7 Clues to Winning You

by Kristin Walker

  Trying to dodge one particularly vocal jerk, I made a wrong turn into what must’ve been the senior wing and rammed into the back of this tall skinny guy with dirty-blond hair and glasses. I apologized and tried to leave, but he snapped his locker closed and snagged my elbow. “Hold on. Who are you? You look familiar.” At which point I rolled my eyes and tugged my arm away. I turned to go, but he stepped in front of me. “Wait! Now I recognize you. You’re McMussolini’s daughter. Wow, shouldn’t you be over in Meriton with the rest of the socialites? What brings you out here to the slums?”

  Even though I knew I shouldn’t acknowledge any of these baboons, this guy irked me. So I tried a different Mom technique where she turns someone’s sarcastic comment on its head and makes the commenter look like an idiot.

  I gave the tall guy with glasses an innocent look and said, “I’m here to be educated. And what an education it’s been so far, let me tell you. The overwhelming reception I’ve received this morning has touched me in the most unexpected fashion. I especially appreciate the way you’ve welcomed me, how you’ve gone out of your way to treat a complete stranger as though you actually knew her. I’ll be sure not to forget it. Ever.”

  I didn’t wait for a response. I tossed my auburn hair and waltzed away without looking back. I kept going until I found the damnable office. I didn’t stop at the counter, either. I stormed right past it, through the clutch of secretaries’ desks, and straight into Dad’s office. I shut the door behind me before he even thought to say “come in.”

  The way he looked at that moment spooked me, though. It was like he’d just been caught. Wide eyes. Fish mouth. Hands dangling at his sides like empty sleeves. That’s when I realized he knew something. He knew something I didn’t know. Something bad.

  He held both hands out in front of him to stop me. “I just found out,” he said. “I didn’t know before now. One of the secretaries only just told me.”

  “Told you what? Wait, let me guess,” I said. I pointed in the direction of the hallway. “She told you that I didn’t even make it twenty feet inside the door before some girl called me ‘that booger girl’ and people started laughing? Even freshmen! They couldn’t have seen the picture. How would they know? How could everyone still remember it enough to recognize me?”

  “It might have something to do with the yearbook,” he said meekly.

  I narrowed my eyes and glared at him through the slivered gaps. I tried to stop my hands from trembling by clutching the strap of my messenger bag in a death grip. “What about the yearbook?”

  He said nothing.

  “What about the yearbook, DAD?”

  He patted the air with both hands to try to get me to calm down. It didn’t work. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said. I didn’t believe him. He took a baby step toward me and spoke in a low, steady voice. “When I told Gladys—she’s the head secretary out there—when I told her that I was registering you for school here, she looked surprised. I asked her why, and she said because of the yearbook. When I said I didn’t know what she was talking about, she told me that one of the pictures in this year’s yearbook is … you know … the picture … of you. From last year.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Now, honey …” he started, but I didn’t let him finish.

  “You’re the principal! You’re my father! How could you let them do that?”

  He shook his head frantically. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I should have known, but I didn’t. These things are delegated out to the faculty, and the teacher in charge is new and didn’t catch it, and obviously nobody knew you’d be matriculating here. Gladys happened to notice the picture when she sent the proofs off to the printer, but she assumed I’d given it the go-ahead, which, of course, I never, ever would do, so …” He trailed off.

  I stood there stunned. My body hummed like a super-charged electric coil. Full of useless, angry joules with no circuit to flow through. “But everyone knows,” I said. My jaw was clenched so tight, it barely moved. “It wasn’t just the yearbook committee. People everywhere were laughing at me.”

  Dad blinked a few times and his face went blank. “That I can’t explain. I don’t know how everyone knows. I’m sorry, honey. I think you should just go back out there and act as though everything is fine and dandy, and the whole picture thing is a funny joke. Soon enough it’ll be yesterday’s news.”

  I looked my dad straight in the eye and said, “The only place I’m going back to is Meriton.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t.”

  I planted my hands on my hips and cocked one shoulder up. “Oh, really? Why?”

