Made You Up

by Francesca Zappia

  Miles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and my IQ is twenty-five. Really, what were you doing?”

  “Having mono.” I gave him the you-really-shouldn’t-push-this-any-further look, but apparently Miles Richter didn’t understand everything, because he scoffed and moved in front of me, blocking my path.

  “Yes, the symptoms of mono include reacting to things that aren’t there, screaming for no reason at all, and flailing on the ground like you’re about to be ax murdered.”

  My face flushed with heat. “It was mono,” I whispered.

  “You’re schizophrenic.”

  I stood there, blinking stupidly.

  Say something, idiot!

  If I didn’t, he’d have no doubt.

  Say something! Say something!

  I turned and walked away.

  I wanted to shoot Miles in the kneecaps more than ever. Accusations about my mental state were the cherry on top of the I-framed-you-for-setting-someone-on-fire sundae. The dickiest of dickery. I could go to jail for the fire thing—not only was Celia’s dad a lawyer, but her family was loaded. We were so poor my mother took three quarters of my paycheck every week to supplement the family income.

  Theo assured me that, if Miles really was the one running the job to set Celia’s hair on fire, he wouldn’t have let me take the fall for it. Not something that serious.

  I didn’t know if I believed her. Some of the things Miles did for money were pretty out there. He’d actually abducted someone’s ex-boyfriend’s beloved golden retriever.

  After that I avoided him. I tried to avoid Celia, too. She walked around the school complaining about “attempts on her life.” She glared at me constantly and flipped her hair whenever I was near, highlighting how short she’d been forced to cut it. Even Stacey and Britney seemed a little wary of Celia now, as if she’d set the fire herself.

  I didn’t talk to Miles for most of the week. Not even in our lab on Wednesday, when I broke our watch glass, spilling chemicals all over the table. Miles bent down to pick up the pieces. Then, since our lab was ruined, he fabricated data that ended up being more accurate than anyone else’s.

  When I walked into the gym at the end of the day on Thursday, Art and Jetta sat playing cards on one end of the bleachers. Miles was stretched out on the row above them, his battered notebook open over his face. The cheerleading squad practiced on the other side of the gym, their voices echoing off the walls.

  As I approached the club, Art leaned back and nudged Miles in the ribs.

  “Hey.” I sat down beside Jetta. A solid two feet separated us, but it still counted.

  “What’s up?” said Art. “Did anyone say anything to you about the fire?”

  Miles lifted the edge of his notebook and peeked out. When our eyes met, he groaned.

  “Not really. Weird looks, but not much else. I didn’t do it.”

  “We know. Celia did,” said Art.

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Celia did it to herself. We went back and interrogated her.”

  “You . . . you interrogated her? What’d you do, threaten to take her makeup off and reveal her secret identity?”

  “Mein Chef said ‘ee would shave ’er eyebrows off.” Jetta smiled brightly. “Among uzzer zings. She told us everyzing—she set ze fire ’erself, Stacey and Britney had ze water, and she blamed eet on you.”

  Mein Chef? Was—was she talking about Miles? I looked up at him, but he only grunted.

  “It’s a good thing Stacey and Britney put her out when they did,” said Art. “If they’d let her burn, you’d’ve been in deep shit.”

  “Oui,” said Jetta. “Deep sheet.”

  Miles groaned again. I whipped around. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to tell you,” he snapped. He sat up long enough to procure a pen from thin air and jot something down in his notebook. The side of his left hand was smeared with black ink from his pinkie to his wrist. Maybe his notebook contained a list of his mafia jobs. Or all the people who owed him money. Maybe—ooh, maybe it was a hit list.

  Bet I was on there a couple hundred times.

  Calculus homework by itself was a bitch, but when you added the screams and giggles of the East Shoal cheerleading squad, it became unbearable. I plowed my way through a half hour of derivatives before the cheerleaders quieted and the coach addressed them.

  “So, ladies,” said Coach Privett, a forty-something squat gym teacher with scraggly dark hair. “Basketball season is here, and it’s time to pick another cheer captain. Hannah put in her two cents, and I agree with her.”

  “Who is it?” someone called. The whole group giggled.

  Coach Privett said, “Drumroll, please,” and the girls pounded their feet on the floor.

  Art and Jetta stopped their card game long enough to shoot the cheerleaders dirty looks. Miles flopped onto his side in annoyance.

  Celia sat among the cheerleaders, like a hyena in front of a bloody haunch of meat. She had that deadly obsessive look in her eyes that girls got when they knew what they wanted and were going to do anything to get it.

  The same look she had whenever she laid eyes on Miles. Which made no sense to me. What girl in her right mind would be obsessed with Miles? I wasn’t even obsessed with him. Me, who thought he might be Blue Eyes, and who had come to the unfortunate conclusion that even if he wasn’t Blue Eyes, I still didn’t mind noting the way he raked his hair to the side when it fell over his forehead, or how he stretched his legs out exactly twenty minutes into each class.

  At least my attention to him was because I couldn’t get away from him. Celia had to have a different reason.

  Coach Privett clapped her hands together. “Aaaand . . . the new cheer captain is . . .”

  They sucked in a collective breath.

