Rival

by Sara Bennett Wealer

  “Anna the Swedish snow bunny,” said Chloe, nodding. “Word has it he already asked her to Homecoming. Sorry, Kathryn.”

  “It was nice of him to tell me,” I muttered. “Especially now that I’ve got a dress and shoes.”

  “Don’t worry.” Chloe gave a dismissive wave. “I’ll set you up with somebody better.” Her cell phone rang and her lips turned up as she checked the screen. “It’s Brooke.”

  I sat forward; I’d been trying to reach Brooke all morning.

  “Hey, B,” Chloe said. “So what happened after I left last night? Was it depraved and hilarious, and will we get to see it on YouTube?”

  Chloe’s smile faded while she listened. She eyed me, and then handed over the phone.

  “Where are you?” Brooke sounded angry.

  “At the mall,” I said. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “I slept in. Why aren’t you here? We were going to Hildy’s recital. Remember?”

  I dropped my head into my hand, rubbing my temple as an old conversation came back to me. Brooke and I had talked about hearing her voice teacher’s studio perform; I must have mixed up the dates.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We never discussed it again. I guess I was thinking it was next month.”

  Silence. I shook my head, staring at the bags on the floor. What did she want me to say? It was an innocent mistake, and if she hadn’t been ignoring her phone all morning, then I wouldn’t have made it in the first place. Chloe wrote something on a napkin and shoved it under my nose. Tell her to come out. Dollar movie at four.

  “Why don’t you come here?” I said. “We were thinking of seeing a movie.”

  “I’m not going to the movies. I told Hildy I’d be at her recital.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry. I can get over there in twenty minutes if you wait.”

  “Just forget it.”

  There it was again, that voice that heaped guilt at my feet, then shut me out. Nothing I did seemed to be good enough for Brooke anymore, unless it was sitting at her piano talking about opera. “Do you want me there or not?” I said. In the background I could hear the bell warning theatergoers to take their seats.

  “It’s starting,” she said. “I have to go.” The line went dead, so fast that I wondered if I’d been hung up on.

  “Well?” said Chloe. “Is she coming?”

  “No,” I said, confused and annoyed all at the same time. “She seems upset.”

  Chloe shrugged. “She gets like that. Her dad’s probably not returning her calls again.”

  “Yeah,” said Dina. “Whenever he gets a new job he goes incommunicado.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s it. Her dad’s not even working right now. She told me he’s in Romania with Jake.”

  Chloe tilted her head. “Where?”

  “Romania. You know, on the new Mephistopheles movie?”

  Chloe and Dina looked at each other, then they looked at me again, their eyes big as volleyballs.

  “Hold on,” said Chloe. “Did you just say Mephisto pheles? And Jake? Are you telling us Brooke’s dad is in Romania with Jake Jaspers?”

  “The Jake Jaspers?” said Dina. “As in the movie star?”

  They looked at each other once more and started to giggle nervously.

  “No way!” Dina sputtered. “Oh my God!”

  Chloe reached across the table and grabbed me by the arm. “You’re kidding, right? How do you know?”

  “I thought everybody knew.” I faltered. “Her dad’s gay. Is that a big deal or something?”

  Chloe gaped at me like I’d just suggested she wear last year’s fashion. “No, that’s not a big deal. Everybody knows Brooke’s dad is gay.”

  “But he’s going out with Jake Jaspers?” Dina squealed. “Oh my God, you have to tell us everything!”

  My thoughts raced in a million different directions as I scrambled to piece together what this meant. Brooke had never told me her dad’s relationship was a secret, but apparently it was so big that she hadn’t even told Chloe. That realization brought a bigger, far more heady one:

  I was closer to Brooke Dempsey than the most popular girls in my class.

  I should have stopped right there. I should have said that I’d made it all up or misunderstood or even that I’d promised Brooke I wouldn’t tell, but Chloe and Dina were clinging to my every word. The spotlight was on me but instead of shrinking away, for once I let it flood me with power.

