Rival
Page 17
“Yeah.” And I mean it even more now. I can still feel the ache of the crush I have on John—the crush I will probably always have. But I also have to be honest. If I had a choice between hanging out with him and working on my music right now, would I do anything different?
No. The truth is no.
“You’re not serious,” says Chloe. “This is Kathryn we’re talking about. Have you forgotten what she did?”
I can’t answer right away. Of course I haven’t forgotten. But was it worth a whole year of watching and worrying and wanting to hurt her every single time she walked into the same room as me?
“Oh my God,” says Chloe. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to be friends with her again. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
I look down at my lap. “I don’t know….”
“You can’t do this,” she says. “Not again.”
There are tears in her eyes. Real tears. I’ve never seen Chloe cry before. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means…” She takes a couple of hitching breaths, like she’s trying to figure out how to say something important. But then she pulls herself up and her eyes go all hard. “It means Homecoming will be ruined. The King will be dancing with a complete and total nobody!”
“Chloe,” I say. “I am going to tell you this to your face so you can’t ever come back and say you didn’t understand me. Okay?”
She waits while I search for the right words. I love Chloe, but it’s time for her to hear the truth.
“I don’t care about Homecoming,” I tell her. “I could not possibly care less about it. I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel.”
She sticks her lip out. I can see the little Trump inside of her holding on with a death grip.
“I don’t believe you,” she says.
Of course she doesn’t. There’s only one person who would—just one person who could ever come close to understanding what I’ve been going through these past few months. Trouble is, the one person who would understand is the one person I can’t talk to.
Or can I?
KATHRYN
“HOLD IT UP HIGHER, KATHRYN!” Elise Cordry hoists the Homecoming Day edition of the Douglas Picayune over her head so that passersby can grab it from her hands. The stadium concourse is packed with people, so many that we barely have room for our table, which is stacked with papers containing the foldout inserts that everybody waves around when the Pirates make a touchdown. I’m not much for football games, but when I do go I always like that part—especially when the game ends and we’ve won; then everybody rips up the inserts and throws the pieces into the air so that they rain down around the stadium like confetti.
If that happens tonight, I won’t be out there to see it; I signed up to work for the paper so I wouldn’t have to sit alone while John is down on the field.
When I first arrived I was so nervous that I thought I might throw up. Brooke knows I’m going to the dance with John; I can tell by the way she’s been looking at me—right at me, like she can barely keep from coming over and punching me all over again. I can also tell by the snorkels, the CPR manuals, and the SCUBA action figures that have been appearing in and around my locker, faster every day despite my efforts to catch her planting them. I can tell from the anonymous IMs that dog me while I try to do my homework, and the way the A-listers laugh in the hallway when I walk by, not even trying to hide it anymore.
But the excitement inside the stadium tonight is contagious. Elise gives an ecstatic whoop as Tyrone Marshall prances by doing his Captain Jack Sparrow impersonation, and I whoop, too, caught up in the moment. In the stands above our heads, the pep band plays the school fight song; I can hear muffled trumpets and feel the hollow rat-a-tat of the drums. The air smells like popcorn and wood smoke.
Our stack of papers is getting thin and the concourse has filled to capacity; just fifteen minutes remain before the game starts. Transitioning into reporter mode, I fish a pad and pen out of the bag I’ve stashed under the table and then, before venturing into the crowd, I steel myself by repeating the questions I plan to ask for my postgame reaction story:
“What is your favorite memory of Homecoming?”
And…
“How do you think this year compares to last year so far?”
At least I know that, as long as I’m in reporter mode, people will be nice—I have a notebook, and I am going to publish what they say; why would anybody be horrible to someone who’s out to make them famous?
“My best memory was last year when I went with my boyfriend, Tom Trooien,” Reenie Bezold tells me, flipping her hair as I take down every word. “Now he’s at Baldwin and he couldn’t come tonight because there’s a rush party at his fraternity. I’m going there instead of the dance. So I guess that makes this year better than last year, right?”
“This year kicks last year’s ass,” says Dennis Dreiling. “Last year we were playing some out-of-conference team called the Gobblers. What kind of dumbass mascot is that?”
Paula Hawk regards me from beneath dyed black bangs and says simply, “Are you really going to the dance with John Moorehouse?”
Paula isn’t the only person to ask me this; a few others do, too—mostly the ones who are loners as well. It’s as if they think I’ve accomplished something for everybody else on the fringes. What they don’t realize is that the whole thing could be one big joke with me as the punch line. I’ve been through all of the possibilities already; I’m even ready for pig’s blood, like in Matt’s favorite old horror film, though unfortunately I don’t have telekinetic powers with which to wreak a fiery revenge on my tormenters.
“My best Homecoming memories? I hope we’re making them tonight,” says Mr. Lamb, the faculty advisor to the Spirit Committee, as he waxes poetic about the student body coming together with alumni to celebrate the enduring values of friendship, sportsmanship, and school pride.
School pr—I write, and then my pen runs out of ink.
“Hold that thought,” I tell him.
