Rival

by Sara Bennett Wealer

  “I heard a few things, but I didn’t necessarily believe them.” John pushes me backward so he can peer into my eyes. “I wasn’t here last fall, so whatever happened back then means zilch to me. Why do you care what Chloe and those guys think, anyway?”

  And that is the question, the one that has been dogging me: Why? I’ve been so obsessed over what happened with Brooke—so consumed by thoughts of getting even or getting something back or whatever it is I’ve been seeking, that I failed to appreciate the real friendship I had with Matt.

  Or with Brooke, back when it was just the two of us.

  The dance is nearing its end. There are no falling fishnets, no water balloons, no ambushes or flying snorkel gear; just Matt twirling Brooke, making her laugh like she used to when we would stay up late on the phone or hog the karaoke machine at the coffee shop, making fun of the singers on American Idol.

  The music fades, the spotlight blinks off, and the space where we have been slow-dancing fills with bodies moving to a fast song I barely know. John moves with them while I bob halfheartedly along. Matt and Brooke have been swallowed up in the crowd; I can’t see them anymore.

  “You’re not having fun, are you?” says John.

  I try to smile, but I know it looks weak.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’ve been wonderful tonight. Really. I’m just not feeling well, and I don’t think I’d be any fun if I stayed. You don’t have to leave, though. Stay here with your friends.”

  “But your car’s back at my house.”

  “Oh. God.” I bury my head in my hands. Since John lives closer to school than I do, we went to his place to change after the game, and my car is still sitting on the street in front of his house.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Or I could do it.”

  Matt’s voice comes from just over my shoulder. I turn to see him beside me. The nerves that have been fraying all night finally snap; the anger—at myself, at Brooke, at Matt—and the humiliation of seeing him with her boil over. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I wrench away from John and bolt for the door.

  “Kath!” Matt shouts after me. “Kath!”

  He catches up with me in the parking lot, grabs my elbow, brings me around, and kisses me. It’s a surprisingly gentle kiss, all things considered. I suppose I’ve been anticipating it ever since that first day in Sunday school so many years ago.

  But it’s wrong. I can’t describe why, exactly—it just isn’t us. Not that I wouldn’t have been willing to change us, if it felt right; I’ve thought about this, in those rare moments when I allowed myself to wonder what being more than friends would actually be like. But now that I’ve experienced it, I know.

  Is Matt your boyfriend? If I ever had a doubt, I know now that the answer is no. We know each other too well.

  Which is why he should have known what coming to Homecoming with Brooke would do to me.

  “What were you doing in there?” I demand. “What were you doing?!”

  “I was dancing,” he says.

  I smack his chest with my open palm. “You know what I mean. Why are you here with her? Her of all people?”

  Matt still holds my elbow, and as he moves in to kiss me again I pull back. This time I’m better able to process what I’m feeling, even if I can’t quite put it into words.

  “I don’t…,” I stammer, “I mean, I can’t…”

  Disappointment, resignation, and even a bit of relief play across his features. He pulls back and lets me go.

  “I know,” he says.

  He looks so sweet, so sensible, so Matt that my anger starts to fade. It’s so good having him here—having him back—that I almost forget why we were fighting. To remind myself, I picture him dancing with Brooke again.

  “And besides,” I say, “what are you doing even talking to me after what you just did? Was that the plan? She’s using you to hurt me now?”

  But he just smiles that come on smile, with those eyes that have seen through me since we were eight years old.

  “After everything you’ve pulled, you’re giving me hell for this? You’ve done some stupid things, Kath, but you’re not dumb. Brooke called because she thought you might need me and you know what? It kind of looks like you do.”

  He unknots his coat from around his waist and holds it up. My teeth are chattering, still I hesitate one stubborn second more, hanging on to the last shred of an anger I know I’ve got no right to.

  “But not like this,” I tell him. I gesture toward the gym door. “That back there—it was terrible!”

  “Okay.” He tosses his coat over his shoulder and turns to walk away. “That dress is way too beautiful to cover up anyway.”

  Shame washes from the top of my head all the way down to my toes, and I promise myself that, as soon as I get home, I am going to put the rose-colored gown into the back of my closet; I will wear my Honors Choir gown for the Blackmore—it will have to do.

  I scurry to catch up with him. He stands with his arms out until, finally, I step into the warmth of his jacket.

  “It’s still early,” he says. “I’ve got the super-duper, extraspecial extended edition director’s cut Two Towers DVD back at my place. Wanna watch it?”

  Laughing, I nod as he helps me into his car and then puts the key in the ignition.

  “That’s what I’ve been missing,” he says. “The Matt Melter. Seems I can’t go too long without it.”

  “You forgot the tee em,” I pout.

  “No I didn’t. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  He pulls out of the school parking lot and starts driving toward my house. We ride silently for blocks, but it’s a comfortable silence, and when we pass a bank of fast food restaurants he pulls into a drive-through. He orders the greasiest items on the menu for us to eat during our movie. Then, as we wait for the pickup window, he says, “So. John Moorehouse, huh?”

  I moan, my cheeks going hot. “If I ever had a chance with him I’m sure I ruined it. He probably thinks I was the worst date ever.”

