“That was your idea?” I asked.
He bobbed his head enthusiastically, the mask flapping around his neck. I was surprised at how well I could translate mime. Yet another useless skill I could put on my résumé.
“That is utterly demented,” I said. “But I would expect no less from a hobo clown. Or do you prefer displaced circus entertainment professional?”
The clown held up two fingers with the hand holding the axe, indicating the latter option.
There were more zombies trapped behind a piece of chain-link fence, growling and spitting. One grabbed at the tail of a girl dressed as a cat and pulled her against the fence with a clatter.
I blurted out a curse and cringed into the clown’s shoulder. He pulled me closer, the brim of his hat resting against my horns. We stood still for a moment. I could feel his breath rising and falling against my cheek. My arm was pinned to his side, my gloves buried deep into the fibers of his sleeve. There was an arm under that sleeve. Biceps brachii, coracobrachialis and brachialis connecting to a humerus bone. A real human arm, attached to a real human boy.
My pulse fluttered up into my throat again.
The zombies whispered “Ooo,” like a studio audience. The clown and I took a step forward in tandem.
“Anyway,” I said, staring firmly at my feet, “Harper and Cornell are going to be all happily ever after and the rest of us will have to deal. Which is going to be fairly sucky for me considering Cornell is now super best friends with Ben West. Do you know Ben West, homicidal clown?”
He glanced down at me, the axe going limp in his hand. From the shadowy recesses of his mask, I could barely make out confused brown eyes.
“Ben West?” I repeated. “Skinny, handlebar mustache, really lazy insults?”
The clown cocked his head and shook it side to side.
“Lucky you,” I said, shivering closer to him. “You must be new. He’s less of a class clown—no offense—and more of our token idiot savant. I don’t know how Cornell and Peter are putting up with his jackassery. Two minutes with West is like one really obnoxious lifetime. They’ll realize it eventually. Everyone does. I mean, what kind of loser do you have to be to get kicked out of the role-playing club?”
The clown yanked the elbow I was holding onto, steering me around a group heading into the next room and toward the opposite wall. He drew back a black sheet of plastic—which looked no different from the rest of the black plastic—to reveal a door that opened onto the quad. There were people prancing around with bags of kettle corn and candied apples.
“Oh, sweet merciful freedom,” I said, ducking my horns under the plastic. I turned around with my hand on the doorknob. “Thank you, homicidal clown. You’ve been a lovely companion. If you’ve given up your murderous tendencies on Monday, find me in the caf. I owe you a soda for your trouble.”
He tipped his top hat to me and turned on his heel, striding back through the zombies as I stepped outside. I was almost sorry to see him go, but the fresh air was such a relief that I couldn’t be too troubled.
I immediately fished money out of my cloak and bought a spiced cider, drinking deep as I sat myself on a bench. With the adrenaline seeping out of my bloodstream, it was easier to focus on being happy for Harper and Cornell, as much as I would need to have a chat with them about the appropriate times to disappear together.
I sipped my cider, watching the parade of princesses and superheroes dashing over to the apple bobbing booth. I had absolutely no will to shove my face into a bucket of water after being trapped in the haunted house. I was going to keep my butt firmly planted until Meg or Harper reappeared.
I dug through the pockets of my cloak until my fingers found the worn copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy I’d stashed inside. I pulled it out and read a few chapters, nursing my cider until it went cold and became really spicy juice.
“There’s something you don’t see every day.”
I looked up and saw Peter standing in front of me, his hair poking out of the front of his purple hood. I adjusted my cloak to make room and he sat down heavily next to me, holding out a mostly empty bag of kettle corn.
I folded the book over my knee so that I could take some kettle corn. Like my cider, it was no longer fresh, but I ate a fistful anyway. The sugar stuck to my gloves.
“Where’s your posse?” I asked in between crunching.
“Scattered.”
“Same here,” I said. “It looks like we’re the only ones not using the costumes as an excuse to be more adventurous.”
