by Lauren Kate
"I thought you gave up idol worship." It was Justin, leaning against the wall and smirking at me with those same green eyes. He smelled the way he always did--Kiehl's aftershave and freshly cut grass.
I gestured at the poster, unimpressed. "I was just checking to see whether that was a smudge or a giant mole on your chest," I said. "Have you put on some weight?"
"Cute cover up, Nat," he said in a low voice. "But I think we already know all about each other's secret charming imperfections." His hand grazed the small of my back, just inside the waist of my jeans.
I shoved him back against the locker, then quickly spun around to check for witnesses. I did not want anyone seeing me sweat Justin Balmer in plain sight. Luckily, the only person in the hallway was bespectacled Ari Ang, who scurried by carrying a beaker full of something green.
"I didn't see anything," the Anger pleaded, covering his large-frame glasses with his beaker. "I'm just on my way to chemistry. . . ." His voice trailed off, and I turned back around to face Justin.
Once, we might have laughed about the Anger's perpetual beaker handling. Now I wanted to spit my new piece of Juicy Fruit in J.B.'s face. But I made myself swallow the bilious instinct. I forced a smile.
"Aww," I cooed. "It's cute that you still think your--what was your phrase--charming imperfections are secret." I let my eyes pause deliberately on his crotch before spitting out my gum, tearing off a piece of Justin's poster, and wadding the yellow sphere inside it. "Don't worry," I went on, "my lips were sealed. But if you ever want to really check in with yourself, try hacking into the Bambi blog about you--and maybe stop slutting yourself out quite so much. Those girls are merciless. See ya."
"Nat," he grabbed my wrist, forcing me to look him in the eye. "Come on."
"Come on what?"
"Can't a guy change?" he asked so quietly I had to lean in to hear.
I hung there, knowing the answer like I knew my own name: no. But I couldn't make myself respond. Finally, I settled for whipping my hand away and ducking inside the junior bathroom. I leaned against the back of the door, working to catch my breath. I wondered if Justin was still standing on the other side. I wondered if there was anything I could do to rattle him.
"Hey Tracy," I said, refixing a smile on my face when I saw the juniors in their shamanistic circle.
Tracy Lampert rose from her royal-blue beanbag chair in the corner of the bathroom. Her long black braids swung forward when she moved in to give me a hug. Usually, I'm the first to go off about how a girl could hardly step away to check her voicemail in Charleston without getting a hug on her return, but after my hallway tumble with Justin, I didn't mind a little bit of affection, even from the pseudo-psychic Lampert.
"You okay, Nat?" Tracy asked. Even though her signature sapphire-tinted glasses hid her eyes, it was almost like her voice was squinting at me. "Your energy orb is very present. Which can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on--"
"I'm fine," I told Tracy.
She raised her eyebrows but dropped the subject.
"Sit down," she cooed. "Have some tea."
Tracy poured a steaming mug of chai from a hot pot on the windowsill, and her two cohorts Liza Arnold and Portia Stead sat down on the beanbag flanking her sides. Portia whipped her long hair up into a massive blonde bun, and Liza closed her eyes meditatively. I stifled a laugh, thinking that by the time these girls were seniors, they'd be so over this phase that they'd look back and laugh at themselves. But for now, I was in their court, so I just plopped down among them on the final beanbag in the ring.
"So," Tracy said, giving strange weight to the word. "How's life?"
I cocked my head. "Life's good," I said. "But why don't we talk about why you called me in here?"
Liza opened her eyes, coming out of meditation. She glanced at her watch, then at Tracy. "Just tell her. The bell's about to ring."
I lifted my chin. "Tell me what?"
"Okay, I'll just cut to the chase," Tracy said. Her voice changed and let in a rare hint of her natural southern twang, which made the bindi between her eyes look halfway ridiculous. "My sister-in-law is one of the ballot counters for the Ball this year," she said. "She told me this thing about Justin Balmer last night. Now I know you guys have a history--"
I held up a hand. "We don't have a history--"
"Whatever," Tracy said. "It's obvious you and Mike are really happy; I'm just saying that I thought you should know there's buzz about J.B. this year."
