Never Gonna Tell

by Sarah M. Ross

  I slip off my shoes, wiggling my toes encased in Scooby Doo socks, pull my feet up, and sit cross-legged as I eat my apple, spinning around slowly in the squeaky chair as I remember my first days here. It was really hard as an introvert to be the new kid, but staying unnoticed in this school was easier than I thought. When we moved to Tennessee during the summer after my sophomore year, I was devastated. I had gone to one of the biggest schools in Baltimore for most of my life, and with over two thousand students it was easy to get lost in the background. But then Mom got a new job in this podunk town outside of Chattanooga. It has exactly one high school and a whopping five hundred kids total in grades nine through twelve, so I thought for sure my time as a fly on the wall was over. How could I continue to go unnoticed with so few kids? Everyone notices the new girl.

  Or so I thought.

  Turns out, there was so much drama going on already that I was barely a blip on the radar. There were maybe a handful of people who perked up at the news of a new girl, and that was only until they got a good look at me. My non-highlighted brown hair is usually tossed only in a ponytail with zero mousse, hairspray, or other styling product (because I’d much rather sleep than spend an hour on my hair every morning). I hardly ever wear makeup except for my sunscreen and cherry Chapstick. And, to top it off, my short, beanpole-like frame boasts a whole A-cup (okay, that’s being generous, it’s more like an A minus). They all quickly lost interest. They had other gossip to focus on. And boy, did they.

  During the second week of school last year, I realized why everyone had better things to talk about—and I went home to kiss my mom in thanks for moving us here. Who would’ve thought there’d be more drama in such a small town than in an episode of the Real Housewives? This school was like a journalist’s wet dream. I didn’t even know where to start, there was so much to choose from. Most of it was tabloid fodder, but this wasn’t DC or New York, and I’d take what I could get.

  I toss my apple core into the trash and flip the page of my notebook, still lost in my thoughts. During my freshman and sophomore years in Baltimore, I’d wanted to join the paper, but it was restricted to juniors and seniors only, so I began to investigate on my own and turned in stories anonymously. One of the other reporters found them, published them, and took full credit herself. I was pissed at first, but there was nothing I could do since I’d turned in the articles without even giving myself credit. I could only take satisfaction that people really liked what I wrote.

  My favorite piece, the one I was most proud of, uncovered what really happened in the mysterious disappearance of four of the school’s most popular kids. They were in class on Friday, but by Monday—poof! No one had seen them all weekend, their Twitter and Instagram accounts were shut down, and all of their cell phones went directly to voicemail. Rumors ran wild, claiming everything from aliens to 21 Jump Street-style government conspiracies, and their parents were tight-lipped about the whole thing. It was me who revealed that they had been recruited by some top private boarding school up north to play lacrosse. The story was salacious and all anyone could talk about for months, mostly because people were jealous they weren’t selected, too.

  Here, that story probably wouldn’t even make the top ten list of school craziness. I chuckle aloud at the thought. Take, for example, the town’s golden goodie-goodie, Amelia Valentine, who got caught in a police sting involving uptown working girls and johns. Turns out, Amelia could afford all her designer duds because she spent her nights with several members of the town council. Talk about gossip! The halls buzzed like the inside of a beehive for a month over that one.

  But it was instantly quieted to a hum when head cheerleader—and pastor’s daughter—Claire Dougherty cheated on her star football player boyfriend with none other than his twenty-four-year-old cousin, Auggie, and got knocked up. She quickly consumed all talk in the halls, cafeteria, and around town for a month. Even the old ladies in the church choir were talking about it. That gossip was understandable, and I almost couldn’t blame Claire. Auggie is one of the finest male specimens I’ve ever seen. Who wouldn’t want a piece of that?

  I stop spinning in the chair and stand up, slightly dizzy for a few moments. I crack my knuckles and tap my pen feverishly on the desk, trying to think. The gossip in school has levels. There is top-tier gossip like Amelia and Claire because that information can be confirmed for the most part, and people love to see the biggest and most popular kids knocked off their pedestals.