  “At least you had a date.”

  I look over at him and he looks back at me. I have so much to apologize for that I barely know where to start. “I know,” I say. “What I did really sucked. I should have come with you like I’d promised. I’m sorry.”

  He pulls the car forward, takes out his wallet, and hands the girl at the window his money.

  “I wasn’t talking about me,” he says. “I was talking about Brooke.”

  BROOKE

  KATHRYN JUST LEFT. THERE’S NOTHING more for me to do here.

  In the locker room, crammed in with my regular swimming gear, are eight Super Soaker guns, a water balloon launcher, and five packages of balloons that never got filled. Out in my car there’s a huge fishing net and a bag of lifeguard’s whistles. After halftime, I made Dina and Laura empty out their bags. Chloe got the message to anyone else who wasn’t in the Homecoming court.

  And on my way to the dance I called Matt.

  Standing by the DJ booth, I look out at the gym. John is buddying around with the football players. Chloe is giving fashion advice to some new sophomore she’s decided to adopt. Laura Lindner is hanging around the edges, trying to look like she belongs. In two weeks I’ll be onstage at the Blackmore. All that’s left after that is spring semester; then I’ll be out of here and I’ll probably never see these people again.

  The DJ plays an old Billy Idol song. People start chanting along, which makes my throat hurt just listening to it. Dr. Dunne told me I didn’t have nodes, but he did see polyps starting to form. He gave me a bunch of exercises to do, plus a lecture on taking better care of my voice. No way I’m going to try to yell over all this noise.

  I’m getting out of here.

  I go around the crowd, weaving through the teachers so nobody on the dance floor will see me. The ticket table is deserted. As I walk past, I take the crown out of my hair and toss it onto the table. Chloe can have it if it means t
hat much to her.

  I don’t look back as I walk out of the gym. Now that I’ve done my job, I can finally leave.

  SENIOR YEAR

  Resolution: the changing of a dissonant pitch to create a group of tones that are harmonious to the ear

  KATHRYN

  THE BANNERS WENT UP OVER the weekend—big red swaths of silk cascading from the entries of every building on the Baldwin campus, each one emblazoned with a golden B for Blackmore. Monday I took the long way to school so I could see the streamers on the Main Street light posts: crimson and cheerful against the November sky. The local paper is filled with breathless stories about the new recital hall, as if nobody can believe that the festival is really going to happen like the organizers promised it would, albeit a month and several days late. And yesterday on my way to my voice lesson, I caught a glimpse of Margaret Frist-Stallworth, the Met’s new contralto, going into the opera workshop theater. If competitors weren’t banned from talking to judges I would have asked her for an autograph.

  The banners, the streamers, the famous people arriving in our tiny town—they’re a reminder of what waits for me at the end of these last, grueling two weeks. The day after Homecoming, I spent the morning with Mr. Lieb and my accompanist, the afternoon with the Honors Choir, and the evening writing my post-Homecoming feature for the Picayune. I started my AP English paper around midnight, but fell asleep waiting for our dial-up to download the formatting requirements from Ms. Amos’s website.

  Monday when I tried to explain, she sat me down and offered up a story.

  “When I was in college I wanted to be an actress,” she told me. “Junior year, I got the lead in the annual production, The Taming of the Shrew, and I spent every waking minute in rehearsals. When my American Lit professor informed me I was failing his class I told him how busy I was, thinking surely he’d cut me some slack. His response is something I remember to this day. He said we all have choices to make, and we make those choices based on what is really important to us. If passing American Literature was important to me, then I would find a way to pass it. If not, then I would have to accept the consequences, though he hoped I would do so without regret. I flunked that quarter, but do you know what? It was the best three months of my life.”

  I looked at her, blankly.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It’s no trouble,” she replied. “I’ll know your choice when I see your next assignment.”

  So what was my choice? I did it all. I passed the Anatomy test, I stayed up all of Monday night writing an A-plus English paper, and Saturday at regionals I sang flawlessly, helping the Honors Choir earn the top score, which will send us on to State in the spring.

  And now, the Blackmore is just one day away.

  I’m lying under the covers in my room, hitting snooze on my alarm clock, when my mother peeks through the door.

  “You’re not up yet,” she says. “Aren’t you going to go to school?”

  “I don’t feel well,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to stay home.”

  I move over so she can sit on the side of my bed, letting her feel my forehead for fever. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I rest my cheek against her cool hand. “I just…need the rest.”

  “I understand. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  I close my eyes. Her words have melted the hardness I’ve been trying to build up inside of myself, and the tears threaten to spill over; it’s the first time she’s mentioned the Blackmore directly to me.

  “I have something for you,” she continues. “I was going to bring it out after school but since you’re not going, maybe you’d like to take a look now.”

  She disappears into her bedroom and returns minutes later with an armful of midnight blue. She drops one arm, and I gasp as out unfurls a ball gown with capped sleeves, a fairy-tale skirt, and a dusting of glitter on the bodice.

  “I’m sorry this went until the last minute, but I wanted to surprise you and you’re up until all hours of the night these days. I had to steal whatever time I could get while you were at your voice lessons.”