  “Because I already pulled your registration from Meriton. It’s against the law to be registered in two different schools.” He sighed deeply, puffing his cheeks out. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and started rocking on his heels. Whoa, bad sign.

  “I know you’re unhappy right now, Blythe, but Ash Grove is your school. You’re just going to have to find some way to reconcile the conflicts presented to you. It’s the kind of skill that will help you throughout your life. There’s no way you can judge this school after having been here five minutes. We have a strong school. We have a fine student body. You’re going to have to adapt, Blythe, and that’s all there is to it.” I couldn’t believe all the principal-speak he was throwing at me. He motioned to the door to usher me out as if I were a total stranger. “Now let’s get your registration papers signed, print out your schedule, and get you off to class.”

  My feet wouldn’t move. Not that I wanted them to. I was stunned that my father had pulled his Principal Mac routine on me. Stunned and hurt, to be honest. This had been the closest thing we’d ever had to a fight. I guess it actually was one. Normally, here’s how our disagreements went: I got upset and Dad caved. That was how it worked.

  I never took advantage of the situation, though, because I knew that if I did, eventually it would stop working. And since I didn’t abuse it, Dad didn’t feel bad about caving. He knew that if I got upset over something, then it must be genuinely important to me, and I wasn’t faking or manipulating him. What he and I had was a perfectly harmonious symbiosis. Or at least it had been up to that moment, when I realized I was just another student to him.

  I got my schedule and one of the secretaries walked me to my homeroom so I wouldn’t get lost and be late. That’s the reason she gave, anyway. I suspected that my dad had asked her to escort me so I wouldn’t take off.

  Luckily, most of my classrooms were in the same hall as my homeroom, so I made it through the morning without running into any more skinny guys with glasses accusing me of being a fascist’s daughter. I got a lot of stares and snickers, though. A few people (mostly guys, but not all, if you can believe it) dug their pinkies knuckle-deep into their nostrils and shouted, “Pick a winner!” at me.

  When the morning finally ended and I headed for the cafeteria, my heart started pounding like a jackhammer. I knew lunch was going to be disastrous. Anyone who has ever eaten in a high school cafeteria can understand this. The only thing that governs the chaos of high school cafeterias is the law of the jungle. If you happen to be the proverbial gazelle in this horde of jackals, then prepare for the worst.

  Every cafeteria smells the same, too. Why is that? I don’t know. But I do know that the stench of old soup, used fryer oil, and vinegar seemed to hang in the cafeteria air like a fog. I made a quick mental sweep of the room and decided that my best course of action was to grab a strawberry yogurt and a bag of pretzels (rather than waiting in line for an entrée) and walk straight to the back corner of the room where a couple of emos or punks or possible heroin addicts were making out at an otherwise empty table. At Meriton, these two would be called wasteoids. Here, I didn’t care what they were called. They were already isolated from the rest of the students, so I figured people would probably avoid that table. I made a beeline for it. Any port in a storm, right?

  I plunked down in a seat at the table on the opposite end of
the face-sucking emo/punk/addicts and peeled the lid off my yogurt. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the girl was sitting on the guy’s lap with one arm around his neck and the other one clutching one of the chains looping through his black canvas jacket. The two of them were making out so hard that I could actually hear it. That’s right; I could hear their slobbery kissing. Unfortunately, when I stirred my yogurt it made an uncannily similar slurping sound, so I set it right down and grabbed my bag of pretzels. Now, I must say that whoever produced these pretzels was clearly a jerk, because no matter what I did, I couldn’t pull the bag open. I tried to be discreet about it, but it wasn’t budging, even when I put more effort into it than dignity allowed. I got so frustrated that I ended up grunting and grimacing, and I could feel my face turning into a sweaty, puffy beet. Finally, I gave up and smacked the bag on the table.

  “Want me to try?”

  It was the wasteoid guy. He and his girlfriend were evidently taking an oxygen break. “Sure,” I said, and shot the bag sliding down the table toward him. He snatched them up and tore the top open in one motion. “There’s a little nick in the bag at the top,” he said. “You tear, not pull.” His girlfriend whispered something in his ear and then kissed him full on the mouth. Afterward—while still on his lap—she plucked the bag from his fingers and leaned down the length of the table to hand it to me. She had about eight chunky silver rings on each hand and black-tipped fingernails that made me think of a French manicure gone evil.