  I took a deep breath and told them everything.

  They listened, breaking in every now and then with a “Holy shit!” or a “No way!” and I don’t think it was Jake Jaspers that interested them so much as the fact that there was something about Brooke they didn’t know.

  Chloe actually seemed angry about it.

  “Brooke and I have been best friends since sixth grade,” she said. “How come she told you all that and not me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and squirmed in my seat. The spotlight had become too bright; now that I’d told her Brooke’s secret I couldn’t take it back.

  “Seriously,” she went on. “What kind of person doesn’t tell their best friend something like that?”

  Now, when I think back on it, I realize there’s another question she should have asked; or maybe I should have asked it of myself: What kind of person tells other people her best friend’s secrets?

  But I didn’t ask that question. If I had, it could have changed everything.

  “Do you know where she is?” Chloe asked me as she peered up at the crowded stadium. The Homecoming game had just started, and we’d settled near the bottom row, underneath a blanket with Chloe’s date, Mitch, and an empty seat where my date, Owen Lynch, was supposed to be. I shook my head no.

  “Maybe she’s pissed she doesn’t have a date,” Chloe said. “I tried setting her up with Sam Langenkamp but she acted like he had a disease or something. If Brooke wants to be picky that’s her call. But people expect to see her at an event like this, you know?”

  I nodded, though secretly I was glad Brooke wasn’t there. I was fed up with the guilt trips, the silent treatments, the way she’d want to be around me one minute, then turn around the next and act as if I’d disappointed her in some profound and secret way. I wanted to enjoy my first real Homecoming, to sit in the elite seats at the stadium, then drink in the romance of the dance and let myself go at the after-party without feeling bad.

  I glanced around, looking for Owen. He’d left to talk with some of his wrestling buddies, and I hoped I didn’t look like a third wheel sitting alone while Chloe and Mitch shared a cup of hot chocolate. Not that a date really mattered; to me, Owen seemed more like a prop—a movie character who fades into the background of a bigger, more epic scene. The lights, the band, the cheerleaders, the other A-listers who sat around us like royalty—they were amazing.

  And I was a part of it.

  Chloe put her hand on my arm, pulling me out of my seat.

  “I hate football,” she said to Mitch. “We’re going to the bathroom.”

  I put my foot forward and felt the toe of my boot sink into something soft. A howl of pain sent me back onto my rear end; the guy on the bleacher directly in front of me started rocking back and forth, fingers in his mouth.

  “Oh my God!” I stooped to offer help, though I had no idea what to do. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

  He examined his smashed fingers, and while he did I got a chance to study him: He had shaggy brown hair and eyes that managed to look kind even while they gazed back up at me in agony.

  “Kathryn,” Chloe said, as smooth as ever. “If you’re going to stomp on people’s hands, at least be polite and tell them who you are.”

  “Um…Chloe just said it. I’m Kathryn.” I held out my hand, blushing. He went to reciprocate, realized he was offering his injured one, and gave me the other to shake instead.

  “Let me get you some ice,” I said.

  He laughed. “It’s ten below out. If
I want ice I’ll just leave my gloves off.”

  “Then at least let me buy you a hot chocolate. You’ve got to let me make it up to you.”

  “How about a dance later on?”

  Those words started a somersault in my stomach. All of that time I’d spent wondering and worrying about Miles—why hadn’t I considered that there were other guys at school, guys just as good-looking, who wouldn’t treat me like just another member of the harem?

  I told him I had a date. “Boodawg’s then,” he said. “Promise you’ll find me at the party?”

  “Okay,” I said, blushing even deeper.

  “Alex Kelly,” Chloe told me as we walked up the steps toward the restrooms on the concourse level. “Class: senior. Status: single.”

  Later at the dance, I watched Alex swaying with Angela Van Zant across the gym. He lifted his fingers in a miniature wave as Owen draped himself over me, running his hands up and down my back and singing in my ear.