“Hey, I have been to infinity and beyond,” he said, proudly displaying his costume before shaking some kettle corn into his palm. “But my knee hurts and I don’t feel like dancing.”
I grimaced. “Is that where everyone is?”
“Looks like it,” he said. “I guess we’re the only people left not paired off. Well, you, me, and Ben.”
“Yikes,” I said. Even with getting trapped in the haunted house, I’d been having a lovely West-free evening. “Don’t lump us in with Ben West. We can’t be that pathetic, right?”
Peter laughed and nudged me with his shoulder. “I guess not. I mean, we could always…”
He turned in slow motion, his big blue eyes asking a really stupid question. It hung in the air between us like the dry ice fog in the zombie room. It would have made sense—if I were someone else—for us to pair off because the rest of our group had. That’s how things worked on TV. If there was an even number of girls and boys, you coupled up. I watched sitcoms. I got the formula. I snorted at the idea.
Peter shrank back, scalded. I hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. It was just absurd. The Donnellys had been running the Mess’s student government since the school opened. Except for Jack. But I was much more suited to the sociopath than to the student council president.
“Sorry,” I said, clasping my hands together in my lap. “Absolutely no offense intended. But I am so not First Lady material. I’d destroy you without even meaning to. Because I’m, you know, me. And you’re—”
“A gimpy member of leadership?”
I threw up my hands. “See? You’re too nice to deal with me all the time. I’m the evil queen and you save the day.” I paused to consider him. He had chosen his costume well. He hadn’t even needed to draw in Buzz’s chin dimple. He came with one already in place. “It’s not that you aren’t crazy good-looking. You are. You know that. You need to find a nice Jackie Onassis.”
He gave me a bemused shake of his head. “That was a lot of references in one compliment.”
I cringed, thinking of West, who had said something similar about my insulting him on the first day of school. “Yeah, well. I’m off my game. I got trapped in the haunted house when Harper and Cornell went frolicking off together and I’m still a little woozy. I had to ask some dude dressed like a clown to help me escape.”
Peter raised his eyebrows at me. “You asked—”
I held my hand up. “I do not want to talk about it. Apparently, I have problems with zombies up close and personal, okay?”
“Don’t feel too bad about it. The drama club spent all week training them. Even Jack said they were pretty intense.” He stood, peering inside the nearly empty bag of kettle corn. “Do you want another cider?”
“Please,” I said. “And then can we track down our stupid newly-in-love friends? I want to get this gunk off my face.”
To: Messina Academy Students
From: Administrative Services
Subject: Harvest Festival
… infractions against the school code will be met with the same repercussions set in place during school hours.
8
Peter and I wandered aimlessly, not spending much time at any one booth, eating through a second bag of kettle corn and drinking apple cider. Dr. Mendoza had abandoned the dunk tank, leaving damp pavement behind as the only evidence that he’d let half the student body sink him into what had to be freezing cold water.
“Even befo
re my leg blew out, I never thought about going pro,” Peter said, tossing kettle corn kernels into his mouth. “I’ve wanted to go to MIT since before I started kindergarten. It’s the top mechanical engineering program in the country.”
“Might as well aim for the best,” I agreed, taking a handful of kettle corn for myself. It stuck unpleasantly to my gloves and I had to scrape the residue off with my teeth. “Are you leaning more toward Stark Industries or Skynet?”
The corners of his mouth quirked. “I don’t follow.”
“Nerd stuff.” I shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Trixie! Peter!” Meg was running toward us, her legs seeming to move much faster than her shoes. Her hair had started to lose its curl. A piece stuck to her flushed cheek as she hopped in front of us. “Oh my God, tonight is the best. I danced with Brad for a little while, but then he disappeared and I ended up with Ishaan Singh. We mostly talked about cricket. He’s cricket captain and fifth in the ranking, but he didn’t know that J. M. Barrie started that team with Wodehouse and Kipling, if you can believe it. I thought that was common knowledge. Anyway, we had kettle corn and split a candied apple. It was very sweet.”