  There are lower tiers of gossip, too—ones that are still just rumors, but which have enough meat on them for the vultures to pick at and sink their teeth into. Like the rumor about the hot new gym teacher, Mr. Shaw, who’s just out of college and may or may not be dating a student. Or the girls’ soccer star, who always seems to have mysterious injuries. Sure, they could be from practice, but rumors abound that her dad is a mean drunk, and she bears his wrath. I don’t like these stories as much. A serious journalist never believes a rumor until she has at least two sources to back it up. And right now I have none for either story.

  But all of that is last year’s news, so I’m not focused on telling those stories. I tear the sheet of paper I’ve been doodling on and crumple it up before tossing it in the trash. I have something new on my radar—a whale of a story. My Moby Dick. And with just a little more digging, it’s going to be my ticket to one of the top journalism programs in the country at my number-one choice for college—and hopefully a scholarship.

  A SHRILL CLANGING noise sounds above me. My hands fly to my head and cover my poor, now-abused ears. I hate that this office contains the original bell for the school when it was built in 19-whocaresitwassolongago. I keep trying to find a way to remove it, or at least deactivate it, but so far I’ve had no luck. I take a final drink of my Diet Mountain Dew and toss the empty bottle in the overflowing receptacle. Since the janitors think this room is never used, they never bother to clean it. Oh, well. Lunch is over, and it’s time for gym—and I’d rather sit through a Justin Bieber concert than be forced to attend that class.

  I debate skipping it to continue organizing the notes on my story, but I’ve already skipped twice, and I’m pretty sure Coach Jenkins will call home if I make it a threepete. I really don’t feel like listening to another one of Mom’s lectures when I get home. I swear, she could teach senators how to filibuster with how much she goes on and on and on. Once, she lectured me from the time I walked in the front door, straight through dinner, the entire time I did my homework, and didn’t stop until I’d fallen asleep. And that was only when my history teacher called home because I fell asleep during a video on the Crusades. (I mean, I’d seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Wasn’t that almost the same thing anyway?)

  I trudge to the locker room, open my locker, and grab my PE uniform before slipping into the bathroom stall to change. As usual, everyone is already lined up, and Coach Jenkins is giving me the evil eye as I hop to the end of the line with only one shoe on as she calls attendance.

  “All right, ladies, since once again it’s raining and the fields are soaked, we’ll be working indoors with the boys’ class today, playing table tennis. I want you to focus on your serves, as we’ll start actual tennis in the next few weeks, so be sure to rotate often. Get in groups of four—two boys and two girls—and come get your paddles and a ball. Coach Shaw and I will be coming around to each group to help out if needed and make sure you’re on task. Ready? Go.” She blows her whistle, and kids everywhere start grouping up.

  Ugh! I hate this part. I just know I’m going to end up with the goth girl whose sole athletic ability seemed to be eye rolling and the captain of the chess club who puffs on his inhaler more than Snoop puffs on his ganja.

  Sure enough, we’re the last three standing without a group. Seeing as my fate is sealed, I walk up to Coach Perkins to grab our ball and paddles and make one last-ditch effort to try to play on her sense of mercy and explain that we only have three and can’t play. The gym door squeaks open behind me. Ahh
! A latecomer. Maybe I’ll get lucky and actually have a partner who’ll try to hit the ball.

  Coach Shaw is already making the rounds, so Coach Jenkins hands me the equipment before she steps around me to take the late slip from whoever came in. “Here you go, Reagan. And, oh look, now you have a fourth. Mr. Calotta, you’ll join Ms. Wilcox on her team. There’s not enough time, so don’t worry about dressing down today.”

  A cold chill runs down my back, and I instantly freeze. Mr. Calotta? As in, Marco Calotta? No, no, no, no, no.

  If it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all. Marco Calotta might be ridiculously hot with chin-length black hair that he keeps in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck, model-envy cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes so light and clear they could double as polar ice caps, but he scares the crap out of everyone in school, including me. I’ve made it two years without having an encounter with him; I don’t want to change that now.

