Pants on Fire

by Meg Cabot

  “One of what?”

  “Your boyfriends.”

  I followed his gaze, and nearly choked on my own spit. Eric Fluteley was pulling up beside us in his dad’s convertible BMW.

  “Katie,” he said, when he’d come up alongside the sidewalk. “There you are. I’ve been calling you all morning. Don’t you have your phone on?”

  I said my favorite curse word (inside my head, though, since Quahog Princesses don’t swear), and reached into my bag. My phone was off. As usual.

  “Sorry,” I said, pressing the POWER button. “I forgot.”

  “Thought so,” Eric said, with a friendly smile at Tommy, as if to say, Isn’t she cute? It was clear he had no idea who Tommy was, even though the three of us had been in many of the same classes in middle school. “I was wondering if you were going to be around later. I’m having trouble figuring out which of those headshots you took to use with my college apps, and was hoping you could come over to help me figure it out.”

  Which was Eric Fluteley code for come over to make out with me while my parents aren’t home.

  “Uh,” I said, flushing. Because all this was doing was giving Tommy more ammunition to use against me. Even though he was unfamiliar with Eric Fluteley code. Still, I figured he wouldn’t have any trouble figuring it out, since college apps weren’t due for months. “I can’t today, Eric. I’ve got Quahog Princess rehearsal.”

  “Oh, right,” Eric said, laughing in a very fakey way. “How could I forget? I guess I’ll see you there. Morgan Castle asked me to be her escort, you know.”

  “I know,” I said flatly. Really, he was enjoying this whole make-Katie-jealous-by-hanging-out-with-Morgan-Castle thing a little too much.

  “But you’ll be at the Gulp later, won’t you?” Eric asked in a way-too-casual voice.

  “Uh.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. That the guy I was cheating on my boyfriend with was trying to make an appointment for more cheating…right in front of Tommy Sullivan. And he didn’t even know it. “Yeah. But. Um.”

  To my astonishment, Tommy Sullivan came to my rescue.

  “Is this the Z4?” he asked Eric, indicating the car Eric was driving.

  “Uh,” Eric said, looking at him. “Yeah, it is. It’s my dad’s. Hey…do I know you from somewhere, dude? You look familiar.”

  And before I could stop him, Tommy was leaning over the side of Eric’s car with his right hand extended. “Sure, you know me, Eric. Tom Sullivan.”

  I closed my eyes. I closed them because I was pretty certain a gigantic chasm-size void had just opened up beneath my feet, and that I was about to be sucked down into it.

  Because Eric Fluteley only has the biggest mouth in the entire town (well, except for Sidney). The only reason he hasn’t told everyone in Eastport about our extracurricular activities behind the emergency generator is because I told him if he did, he’d have to pay a professional photographer to do his headshots. And that could run into thousands of dollars.

  But when I opened my eyes again a second later, I saw there was no chasm-size void before me…just Post Road, Eastport’s main drag, with Eric Fluteley in his BMW, and Tommy Sullivan standing on the sidewalk next to me.

  “Tommy?” Eric actually tipped down his sunglasses to get a better look at the guy whose hand he was shaking. “Sullivan?”

  “It’s Tom now, actually,” Tommy said, sounding amused by Eric’s stunned tone. “But yeah. It’s me.”

  “Holy—” Eric said one of the words I, as a candidate for Quahog Princess, have forbidden myself from using. “What are you doing back in town, man?”

  “He’s going to be enrolling at Eastport High in the fall,” I said quickly, before Tommy could volunteer the information.

  “Really?” The corners of Eric’s mouth twitched. You could tell he was totally enjoying this. Eric, being concerned only with Eric, doesn’t have any sort of feelings for the Quahogs either way. To him, the whole football thing is just a nuisance that takes people’s attention away from him. “Well, things get rough, and you need a hand, let me know. I took self-defense at the Y this summer, to help hone my stage-fighting techniques.”

  Seriously. Sometimes I wonder why I even let him kiss me.

  Although at least when we’re busy making out, he can’t say anything, as his tongue is otherwise occupied.