“Confectionary even.” I giggled.
“Oh,” she squealed with a hop of excitement. “And I saw Harper and Cornell. They’re slow dancing to the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack right now. It is so cute I could scream. I think they’re officially official.”
“It’s about time,” Peter said.
“And what about you, Meggie?” I asked. “How does Ishaan factor into your rebellion?”
She tittered absentmindedly. “Oh, I dropped a hint about the winter ball. We’ll see if he picked it up. But this whole boy thing is pretty exhausting. I don’t think I need an everyday boyfriend. It might be more like having a formal dress in your closet. It’d be silly to wear it in the cafeteria, but it’s nice to have on hand.”
Peter appeared to wrestle with this information, his forehead wrinkling as his eyes went squinty. He started to say something, choked on it, and covered his mouth with his fist.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “You get used to her logic eventually.”
Meg propped a hand onto her hip, sinking to one leg with a huff.
“Anyway,” she said loudly. “I don’t think we’ll be able to pry Harper and Cornell apart for a while. But I’m pretty much done here.”
“Oh, me too,” I said.
“Did you guys drive in together?” Peter asked.
“We walked.” I groaned, thinking of dragging myself back home. My toes throbbed in protest against the stiff leather of my boots. I petulantly threw my empty cider cup into the nearest trash can.
“Do you want a ride?” Peter asked.
“Really?” Meg asked brightly. “That would be fantastic.”
“We’ll need to tell Harper,” I said, but Meg was already prancing toward the cafeteria, her skirt swishing around her thighs.
“Don’t you need to stay here and clean up?” I asked Peter. “You guys spent a week putting all of this up.”
“We’re cleaning everything up tomorrow morning. I have to come back to get my brother later. He’s running the music in the haunted house.” He leaned against the trash can, reaching up and peeling off his hood. He brushed his hair forward with the flat of his hand before stuffing the hood into his pocket. “I can’t let you guys walk back. Meg looks cold.”
I grinned at him. “Meg looks mostly naked.”
He coughed a shocked laugh. “I mean, she looks pretty—”
“But also not entirely as clothed as usual. It’s okay. It’s part of her thought experiment.”
Before Peter could reply, Meg reappeared in all her tiny glory, skipping toward us. If she noticed my giggle-snort or Peter’s extraneous throat clearing as she approached, she didn’t show it.
“Cornell is going to drive Harper home,” she said with a dimpled smile. “She said she’ll come get her backpack from your house tomorrow, Trix.”
“Wow,” I said. “She’s going to part with her homework for the night? This is serious.”
Peter led us out of the quad, holding the door to the main building open for us to squeeze through. After the raucous festivities, the bright fluorescent light and silent hallway was oddly jarring. All of a sudden, I remembered that we were on campus and that when we came back on Monday, the first ranking would be posted. Suddenly, the Shakespeare quote plastered to the front of the case was less amusing.
We stepped out of the front of the building. The admissions table was still set up, now run by two juniors who were whispering loudly into a walkie-talkie. Kenneth Pollack was roaring at them, his broad shoulders covered in a cheap plastic Roman-soldier chest plate.
“This is bull,” he shouted. “Give me my fucking ticket.”
“We can’t,” said a girl in bunny ears. She stabbed her finger near the cash box at a sheet of paper. “You’re on the list.”
Kenneth let loose another stream of obscenities as the second girl continued whisper-screaming into the walkie-talkie.
Peter strode forward, his hands open in the universal sign of jocular goodwill.
“Bro,” he said, slipping seamlessly out of English and into Jock. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is that this bitch—”
“Language, Kenny,” Meg bristled.
He ignored her entirely. “This is ridiculous, Donnelly. Tell them to let me in.”
“I can’t do that, Ken,” Peter said softly. “You know the rules. You’re on academic probation. You can’t—”
“I didn’t cheat,” Kenneth snarled, wrenching back. His chest plate swung to the side, revealing the red T-shirt he wore underneath it.