I could feel the blood rising to my face. Even though Palmetto Court was technically a student-driven vote, everyone knew that behind the scenes, the righteous right-wing school board kept a hawk eye on the ballot boxes to ensure that no one "unsavory" ended up with the crown.
I should have known J.B. would do something to secure a leg up with the ballot counters. What had he done? Bribed the judges? Not that I hadn't thought about it myself . . .
"Okay, which wrinkly ballot counter is that asshole screwing?" I blurted.
The juniors gasped, and Tracy covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "No, sweetie, you misunderstood. The judges aren't exactly buzzing about J.B. in a good way." She tucked a braid behind her ear. "Between you and me, someone's trying to keep him off the Court. Some bad blood from last summer--I don't know the details. I was just telling you because--"
I could breathe again. I almost wanted to kiss Tracy.
"Because you knew I was worried about Mike," I said finishing her sentence.
"Exactly," Tracy nodded. "Nothing's certain, of course, but I figured I owed it to you to pass along the word. Your poker face isn't half bad. Still, I hate to see a pretty girl give herself premature worry lines when I can do something to help."
"Does Justin know someone has it in for him?" I asked, trying to smooth out my forehead without looking too obvious.
But before Tracy could answer, an apocalyptic crash of thunder boomed outside. All the girls crowded around the window to get a look.
"Oh my God!" Liza cried, gazing out at what was quickly turning into a full-fledged hailstorm. "We left the banners in the parking lot. They're tempera paint! They'll melt!"
Instantly, the junior bathroom mobilized. I guess hippies couldn't always be at peace with the weather. All the girls started scrambling to get their massage oil back in their hemp bags so they could save their junior-spirit banners from the elements.
On her way out the door, Tracy cupped my elbow.
"J.B. doesn't know a thing," she said. "Probably best if we keep it that way--know what I mean?"
Then she and her friends scattered, taking their tempest outside. The only sign of life in the empty bathroom was the swinging door that led out to the hallway--the swinging door with J.B.'s face plastered on it.
Can't a guy change?
The question still rang in my ears. But I'd heard that one too many times before. So I stood before the half-ripped poster and ran my hand over his face, the way they do in the movies to close the eyes of the dead.
Then, glancing around the empty hallway, I snatched it off the door, folded it neatly in half, and dropped it in the junior-class recycling bin. I wasn't so far away from my own junior year that I'd forgotten how to voodoo.
CHAPTER Two
THE VALOR OF MY TONGUE
" I have had the foulest day," I said that evening, slipping my purple backpack off my shoulder and tossing it on the French window seat in Mike's bedroom.
He was standing in the doorway, wringing out of his rain-soaked football jersey, but when I started skivvying out of my damp jeans--just slowly enough to give him a little show--I could see his reflection in the window perk right up to attention.
"Define foulest," he said, taking a step toward me. The room was dark except for the warm glow of his bedside lamp and the diffused white light coming through the window from the golf club down below. Mike ran the back of his hand up the length of my leg and gave me a sexy half smile. "Food-poisoning-from-Waffle-House foul, or just slightly more dire than yeste
rday's foulest day ever?"
"You're mocking me," I moaned, pulling away to face the manicured green of the thirteenth hole and the lush rolling tree line beyond the course. Clots of greenish clouds churned overhead, ready to turn to rain again any second.
"You're too clothed to be taken seriously," Mike said, pulling my attention back indoors and my body back to his. He tugged at the tight black turtleneck I was still wearing. "Aren't you the one who suggested the rule?" he teased, kissing my neck between each word. "Total. Naked. Honesty?"
I rolled my eyes but grinned as I pulled my shirt over my head. The room was cool, and I felt the prick of goose bumps rise along my arms. I stretched out diagonally across the king-size waterbed in my lucky black-bra-and-underwear set, then rolled over onto my stomach so Mike would have to climb on top of me to find a spot.
"Honesty later," I said, gesturing at my neck. "Kneading now. I've got a knot the size of Georgia right . . . yes, there."
Mike had stripped down to his tartan boxers and assumed the masseur position over me. I let myself close my eyes and really breathe for the first time all day.