  “Thanks,” I tossed off. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I scooted over to take the pretzel bag and ended up a bit closer to them. I didn’t want to scoot away, though, because I thought it would seem rude. Instead, I kept eye contact to a minimum. I focused very hard on the bag of pretzels, as though I’d never seen anything more captivating than packaged snack foods.

  “I’m Jenna,” the girl said. I broke my stare from the spellbinding pretzels to look at her. She tipped her head slightly. “This is Cy.” Cy hitched his chin in an upward nod. I tried not to ogle the monster-sized pointed metal stud poking out of the skin below his bottom lip. Or the black disk gauges in his ears. Or the lethal-looking silver spike speared through the upper ridges of his left ear. I seriously thought he could take someone out with that thing if he felt like it.

  Jenna, on the other hand, only had a barbell through one eyebrow, although I was pretty sure I’d caught a glimpse of a tongue piercing. Her hair was shaggy and dyed three different colors: black on top, hot pink in the middle, and bleach blond underneath. Sort of like furry Neapolitan ice cream. She was wearing a boat-neck, three-quarter-sleeve, black-and-white-striped top with black leggings with an oversized studded belt. Actually quite stylish in an edgy, French bohemian sort of way.

  Both Cy’s and Jenna’s eyes were lined with heavy black eyeliner and were focused directly on mine. I managed a respectable lady look and said, “I’m Blythe.”

  Jenna’s scarlet pouty lips curled into a sly smile. “We know who you are.”

  I sighed and set down my pretzels. Here we go. “Okay, let’s have it,” I said.

  Neither one of them said a word. “What are you waiting for?” I said. “Go ahead. Call me the booger girl. Tell me I’m daddy’s precious pet. Pretend to pick your nose and have a big ol’ laugh. Can we just get this over with so I can eat my lu … lu …”

  I couldn’t finish. The corners of my eyes started stinging, and a second later, tears rolled down my face. I swiped them off with the back of my hand. I straightened up and inhaled deeply through my nose. But as I slowly let the breath whoosh out of my mouth, the tears let loose again. I sniffled and dove into my messenger bag for a tissue. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cy pull a napkin from the dispenser on the table and hand it to Jenna, who squirmed off his lap and handed it to me. “Why would we do that?” she asked.

  I dabbed the napkin into the corner of my eyes and blew my nose. “Why wouldn’t you? Everyone else is,” I said, thankful that I had my back to the room at least, so no one but Cy and Jenna could see my micro-meltdown.

  “I don’t know if you can tell,” Cy said, “but we’re not really the type to do the same stupid shit that those freaks do.” A lock of his messy black hair fell over one eye. Jenna swept it back and gently kissed his forehead.

  I wiped my teary eyes carefully so my makeup didn’t smudge. “I just don’t understand how so many people know who I am. I mean, yeah, my picture went viral last year, and I know that”—I had to stop and take a staccato breath—“that it’s going to be in the yearbook.” Took another breath, peppering like a machine gun. “But how come it’s not just the yearbook people who recognize me? It’s like everyone’s been staring at that picture for the past month.”

  “Yeah, well …” Cy pursed his lips and then said, “That’s because they were.”

  I froze with the sodden napkin pressed to my nose. “What do you mean, ‘they were’?”

  Jenna crossed her arms and leaned over the table toward me. She kept her voice down, which I appreciated. “There was a caption contest,” she said. “The yearbook snobs thought it would be funny to have a contest where people submitted witty—”

  “But mostly insulting—” Cy interjected.

  Jenna continued, “Mostly insulting sayings or captions for a few of the yearbook pictures.”

  Cy said, “Everyone voted on their favorite caption, and the winner is being printed with the picture in the yearbook.”

