by Beth Goobie
But the fact was, Meredith told herself grimly, whatever Seymour’s buddy percentage, their main weapon—drooling OOZING! gum wads—had been neutralized. Now that she had stopped worrying about stains, Seymour’s weapons of butt destruction had lost their shock and awe factor. Sure, gum wads were an inconvenience, but she could wash her WikiButt jeans daily if she had to. Sooner or later, Seymour would have to see the light and give up ... because she wasn’t going to. That was all there was to it. End of story.
End of story perhaps, but regardless, Meredith realized with a start—the first warning bell was now two minutes gone and she had to make tracks. Stepping into the crowd, she joined the flow headed for the school’s tech wing. Pressed in on all sides, she didn’t expect immediate commentary on her new WikiButt decor, and didn’t get any. Resolutely, she descended the short staircase that led out of the school’s main building, turned into the corridor leading to the tech wing, and walked toward the music room’s open doorway.
The moment she entered the classroom, she saw him. Off to one side, Seymour was leaning against the cupboards that contained the numbered instrument cases, apparently reading a textbook. On the second riser, his seat sat empty, and on the third stood the drum set—steel ribs gleaming, proud, and uninhabited. For three long seconds, Meredith hesitated, her gaze darting between Seymour, propped against the cupboards, and his vacant chair. Next to that vacant chair sat Morey, turned around and engrossed in discussion with Gene; every other student in the class was also seated and similarly engaged.
Again, Meredith’s gaze flicked between Seymour and their two empty seats. The Mol’s message was abundantly clear—he was giving her the chance, here and now, to renounce her claim to the throne, abdicate, and settle for a lower rung on the ladder, an obedient rung where she belonged. Briefly, Meredith tried out the scenario in her mind, imagining, just imagining the process of walking to the second riser, stepping up onto it, and sitting down with her back—her entire back—exposed, unprotected, and facing King Mol.
At that moment, perhaps sensing her presence, Seymour glanced toward the door. As he caught sight of Meredith, his gaze sharpened and his features tightened—a fist closing around its prey. The shift in his expression was fleeting; a second later, the muscles had relaxed and returned to their habitual cool, but in that instant she had seen it—his intention, raw and unmasked, on his face. The guy wasn’t playing around, she realized, staring at him. For the Mol, this was no idle fancy; he wasn’t engaging in some diplomatic contest of wills. As far as he was concerned, the drum set was his by rights and, sooner or later, he would be parking his butt there. It was only a matter of time ... the amount of time that she, Meredith Polk, wanted to waste deceiving herself.
For what seemed a stretched-out eternity, Meredith stood riveted, unable to move. Blood thundered in her veins; dueling voices shouted in her head. Action, she thought weakly. Reaction. Then, on legs that felt thick as old-growth tree trunks, she got herself going, and lumbered past a slit-eyed Seymour and up onto the third riser, where she plopped down heavily behind the drums.
“Hey, Ms. Big,” grinned Gene.
“Hey,” she replied vaguely.
The final bell rang. Over by the cupboards, Seymour snapped shut his book, strode to the second riser, and sat down.
The day’s commentary on her butt turned out to be surprisingly disinterested—by lunch, only a few students had noticed Dean’s recorded dates, and both gum-wad stains were so faint, Meredith had to explain the connection. After the almost continual hilarity that she had received in response to the daffodil rain hat, this was deflating, but she kept up her radar, constantly scanning her surroundings for Seymour’s next move. And so she was ready, even anticipating the gum-wad assault when it was launched, midway through the lunch hour. Coming down a stairwell with Reb and Dean, Meredith heard the sudden thud of footsteps behind her, and was partway into a swift turn when a hand slapped itself hard against her jeans’ rear seam. Which placed her, finally, in a position to catch a quick, blurred glimpse of her attacker; one hand covered in beige mush and an expression of glee on her narrow face, it turned out to be Lana Sloat. Before Meredith could react, however, Lana shoved her with her clean hand, knocking Meredith off balance and into Reb, who fell against the wall.