The front door slammed open. Dr. Mendoza, now out of his wet suit and dressed in a lab coat and a stethoscope, pushed past me and Meg. Peter stepped out of his way with a deferential inclination of his head.
“Mr. Pollack,” Dr. Mendoza said, his salt-and-pepper Mr. Sinister goatee gleaming in the low light. “You have already been benched for the next two games. Do you want to be pulled off the team entirely?”
“I didn’t cheat,” Kenneth repeated, carefully keeping his voice down. No one shouted at Dr. Mendoza. He controlled our college references.
Peter’s shoulders slumped. He glanced at me and Meg and motioned for us to follow him. We did, trying to slip around Kenneth’s bulk without brushing him. We walked through the front gate and into the parking lot in silence. Peter retrieved a set of keys from his pocket and let us into a silver minivan. I had to remove my horns to fit into the passenger seat.
“So,” said Meg as Peter started the engine. “What in the holy hell was that?”
Peter blew out a breath, peering over his shoulder as we backed out of the parking space. I pointed him in the general direction of my house.
“Ken got caught cheating in Cline’s class,” he grumbled.
“Already?” Meg gasped. “We’re a month in.”
Carefully, I peeled my gloves off and pressed my hands to the air vents, letting the cool air roll over my fingers. “He keeps saying he didn’t do it.”
Meg freed her tiara from her hair and massaged her scalp. “I’m sure he did it. He’s just another meathead.…” She shrank back in her seat, seeming to remember where we were. “Sorry, Peter.”
Peter shrugged her off, steering the minivan around a corner. “No, he is a meathead. He beat the crap out of Ben last year. And he used to steal notes out of our lockers during practice. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was cheating. They gave him a slap on the wrist for it, but he could have been expelled.”
“He should have been,” I said.
“I don’t think they have enough proof yet.” Peter frowned. “He kept saying the freshman class treasurer framed him.”
“It wasn’t B,” I said. “He didn’t even know he had school email.”
“That’s what Ben said,” Peter said. “When he hea
rd about it, he went straight to Dr. Mendoza’s office and proved that Brandon hadn’t accessed his account yet.”
“That was nice of him.” Meg yawned. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“No, but he wanted to make sure Brandon’s name was cleared. So, now the administration is ‘looking into it.’ Whatever that means.”
“It means Ken gets to keep playing basketball and roughing up innocent bystanders,” I said, sighing. “Damn it. This is the second time this week I wished I was a detective.”
Meg tilted her head at me, letting her crown flop to one side. “Do you want me to dig out my Nancy Drews for pointers?”
I tossed a glove at her.
* * *
Back in my bedroom, Meg changed into her uniform and lovingly folded her costume before stashing it in her bag. My mom offered to drive her home and I took a boiling-hot shower, clawing the green paint off my face. With half a bottle of shampoo suds sloughing the gel out of my hair, I considered what would happen if I told Harper and Meg that I had turned down Peter’s offer of default dating. They probably would have forced me to commit seppuku, the only honorable death a traitor to my gender could hope for.
There had to be at least a hundred people at the Mess who stayed up late at night wishing that Peter would just look at them, much less ask them out. He was tall and good-looking and chivalrous to a fault. In the span of two hours, he’d found Meg a dance partner, stopped Kenneth Pollack from going berserk, and driven me and Meg home. He was Captain America without the emotional baggage. I knew perfect when I saw it. And Peter was the kind of perfect that girls made lists of. He was MASH-bait, if you were the kind of person who was into notebook fortune-telling games.
So maybe I was crazy. Because for all of that perfection, I couldn’t force my brain to see him in that way—the making-out-in-a-supply-closet, think-about-him-instead-of-homework kind of way. His goofy smile had no effect on my knees. Talking to him was pleasant, but not Earth shattering. At no point while he was squiring me around the festival did I have any elaborate fantasies about holding hands or him winning me a stuffed animal at the beanbag toss.
The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You Page 8