  “. . . Britney Carver!”

  A ripple ran through the girls, and then lots of cheering and clapping and Britney squealed and stood and made a little bow.

  Celia did not cheer, and she did not clap. Her entire face flushed with color as she gazed at her alleged best friend with cold-blooded murder in her wide, rabid eyes. I could imagine it as a cartoon—Celia’s teeth turning into fangs and steam blowing out her ears as she grabbed Britney around the neck and throttled her until Britney’s eyes popped out of her head.

  When Coach Privett concluded the meeting and the cheerleaders dispersed, Celia still stood there, hands balled at her sides, jaw clenched. Her eyes made a quick sweep of the gym and saw me watching her. I looked down at my book. She turned and stomped across the gym and stood underneath the scoreboard.

  Was it possible for someone to act the way she did because that was just the way she was? Or was there always a reason? I’d like to think, if someone saw me acting strangely, they wouldn’t assume it was because I was a bad person. Or they’d at least ask if something was wrong before they made the decision.

  “Boss, are we done here?” Art asked.

  Miles, who had fallen asleep, jolted awake and mumbled something about going home. We gathered up our bags and headed to the exit. I was the last one out, and right before the doors closed, the yelling started.

  But it wasn’t Celia’s voice.

  I jerked around in surprise and stuck my head back into the gym. Standing under the scoreboard with Celia, her back to me, was a woman in a sharp business suit, her blond hair waving down to the middle of her back. I glanced over my shoulder; Miles and the others were still walking, too far away to have heard.

  Celia’s head was down, both hands up by her ears, like she was ready to block out everything around her.

  “I thought it would be okay . . .” she said. “I thought . . .”

  “That you had the situation under control?” The woman’s voice was sickly sweet with an undercurrent of poisonous. I had heard that voice before, at the volleyball game on the first day of school.

  “I did,” Celia whined. “I don’t know why . . . I knew they were going to pick me . . .”
/>   “But they didn’t. You want to explain that?”

  “I don’t know!” Celia fisted one hand in her hair. “I did everything exactly like you told me! I did it all right!”

  “Apparently not,” said the woman. “You wasted your time with that stunt you pulled at the bonfire. You’ve undermined yourself, and you’re ruining my plans. Where do you expect to go now?”

  “I don’t even like cheerleading. And Britney’s my friend—”

  “Your friend? You call that bitch your friend? You need to do something about her, Celia. You need to show her that she doesn’t deserve that position.”

  Celia whimpered something unintelligible.

  “And then you go around thinking a boy will make this all better,” the woman snapped. Blood-red fingernails tapped against her arm. “You’ve known him for five years and he’s hardly looked at you. He threatened to shave your eyebrows off! He’s an obstacle, Celia! One you need to remove.”

  “No, he’s not!”

  “I’m your mother—I know these things!”

  Her mother?

  Celia was crying now. She turned away from her mother to wipe her eyes, smudging her ugly mascara tears. Something slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor, making her jump. Her cell phone.

  When she bent down to get it, she saw me. Her eyes opened wide.

  I ran from the gym as fast as I could.

  * * *

  Do you ever think about lobsters?

  Very doubtful

  I think about lobsters all the time. You knew that already; I’ve told you the stories.

  Yes

  Do you think the lobsters in the tank try to help the other lobsters? Is that why they pile up like that? Or is it just for company, because they know they’re all doomed?

  Better not tell you now

  Either way, it must be nice to have someone.

  * * *

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Twenty

  I told Tucker about Celia and her mother the next day, when we both had to work the late shift at Finnegan’s.

  “And her mom just showed up at school?” Tucker said. “I didn’t think they got along.”

  I’d been considering the idea that the encounter had been some kind of hallucination, but there was confirmation—even Tucker knew about Celia’s mom.

  “Well they sure didn’t sound happy to see each other. I think her mom must have been watching,” I said. “She was there right after we walked out. But when Celia saw me, I swore she was going to fly across the gym and strangle me to death.”

  Tucker shook his head. “Add it to Celia’s list of Weird Conversations.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Did you know McCoy talks to Celia all the time?” he asked. “He calls her to his office all the time. I used to be the front desk attendant sophomore year, and a week into September, Celia started showing up every other day. Into McCoy’s office, stayed for half an hour, waltzed back out again. And she’s been doing that ever since. Think that was included in her mom’s ‘plans’?”

  “McCoy? No, I don’t think McCoy is included in anyone’s plans.”

  “Speaking of McCoy.” Tucker leaned against the counter and clipped his mechanical pencil to the frames of his glasses. “Talking about the scoreboard legend a while back got me curious. I’m going to the library on Saturday to research—wanna come? I’ll pick you up.”

  I thrust out my hand. “Deal.”

  Though I felt better after telling Tucker what I’d seen, I spent the next days wondering if Celia was going to jump out and stab me. She didn’t, but she did shoot me warning looks that said I’d get shanked if I went near her.

  I was still jittery on Friday. I sat on a bench outside school and waited for the parking lot to quiet down—there were still way too many cars around and I didn’t want to take Erwin into that sort of hostile environment. The lights cast wide yellow pools on the asphalt. Most kids had stayed inside for some sort of basketball after-party in the gym, and anyone out here was in their car and gone within minutes.