“Watch it!” cried the startled Reb, raising a defensive arm and unintentionally elbowing Meredith in the chin. Stunned by the whack to her jaw, Meredith nevertheless forced herself to focus on Lana, who was now backing away and grimacing at the gooey evidence that connected her right hand to Meredith’s butt.
“Hey!” yelped Dean, darting back up the stairs toward Lana, but, pivoting, the other girl took off, leaving a telltale trail of gummy strands.
“Yuck, what is this!” cried a nearby girl, taking a swing at a sticky tendril that had attached itself to her tights.
“Gum!” exclaimed a guy, trying to shake a persistent strand off his sleeve. “What—are they going after everyone now? I thought it was just that Polk kid.”
“It is just the Polk kid,” called out Meredith. “The Polk kid is over here.”
Homing in on her, students crowded around to survey the mess caked onto the seat of her jeans. “That was more than one gumball,” observed a guy who sported some promising chin fuzz. “There was a lot of it left on her hand, too—she couldn’t get it all off.”
“It was Lana Sloat,” volunteered yet another speaker—Cathy Kotelly, a girl Meredith knew from her English class. “You know—Flunk-Out Sloatie.”
The stunned sensation in Meredith’s jaw was beginning to subside. “Yeah,” she said uneasily. “I saw her. I don’t think she expected the gum to be that sticky.”
“Why is she after you?” asked the first girl, as she detached the gum tendril from her tights. With a disgusted look, she flicked it off her fingers. “Did you piss her off?”
“Not that I know of,” said Meredith.
“Watch out for her, Meredith,” advised Cathy. “She’s not as stupid as she looks—at least, not when she wants something.”
Swallowing hard, Meredith said dismissively, “Ah, it’s just her idea of a joke. She saw someone get me yesterday, and probably thought it’d be fun to try it herself.”
At that moment, several students standing on the stairs above Cathy parted to let Dean through. “Hey!” announced Dean, breathing quickly from her failed attempt to run down Lana. “We’ve got to go to the office to report this. And we need witnesses. You guys all saw it. Will you come with us—y’know, to corroborate?”
“No thanks,” grimaced the girl in the tights, taking a pointed step back. “Not if it’s Lana Sloat.”
“Just tell them to check the cameras,” advised Mr. Chin Fuzz, pointing to a nearby security camera. “They should have it all on film.”
“Yeah, but you can still come with us,” protested Dean. “I mean, you should! You saw it happen.”
“Not me,” said Mr. Chin Fuzz, raising both hands. “Didn’t see a thing.” Without another word, he edged away. Glancing around the now almost deserted stairwell, Meredith saw that of the original group of witnesses, only she, Reb, and Dean remained—even Cathy had vanished.
“Don’t worry, Mere,” said Reb from beside her, breaking her extended silence. “Dean and I will vouch for you. And I’m awfully sorry about hitting your chin. Does it hurt?”
“Some,” admitted Meredith, fingering the sore spot. “But not too bad.”
“C’mon then,” urged Dean, starting down the stairs. “It’s 12:40, and I’ve got Art at 1:00. We’ve got to talk to someone in the front office before you clean that gunk off, so they can see it for themselves.”
“Yeah,” agreed Meredith. “But first we go to the nearest can, Deanie—so you can record the time and date next to the scene of the crime.”
Cheered by the prospect, the three headed to the nearest girls washroom.
Several hours later, Meredith was standing inside the tech wing’s north exit, the seven-dwarves
rain hat tied firmly over the mess on her butt as she waited for Dean and Reb to show. All things considered, she thought musingly, the afternoon hadn’t gone too badly. After viewing the evidence, one of the school’s vice-principals, Ms. Bishaha, had watched smilingly as Meredith tied on the rain hat, then heard out the rest of her story. Next, she had used the PA to summon Lana to the front office. Lana had, of course, denied the entire episode, but a cursory examination of her right hand had revealed a thin but suspiciously sticky film. Ms. Bishaha hadn’t even bothered to check the security cameras.
“You can go now,” she had told Meredith, Reb, and Dean, who were already late for their 1:00 classes. “Lana and I will deal with the rest of this without you, won’t we, Lana?”