After finding out from Tracy how close we were to certain victory, I'd fidgeted through the rest of my classes, getting more and more anxious to plot something to ensure our win. By now, it was all I could think about. But there was something about Mike's hands on my neck, how powerful and strong they were. They made me let everything go.
I remembered the first time I'd seen his hands--strong, tan, gripping a baseball bat, definitely a force to be reckoned with. Since Mike's bedroom overlooked the ritzy Scot's Glen golf club, where kids from the other side of town--the wrong side of town--got their kicks by sneaking onto the course to chuck golf balls at the mansions. Totally adolescent, yes, but it's not like there was much to entertain a trailer-park kid on the Cawdor side of the bridge. It was part of the fun that the rich kids kept arsenals by their back doors to chase off the vandalizing have-nots.
Sure, I'd had a few good times with exactly those wrong kinds of guys, always in and out of juvie, often with names like Junior Junior. My old friend Sarah Lutsky used to say nothing heated up a redneck romance like a run-in with the law. But right around the time I met Mike, I'd decided to turn over a new leaf.
It was September fifteenth, freshman year, and I had just transferred over to Palmetto. My mom had recently remarried, again, finally accomplishing her life goal of moving us over to the right side of the bridge--and into the Palmetto school district. So when my golf ball sliced through Mike's bedroom window, it was--for a change--completely accidental. Not to mention the end of my very short golf career.
It's crazy to think about it now, but I'll never forget how, when Mike came out of the house swinging his baseball bat, wearing only a pair of crisp khaki shorts, my first instinct was to run. Sarah's take on getting caught had always been, "When the going gets rough, swim home."
"Hey, wait," Mike had called out, jogging after me. "Hang on, I thought you were . . . someone else."
I froze, standing by his pool in my brand-new golf polo and pleated white miniskirt--a gift from my new stepdad and the most expensive thing I'd ever owned. Right then I realized, for the first time in my life, that I had a right to be there. All I had to do was choose to own it.
Mike still didn't know exactly how influential that first meeting was. He liked to think our little make-out session by his pool shack was what made me remember the day so fondly and insist upon celebrating its anniversary every month. But we've been going strong for more than three years now (way longer than my mom's third marriage lasted). At this point, I figured, when it came to certain parts of my past, the whole "total naked honesty" thing only really needed to go so far.
As Mike went to town on my neck, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into relaxation mode and let out a contented sigh.
"Hey, I know that sound," Mike leaned into my ear to whisper. "You're falling asleep. Don't forget you're not the only one in the world who needs a little after-school stress relief."
My eyes shot open, and I sat up on the waterbed, causing it to jiggle.
"Do you mean you're worried about Palmetto, too?" I said quickly. "I thought it was just me, but you must have seen all the posters today, too. Do you think we put enough up? Do you think we look better than everyone else?"
"Way to kill the mood," Mike joked. He rubbed his hand down my side. "I just meant I could use some . . . ahem . . . general stress relief . . . hint hint."
"Oh," I said, reaching over the edge of the bed for my bag to pop a piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth. "That."
"Yeah," he said. "That. Don't sound too excited."
When I met Mike's eyes, I realized how stupid I'd sounded. I didn't even mean it. Being this close to his body always made me want to rip his clothes off. It wasn't that I'd lost sight of that; I just had the Ball on my brain.
"I'm sorry, baby," I said, burying my face in his chest. "That's not what I meant. You know I can't get enough of you." I started kissing my way down his stomach, which always left him paralyzed. I hovered right above his boxers to look him in the eye. "It's only that I want the whole school to want you just as badly . . . serving as their Prince."
He moaned and stroked my head. "I'll settle for your endorsement."
I ran my thumbs inside the waist of his boxers and clicked my tongue. "Uh-uh, that's not enough. You know I want to celebrate our status . . . with crowns."
"Why?" he whispered. "What status? Who cares about anything besides you and me?" He tried to pull me up to him, and I could feel our bodies fitting into their natural groove. I had to will myself to pull away.
"I care."
"Nat," Mike sighed. He sat back up and combed his fingers through my hair. "I know you've been fantasizing about the two of us getting crowned at the Ball for, like, our entire relationship, but you do know there is life after Palmetto Court, right?"