  Except for one person.

  I spotted her when she crept out from behind a row of cars. Celia. She had a can of paint in one hand, and she shook it as she peered over her shoulder.

  Abandoning my backpack on the bench, I darted down the next row of cars. I kneeled between two cars and watched her lean over the hood of a white convertible and paint the windshield.

  I pointed my camera. A minute later, Captain Bitch in neon pink covered the convertible’s windshield.

  Oh, great. Celia listened to her mom. Cheerleader retribution.

  The camera slipped from my fingers and clattered on the asphalt. Celia whipped around. Saw me kneeling there.

  I scooped up the camera and sprinted in the other direction. Celia screamed something and the paint can hit the hood of a car as I passed by. It burst open, spraying fluorescent pink everywhere. I veered left, ducking down so Celia wouldn’t see my head. I glanced through a car window. She raced down the row after me.

  I crawled along, doubled back, and passed her before rolling underneath a van.

  “RIDGEMONT!” I could see her sneakers. She walked back the other way. I held my breath as she passed the van.

  Please, please let me be hallucinating this. Because if I wasn’t, that meant Celia Hendricks really was losing it. Maybe her mom was pushing her there, or maybe she’d always been like this, but I was pretty sure if she found me right now she was going to rip my hair out.

  My salvation came a few seconds later.

  “Milesie!” Celia squealed.

  “What are you doing, Hendricks?” Miles’s feet—shiny shoes and all—came into view. He always walked like that, heel-toe-push, like he’d knock over anyone who got in his way.

  “Oh, nothing. Just hanging out. You?”

  Now they were both planted right in front of the van.

  “Nothing,” he replied. His voice was low and sharp. “Just wondering why you’re running around the parking lot, screaming your head off.”

  Celia hesitated. “No reason. I have to get going. But I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  She hurried off, and a moment later an engine started up.

  Miles was still there. I held my breath—if he’d move, I could go get Erwin and leave. I wanted him to find me under this van about as much as I wanted Celia to. He couldn’t see me like this.

  But then he walked to the van’s front bumper, kneeled down, and peered underneath. “Having fun?” he asked.

  I let out a gust of breath and set my forehead against the asphalt. What an asshole.

  “Running from crazy people is always fun,” I replied.

  Miles helped me out from under the van. As I brushed myself off, he asked, “So what was she chasing you for?”

  “That depends,” I said, bringing up the picture of Celia spray-painting Britney’s car on my camera. I showed it to him. Please be there. Please be there. “What do you see?”

  He pushed his glasses up and stared at it for a moment. “I see Celia getting angry about her cheerleading position and taking it out on Britney Carver’s car with some offensively bright paint.”

  I almost hugged him. “Oh, good.”

  “Are you going to tell Britney?” he asked.

  “Why? Do you think she’d believe me?”

  “With this evidence? Sure. But good luck getting to her with Celia around.”

  “I’ll probably give these to Mr. Gunthrie or someone on Monday.”

  “Give them to Claude.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll give them to his dad, and he’ll make sure everyone knows about it.”

  “That seems excessively mean.”

  “Celia was prepared to beat you to a bloody pulp a few minutes ago,” he pointed out.

  I made a mental note to go to the newspape
r room Monday morning and give Claude the pictures.

  Miles and I walked back up to the school. The crickets and cicadas had faded for the year, leaving the night quiet and undisturbed. Miles’s truck was parked against the curb, near Erwin’s bushes. The light outside the school’s front entrance illuminated the whole front walk. I grabbed Erwin’s handlebars.

  The front half of my bike slipped free of the bush.

  Only the front half.

  Someone had cut my bike in half. It had been rusting away in the middle, but I was positive I’d get at least another semester out of the poor thing. Anger welled up in my chest.

  Someone cut my bike in half.

  Pressure built up behind my eyes. I had no transportation.

  My mother would call me careless for letting this happen. She’d give me a lecture about respecting my possessions, even though I’d heard it a thousand times before. I wiped my eyes on the back of my sleeve and forced the knot back down my throat.

  Dad had bought me Erwin. Brought Erwin all the way from Egypt. He was basically an artifact, and one of the few things I had from Dad that I knew for sure was real. He was priceless.

  And now he was broken.

  I grabbed the back half and rounded on Miles, who still stood a few feet behind me, looking mildly surprised. “Did you do this?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Right.” I grabbed my bag from the bench and started down the sidewalk.

  “You’re going to walk home?”

  “Yep.”

  “Great plan.” He planted himself in front of me. “I can’t let you. Not in the dark.”

  “Well that’s too bad, isn’t it?” I wondered when he’d decided to become a white knight. “I didn’t ask for your permission.”

  “And I won’t ask for yours,” he retorted. “I will throw you in my truck.”

  “And I will scream rape,” I replied evenly.

  He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t cut your bike in half. I swear.”

  “Why should I believe you? You’re kind of notorious for being a lying, thieving bastard.” He shrugged.

  “You don’t explain yourself to anyone, do you?”

  He motioned to his truck. “Will you please get in?”