The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You

by Lily Anderson

  The toothpaste was, thankfully, gone now.

  “Well,” he said at the tail end of the yawn. “That doesn’t include whatever they’ve sold today.”

  We all looked across the cafeteria, where the junior officers were sulking at a card table beneath one of their spangled winter ball signs. A blotch of salad dressing remained on one corner. The cash box had been shoved aside in favor of the secretary’s physics textbook.

  “Not that business seems to be booming,” Ben finished, reaching for his soda.

  “It would be if we’d opened up to the lowerclassmen,” said the girl next to B, whose name I didn’t know but who appeared to be the sophomore class treasurer. “With the rate of senior suspensions, you’ll be lucky to have anyone left to go to the dance.”

  “Yeah,” said the freshman president from behind a copy of Beowulf. “Do you guys even have a ranking list yet?”

  I considered how lucky the table was that Mary-Anne had started avoiding the cafeteria. I’d spotted her and Jack Donnelly arguing near the library as I’d marched across the quad. If she’d been present, there was no doubt that it would have turned into a screaming match between her and the younger officers.

  “The Messina handbook expressly says that formal events are for the junior and senior classes,” Peter said with uncharacteristic force. He dragged the heels of his hands over his eyes. “It’s too late to put in for a request to amend the policy.”

  “Well, I already bought tickets for me and Harper,” Cornell said, loud enough to drown out the mutinous murmurs from the lowerclassmen.

  “I could have bought my own ticket,” Harper said.

  “You can pay for prom.” He chuckled. “It’s more expensive.”

  “And I bought mine,” Peter said. “What about you guys?”

  I attempted to look engrossed in my grilled cheese, which was difficult as it was leaking oil at an alarming rate. I took an overlarge bite anyway and chewed painstakingly through the gush of rubbery bread and waxy orange cheese.

  “I bought one for myself,” Meg said pertly. She sighed, adding a soupçon of eyelash fluttering for extra innocence. “And Trixie is boycotting.”

  I rage-chewed at her, using my tongue to pry cheese off my molars instead of telling her to shut up.

  Peter’s jaw dropped. “No way. You have to go, Trix.”

  “I really don’t,” I said thickly as I started ticking off reasons on my fingers. “No date, no dress, no will, no way.”

  “Oh, bull,” Ben said into his soda can. The sound echoed like a hundred scathing voices. “We’re all going stag, except Corny and the Harpsichord—”

  “Terrible nicknames,” Cornell said.

  “I kind of like them,” Harper said, snickering. “Corny.”

  Ben ignored this, leaning back imperiously in his seat. “What’s one big cliché high school experience?”

  “Yeah, Trix,” Meg cheered, reaching out and shaking my forearm until I thought I could hear my brain rattling. “It’ll be a stag party!”

  “That does not mean what you think it means,” I grunted.

  “We could all chip in and buy your ticket,” Peter said.

  My brain scanned tirelessly for a loophole. The winter ball was a fundraiser for a pointless and esoteric sports team. It was two weeks before finals. It was a slippery slope from winter ball to prom. I was too tall to wear high heels. I wanted to watch all of Battlestar Galactica again. I needed to ace my finals and win third place in the ranking. If we ever got the ranking back.

  “Hell, I’ll buy the ticket,” Ben said, slamming his soda down on the table. Underneath the bravado and the lack of sleep was a stunning sincerity. The rest of the room disappeared for a second and I could clearly see that I was the only thing that Ben was looking at. It was the same look I’d envied between Harper and Cornell, a spotlight of love that only I could feel the scorch of.

  He smiled, a slow unveiling of teeth. “Nut up, Watson. All the cool kids are doing it.”

  My heart rabbit-punched me in the teeth. “I will consider it. Everyone shut up about it for a while, okay?”

  “Fair enough,” Harper said, her lips stretched white with the effort of holding back a grin. “Terrible weather we’re having, huh?”