Back at the Picayune table, Elise rummages through her purse but comes up empty. I dump out my bag but can’t find an extra pen.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Elise. “I’m going to my locker.”
BROOKE
“YOU LOOK AWESOME, BROOKE,” CHLOE tells me. “Perfect ten on the dress.”
We’re in the bathroom under the stadium, working on our hair and makeup. Waiting for the halftime show to start so we can get paraded out on the football field with the rest of the Homecoming court. This bathroom was only made to hold a few people. Not fifty, which is what it feels like with all five Homecoming Queen candidates in here, plus their best friends and Chloe, who’s running around spraying hair spray all over the place.
I pull at my dress, trying to get it one more inch over my boobs. When I picked it up from the boutique it ended up being too small. Not so bad that anybody else would notice, but bad enough to make me feel crammed in and overflowing all at the same time. I put on the cashmere shrug. Better. It makes my cleavage less noticeable.
“Wow, that’s gorgeous, Brooke,” says Angela Van Zant. She rubs my sleeve between her fingers. “Really sophisticated.”
“And get this,” Chloe adds, so loud that probably everybody out on the concourse can hear it, too, “I saw John Moorehouse in Goodman’s Monday, buying a tie. It’s the exact same color red. Is that not perfect?”
“Totally perfect,” says Dina. She uncaps a tube of lipstick and leans into the mirror. “Too bad he’ll be with Kathryn Pease.”
“Skank,” says Laura Lindner, who’s been making herself useless bringing in snacks nobody’s eating.
“That she is,” Dina agrees. She puts her makeup case back into her tote bag. As she lifts the flap, something bright and plastic falls out. It’s the barrel of one of those giant water guns they sell at the toy store. Dina pushes the gun back into her bag as she says, “I really thought John had better taste, you know? I mean, who knew he had a thi
ng for choir geeks?”
Not long ago, I probably would have laughed at that. Any bitching about Kathryn, and I would have been all over it. But now, every word is like a little knife. Who let Laura down here, anyway? And how long have I known Dina? Long enough for her to know I’m a choir geek, too.
“Kathryn’s a soggy little nobody,” Chloe says. For some reason, that gets everybody giggling. “I wouldn’t worry about John, Brooke,” she tells me. “We’ll get the King and Queen together yet.”
Until now nobody’s mentioned my dateless status, and I’d hoped it would stay that way. I didn’t want to come to Homecoming in the first place. Coming without a date just makes it worse. Outside of this room it is freezing, but I feel sweaty hot. The space heaters are on too high. My dress is too tight. Chloe’s voice is too loud. I have to get out.
I have to talk to Kathryn.
I don’t realize I’m going to do it until I’m walking through the concourse and I see her ponytail through the crowd. She’s going toward the exit. I start to follow her. Past the ticket booths. Out of the stadium. Down into the parking lot. People notice me as I go by. They start to whisper because I’m in my gown and they’re in jeans and coats, waiting for the game to end so they can go home to change for the dance.
The farther away we get, the fewer people there are. Now we’re in the parking lot, and it’s just the two of us. My heels make a clicking sound on the pavement. Maybe she’ll hear me and look back. I hope she does. I hope she doesn’t, too, because I have no idea what I’m going to say. Maybe I’ll say hi, and she’ll say hi, and it’ll be like this was all just some big misunderstanding. Like all she’s been waiting for is me to break the ice so we can say we’re sorry and move on. Maybe I won’t have to say I’m sorry. Maybe we can act like the whole thing never happened. Maybe—and this is the weirdest idea of all—maybe I’ll ask her to go to New York with me. Or maybe I won’t. But I need to talk to her. And now that I’m close to doing it, I feel calmer than I have been in a long time.
Kathryn opens the big double doors that lead into the school. We walk through the art wing, which is dark except for the glow from the fire alarms. We go out into the commons, where blasts of music are coming from the DJ in the gym. We get all the way to Kathryn’s locker. And then she stops.
I almost reach out to touch her on the shoulder.
“Um…Kathryn?”
She freezes. Slowly, she turns around.
“Brooke.” She says it like she’s been expecting me. But now that I’m standing in front of her I go blank.
“What do you want?” she says.
“I…” What do I want, exactly? “I, um…thought maybe we could talk.”
“Talk…” She looks like she doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s talk.” She steps away from her locker, bringing her face close to mine. “You want me to go home and leave John Moorehouse for you, right? Because God forbid somebody get in the way of something you want.”
“No.” I try again. “I’ve been thinking. About the Blackmore…”
“Oh right. I’m supposed to bow out there, too. Let you have the spotlight like everybody else does. Is that it?”
“No!”
“Then what do you want, Brooke?” She leans in closer. “Seriously. What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know!” I say, totally confused now. “I’ve just…I’ve been thinking.”
She crosses her arms. Lifts her chin. And she manages to look down her nose at me even though she’s a good foot shorter. “About what? New ways to humiliate me? Was punching me in the face not enough?”
Okay. It’s fair for her to bring that up. In all the time since it happened I never said I was sorry.
“God, that,” I say. “That was…” I start to say “a mistake,” but she interrupts.