Mike was smirking at me the way that he did when I started to get carried away. His deep-brown eyes got all crinkled up, and his dark wavy hair flopped over his forehead. I'd have to remind Binky, his housekeeper, that his hair was about three, no, more than four days away from needing a trim--though it looked pretty cute for now.
Still, cute wasn't going to win us anything at this stage in our lives. Why was I the only one in the room who seemed to be aware of it? It was times like these when I realized Mike had no concept of what it meant to work for something. It was almost like, if he didn't already own it, or couldn't buy it with his charm, he had no use for it. Sometimes I wondered whether he was even capable of wanting something that was hard to get.
Now he leaned in for a kiss, but I held him back, pushing on his chest with two fingers. He was inches away from my mouth.
"I will die if Justin Balmer walks away with your crown," I said.
Mike sighed, collapsing back on the bed.
"I'm not getting into J.B. with you again," he said. He stared up at the glow of the solar-system stickers we'd stuck on his ceiling back when we'd first gotten together, back when Palmetto Court dreams seemed as far away as the stars outside.
"I can't believe how little you care about how much I care about this." I banged my fist down on the bed, making more waves. Then I quickly shoved it into my other hand to keep myself still. "Have you even ordered my Jessamine yet?"
Note: In case you're reading this from another planet, the Jessamine is not just the South Carolina state flower; it's also the longtime corsage of choice for Palmetto High School dances. Of course, somewhere along the line, the tacky southern flair for design infiltrated that tradition, and today's Jessamine is like a nouveau riche distant cousin of its former self.
In the old days, guys just picked fistfuls of the golden wild-flower and pinned them to a brooch. But today's Jessamine can only be ordered from the Duke of Jessamines, and all the flowers look like they're on steroids. They're silk, about the size of a Frisbee, and decorated with all the bells and whistles (and ribbons and stickers a
nd photo buttons and school spirit emblems--and I swear I saw one last year that lit up and played music) that your date can afford.
Guys custom-order them weeks in advance, and girls sport their Jessamines to school on the day before the dance. It's the only time of year you'll see cheerleaders in overalls--the denim bib holds up the weight the best. Jessamine Day has gotten to be so huge that if you're unlucky enough not to get asked to the Ball, you basically call in sick. It's better to flake than to show up flowerless.
I know it sounds intense. The Duke of Jessamines even has to hire a team of seasonal employees to help him make the corsages this time every year. Which is how my mother got her current job--and her current benefactor . . . I mean, boyfriend.
"Nat?" Mike brushed his thumb on my cheekbone, interrupting my thoughts. "I said I was going to order it tomorrow."
"MIKE!" I jumped up in horror. Picking out the right Jessamine was the biggest, most public display of commitment a guy could make toward his girlfriend. "The dance is a week away! You know they run out of the best flowers."
Mike wrapped his leg around me. He tried again for a kiss, but I sucked in and pursed my lips.
"Have I ever let you down?" he asked.
I crossed my arms, and I couldn't decide whether I was fake-pouting or real-pouting. "Not yet," I responded.
"I never will," he said.
"I'll believe that when you beat J.B. for Prince."
Mike rolled his eyes and grinned. "Your one-track mind is very sexy. But I've told you, Balmer's cool now. He was just showing me his costume for the party this weekend."
Oh my God, in all the excitement, I'd completely forgotten about Rex Freeman's infamous Mardi Gras soiree.
It was the one time a year when every kid at Palmetto, save a few of the most self-righteous youth groupers, cut loose and got a little crazy. All the typical girls would be wearing feathered masks and fishnets, but I was determined to come up with something that stood out in the crowd of wannabe sluts. The boys would be all Panama hats, flasks in their jackets, and barely buttoned French-cut shirts. Often, they ended up looking more scandalous than the girls.
I did love to pick out costumes for us to wear every year, but I think my favorite part of Mardi Gras was seeing everyone all showered and appropriate at church the next morning, when you'd still be picturing them flashing for beads. It was something I looked forward to every year, but today, the thought of Rex's party was just one more thing getting under my skin.