  Jenna gave me an almost apologetic look, which was a nice effort. “One of the pictures was yours. The contest ran for three weeks.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my swollen nose. This wasn’t happening. There was just no way. “Where were the pictures and captions posted?” I already could guess the answer, but I was grasping at wisps of hope here.

  Jenna shared a glance with Cy, and I knew I was right. She said, “On Buried Ashes. It’s this online newspaper. I think that’s where your picture got posted last year too. Anyway, that’s where it was. I guess people thought it’d make sense to have the contest there since everybody already goes to the site.”

  Sometimes a bad situation will get worse and worse until it’s so bad that it defies all odds and reason and therefore becomes ridiculous and actually funny.

  This wasn’t one of those times. I pretended it was, though. I drew my mouth up into a smile and forced a few raspy chuckles out of my throat. “Well. That’s just fantastic. That sure explains it.” I think I looked more deranged than anything. To Cy and Jenna’s credit, even though it was obvious that I was faking, they didn’t call me out on it.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The winning caption was ‘Pick a winner,’ right?”

  Jenna nodded.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Cy said as he snagged one of my pretzels and popped it in his mouth. “It could be worse. The one that came in a close second was ‘Boogers: the other white meat.’”

  That was what did it. That was the thing that tipped the situation right over into funny. I pressed my lips together, but spurts of laughter kept bursting out. Watching Jenna and Cy try not to laugh was even funnier. Finally, I just let go and the three of us cracked up over in our own little corner of the jungle.

  I laughed so hard my nose started running again. I blew it right there at the table, which would’ve horrified Mom. “Do either of you know whose brilliant idea it was to put the picture in the yearbook in the first place?”

  They both shook their heads. Cy said, “No idea.”

  “Someone from the yearbook committee, I guess,” Jenna added.

  “You don’t know any names?” I asked.

  Cy snorted. “I try to know as little information about these people as possible.”

  Jenna shared an amused look with him. “We’re not exactly joiners,” she said.

  I’d have to get the names from Dad. “What about that online newspaper?” I asked. “Do you know who runs that?”

  “Yeah, that’s Luke Pavel,” Jenna said.
“He’s a senior. He started Buried Ashes his sophomore year. He thinks it’s cutting-edge news that the administration doesn’t want the students to know, but it’s mostly just a tabloid.”

  Cy disagreed. “There’s some decent information. He’ll write about some issue or whatever that nobody knew anything about. Something substantial. He’s a decent guy even if he does have a bit of a god complex. Like he answers to some higher power of integrity and has an obligation to undermine authority and expose corruption.” Cy said the last bit in Superman’s voice. Then he made a gesture indicating a certain sexual act performed on a man.

  I blushed and glanced downward to hide it, digging my spork into my yogurt. “Oh, sure. He’s chock-full of integrity. Posting embarrassing pictures of people he doesn’t even know is so admirable. What a guy.”

  Jenna stared out the window. “It’s easy to embarrass people you don’t know.”

  Cy beamed at her. “Spoken like the true goddess you are. A hot, sexy goddess.” They kissed again with lots of tongue, so I politely pretended I was invisible.

  When they came up for air again, I asked what Luke Pavel looked like.

  “Tall guy. Glasses,” Cy said.

  “Blondish hair,” Jenna added. “Kinda curly.”

  “Wait a sec. Is he skinny? Tall, skinny guy with wire-frame glasses?”

  “I wouldn’t call him skinny,” Jenna said. “He’s, like, lean. But in a cute way.” Cy reared back and fake-gaped at her. She blushed.

  “Oh, really?” Cy tickled her ribs. “Cute, eh?” Jenna giggled and squirmed. Cy laughed. “So you think Luke Pavel is cute, do you?”

  “Yes!” Jenna gasped. “He’s gorgeous!” Cy tickled harder and she squealed. “He’s so sexy with those hot, hot”—more tickling, more squealing—“hot Harry Potter glasses!” Cy kept her in wriggling hysterics for a few more seconds before finally letting her go. She laid her head on the table and curled her arm around it, panting. With the other arm, she gave Cy a shove, and he winked at her.

  “I think I might have met him,” I said. “He called me ‘McMussolini’s daughter.’”