  When we got to Bud’s house, I left Owen at the door and started looking for Alex. It really was like some sort of movie. People in suits and gowns mingled in the dim rooms, their faces illuminated by firelight and the glow from a few strategically placed lamps. The dramatic lighting transformed my hand-sewn dress into a designer gown. Venturing into the kitchen, I filled a delicate-stemmed glass with wine and savored the first sips.

  That’s when I saw her: Brooke, sitting in the breakfast nook with her brothers, wearing jeans and a Baldwin sweatshirt. I waved; she didn’t wave back. I tried again. Nothing.

  “Great,” I muttered. “What’s wrong now?”

  Chloe walked past, and I snatched her hand. “Brooke’s here,” I said.

  “Where?” Chloe craned her neck and I pulled her out the kitchen door, onto the heated patio; I didn’t want Brooke to see us talking about her.

  “She’s in the kitchen with Bill and Brice. She looks angry.”

  “Really?” Chloe stepped over to a window and peeked in. “She looks like she always does. I bet she’s just regretting she wore that tragic sweatshirt out of the house.”

  I peeked over Chloe’s shoulder just as Brooke turned toward us. I ducked, bringing Chloe down with me.

  “Watch your wine!” she said, pulling back as the red splashed dangerously close to her dress.

  “Sorry.” I took a gulp to reduce the chances of an overflow. “It’s just that I keep getting the impression she’s mad at me, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe something might have happened.”

  “What could have happened?”

  “I don’t know. Did she tell you anything?”

  “No.” Chloe stood back up, smoothing her skirt and looking annoyed. “I’m sure it’s nothing beyond the fact that she’s missed out on most of the night already. Don’t worry about it. I know Brooke better than anybody else and she’s moody. That’s all. Whatever it is, she’ll get over it.”

  But I knew it was more than that; I knew, because there was no way I could not know. Every time I turned around I saw Brooke glaring at me. The glamorous movie had turned into a horror show.

  “Wow. You look amazing.” I’d just ducked into the study when Alex Kelly appeared next to me, a cocktail glass in each hand. “Gin and tonic?” he said, holding one of them out to me. “It’s good gin. You’ll barely taste it.”

  I slouched against the mahogany desk, grateful for the distraction. “Thanks,” I told him. “I needed this.” The drink was sweet with a hint of bitterness at the end; after a few sips, a thrumming started in my ears that harmonized nicely with the cozy blur from the wine.

  As if on cue, Brooke walked in through a door half hidden by a massive fern. I sipped hard on the tiny straw in my drink.

  “Look,” said Alex. “I’m not out to make enemies, especially not with a guy like Owen Lynch. But I don’t want you leaving tonight without giving me your phone number, okay?”

  My entire body flooded with warmth, and for a moment Brooke disappeared from my thoughts. Whatever was wrong between the two of us, nothing could spoil the beautiful, kind way that Alex looked at me just then. I opened the desk drawer and found a box of Sharpies inside.

  “Here,” I said, holding out my hand. I wrote my number on the back of his, next to the shadow of a bruise where my boot had pressed his knuckles. “Careful you don’t wash that off now.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I’ll be calling way before that even becomes an issue.”

  He kept his hand in mine a second longer before slipping away, across the room and right past Brooke, who looked after him, then back at me.

  I became aware of it then: waves of energy. The anger coming off of her was so strong I could actually feel it, and in that moment I knew the truth:

  Brooke Dempsey hated me.

  BROOKE

  “YOU’RE PLOTTING MURDER, AREN’T YOU, Brookie?” Bill Jr. leaned up against Boodawg’s study door with a half-empty beer in his hand. “You look…” He gave me a twice-over, trying to find some way of describing me in jeans and a sweatshirt when everybody else was in sport coats and gowns.

  “Like an Amazon?” I snapped.

  “Not quite what I was going for.”

  “It’s what you would have come up with if I had heels on.”

  “Okay…” He smiled uneasily. “Look. I know you’re upset, but try letting it go for a while, huh?”