  * * *

  Friday night was officially take-out night in the Watson household. With the kitchen table covered in white oyster pails, my parents and I took our plates to the living room. Mom and I had vetoed Dad’s plan of watching both versions of Dune, arguing that seeing Sting in a metal diaper would put us off our spicy eggplant. So, instead, we settled in for Chinese food and Fawlty Towers. Classic BBC comedies paired well with all meals.

  After I took my empty plate back to the kitchen, I curled up on the loveseat, wrapping myself in an afghan GG Bea had knitted. Sherry hopped up beside me, resting his chin heavily on my hip and licking garlic sauce from the tips of my fingers. I scratched his ears absently.

  “You know,” Dad said, setting his chopsticks down on the coffee table. “You really should have applied to a college in the UK. There’s a ton of shows that we never get over here. It’d be nice to have a BBC supplier.”

  “The Internet exists,” I said. “If we bought a region-free DVD player, you wouldn’t have to ship me to another country.”

  “True,” he said. “But think of all the Doctor Who swag we never get in the States.”

  “Oh, Scotty.” Mom sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Don’t say ‘swag.’”

  He furrowed his brow and tapped her arm in thought. “Merch? Nifty crap?”

  I laughed, raising my index finger in the air. “I vote nifty crap.”

  “Nifty crap for the win! Boom!” He punched the air victoriously and Mom sighed again, resettling herself against his side.

  “And this is why we had to stop having game night,” she murmured.

  Dad took her hand, entwining their fingers together before craning his neck down to kiss the top of her head. “P is for pwned.”

  I giggled. “And people let you teach their children.”

  He winked at me. “I know, right?”

  The pocket of my pajama pants buzzed. Sherry leapt back against the opposite arm of the loveseat, woofing indignantly as I retrieved my cell phone. I glanced at the screen and took in a shaky breath as I saw Ben’s name pop up.

  Checking to make sure that my parents were focused on John Cleese shouting in fake German on the television, I opened the text message.

  Come to winter ball.

  The phone trembled in my hands as I covertly typed a response. Technically, the no-electronics’ rule of a Watson movie night only applied to watching something for the first time and I had definitely seen every episode of Fawlty Towers at least a hundred times. Still, I didn’t need my parents noticing what I was doing.

  Why?

  I squeezed my eyes closed and slid the phone under the afghan. I jumped when it buzzed again.

  Because it’s going to be lame as frak.

  I held back a laugh as my brain shouted, He watches Battlestar Galactica! I had to stop myself from immediately asking him what he thought about the ending of the series. Making a mental note to badger him about it later, I typed quickly under the cover of the blanket.

  I know. That’s why I didn’t want to go. I can sit alone in the cafeteria any day of the week. Why add formal wear?

  He responded immediately. Why would you be alone if i’m asking you to go?

  I reread the message until the letters went fuzzy. When I’d first thought of what would happen if I went to the dance, I’d imagined sitting alone and drinking punch, wondering how everyone else’s night was going. But I wouldn’t be alone. Ben wouldn’t let me stare at a wall. He’d sit with me, equally uncomfortable with the surroundings, and pick a fight about the best Marvel superhero or which teacher on campus was the most likely to have a criminal past. We wouldn’t bother discussing corsages or posed pictures snapped by our parents. We might get into a shouting mat
ch about the literary allusions in Doctor Who, but that would be worth leaving the house for.

  And if I stayed home, I would miss spending time with my friends. I wanted to see who Meg tricked into escorting her around. I wanted to see Harper cluck and blush when Cornell asked her to slow dance. I wanted to make sure that Peter didn’t use his knee as an excuse not to talk to girls.

  I also wasn’t opposed to the idea of seeing Ben in a suit.

  I flexed my hands and typed slowly. Throw in a soda and you’ve got a deal.

  Ben responded with a smiley-face emoticon. Diet or regular?

  I sat up straight. “Hey, parentals? Do you think it would be at all possible for me to get an advance on my allowance?”

  They exchanged a frown. Mom’s mouth rounded into the disapproving O of “no.”

  “How much of an advance?” Dad asked tentatively.

  “I don’t know.” I slipped my phone back into my pocket and pulled the afghan up around my armpits. “How much does a prom dress cost?”