  “Uh, I think I’ll be all right,” Tommy said, obviously trying not to laugh. Because the idea of Eric Fluteley fighting anyone is patently absurd. He’d be so afraid of getting his—admittedly gorgeous—face damaged, he’d be of no practical use.

  “Well, you’re a braver man than I. I’ll give you that,” Eric said with a hearty laugh.

  A PT Cruiser pulled up behind Eric’s BMW and, because he wasn’t moving, honked. Eric looked behind him, then said, “I better get going. See you at rehearsal, Katie. Nice seeing you again, Tommy. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  “Thanks,” Tommy said, as a still-grinning Eric cruised away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Tommy turned to me and said, “Seriously. You actually like that guy?”

  “He appreciates my skills with a camera,” I insisted. “Which is more than I can say for a lot of people in this town, who wouldn’t know the difference between a headshot and a seascape.”

  “I’m kind of doubting it’s your skills with a camera he appreciates most,” Tommy said dryly.

  Giving him a dirty look, I tugged on my bike helmet and, climbing onto my seat, said, as regally as possible for someone straddling a three-speed, “For your information, I am not that type of girl. I don’t know what you think you saw behind that emergency generator, but it was only kissing. Something you’re not going to be doing any of with me, by the way.”

  “You bring up kissing me an awful lot for someone who claims not to be interested in actually doing it,” Tommy said, looking highly amused. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

  Furious, I yanked my bike around so it was facing in the opposite direction. I meant to start pedaling away from him without another word. But something made me turn around and ask him angrily, “Tommy, just tell me what you’re doing back here. Is it because you want revenge?”

  After which, of course, I could have kicked myself. Because what was he going to say? Yes, Katie, I’m here to get revenge for that thing you did which you don’t know that I know you did, but I do know, and I’m going to take you down for it?

  Of course he wasn’t going to admit it. Because then I’d start taking evasive action.

  Not surprisingly, he played dumb, raising both his eyebrows and going, “Revenge? On whom? And what for?”

  But for once I managed to keep my mouth shut, and instead of being all, “You know what for,” I just pedaled away. Which took a lot of self-control, considering what I wanted to do, which was invite him to come make out with me behind the emergency generator outside the Gull ’n Gulp later.

  I know. I seriously need to just give up men entirely. I wonder if Episcopalians can enter convents?

  Ten

  Eastport takes its annual quahog festival and town fair very seriously. It draws in thousands of tourists and, therefore, millions of dollars of revenue. I have learned from my experience in the food-service industry that people will pretty much put anything into their mouths if it’s been dipped in batter, then dropped into a deep fryer (quahog fritters).

  And apparently they’ll pretty much buy anything that has a quaint lighthouse or seagulls painted on it. Better yet, if it has the words Eastport Quahog Festival printed on it (visors, mugs, T-shirts, even thongs).

  Because where else are you going to find a quahog festival? (There’s one in Rhode Island, actually. But nobody in Eastport appreciates it when you mention this.)

  To that end, the town council cordons off Eastport Park, across from the courthouse, the day before the festival begins, so they can start setting up all the tables that will be serving food during the Taste of Eastport, and the booths that will be selling quahog
souvenirs, beer, and other assorted tchotchkes.

  But one of the other good things about riding a bike is that you can pretty much dodge around any kind of barrier set up to keep vehicular traffic out of places. Which is what I did in order to get to the end of the park, where they’d set up the temporary stage in front an enormous white tent (which was there for the pageant contestants to change costumes in, before coming out onto the stage), where the Quahog Princess pageant was being held.

  I was way early for rehearsal, of course. Another thing about riding a bike is that you never have to waste time looking for a parking space. I locked up to a nearby park bench (something I wouldn’t have dared to do on a normal day, but since the park was technically closed to the public, I knew there wouldn’t be anybody to yell at me for it) and slipped into one of the metal folding chairs that had been set up for the pageant’s audience, hoping I’d escaped the notice of Ms. Hayes, the pageant director.