  “Never planned on worrying about it,” he sneers, tossing his backpack toward the bleachers and nearly taking out the chess nerd in the process.

  There are two things every student here at Jefferson High learns their first week: first, the “meat delight” on Fridays is just a mashed-up mix of whatever was left from Taco Tuesday and Hamburger Thursdays, and second, don’t mess with Marco Calotta.

  The Calotta family moved here from Chicago several years ago, and they’re notorious in Hope Mills, sort of our very own Sopranos. From what I’ve heard, after several run-ins with the law in Chicago, they moved here to try for a fresh start.

  That didn’t work. In fact, I’m pretty sure their notoriety only rose.

  The Calottas have been known to break kneecaps of people with bad gambling debts, they’re rumored to be a weapons and drug supplier to the bigger gangs down in Atlanta, and I’ve even heard they murdered a witness who tried to testify against them once. No way a family like that could move to a smaller town and not have everyone on edge.

  Of course, anyone new in a small town like this faces scrutiny and is seen as an “outsider.” My family only escaped that fate because my dad’s grandpa was originally from the next town over (though he died over ten years ago). As far as I know, none of the Calottas has ever been hauled into jail or charged with any crime. All of the rumors about them are just that, rumors, but people are still afraid.

  Marco isn’t feared on the basis of his family’s reputation alone. He’s done plenty himself to earn a healthy fear from me and other students. I heard that he intimidated members of both the basketball and football teams into not scoring on purpose to shave points off the spread, and last year I witnessed him singlehandedly toss the captain of the wrestling team into the dumpster behind the cafeteria for no reason whatsoever. Then Marco sat on the closed lid for the next two periods so he couldn’t get out.

  The guy might give boy band heartthrobs a run for their money for the cover of Teen Cosmo, but while Charlie and I have been known to drool a bit looking at him, that bad boy has just a little too much bad in him for most of the girls in my school—especially me. He keeps to himself, rarely participates in class, and is still the talk of the school. In the two years I’ve been here, to my knowledge he’s never had a steady girlfriend, just a stream of hookups with the girls who either want to punish their daddies or try to tame the beast.

  I look up to realize that Marco is staring at me. Great, I’ve drifted off into my head again, and now he probably thinks I’m a mental case. I blink and look away, glancing back in his direction. He’s still staring. Like, hard-core staring. It’s freaking me out.

  “Um, I guess you’re with us.” I don’t wait for his reaction or reply. Instead I take the paddles and head back to where the other two on my team are waiting. I want to smack myself for acting so stupid, but Marco makes me nervous for two reasons: I enjoy my kneecaps in one piece and I’m afraid I’ll start drooling if I look at him for much longer.

  “This is never going to work,” Marco sighs, cocky smile plastered on his face.

  Oh, crap. Did I say that last part out loud? “Um, sorry. What did you say?”

  I turn and see Marco pointing at our teammates, Tweedles Dee and Dum. “I’m pretty sure it’s going to be just the two of us playing.”

  Sure enough, Goth Girl is already headed for the bleachers, and Asthma Boy looks ready to pass out at any second. My nerves are frayed, so I resort to my failsafe: sarcasm. “Well, there goes my shot at earning a spot on the table tennis Olympic team. Not without our star team members.”

  Marco smirks and shakes his head, grabbing a paddle from my hand before heading to the other side of the table. He bounces the ball a few times in his hands before serving to me. “It’s a good thing I’m here to save your butt then. Who would’ve returned your serve if I hadn’t shown up? Or would you have played Forrest Gump style?”

  “And what? You’ll be my Lieutenant Dan in this scenario?”

  “More like Bubba.”

  I smile. It’s rare that someone appreciates my snark, let alone returns it to me. Maybe I was wrong about him. Feigning a swoon, I place the back of my hand on my forehead and bend a bit at the knees to exaggerate my point. “Oh, thank goodness a big strong man like you came along. I could never have survived all by my lil’ ol’ self.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can just bat your pretty eyes and get whatever it is your heart desires.”