  The force of their surprise bordered on offensive. Mom’s mouth flopped open and Dad’s hands flew up to his cheeks like he was afraid they were going to fly off his skull. It was like seeing what happened when they shut the power off on the Hall of Presidents at Disney World. I cringed away from them.

  “Uh, guys?”

  “We could certainly pay for a prom dress for you,” Dad said quickly. I wasn’t sure but I thought I could see the image of his camera flashing in his pupils. He shot a sidelong glance at Mom. “Jeanie?”

  “Yes,” she said, seemingly shaking herself out of her stunned fog. “Of course. When do you need it, Trix?”

  “Winter ball is in two weeks, so sometime before then. I think Harper and Meg wanted to go shopping this weekend, but I could hold off—”

  “Do you have a date?” Dad asked.

  I peeled back the afghan and got to my feet. “That’s enough questions. I’m going to call Harper and see when they’re going to the mall.”

  As I walked down the hall to my bedroom, Mom said, “I think that means she does.”

  “Okay, we can stop talking about it now,” I called over my shoulder.

  “Oh, she definitely does,” Dad whispered loudly. “P is for pining.”

  “God, I wish I had siblings.” I slammed my bedroom door.

  [9:42 PM]

  Meg

  Omg! Yes! STAG PARTY!

  [9:45 PM]

  Me

  Okay, I really need you to google that phrase.

  [9:47 PM]

  Meg

  STAG PARTY EXCEPT NOT WITH STRIPPERS!

  [9:47PM]

  Me

  See you in the morning.

  [9:48PM]

  Meg

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  16

  “For the last time,” I said with my head in my hands, “that is a wedding dress.”

  Meg sashayed side to side, letting ten pounds of lace flounce and ripple around her knees. “But it’s a very short wedding dress.”

  “That does not negate the fact that it is intended for matrimony.” I sighed, flopping over in the plush chair I’d been stuck in for the last twenty minutes.

  My regret of agreeing to go dress shopping with Meg and Harper had started somewhere between Orange Julius and the first department store when Harper announced that she’d set aside four hours for this excursion. The regret had intensified at the second department store when Meg launched into a tangent on open-toed shoes. And now, in store number three, I was keeping myself occupied by plotting to eat enough sequins to have to be rushed to the emergency room but not so many sequins that I actually died. Which ruled out ingesting the last dress Meg had tried on.

  “It is a very nice dress, Meg,” Harper said, appearing out of the dressing room in a cupcake-dress the same shade of pink as her glasses. “But didn’t you want something in purple?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Meg said, stroking the skirt with an unmistakable longing. “I’ll go try on the next one.”

  She skipped past Harper and disappeared into the dressing room in a blur of white satin.

  “That’s pretty,” I said, gesturing to Harper’s ensemble.

  “Oh, please. I look like Glinda the Good Witch.” She tossed herself down in the chair next to me, the toes of her sneakers peeking out from under the shimmering hem of her gown. “This might be more enjoyable for you if you actually tried something on. There has to be something here that you won’t hate.”

  “I suppose,” I grumbled.

  She turned in her chair, the volume of her skirts making it difficult. She squirmed her way into a more comfortable position. “I know that this isn’t your deal. But I am really excited that you’re here. Most people go dress shopping with their moms.…” She trailed off and rolled her eyes at her own slip of emotion. “I’m happy I get to do this with my best friends.”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling guilty about how impatient I’d been all day. I’d waved off my parents’ offers to accompany me shopping without even considering how much it would have meant to Harper to have that option. Mr. Leonard had just handed her his credit card and an itemized budget for her spending.

  I wondered, not for the first time, what Harper’s life would have looked like if her mom had been alive. Would Mrs. Leonard have driven all three of us to the mall? All I could remember about her was her waist-length blond hair. The first time I’d seen her, I’d told Harper she looked like Carol Danvers, the original Ms. Marvel.

  “No,” Harper had said, her pale eyebrows drawn together over the big owl glasses she’d worn in kindergarten. “My dad says that she’s a grown-up Supergirl.”