  Yeah. The Quahog Princess pageant is run by the wife of the coach of the Quahog football team, who is also our school’s drama director. Ms. Hayes, a former Quahog Princess herself, parlayed her win into a shot at Miss Connecticut, and when she won that, at Miss America. She didn’t win that crown, but she made it into the top five semifinalists through her crafty utilization of double-sided tape. She’s still definitely the most glamorous woman in Eastport—if by glamorous you mean big hair and pink Lilly Pulitzer capri pants, of which Ms. Hayes is fond. Eric, of course, adores her.

  “Well, if it isn’t Katherine Ellison,” Ms. Hayes screeched when she saw me…which, unfortunately, didn’t take long. “You have your camera with you, I presume?”

  I had the Sony my parents had given me for my birthday in my backpack. I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I ran into Stan Gatch just now over at the Super Stop and Shop, and he said he’d run photos from today’s rehearsal in tomorrow’s paper to generate publicity for the event if we get the shots to him by five. Think you can manage that?”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering if Ms. Hayes actually remembered I wasn’t there to take photos, but to be in the pageant.

  But a second later she proved she did remember, when she barked, “Well, might as well make yourself useful now. Get up here and help me move this piano, since you’re the one who’s going to be playing it.”

  I dragged myself up on stage and, under Ms. Hayes’s direction, helped the sound guys—who were there to make sure all the mikes were set up correctly—move the piano to the side of the stage, where it would be out of everyone’s way until my number.

  “There, that’s better,” Ms. Hayes said, dusting off her hands like she’d been the one doing the hard labor. Only she hadn’t, on account of not wanting to mess up her pink-and-whites. “Now, where are the other girls? Tardiness is not an attractive trait for a Quahog Princess.”

  “Here I am, Ms. Hayes,” Sidney called as she hurried down the aisle between the rows of folding chairs toward the stage. Morgan Castle—clearly coming from ballet practice, since she was still in pink tights, with her hair in a bun—was following her, lugging a duffel bag, presumably with her street clothes in it. Jenna Hicks—looking flushed and uncomfortable in her many layers of black clothing, given the heat—took up the rear. She had the earbuds to her iPod in, and appeared to be off in her own little world. As usual.

  “Oh, good,” Ms. Hayes said. She was clearly in no mood to waste time. From what I’ve come to understand from Seth, in this way, she’s a lot like her husband, Coach Hayes. “Well, let’s get to it.”

  The next hour was spent going over our blocking (where we were supposed to stand on stage for the various events). Since the town elders had long ago decided that a bathing suit competition was way too racy for a family-themed event like a town fair—that sort of thing, they felt, belonged to Miss Hawaiian Tropic contests on South Beach—there were only three events in the Quahog Princess pageant: our introduction; the talent portion; and evening gown, which was also when they trotted out the question-and-answer segment.

  The introduction part was easy. We just had to stand there on stage while the mistress of ceremonies—Ms. Hayes—introduced us. After that, we went off stage and into the tent to change costumes for our talent portion. Since my talent—playing the piano—didn’t require a costume change (although Ms. Hayes tried to convince me to wear a red-white-and-blue sequined body stocking left over from the parade scene from some long-ago Eastport High production of The Music Man—which I categorically refused to do), I got to go first.

  Which was fine by me, because then I got my part over with that much faster.

  Which Ms. Hayes says isn’t the true spirit of entertaining, but whatever. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Jenna Hicks didn’t look too upset that her number was last…and not because of the whole saving-the-best-for-last thing, either. She truly did not want to be up on that stage. I was surprised she’d made it to rehearsal at all. But when I asked her, she said she’d had no choice: Her mom had dropped her off. Jenna’d rear-ended someone the month before, and her own car was still in the shop.

  “And if I don’t place in this freaking pageant,” Jenna explained, “my mom won’t pay the deductible to get my car fixed.”

  “Harsh,” I said, a little shocked. I was kind of glad, hearing this, that my parents take zero interest in my extracurricular activities.

  Although I did wonder why Jenna didn’t just get a bike. I mean, why are people so dependent on cars, anyway? It’s not like there’s anywhere Jenna goes (comic book store, Oaken Bucket) that she couldn’t just pedal to, if she wanted to. Then she could tell her mom to go ahead and keep the money for the deductible, and quit the pageant.

