I’m on my feet before the words pass his desk. “What? You can’t do that.” Is he effing serious? The first meet is still three weeks away. The only reason he’d make me skip it is if he had carefully calculated which punishment could hurt me the most, which, being an evil supervillain, is probably second nature to him. I’ve been busting my ass to make 138, and now the first match is going to go to some other dude gift-wrapped. “You’re not making her skip anything.”
I shoot a mental apology to Hope for bringing her into this, but I’m not sure she receives it.
“She doesn’t do anything to skip.” He shrugs like it couldn’t be simpler, the bastard.
He’s taking away everything, and he can’t even be bothered to acknowledge that it’s a big deal. “So I’m being punished for being involved? That’s bullshit.”
Kahn sucks in air through his teeth, a cockroach hiss, and I know I’ve crossed the line. Hell, I can’t even see the line anymore.
“Look, I get that missing the meet will suck for you, but unless you can provide me with some names, this is how it’s gonna be, dude.”
I shake my head. “I’m not telling you anything.” Dude. (The hell with yard work. Dean owes me a kidney.)
Nice Kahn has left the building. “For your attitude, I’ll be extending the morning detention. Let’s go for an even month.”
Hope’s posture goes from cool-delinquent-slouch to debutante-strapped-to-a-yardstick. “For Spencer?” she clarifies.
Big mistake.
“For both of you. Actually, it should probably be five weeks for you since you’re not missing an activity.”
“FIVE weeks? Are you serious?”
“I’m happy to shorten your sentence if you tell me who else is involved.”
“Five is good.”
Hope’s mouth twists like she’s trying to eat her cheeks from the inside. Neither of us is dumb enough to say anything else. Kahn has us start with the water cups on the cafeteria tables because they’ll interfere with lunch. It really was one of Dean’s more genius prank ideas. Cover the cafeteria tables with hundreds of tiny paper shot cups. Filled with water. Nobody can eat lunch until they dump the cups out, one by one. Plus, they left spaces between the cups to spell out SENIORS. Our vice principal demonstrates how we are to walk them to a sink near the tray wash, pour out the water, and throw the empty cups in the trash. Because we clearly couldn’t have figured that out on our own. Then he’s gone, and it’s just me, Hope, and a forest’s worth of paper cups.
For a moment, I stop entertaining ways I’d like to torture our vice principal. The dangerously optimistic things begin to creep back into my brain.
“Where do you want to—” I turn, but she’s already stalked off in the direction of the closest table. “Start.”
I can see steam curling out of her nose, and I know it’s useless. We’re still not talking. Nothing has changed, except that now, in addition to shutting me out, she’s possibly severely pissed at me. She could also be pissed at herself. Or Kahn. (Would definitely give her some rage solidarity on that one!) But as someone who spent three years being her best friend, I am pretty well versed in the fine art of interpreting her stomping. Well, half-stomping. Stomping with her right leg plus limping with her left means she is actually walking kind of like an ogre (a very cute ogre).
This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. This was going to be the start of all the things that came after. I had this whole Hope and Spencer BFF Reboot hypothesis going. There were signs. That little wave she gave me when I was walking into school. And that thing she said about peach tea. Those things meant something. Didn’t they?
Hope picks up two cups of water with the most indignant, most obnoxious, most infuriated and infuriating sigh. Well, I guess I did get her two extra weeks of early-morning hell. No. You know what? Screw that. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for her. I storm over to the nearest table and grab two cups, then stomp them over to the sink and dump them. If I hadn’t tried to warn her, if Ethan and Mikey and all those other losers had listened the first eighty-seven times, I wouldn’t be getting up at the crack of fucking dawn. I wouldn’t be cleaning up a prank I didn’t even do. And I wouldn’t be missing the most important thing in my life.
I think about what it’s going to be like to watch that first meet and not wrestle, and I sling my cups into the trash can like I’m trying to break the damn thing. I picture Vice Principal Kahn and his stupid lectures and I sling the next batch harder. Mikey’s face. Hope’s freeze-outs. All of them are cups battering the walls of the trash can.