  I thought of Harper’s harvest festival costume and trained my eyes on the floor.

  “You always have us, Harper.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “And the dance wouldn’t be the same without you. You could even go in jeans, if you wanted.”

  “No,” I said, patting the armrest between us and climbing out of the chair. “I came to find a dress. I guess I will attempt to track down something not awful.”

  She scrunched her nose at me. “Me too. This thing is crazy itchy.”

  I wandered out of the dressing area and into the fluorescent-lit and overly perfumed racks of formal dresses. Hangers clattered together as I smashed past a rainbow of sequins and lace. I wasn’t a frilly dress kind of gal. No rhinestones, no straps made of flowers, no puckered skirts. Nothing that could get me confused with a dessert or a disco ball or an overgrown contestant on Toddlers and Tiaras.

  I found a rack of black dresses. Black seemed safe. It didn’t immediately scream, “Look at me!” and it wouldn’t require the additional purchase of color-coordinated shoes. I looped a few over my arm at random and marched back to the dressing room to an empty stall.

  Stripping out of my T-shirt and jeans, I shimmied in and out of the first three dresses to no avail. I threw each of them back onto their hangers with mounting frustration. As I reached for the next one, my phone buzzed somewhere from the depths of my pile of discarded clothes. I fumbled for it and found a text from Ben:

  Found out who the new ap is.

  Who? I sent, tapping my heel furiously into the carpet. After two days of no new information, I had let go of my theory that the ranking had been taken down due to a new cheater. If someone had been stuck on probation, word would have traveled fast.

  Jack Donnelly, Ben replied.

  “What?” I said to the screen as I started typing. Sure, Jack Donnelly was a sinister miscreant, but he was still a Donnelly. Donnellys didn’t cheat. They didn’t need to.

  Of course, that could be said for most of the Mess’s student body.

  I tried to remember if I’d seen Jack since the ranking came down. He’d been consistently skipping lunch for weeks. I assumed he was sneaking food into the library with him while he crammed over his computer and avoided the rest of us. It had certainly looked like he was studying when I’d run into him. />
  But maybe cheating and studying were equally taxing.

  Peter told me and Cornell, Ben continued. We’re not supposed to know. His parents are contesting the charges.

  Can they do that? I asked.

  They’re Donnellys. They can do whatever they want.

  Apparently, I replied. Thanks for the info.

  I tossed my phone back onto my clothes and started to run out of the dressing room before remembering I was still in my underpants. I snatched the nearest dress off its hanger and threw the mass of satin over my head.

  “Meg? Harper?” I called, zipping up the back as I tumbled out of the stall.

  Two doors opened and the girls popped into the hallway. Meg was back in her regular clothes, clutching a lump of purple tulle.

  “Oh, Trixie,” she cried. “You look beautiful!”

  “Huh?” I looked down at myself. The black strapless dress that I’d flung on actually fit. And I didn’t resemble a pastry. “Oh. Cool. No, Jack Donnelly is the reason the ranking got taken down. He’s the new probation.”

  Harper stumbled forward, tripping over her skirt. She fisted her hands in the fabric and lifted it above her sneakers. “Jack?”

  Meg stamped her foot, her cheeks turning an indignant shade of pink. “So, Peter did know what was happening!”

  “They’ll have to investigate it if a Donnelly is involved,” Harper said. She paused, clucking so rapidly under her breath that she sounded like a tiny motorboat. “The Donnelly family contributes a lot of money to the school. Peter and Jack’s parents went to the Mess. They were the third or fourth graduating class.”

  “But it’s not like Jack didn’t do it,” Meg said. “He’s, you know … Jack.”

  Harper frowned. “Being unpleasant doesn’t necessarily make him a cheater.”

  “Maybe being a cheater makes him unpleasant,” I said.

  Meg hugged her dress closer to her. I spotted a rhinestone hiding under the tulle. “Poor Peter. Did he seem upset when he told you?”

  I stared at her in confusion before realizing that neither of the girls would assume that I would have received this information from anyone other than Peter. Harper saved me the trouble of lying.