  I felt bad for Jenna, though, because, even with no-talking Morgan, there was no way she was going to place in the pageant. Her talent, for one thing, was reciting Denis Leary’s monologue from the movie Demolition Man—the one about supporting the right to smoke cigars in the non-smoking section and run through town naked, covered in green Jell-O—a speech not likely to make her particularly popular with the judges, who tend to favor baton-twirling over orations that praise social anarchy.

  And Jenna’s answers, when Ms. Hayes interrogated her during the rehearsal for the question-and-answer segment of the pageant, bordered on hostile.

  Although I guess I could understand why all she said when Ms. Hayes asked, “Jenna, please tell the audience what you love most about quahogs,” was, “Because they have a hard protective outer shell…like me.”

  Ms. Hayes hadn’t been super receptive to that one.

  “Now, Jenna,” she said. “You can do better than that. You want the audience—and, more importantly, the judges—to warm to you, to root for you. You want them to like you, don’t you?”

  To which Jenna responded, “Not particularly,” causing Sidney to let out a snorting sound as she tried not to laugh.

  “Miss van der Hoff,” Ms. Hayes snapped. “If you can’t control yourself…”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Sidney said, still looking as if she were going to crack up any minute.

  “Now, Jenna,” Ms. Hayes went on. “You want to win, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Jenna said, thinking, no doubt, of her car.

  “Well, then. Maybe you could attempt to be a little more likable. Let’s try a different question. Remember, you could receive any one of these questions tomorrow night—they’re randomly chosen by the judges. Jenna, in your opinion, what are some traits you consider important in a Quahog?”

  Jenna blinked at her. “You mean like…juiciness?”

  Ms. Hayes looked to the sky, as if she were asking the Lord for support.

  “No, Jenna,” she said. “I meant the team, not the food. Let’s try something else. Something easy. Jenna, how would you define true love?”

  Jenna just looked at Ms. Hayes like she was crazy.

  It’s kind of funny that, as Ms. Hayes was asking this, I saw Seth stroll up under the trees, looking t
all and cool and hotter than ever, his dark-blond hair flopping sexily over one eye as he grinned up at me.

  And I knew, with a burst of clarity greater than any I had ever experienced in my life, what the definition of true love was. It was as if I’d suddenly hit the auto-focus on the camera of my mind. True love was Seth Turner—simple, trusting, loving Seth.

  And I was filled with a happy, joyous feeling. Who cared if Tommy Sullivan had come back to town? Who cared if the reason he was there was to get revenge on me for what I’d done to him four years ago? Who cared if he’d caught me making out with Eric Fluteley?

  Who cared if every time I looked at him I was consumed with a desire to fling myself at him and run my fingers through his hair and lick his face all over? Everything was going to be all right.

  Because I had Seth. Sweet, happy-go-lucky Seth, who even now was straddling a metal folding chair out beside Sidney’s boyfriend, Dave, and making faces at me from the audience, trying to crack me up during rehearsal.

  Except that my burst of clarity was short-lived. Because barely a minute later—Ms. Hayes had moved on to Morgan, asking her what she loved most about quahogs, and Morgan was stammering something about quahogs being an important source of protein for the area seagulls—Eric Fluteley came striding down the aisle.

  And I was horrified to feel my heart swell with love for him, too! I mean, he just looked so cute, with his dark, curly hair and button-down shirt turned up at the elbows, and his spotless, neatly pressed khakis and sly wink in my direction.

  And I couldn’t help but remember how sexy he was as Bender in The Breakfast Club, and how hot he’d been as Jud, and how complimentary he always was about what he called my chi, or life force, which he says seems really strong, and that probably we were soul mates in a past life.

  How is a girl supposed to not kiss a guy who says all that to her?

  “Miss Ellison.”

  So, okay. Maybe I don’t know what true love is. Maybe I really do need to take a break from boys, instead of looking up the girl-to-guy ratios at the colleges I’m interested in attending next fall, and basing my decision on where to go on who has the highest number of guys (Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, seventy-five guys to every twenty-five girls. Which sounds just about right to me. Although I’m not actually sure where Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute is, or if they have a photography program. But with that many guys, who even cares? I’ll major in microbiology if I have to).