by Mary McCoy
The noise in the hallway, the kissing, the smiles, were all swallowed up by a roaring of white noise in my ears, the world around me suddenly reduced to Hector’s shoulder, the collar of his shirt, the hollow of his throat.
“I don’t know,” I said, realizing that if they weren’t from Hector, I didn’t care who they were from. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I pushed through the crowd of happy couples who were too lost in one another’s eyes to notice an elbow in the side or a shove in the back.
“See you Monday?” I heard Hector call after me. He sounded a little hurt by my sudden departure, but I didn’t stop and I didn’t look back.
Stupid, pathetic, self-pitying tears began to well up in my eyes as I turned the corner, and I considered whether I’d be less likely to humiliate myself if I ran straight home or if I stopped by the restroom first and found a stall to cry in.
Instead, I almost ran into Cal, who didn’t notice me because he had his tongue down Octavia Resnick’s throat. Five bouquets of flowers dangled from her fingers, their cellophane wrapping brushing the ground. Her other hand disappeared up the back of Cal’s shirt.
As if I hadn’t already felt ill.
I limped as fast as I could toward the nearest exit, then went tearing across the parking lot. Someone almost hit me with their BMW and honked their horn angrily. I flipped the driver off without looking to see who it was and ran to the bus stop, tossing my bouquet of flowers into the first trash can I saw, like they’d never happened and nobody thought I was a force for good in the universe.
XXIX
Better Than the Alternative
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
If there had been one small mercy in any of it, at least I hadn’t had a chance to embarrass myself by leaning in for a kiss.
Even weeks later, the thought of what I’d almost done would make me cringe. However, in the immediate aftermath, the weekend after Valentine’s Day, I stayed in my room. I consumed nothing but grilled cheese sandwiches and ginger ale and watched one Ken Burns documentary after another. As I drifted off to sleep, I reminded myself, This is who you are, this is what you do.
On Monday, I went back to school, my thoughts about love and romance and Hector Estrella shoved back down good and deep where they belonged.
***
There were other things to keep me busy, too. Hector organized a club to keep Honor Week going year round, kind of a pep club for good deeds. We commissioned a mural for the band hallway. However, our most important achievement was the creation of the Imperial Day Clean Elections Initiative. We got the Honor Council and the Board and Principal Graves to sign off on it, and what it meant was that if you were participating in the spring elections, you pledged not to sabotage anyone else’s campaign. No dirty tricks, no ratfucks.
It wasn’t perfect. The pledge only applied to candidates. There was nothing to stop anyone else from messing with campaigns, and as long as the candidate could make a case that they hadn’t known about, encouraged, or endorsed the ratfuck, there was nothing we could really do to them.
But still, it was something. For years, the bullying that had gone on during election season had been regarded as part of the game, and if you wanted to play, it was on you to toughen up. Now, at least we were calling it what it was. At least we were saying it was the ratfuckers who needed to change, not the rest of us.
Baby steps.
Hector and I still hung out. He dragged me out of the Westside, and made me do things like ride the subway and stand in line for food trucks, and most of the time, I was able to make myself forget that I was half in love with him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And then, before I knew it, it was spring and we were up for reelection.
“Are you sure you want to do this again?” I asked Hector as we sat at Starbucks filling out our applications.
Hector looked at me like I was crazy, like the previous Senate president’s life hadn’t been totally ruined by the job.
“Of course I want to do it again,” he said.
All he could see was the good work he’d done, the better work he was going to do, but as a student of history, I knew where his blind spot was: Hector never thought about the people who might be gunning for him.
In the space of a few months, the two of us had transformed the Senate from a glorified party-planning committee into an engine for change. Meanwhile, the Honor Council had become almost an afterthought. The purge of the Senate had been their one great show of power, and following that—nothing. I wondered if it was driving Livia crazy to have been eclipsed by underclassmen.
And if it was, I worried what she might do about it.
“Think about what happened to Oberlin St. James,” I said, trying to get Hector to at least consider the darker possibilities.
“Well, as long as I manage not to steal a few thousand dollars, I should be fine.”
I remembered how Oberlin St. James had mentioned the missing $5000 in the middle of a Senate meeting, like that was the first he’d ever heard of it. A few months ago, the story had been complicated, but now, the only version of it was that “Oberlin St. James stole a bunch of money.”
Maybe, maybe not. If I’d held on to what Hector and I had known, maybe he and I could have answered some of those questions ourselves instead of taking the Honor Council at its word when they said that justice had been served. There was nothing we could do about it now except keep running.
“Any other candidates for president?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve heard of yet.”
The lines of succession seemed to be cycling along very quietly this year. As far as anyone knew, Livia was running unopposed for Honor Council president with Zelda Parsons as her vice president. Hector for Senate president. The only race where there were significant challengers so far was mine.
“There are three juniors running for Senate VP,” I said. “That’s just the ones I know about.”