  I climb out of bed and walk around to finger the voluminous layers of the skirt. “It’s beautiful, Mom,” I murmur. “Really gorgeous.”

  “I knew you needed a dress for the competition,” she says, then frowns at the sight of me in my T-shirt and underwear. “Though you’ve lost so much weight, I may have to take it in. Stay here while I go get my sewing kit.”

  I’m standing on a stack of books, Mom circling me with pins in her mouth, when Dad comes in carrying a bagel in one hand, morning coffee in the other.

  “Well if you aren’t the prettiest girl there ever was,” he says. “Maybe you should drop music and take up modeling instead.”

  He watches, sipping his coffee, while Mom cinches the gown so that it fits like a second skin. When she unzips me to adjust the bra inside of the bodice, he looks away, out the window at the bullet-colored sky.

  “It’s supposed to snow,” he muses. “Could be bad news for the Blackmore folks if the roads get too icy.”

  “They can’t postpone the contest again,” I tell him. “The whole town will flip out.”

  “Well, then maybe there’ll be less competition for you.”

  I hesitate, then decide that since we all of a sudden are talking about it, I’m going to get everything out in the open.

  “Do you think I need less competition? You’ve barely said anything about the Blackmore these past few months. Do you think I’m not good enough?”

  “Oh, honey.” Mom rushes around so she can take my face in her hands. “No, no! That’s not it at all. It’s just that you have so much pressure on you, and we didn’t want to make it worse. We know how hard you’ve been working—sometimes I think too hard.”

  “But a lot is riding on this,” I say, sounding more desperate than I want to. “It’s a lot of money. I mean, think what we could do with it.”

  Dad laughs. “Like a trip around the world?”

  “Or my college tuition.”

  He stops laughing. “We’ll find the money for that. You don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Yes, but think how much easier it would be if I won.”

  Now he’s the one standing in front of me, taking my hands in his.

  “Sweetpea.” He hasn’t called me that in a long time; I’ve missed it. “You’ve been to the Blackmore. You know how big it is. There are dozens of other people competing; how can you put all of that pressure on yourself?”

  “Somebody from here has won it for the past two years,” I tell him.

  “They’ve been incredibly lucky. And the odds are even tougher now because of that. I’m not trying to be negative, honey, but your mother and I, we need to know you won’t be devastated if things don’t work out like you’re hoping.”

  “I know the odds,” I tell him. “Brooke Dempsey will win it if I don’t.”

  “Brooke Dempsey,” says Mom, placing one last pin and then standing back to admire her handiwork. “Isn’t that your friend from last year?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever happened to her?”

  “She…,” I begin, but then stop. To tell them everything would take forever, and I am only just now starting to understand it myself.

  “Nothing happened,” I say. “We just didn’t end up being as close as we’d thought we were.”

  BROOKE

  IT’S TOO LATE TO GO to New York. Hildy picked out the rest of my Blackmore music and we polished it with no help from my dad. I keep calling him, though. More than anything now, it’s like I’m on a mission to just get somebody on the phone.

  Wednesday, I finally do it. I’m listening to the ring, expecting voice mail to pick up like always. Suddenly there’s a click and, “Hello?”

  “Jake!” I can’t believe I’m actually hearing a real person. “Jake, it’s Brooke! Where’s my dad?”

  “Oklahoma. I thought you were my business manager. She’s suppos
ed to be calling any minute.”

  I push ahead. Screw Jake’s business manager. “I tried Dad’s cell. I’ve been trying for weeks but he never answers it.”

  “That’s because he has no time. Did he tell you how insane this new production is? The director fancies himself so avant-garde he can’t possibly communicate his vision without driving everybody else mad. Whenever I reach your father—which is not often, believe me—he sounds absolutely shattered.”

  I stand up. Start pacing, and I hear my voice get louder, but I don’t bother hiding how pissed I am, because if anybody should be reaching my dad, it’s me. “He knows I’ve got this competition,” I say. “He knows what a big deal this is.”

  “Brooke,” Jake interrupts. “Relax.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said relax. It’s just music.”

  Did I hear him right?

  Tell me he didn’t just say that.

  “It’s not ‘just music’ to me,” I shout. “I’m building a career here, Jake. I thought you of all people would get that.”

  “I get it,” he says. “Loud and clear.”

  “So why are you giving me this ‘relax’ crap?”

  “Darling.” He says it like he’s talking to a three-year-old. “Take it from someone who knows. You’ve got a lot of big auditions ahead of you. If you get wound this tight about every one, you’re going to be burnt out by the time you hit thirty. This is a tough business. If you’re serious about singing for a living, then you’d better know why you are, and it damned well better be because you love it.”

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Who the hell is Jake Jaspers to be telling me this? I sing because I have to. Because ever since Dad put me up in front of an audience, I have thought about nothing but getting that feeling back again.

  “Look, Jake. You don’t know what it’s like to be living in the ass crack of Minnesota. You don’t know about the Blackmore, and you don’t know anything about me or what I love or what I can handle, okay?” I have a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. I swallow it down. I will not cry in front of him. I won’t. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”