a bow tie.

  I tugged the bow tie at my neck. Forget whatever Logan had planned. If Declan thought I’d tried to out dress him… Maybe I’d just stick to the wall for the rest of the evening.

  “Milo! You’re so quiet, I barely recognized you.”

  I started. Had Maria ever talked to me before? I couldn’t remember. “Admiring the view,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  Maria shrugged, sending a wave through her slinky, glittery flapper style dress. “Victoria asked me to get her a drink and then vanished. I’ve been holding it five minutes— Milo, you don’t have one. Take it. And if you see Victoria, tell her to get her own. I’ll be on the dance floor.”

  “But I don’t—”

  Maria paid my objections as much attention as she usually paid me. I shrugged, taking a sip of the drink. I winced as I watched Maria make her way to the dance floor. Whatever Victoria was drinking, it was bitter. Juice, but mixed with something I couldn’t identify that left a strange aftertaste.

  Suddenly, the weird flavor to Victoria’s drink was of no interest to me. Maria paused, laying her hand on the arm of a dark-suited guy. She smiled, nodding in my direction before vanishing into the crowd of dancers.

  My heart did a whirl of its own as the guy turned around to look at me. Taylor always looked incredible, but Taylor in a suit was another level of amazing. It fitted his form exactly, the bold black lines accentuating his strong shoulders. His smile as his gaze settled over me sent a rush of warmth through me, and I took a second gulp of my drink in an effort to stave off my suddenly dry throat.

  Taylor sauntered over to join me. “You took your time. I’ve been looking for you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you weren’t looking in the right places.” Then I noticed something else. “You chose a bow tie?” Declan couldn’t kill both of us! I was safe!

  Taylor tugged it. “It was this or come in a dress, and weirdly enough, a bow tie is a lot easier to find on short notice than a flapper style dress that will fit a guy.”

  Was it my imagination, or did Taylor’s voice sound strangely hurried? “In Tarrytown? I can believe it.”

  “Maybe that’s why I didn’t see you sooner. I wasn’t sure whether to look for Joe or Josephine.”

  I elbowed him. “I love Some Like it Hot. That doesn’t mean I want to live it.”

  Taylor bumped me back. “Too bad. I was hoping I could convince you to try the tango scene with me.”

  “We’d need a rose. And the ability to tango. Both of which I, personally, am lacking.” Looking out at the crowd, I saw that there were chairs free at the table that Fern, Candice and Lily had taken. Turning to let Taylor know of this fact, I discovered that he was still watching me.

  Taylor swallowed. “Milo, do you— want to dance?”

  Distracted by his mouth, it took me a moment to register his words. “With you?”

  It was hard to decipher Taylor’s expression. “I’m not inviting the palm to dance.”

  “Excuse me for wanting to be sure,” I said quickly, trying to outrace the pounding in my heart. Taylor. Wanting to dance. With me. “I seem to remember you telling me several times that you weren’t interested in that kind of thing.”

  “So you did listen.” Taylor’s smile was tentative. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine—”

  “I want to!” That had come out entirely wrong. To cover my embarrassment, I placed the glass that Maria had given me in the palm. “I’m ready.”

  Taylor took my hand. Surprised to find myself guided, I let him lead me. As we approached the center of the dance floor, my stomach lurched. Right in the middle? This was not a good idea. “Taylor, I don’t—”

  “Trust me.” Taylor knew exactly where we were going. As he came to a halt in the middle of the moving crowd, I realized that the dancers around us were more interested in their partners than
us, and more importantly, that they formed a wall between us and the rest of the room. There was no one to watch as Taylor turned toward me and I immediately stepped on his foot.

  I’d never danced formally with a guy. Neither, it seemed, had Taylor. There was a moment where we both tried to take the lead. Sorting out whose hand went where took time. Taylor solved our problem by putting my hand on his shoulder, and settling his on my waist.

  “You’re shorter,” he said when I protested.

  “That’s height-ist,” I said, even as I automatically stepped back as he led forward. “I want to lead at some point.”

  “You can try.” Taylor’s tone was incredibly pleased with himself.

  The magic that happened whenever Taylor was near me was in full force. Instead of stepping on his foot like he deserved, I found myself unable to resist the urge to rest my head against his chest as we danced. “You realize,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the band, “that this makes you Daphne.”

  Taylor laughed. He lifted the hand holding mine in a wave, looking at someone across the floor.

  Looking over his shoulder, I saw Fern slip across the dance floor to talk to the band.

  I nearly stumbled. Boomer’s warning came rushing back. This was it— this was what Boomer had warned me about!

  “Milo, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Taylor was looking down at me with such concern it was hard to believe he was acting.

  It was so real that I couldn’t tell him that I knew. “Suddenly, I don’t feel well. I have to go.”

  Taylor supported me to the side of the floor. “Do you need anything? Another drink—”

  I waved him off. “I’ll be fine. Let me get to the bathroom—” In my haste to get away from him, I stumbled, bumping into another student. Leaving Taylor to make my apologies, I made for the men’s room.

  Once there, I took a deep breath and splashed cold water over my face. Leaving the tap running, I leaned over the sink. Despite not being in contact with Taylor, I still felt dizzy. How was it that his presence still affected me, even when I knew he didn’t mean it?

  My reflection in the mirror looked flushed. I put my hands to my cheeks, found that they were hot. Was I sick? That was an easy out, at least. I could find Mom, ask her to take me home. Which was good. I breathed a sigh of relief, turning off the taps. I’d been planning on climbing out the window—