“They want to add a line to their college applications, and Imperial Day Senate was in the news, so it’s all sexy, but they don’t know what they’re doing and you do. Besides, the only one I’ll endorse is you. You’re too good at it not to win,” Hector said. He took a sip of his latte, then frowned like the milk had gone bad. “Are you sure you want to do this again?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted to be there for Hector. I liked being in charge and making things better. I liked being good at my job, but sometimes, when I really thought about it, I felt exhausted. As soon as you fixed one thing, another thing popped up to claim your attention. No one appreciated what you did; no one said “thank you.” They just came to you over and over again, needing something. It was never over. Nothing ever got better, not really.
And when I thought about another year of that, I felt like getting on the next train out of Union Station, dyeing my hair with shoe polish, changing my name, and starting a new life anywhere but here.
***
But look, whatever. Obviously I ran. Obviously I won because I’m sitting in your office and we’re having this conversation. So what does it matter if I had a moment of doubt about it? Hector was right: I was good at the job. I knew what I was doing, and as long as I was running on Hector’s ticket, my reelection was in the bag.
Things in the Honor Council became less clear-cut, though.
The trouble started during spring break when Livia had gone for her Ivy League tours and interviews, and while she was making the Princeton-Harvard-Yale circuit, she and Augustus broke up. She’d left for the East Coast like it was a victory lap on her junior year and returned in a state of shock.
Word spread fast, the way it always does when something bad happens to someone important, and yes, some people seemed to enjoy it. Believe it or not, I wasn’t one of them. Watching Livia get dumped wasn’t the same thing as watching her get justice, and while the latter would have been enormously satisfying, the former was just sad.
It was in this state that she came to me for help. I was eating lunc
h in the library, trying to keep up with the homework I never seemed to have any time to do anymore, when Livia came through the double doors. I saw her before she saw me. The girl working at the checkout desk gave her a wave and a shy hello, but Livia ignored her as she brushed past, Kate Spade bag bouncing off her hip. She scanned the library until her eyes fell on me, and she marched up to the table where I sat eating my orange and pretzels.
“Who did your sister’s campaign posters last year?” she asked.
No “hello,” no “how have you been.”
I shrugged. “You should probably ask her.”
“She hasn’t written back.”
While I may not have taken any pleasure in Livia’s breakup, I was secretly pleased to learn that Maisie was still ignoring her texts.
“What do you have planned so far?” I asked.
I could tell that she didn’t want to talk to me about it, so just for fun, I added, “VP to VP.”
Livia curled her lip at the reminder that, technically, we were on the same level. Still, she sighed and sat down, sliding a sheet of paper across the table.
KEEPING YOU SAFE
BACK TO BASICS
PROVEN LEADERSHIP
“These are . . .” I struggled to find the right word.
“Shit.”
I nodded in agreement, and Livia leaned across the table, her eyes darting left and right to make sure no one was watching us.
“Cal’s running against me,” she whispered.
She said it like she couldn’t imagine a universe where such an outcome was possible, but she must have been worried or else she wouldn’t have been talking to me.
I hadn’t seen much of Cal since his Valentine’s Day make-out session with Octavia Resnick in the middle of the science hall. That romance—such as it was—lasted about as long as you’d expect. By the end of February, Octavia went back to her quiet, black-wearing, poetry-writing skulking ways and Cal went back to dry-humping the legs of freshman girls he cornered in the lunch line.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because we can’t let him win,” Livia said.
“Does he still walk out of the room in the middle of hearings?” I asked.
“It’s gotten worse,” Livia said. “He wears headphones and sings to himself. Or he sleeps. We’ve had to start using secret ballots to reach verdicts because he just votes the opposite way I do.”
Then I realized Livia didn’t care who did Maisie’s campaign posters last year. That was the excuse she’d manufactured to talk to me. She was here because there was nowhere else she could go, no one else who would understand the nuances of the situation.
Augustus was gone, Ty was useless. Zelda Parsons worshipped her, but I knew her.
“Why don’t you and Ty just kick him out?” I asked.
“I tried. Why do you think he decided to run against me?”
To my consternation, I found myself rolling my eyes in solidarity with Livia Drusus. Only Cal would run for Honor Council president in retaliation and out of spite.
“So are you going to help me or aren’t you, Claudia? How do I beat him?”
I would never have presumed to speak for Maisie, but I thought about what she would say right now if she were here and if she and Livia were still friends like Livia wished they were.
“Be your best self,” I said. “Remind the voters that they know what they’re getting with you and that Cal’s a wild card, but don’t leave it at that. It’s not just that you’re better than the alternative.”
I stopped short of paying her an actual compliment like Maisie would have done because I found myself wondering, what was Livia’s best self? Was it any better than Cal’s?
“You know who Cal really is, Livia. If anyone knows how to destroy him, it’s you.”
Whether or not you agreed with it or had moral qualms about it, there was no question that when it came to that kind of politics, Livia was a master.
Just to be clear, though, I never told her to do anything. I didn’t want Cal to be president any more than she did. But I had no advice for her, no words of wisdom. She acted alone.