  Is he trying to flirt with me? I wonder. Nah, I’m losing it. “Yeah, sure. It’s a real pain when some dust flies in them. People start throwing flowers and chocolates at me left and right while I’m blinking away.”

  Marco chortles out a laugh and serves first. “I’m Marco, by the way.”

  “Reagan,” I reply, volleying back.

  “Reagan.” He rolls the name around in his mouth for a minute, his raspy voice drawing it out slowly like it’s honey on his tongue. Good god, that’s sexy. “Mmm. I like it. Suits you.”

  I’ve lost all ability to speak and can only smile shyly and turn away.

  “Your parents big Republicans?”

  I laugh, shaking off my lusty stupor. “Nope, just ironic Democrats with visions of future presidency dancing in their heads.”

  Marco leans in, whispering. “Democrats? Here in the Bible belt?”

  I put my finger to my lips. “Shh … don’t tell, or they’ll kick me out.”

  “So you’re going to be the president one day?”

  I shake my head. “I have about as much interest in politics as the cheerleaders over there have in SnapChatting with Principal Ewing.”

  Marco turns to where the cheerleaders are all huddled in a group with some of the basketball team, reapplying lip gloss and gossiping. Not one of them has a paddle within five feet.

  Marco busts out laughing, drawing stares from both the cheerleaders and Coach Shaw.

  “Mr. Callotta, you need to stay on task. You can’t afford to lose any more points this quarter if you expect to pass and graduate.”

  And, just like that, Marco goes from lighthearted and smiling to fuming and scowling. His muscles tense as he grips his paddle so hard his knuckles turn white.

  “Are you kidding me? It’s table tennis, for Christ’s sakes.”

  “Watch your tone.”

  Marco turns away from Coach Shaw, brushing him off. “Prick,” he mutters under his breath.

  “What’d you say?” Coach Shaw grabs Marco by the shoulder, spinning him around. “You want to repeat that?”

  I can see that it’s taking all of Marco’s willpower to keep his temper in check. I’m holding my breath. No way this isn’t going to end badly.

  The two stare at each other for several seconds, neither backing down. From the way they’re acting, I assume they have a history. I’ve observed people long enough to know when a silent conversation is going on, and these two are in the middle of a doozy. After a few tense moments, Marco leans in, whispering in Coach Shaw’s ear. I’m too far away to hear what he says.

  I want to know wha
t he said to Coach Shaw, but I don’t dare ask. It’s probably better that I don’t.

  Coach Shaw’s eyes widen in surprise before narrowing in irritation. He lets go of Marco’s arm. “Get back on task. You’re on my radar, Calotta.”

  Marco takes a step toward him, getting directly in his face. Oh, now he’s just asking to be sent to the office. “Back atcha, Coach.” He practically spits out the last word. The whole class has frozen to watch the two.

  Coach Shaw, very surprisingly, is the first to flinch, ignoring the threat entirely. He blows his whistle loudly before heading toward the cheerleaders. “Ladies! This isn’t Cosmo 101. Pick up those paddles and start using them!”

  And just like that, class resumes, students going back to what they were doing and neither teacher saying another word to Marco. And Marco? He too acts like he didn’t just have an old-west-style showdown and threaten a teacher. He’s tossing the Ping-Pong ball in the air and catching it over and over again.

  “Well, he just lost my vote for Teacher of the Year.”

  Okay … if everyone else is pretending that didn’t just happen, then I will too. “He’ll be crushed.”

  “I bet. I have no choice other than to hand my vote to Mrs. Carmichael.”

  I unsuccessfully stifle my laughter as Coach Jenkins glares at me. Mrs. Carmichael is the school librarian, who is about a hundred, can barely walk unsupported, and is often found asleep behind the circulation desk.

  “She does so much for the school, I can see why you’d vote for her.”

  Marco nods in agreement. “Of course. Why, just last week she lent me her copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. She even dog-eared some of her favorite passages. I guess I know now why her favorite color is red.”