  He could have been talking about the whole semester. About my entire stupid life up to that point. But he wasn’t. He was talking about the voice mail I’d gotten on my way out the door for the game.

  “Hey, Brookie, it’s Dad. Look, you’re going to be getting a note from Jake’s publicist. I think you met Marina last summer in L.A. Anyway I’m calling because I want to make sure you read her message and do what she says. I know you probably had nothing to do with this mess but it’s important, so make sure the twins see it, too. All right, honey? I love you.”

  I went back to my room, checked my email, and sure enough, there was something from marina@jamesassociates.com in my inbox.

  Dear Friend:

  You are receiving this message because Jake Jaspers has identified you as a friend or family member in a position to know about his relationship with Mr. William Dempsey. You likely also know that, for various reasons, Mr. Jaspers and Mr. Dempsey have taken steps to avoid making their relationship known to the public at large. I am writing today to inform you that, over the past week, messages have appeared on the websites http://celebsightings.com and http://gossipmonger.net from persons claiming to have knowledge of Mr. Jaspers’s relationship with Mr. Dempsey. While rumors are a fact of life for a personality such as Mr. Jaspers and while little can be done to keep people from speculating if they so choose, the frequency of these messages and the nature of the information they contained has caused us some concern. I have contacted the administrators of these sites, and the offending posts have been taken down. I do not think any lasting damage has been done. I am writing simply to remind you of the delicate circumstances surrounding Mr. Jaspers’s personal life and to ask that you refrain from any conversations or activities that might expose him to scrutiny. I am certain that these recent incidents were misunderstandings, and I trust that you share my commitment to respecting Mr. Jaspers’s wishes where his personal affairs are concerned.

  Best,

  Marina James

  I went to the sites Marina had listed. The posts about Jake weren’t up, but there were posts about other celebrities. They were disgusting and mean. Nobody I knew would put up something like that about my dad. Nobody I knew knew enough about Dad and Jake.

  Except for one person.

  “It’s my fault,” I told Bill.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But I told…” I could barely say her name, I was so furious.

  Bill shook his head. “Anybody could have done it. If Dad wants to play boyfriends of the rich and famous he has to expect stuff like this.”

  My skin started to crawl. Bill and Br
ice had forgotten about Dad the second he moved out of our apartment in New York. They’d made a new life in Lake Champion like it was where we’d belonged all the time, and they’d bought the whole Midwestern party boy thing hook, line, and sinker. They couldn’t even stay at college—they had to keep coming back and hanging out with the high school kids.

  Pathetic.

  “I should have known you wouldn’t care,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter if I care or not,” Bill told me. “Dad’ll be all right, Brooke. Just like always. You already missed the game and the dance because of this. Can’t you try to have some fun?”

  No. I couldn’t. Across the room I could see Kathryn in her strapless purple dress, sucking on a gin and tonic. Would she really do something that horrible? I hadn’t told anybody else about Dad. And she’d changed so much since we’d first started hanging out.

  Or maybe I’d never really known her at all.

  I started to circle.

  Wherever she went, I followed. I watched her do her ice-queen act with Owen Lynch. I watched her flirt with Alex Kelly. I watched her down a glass of wine. Then a beer. Then more gin. The more I watched, the more pissed off I got. Kathryn was shallow and fake and sloppy, just like everybody else. She had her perfect little family—her dad who mowed the lawn and her mom who made birthday pot roasts. Who was she to mess with mine?

  “Hey, B.” Chloe popped up in the living room. “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking at a two-faced bitch,” I said.

  Chloe looked where I was looking. Her smile disappeared. “Kathryn? What did Kathryn do?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t tell her. That would mean telling things I didn’t want anybody else to know—things I shouldn’t have told anybody, ever. So I settled for, “What didn’t Kathryn do? She’s a liar and a backstabber. That good enough?”

  Chloe looked worried. “I thought you liked Kathryn.”

  “Yeah, well, you thought a lot of things.” Kathryn headed out to the patio, and I followed, stepping around the couch and leaving Chloe standing alone.