XXX
It Stops Here
Two days later, there was a sign hanging in a stall in the second-floor girls’ bathroom that read:
If Cal Hurt has ever harassed you, harmed you, or made you feel unsafe and you need a place to talk about it, email [email protected]. All inquiries kept strictly confidential.
IT STOPS HERE
It was gone by lunchtime, but by then, all the girls were already talking about it, and from the things I heard whispered, I knew that my handful of creepy run-ins with him had been mild by comparison.
I could only imagine the horror stories that people were writing in to the email address. Of course, if Livia was really the one who set it up, those stories would find their way out into the open en masse within a few days and Cal’s presidential campaign would be as good as through—one hoped.
As a historian, I can’t say with certainty that it was Livia who was behind it. I can only say that she and I talked in the library, and within two days, I found the sign in the bathroom. Those are the facts. The rest are only theories.
The stories never made it out, though.
If this was Livia’s plan to destroy Cal, she should have moved a hell of a lot faster.
The day the sign went up in the second-floor girls’ bathroom, everybody was talking about Cal.
The day after that, everyone was talking about Livia.
***
“When I told you the story about what Livia did at the Griffith School, I was telling you to explain why I hated her and why I hated that my sister was friends with her and why I mistrusted everything she did.
“But I also told you so that when I got to this part of the story, you’d understand that she deserved it.”
***
On Friday, the leaflets went up, one stuck on every bulletin board and bathroom stall door:
IS THIS THE HONOR COUNCIL PRESIDENT YOU WANT?
Beneath it was Livia’s picture, then a bullet-point-by-bullet-point account of how Mr. Arnold had caught her cheating and punished her for it, so she’d written a letter claiming that he’d seduced one of his eighth-grade students. How she’d forged poems in his handwriting and stuffed them into the locker of a girl she didn’t like.
The poster omitted some key points. There was no mention of the girl Mr. Arnold really had seduced, and Octavia’s name didn’t come up once.
Between the front entrance and the Honor Council room, the hallways were electric with gossip. A semi-circle of bodies four deep stood in front of every copy of the poster, reading and snapping pictures for posterity. Even if the posters were down by first period, every word written on them was going to be splattered across the digital universe within hours. And one thing was sure—Livia’s campaign for presidency was over.
***
“Were you glad it happened, Claudia?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not.”
“There’s something I have to ask . . .”
“You want to know if I had anything to do with it.”
“The thought did cross my mind that you might have.”
***
This is how I think it happened.
Like most of the students at Imperial Day, Cal hadn’t gone to the Griffith School. He’d never known Cassidy Jones or Mr. Arnold. By the time he met Livia, she was on the Honor Council and dating Augustus, and Octavia Resnick was a freshman nobody with bangs that covered half her face.
I hadn’t thought about Octavia in three years, not until I saw her making out with Cal in the hallway on Valentine’s Day. It was entirely possible that she didn’t need to be persuaded with flowers and love letters. Maybe she’d been waiting since the eighth grade to show somebody the poems that Livia had forged in Mr. Arnold’s handwriting.
Eventually, it came out that the morning the posters about Livia went up, Cal had been doing volunteer work a
t a suicide hotline. It was an airtight alibi, but all that means is that he had help. Chris Gibbons ended up on the Honor Council eventually, so if you’re looking for accomplices, that’s my guess.
I cannot verify this story. It’s the best I have been able to piece together with the facts at hand, and it makes just as much—if not more—sense than to arrive at the conclusion that I had something to do with it.
But if my alternate narrative doesn’t satisfy your suspicions, consider this: I hated Livia, but do you really believe I hated her enough to turn the school over to Cal?
XXXI
It Wasn’t Bleeding and None
of It Would Show
A few minutes after Livia’s presidential hopes were crushed, my phone buzzed.
Honor Council room. Now.
Well, good morning to you, too, Livia.
The Honor Council room was unlocked. I walked past the holding cell and rounded the corner to find Livia sitting at her desk with her hands wrapped around a steaming KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON mug.
“Did you do this?” she asked, her voice scary-calm.
“No,” I said.
The coffee mug went sailing past my ear. As it shattered against the wall, tea and milk streaming down the wall, Livia sprang to her feet, her eyes shining with hate. In three steps, she was across the room and holding a hank of my hair in her fist.
“Don’t lie to me, you fucking worm,” she said, giving it a tug.
“It wasn’t me!” I shrieked in pain, and then Livia hit me in the face.
For a moment she froze, her breathing heavy, her eyes wide, like maybe she’d never hit anyone before. And then something wild came over her face, as if she’d just realized that maybe she’d like to do it again.
Her hands flew, guided more by rage and frustration than precision. She shoved me, pulled my hair, pushed me toward the wall, slapped at my face, punched my stomach. She missed as often as she made contact, but eventually I stopped keeping track. I squeezed my eyes shut and held up my hands to shield my face as I sank down to the floor and curled up in the fetal position. Livia kicked me in the thigh, but lost her balance and staggered toward the wall, catching herself on a desk before dropping to her knees.