I barrel over to a table for more cups, wondering who I’ll dedicate this next batch to, when I hear the unmistakable sound of cups thwacking against plastic. And then I realize, Hope is slinging hers, too. Now that I’ve noticed, I can’t not notice. I’m still thundering around the cafeteria, still throwing cups with the gusto of a closer in the final moments of a baseball game, but now I’m watching, too.
Hope power walks back and forth, faster with each trip, never making eye contact. Her shoes slap louder against the gray and white tiles.
Snatch up cups with as much venom as possible.
Slapslapslap across the floor.
Hurl water into sink and cups into trash.
Maybe we’re dueling, armed with nothing but paper cups. Or maybe we are partners in our anger, composing a song of stomps and slams and water trickling down the sink. After a few minutes, she adds a loud, huffy sigh to our concerto. I answer back by launching my cups as hard as I can. Her steps falter, and I feel the tingling of her eyes on the back of my neck, but when I turn, she’s getting more cups. So I do the same. Grabbing more cups, and more, and more. We’ve only got a couple tables left now.
And then it happens. We both reach the trash can at exactly the same time. There’s a second’s hesitation. Do we toss the cups in gently now that we’ve caught each other? Our eyes flick from the now-almost-full trash can to each other. And we go for it. Slam down our cups like three-year-olds on a sugar bender, the last droplets of water splattering the wall in front of us. Hope raises her eyebrows, and one side of my mouth curls up in a sideways smirk.
I wonder if I should say something. Before I have time to worry about it, Hope stomps away. But I can tell by the way her shoulders are bouncing that she’s smiling. I stomp off in the other direction. Only now I’m smiling, too.
Everyone has seen the prank. Everyone knows I was involved. And everyone has something to say about it.
Paul: Hey, did you really do it? Everyone’s talking about it. You’re a legend, man. A legend. Hey, only next time tell me so I can be a legend, too, okay?
Ethan and Mikey (who seem to be forgetting I saved their sorry skins last night): If you tell anyone, we’ll kill you.
Dean: I can’t believe your punk ass is getting all the credit. You still haven’t said anything, though, right?
The only person I haven’t heard from is Jayla. I figured I’d see her first thing. Paul and I walk the halls looking for her.
“I can’t believe you’re missing the first meet.”
“I know.”
“This is the worst news ever.”
“I know.”
(Everything you need to know about Paul: He’s the kind of person where I can say, “Hey, isn’t my Greenbottle Blue the coolest?! He’s got this awesome turquoise-colored carapace.” Instead of: “Hey, check out the big-ass spider I got for my birthday!” So, basically, the best kind.)
Then he reminds me of a missing critical item in my prank fallout list: “Have you talked to Coach yet?”
“Shit.”
He snorts. “I guess that’s a no.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, it’s probably going to suck.”
When we finally run into Jayla, she’s outside the chorus room holding court over a gaggle of other freshmen. They’re fanned out around her, and she’s shining the way she always does when she’s in the spotlight. Then she sees me.
“Spencer!” She hops up and flings her arms around my neck. Like I’m so important. Totally worth jumping to her feet and interrupting her conversation for. She was the first girl to ever think I was worth noticing, period. Three months later, and it’s still my favorite thing about her. “Where have you been? I’ve been texting you all morning.”
I wave bye to Paul as he does the best-friend fadeaway. “I’m sorry. My parents took my phone. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“It’s okay,” she says. I can feel her smile against my mouth as she kisses me in front of all her friends.
The hive buzzes with snickers and oooohs, but the attention only feeds her grin until it blossoms into a giggle. Some people like to talk shit about Jayla, saying she’s a drama queen and stuff. And yeah, she loves singing and being in plays and all that, and sometimes when she talks, it seems like she’s performing for an imaginary audience. But they can call her an attention whore all they want, because you know what? My girlfriend is awesome. It never fazes her when my tics flare up in public and people start staring, because she’s cool with being looked at. She always gives a big smile and a wave like they’re staring at us because we’re movie stars, and it totally calms me down, and I forget to feel like The Kid with Tourette’s Syndrome.