“I should have known you’d never let me live that down. After all this time you’re still punishing me. I can’t wait to see what you come up with tonight.”
Now I’m totally confused. Why do I get the feeling we’re not just talking about a few dirty looks in choir here?
“Punishing you how?” I say. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Brooke. Getting people to donate money for choir dresses? I got that one loud and clear. My mom and dad aren’t rich like yours are. I guess that’s hilarious, right?”
I’m speechless. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking about Kathryn at all with the choir dress thing. I was trying to do something nice. And if I was thinking about her, maybe somewhere deep inside that I’m not totally aware of, then it was one thing that didn’t come out of my angry side. I really did want to help.
“But that’s not enough,” she goes on. “It’s never enough with you. No, I get this.” She reaches into her locker and pulls out a plastic package. She shoves it into my hands. I look down and read the label—INFANT WATER WINGS: FOR PRESWIMMERS. When I look up, she’s pulling out more stuff. There are snorkels. Creepy Photoshopped pictures. A pamphlet about CPR. Way too much for me to hold. They start to fall out of my arms, onto the floor.
That doesn’t stop Kathryn. She keeps pulling things out, throwing them into a pile at my feet.
“I’ve had it,” she says. “I don’t deserve to be tormented because you can’t stand the idea that somebody might actually beat you at something for once in your life.”
“Hey, wait!” I say. Because this is it—what I wanted to talk about. How, even though we hurt each other in the past, maybe if we can come back to music, then it wouldn’t matter who won. Maybe it would be enough just to not feel so alone anymore. “About the Blackmore…”
But she keeps talking.
“I actually can’t wait for the Blackmore, Brooke. Because you can try to ruin my Homecoming, but you can’t control how I do when it’s just me up there on that stage. And tonight? I am going to stay and dance. I don’t care what you do to me, because this time I know I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I say. But she isn’t listening. She reaches into her purse and takes out a piece of paper. It’s Pepto-Bismol pink—the invitation to Chloe’s party from last year.
This she holds out.
“Take it,” she says. Her eyes are blazing with hatred. “Take all of it.”
I stare at the paper. Then down at the water toys at my feet. And I flash back to Laura Lindner under my gazebo, laughing while Kathryn almost drowned. Laura in choir. Laura following Chloe around like a desperate little animal.
Kathryn kicks a SCUBA action figure. It goes skidding across the floor. I bend down to pick everything up. When I’m back on my feet, she looks me right in the eye and stares until it’s me who has to turn away. I have to bend over sideways to get the invitation, but I manage to grab it from her hand. Then I hurry back down the hallway, leaving her there by her locker.
I know exactly where I’m going.
“There you are, Brooke!” says Chloe. The Homecoming court is standing on the side of the football field, waiting for halftime to start. On the track sits a line of old convertibles we’re supposed to ride in. It’s all very Hollywood. Or at least it will be once the ceremony gets going. Right now, everybody is huddled in a group, and Chloe is running around with a half-empty box of boutonnieres. When she sees me, she comes rushing over.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she tells me. “Where did you go?”
I push past her to find Laura, who is helping match people up with their cars. I jerk her around. Shove the package of water wings at her.
“What is this?” I say.
She looks at the wings like she’s surprised to see them. Then she glances at Chloe and laughs.
“It’s just a little game we’ve been playing. I thought you’d like it.”
“Laura told us about your choir party,” Chloe says. “Come on, Brooke, you have to admit it’s pretty funny. And besides, didn’t you say you wanted Kathryn out of your way?”
“I was just trying to help,” she says. “I mean Kathryn Pease and John Moorehouse? She totally screwed you over, Brooke.”
Wait a minute.
How did Laura find out I liked John? Nobody knew. Nobody except…
Oh.
I am such an idiot.
I shoot Chloe a look that could freeze fire. Then I pull myself up so that I tower over Laura. “I don’t want your help,” I snarl. “I don’t need your help. Stay away from Kathryn, and stay away from me.”
“Hey. Brooke.” Laura’s face has turned gray. “Don’t be mad. We were only…”
I don’t give her a chance to finish. I’m halfway across the field before Chloe plants herself in front of me.
“Brooke, come on….”
Over Chloe’s shoulder, the scoreboard is ticking away the last seconds of the quarter.
“Leave Kathryn alone,” I tell her. “This is between me and her.”
She laughs. “You aren’t serious.”
“I’m dead serious. Leave her alone.”
The Pirates have scored a touchdown. The crowd gets even louder.
“So this is all the thanks I get?” Chloe shouts. “I’m only looking out for you, Brooke.”
“You’re looking out for yourself.”
“Excuse me?” She squares up and stares. “This is just priceless. Kathryn stabs you in the back yet again, and you’re worried about her. But do I get any appreciation? No. All I ever do is try to help you, Brooke.”
“Did you ever stop to think that I don’t want your help?”
“You need my help. You’re the most popular person at this school, but without me you’d make a total waste of it. Like right now. You’re ruining Homecoming over some stupid music freak.”
The marching band is behind me now, getting ready to head onto the field. The director yells at us to move out of the way. I stay put.