Head slumped, Lana had merely grunted; still, as Meredith reviewed the scene in her mind, she felt nothing but relief. If only everything was that easy to solve, she thought, squinting into the bright sunlight that streamed through the glass doors. Seymour and the drums, the Boggs and the Polks. My dead criminal parents, creepy Ancestor Great Hand. I’m sure it was his left hand on that map—it had to be. Everything the Polks do comes from the dark side. It’s a sort of curse, but not something outside of them that comes after them. It’s inside them—in their genes. No matter what Deanie thinks, the Polks do have an arrogance gene; they’re just a left-hand kind of people. Even Grandma and Granddad Polk, with their perfect house and BMW. Maybe ... Here, Meredith’s thoughts faltered and she frowned. Well, maybe Seymour’s right and that is why I went after the throne. I’m a Polk, so I’m arrogant and want power ...
“Hey, Meredith,” said a familiar voice, and she turned to see Gene coming toward her, toting the double bass in its case. “You’re wearing another rain hat.”
“Whoa!” she said, eyebrows rising as she took in the size of the case close-up. “That’s massive. How far d’you have to carry it?”
“To my car,” said Gene. “I parked on Quebec Street so I wouldn’t have to drag it far. Got a minute?”
“Sure,” said Meredith.
“C’mon outside,” said Gene. Pushing open the door, he stepped out into the breezy afternoon, Meredith on his heels. Without comment, he crossed the school lawn and stopped beside a dusty, weathered-looking Chrysler parked close to the north exit. Unlocking the rear-passenger door, he slid in the double bass. Then he glanced cautiously around.
“I asked some guys like I said I would,” he said, his voice dropping even though no one else was close enough to overhear. “About the gum wads, right?”
Dense, electric, a pulse started up in Meredith’s throat. “Okay,” she said carefully.
“Well,” said Gene, his face troubled, “what I’ve heard is it’s Seymour. Not that he’s doing the actual attacks, but he’s pulling the strings. It’s because of the drums. You’re sitting where he wants to sit, so ...” He shrugged.
Meredith nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I ran into him before home form today, and he admitted it. He says it’s a tradition—the oldest guy always sits there, and this year it’s his turn. If I—”
“A tradition!” exclaimed Gene, interrupting her. “Since when?”
Startled at the sharpness in his tone, Meredith hesitated. “Since ... the beginning of Polkton Collegiate, I guess,” she said.
“Meredith,” Gene said emphatically, “they’ve only been using the music room as a home form for five years—because of the new Riverdale suburb and all the students it brought into the school. It’s because of overcrowding—they ran out of regular classrooms and had to use ones they wouldn’t normally use. Otherwise, they’d never let non-music students near the music room. Every seat in the room is taken—haven’t you noticed?”
Stunned, Meredith stared at him. “I never thought about it,” she faltered. “So ... Seymour’s lying?”
“Does that surprise you?” asked Gene.
For a moment, Meredith just looked at him. “No,” she said finally. “Not if I think about it. But just off the top of my head ...” Her voice trailed off.
Gene nodded. “You’re not a natural liar,” he said. “So you wouldn’t be as likely to see it coming from someone else.”
“Are you a natural liar?” countered Meredith.
“Not a natural one,” said Gene. “But I’m probably naturally more suspicious.”
His comment brought a new question to Meredith’s mind, but she wavered on it. Nice as Gene was being, he was a year older and she didn’t know him that well. Sitting where she did in home form, it wouldn’t be smart to risk burning her bridges with both him and Seymour. On the other hand, she reasoned, destroying bridges ran in her family. “Well,” she said, her eyes flicking across his. “If you know he’s a liar, why are you friends with him?”
Gene’s eyebrows rose. “I talk to him in home form,” he said mildly. “But, believe me, I’d never let myself get stuck one-on-one with him in a situation where I’d have to depend on him.”
Unconvinced, recalling the many endless, amicable home form debates, Meredith just looked at him.
“Hey,” said Gene, raising both hands defensively. “Remember—up until today, I didn’t know it was him doing this to you. How come you’re wearing a rain hat again? With ...” Ducking around behind her, he took a quick glance. “Doc and Sleepy?” he grinned questioningly.