“Hey, you think we could go talk for a minute?” I glance to the circle of freshmen at my feet as if to say “without your entourage.”
“Sure!” She turns to them. “Spencer really needs me right now, but I’ll catch up with y’all later, okay?”
She can’t hide her excitement over the fact that she’s about to know ALL THE SECRETS. Her hand finds mine as we make our way to an empty stretch of hall and lean against a window. It’s as private as we’re gonna get unless we go somewhere that might get us into trouble. People stare and whisper as they pass us. A couple guys salute.
“So. What happened? Everyone in school is talking about it!” Her eyes sparkle at my minor celebrity, and she leans closer. “Were you really there?”
“I’ll tell you everything, I promise. But, first, did they post the Oklahoma! list yet? Did you get the part?” The way she’s been grinning, she must have—
“No.” And the grin disappears.
“Are you serious?”
“Justin Irby and this red-haired girl who’s a junior got the leads. And I’m playing Ado Annie. Opposite Calvin Jennings. Because I guess Ms. Pickett couldn’t handle the idea of any interracial kissing onstage.”
I pull her into a hug. “I’m so sorry. That is not okay.”
“Thanks,” she says into my shoulder. Then she pulls away. “And just in case you’re wondering, I heard the other girl audition, and I know I was the best.”
“Hey, I’m not doubting you. I’ve heard you sing.” I lace my fingers through hers. “Are you going to, like, appeal it or anything?”
“I don’t know. I have to spend three more years in her drama program, so I really don’t want to make waves this early. And I want people to know I deserved that role, but I don’t want to sound like the bitter actress who didn’t get the part. Or for people to say I’m an angry black girl. And, well, honestly, I’m a little scared.”
“Of Ms. Pickett?”
She shakes her head. “Not her exactly. Just, people. I don’t know what kind of backlash there would be. Sometimes the world doesn’t feel like the safest place, you know?” She’s quiet for a second. “But I did have one idea.”
“What is it?”
She smiles, and it banishes some of the sadness from her face. “Maybe I could act like Ado Annie is the star of Oklahoma! Upstage Laurey a bit?”
“YES.”
“You think?”
“Hell, yes. Sing circles around her. Dance the crap out of all your songs. Make sure everyone who’s watching wonders why you didn’t get that part.”
She squeezes my hand. “I think I will. But, hey. Tell me about the prank stuff because we’re running out of time, and gossip cheers me up. Did you do it?”
“Not exactly. I mean, I was there last night, kind of, but it was a senior prank. Someone called Pam and told her that the administration knew, so I came to warn everybody. And then right after I got here, Vice Principal Kahn showed up. Everyone else bolted, and I got caught.”
“That is so cool. Not the part about you getting caught. The part where you pretty much saved all the seniors’ asses. They must love you right now.”
I think about Ethan and Mikey cornering me outside the bathroom. “Oh, yeah. Totally.”
“And the cafeteria. Oh, wow, people are gonna be talking about this prank forever. I love how they blacked out the windows so it’s all dark in there.”
“Oh, y’all don’t even know the best part.” I tell her about Vice Principal Kahn and the penis confetti. Jayla laughs so hard she wheezes.
“That guy scares the crap out of me. People are gonna freak when they hear this.”
Her face is flushed with gossip she can’t wait to share, and I’m glad I could make her so happy. The warning bell rings, and we walk to art class together.
“Did you get in a ton of trouble?”
“Grounded for a month.”
She groans.
“Pam’ll probably give me my phone back after a few days, though. Dean never answers his, and it drives her crazy.” My upbeat act falters. “No dates, though.”
“Well, that’s okay.” She bumps her hip against mine. “We’ll just have to get creative.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but the mischief flickering in her eyes makes me want to find out.
“And you can still wrestle, right?” She bites her lip.
I tell her about having to miss my meet, and she turns into a tiny ball of rage and does a hilarious impression of Kahn.
“I have to see him every morning for a whole month,” I say. “Doesn’t that suck? He had me carrying water cups to the sink for over an hour this morning.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” says Jayla. And then she says the part I’ve been dreading. “I heard Hope was there, too.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s just because we both got caught so we have the same detention.” Are we still in a hallway? Because it suddenly feels a lot like a sauna in here. The collar of my shirt tries to strangle my neck.
“So, you and Hope were the only two who got caught?”
“Yeah, but that’s only because she twisted her ankle.”
I can see the pieces fitting together in her head. “And everyone else ran, but you went back to save her?”
“Yeah, but you know me. I’d do that for anyone.”
She smiles, and it looks just the way a Jayla smile should, but her voice is soft. “I know you would.”
Day Two of our painfully early, painfully awkward punishment.
Kahn has us scrubbing lockers. Well, first he has us listen to an excruciating lecture on proper locker-scrubbing technique (it turns out spray paint comes off with non-acetone nail-polish remover, but you have to wipe that off with soapy water or it’ll take the paint off the lockers). Then, he has us scrubbing lockers. Hope grabs a bucket and gets right to it. She’s still not talking, but she’s not stomping, either. Sometimes I think about saying something. And by sometimes, I mean every five minutes because this is so. Freaking. Awkward. I’m serious. This silence has hands and they’re choking me.
I dunk my rag in the soapy water and think about saying, “Man, this sucks.” But I don’t.
Hope scrubs at a four-letter word, and I contemplate telling her how glad I am that they never got around to releasing the crickets. Those would have been a beast to track down. I don’t say any of that, either.
When I go to rinse my rag, I decide I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to say something. Anything. Nothing could be worse than this silence.
I open my mouth. Give myself a second to clear my throat. And then another second. The problem is, I keep thinking about what I’ll say. And then I practice it in my head. Approximately 2,367 ti
mes. And once you’ve said something in your head 2,367 times, it doesn’t sound cool anymore. Hell, it doesn’t even sound like words anymore. And then I’m back to clearing my throat, trying to think of something else.
Maybe I should wait until she turns around. Yeah, that’s it. If she turns, it’s a sign that I should say something. So, I wait. And I wait. And then I wait a little more. I mean, she’ll have to turn eventually, right? But she doesn’t.
Well, if she’s not going to turn on her own, maybe I could do something to help her along. I let my rag fall into the water with a splash that echoes down the empty hallway. She flinches. My heart forgets to beat. Her shoulders start to twist around! And . . . it’s just so she can reach the next locker better.
I know it doesn’t really mean anything. That I could still say something. But I go back to scrubbing lockers, because I don’t have the guts.
Day Three
Is even worse.
We have to pick up all the penis confetti in Vice Principal Kahn’s office. By hand. I asked if we could have a vacuum or broom or something, and was told that this way is better because it builds character.
Neither of us says anything today. With Kahn hovering over us, and the fear that the slightest misstep could trigger a lecture, there’s no way we’re risking it. At one point, though, he blows his nose, and it sounds like a foghorn, and we can’t help but smile at each other.
Day Four
We’re peeling an ocean of Post-its off the outside of the administrative suite. I’m standing on a ladder and ripping off the highest ones, while Hope works on the bottom ones. It’s really pretty cool looking when you stare at it from a distance. Two whole walls blanketed in bright, bright, bright Post-its spelling out SENIORS, with a different font color and background color for each letter. It almost looks like pop art. I wrench off a row of Post-its in rapid succession. It would be easier to appreciate their artistic potential if it wasn’t 6:15 in the morning.
I peek down at Hope to see how she’s doing, and suddenly her face is tilted up, looking back at mine, and I whip my head back to my Post-its like, No, I wasn’t looking at you. I’d never even dream of looking at you, like ever. Especially not right now when you’re reaching for a Post-it, and it’s making your shirt pull away from your jeans, and there are entire square inches of skin showing. And then it gets worse—there are back dimples. I wait for something to happen, like me falling off this ladder. But I’m good. No weird butterflies or sweaty palms. No heart palpitations. See? I can be around her and be normal. I don’t have to totally freak out and make an ass out of myself. I mean, yes, there was that thing with our eyes in the parking lot when I was talking to Jayla, but I’m counting that as an anomaly. Because back dimples, well, that’s about the highest form of temptation, right?
A Taxonomy of Love Page 14