Meredith hesitated, then decided to go with the change in subject and described Lana’s assault. “I don’t know if Seymour was behind it,” she concluded uncertainly. “I mean—Lana is friends with Ronnie Olesin, and Ronnie’s always in trouble. Neither of them would need any encouragement from Seymour.”
“I dunno,” said Gene. “Seymour’s got a long reach.”
A sick feeling nudged Meredith’s gut; decisively, she shoved it away. “Seymour to Lana Sloat is, like, light years,” she scoffed. “He wouldn’t even look at her if he passed her in the hall. But the other kids who’ve come after me ...” Pausing, she considered, then blurted, “What I don’t get about this whole thing is—why? Why do kids who barely know Seymour do what he tells them?”
“Probably for different reasons,” said Gene, leaning against his car. “Not every kid does, y’know.” Gazing off toward the school, he frowned thoughtfully. “But the kids who do? Yeah, there are enough of them. I’ve been watching Seymour in action for a couple of years now—him and his rapt audience. And what I think is, in the end, there are two kinds of people—the kids who are willing to suck up the lie Seymour puts out, and the kids who aren’t.”
“The lie?” Meredith repeated, confused.
“Yeah,” said Gene, more firmly. “Seymour’s like a drug—he lies constantly. Tries to make you think he’s got the answer to everything; he’s the force at the center of the universe and if you stick with him, you’ve got it made. He puts on a good show—I’ll give him that much—and there are always kids who want to be entertained. But in the end, that’s all he is—a performance. Not real life, and not a friend. Not even close to a friend.”
“Huh,” said Meredith, watching him closely. Sensing the intensity of her gaze, Gene grinned sheepishly. “Mom calls me ‘Mr. Preacher,’” he said. “That’s on a good day. On a bad one, I’m ‘Mr. Disgusted.’ If I was one of the seven dwarves, I’d be Grumpy.”
Meredith frowned, too tied up with the thoughts inside her head to smile. “Hey,” she said awkwardly. “If you were me, and you had this whole mess to deal with, would you keep on with it? Or would you give up on the drums and sit on the second riser like Seymour told me to?”
Gene looked incredulous. “Meredith,” he said, “on the first day of your Grade 10 year, you walked into home form and snagged one of Seymour Molyneux’s personal dreams. Do you really want me to tell you what you should do with your life?”
Meredith stood silently working this one through, but Gene wasn’t finished. “Do you know how many kids have tuned into this?” he asked. “They know, Meredith. Out there—sitting in the cafeteria, walking the halls—they know you took something from
right under Seymour’s nose, and they’re talking. You’ve managed to give the finger, big time, to the Mol. There are guys who are insanely jealous.”
“Oh,” said Meredith, taken aback. “Well, what about you? D’you want to give him the finger, too?”
“There are days when I’d like to get hold of his ego and play Keep Away with it,” admitted Gene. “Bounce it around, pass it back and forth, not let him have it for a while. But other than that?” He shrugged. “I’ve got better things to do than get a hate on for someone. Which reminds me—I’ve got to be home by four to take my brother to his swimming lesson. So, see you tomorrow, eh?”
“Yeah, see you,” said Meredith, watching him go around to the driver’s side of his car and get in. “And—thanks!”
“Hey!” called Gene, planting both hands onto the car roof and pulling himself up through the window. “I can tell you one thing, Meredith Polk,” he grinned at her over the roof. “In a million years, I’d rather be sitting next to you in home form than Seymour.”
With a wave, he drove away from Meredith’s ear-to-ear grin. Damn arrogance and power! she thought exuberantly. I don’t care why the heck I went for the drums—I’ve got them, they’re mine, and I am going to ride them all year!
chapter 15
With an emphatic grunt, Aunt Sancy set down the two cans of paint she had carried up the back staircase. “Okay,” she said breathlessly. “That should do it. I’ll just lever off these lids, and in an hour we’ll be living inside dandelion yellow.”
Getting down onto her knees, she worked off the lids with a screwdriver, stirred up the paint’s warm brilliance with a stir stick, then passed Meredith a paintbrush. “You get first honors,” she smiled.