Pants on Fire

by Meg Cabot

  “Miss Ellison!”

  Sidney elbowed me, hard, and I realized Ms. Hayes was talking to me.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I asked, as Sidney smirked.

  “Your turn, Miss Ellison,” Ms. Hayes said stonily. “Please tell our audience—and our judges—what you love most about quahogs.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I said, with the smile Sidney had chosen as my best that night we’d practiced our Quahog Princess smiles for hours in her bedroom mirror. “I love their tender succulence—especially when they’re floating in a bowl or cup of the Gull ’n Gulp’s world-famous quahog chowder. Mention my name—Katie Ellison—and get a free cup all weekend!”

  Out in the audience, Seth and Dave burst into enthusiastic applause. Even Ms. Hayes looked pleased.

  “Excellent response, Katie,” she said. “That’s one the judges will love. Did you hear, ladies, how Katie managed to mention her sponsor in her answer?”

  “I don’t have a sponsor,” Jenna reminded us. “My mom’s paying for this.”

  “Which is why your response should have been something along the lines of, What I love most about quahogs are the hot and tasty quahog cakes my mom makes for me on cold wintry days,” Ms. Hayes said.

  “My mom doesn’t make quahog cakes,” Jenna said. “She’s too busy with her Pilates workouts.”

  Ms. Hayes lifted her gaze toward the sky again. Then she said, in measured, even tones, “I think that’s enough for the question-and-answer segment, girls. Let’s move on to evening gowns, since I see your escorts are here….”

  The guys stood up and ambled over to the stage, where we greeted them with enthusiastic embraces. At least, Sidney and I did. Morgan Castle, not being on kissing terms with her escort, apparently, sidled shyly up to him and said, “Hi,” while staring at her feet in her Aerosoles mary janes. Jenna, however, stayed where she was, center stage. It soon became very apparent, even to the sound guys, who were so clueless that they’d thought Sidney’s Kelly Clarkson song was country-western, that we were one guy short.

  “Miss Hicks,” Ms. Hayes said, carefully patting her enormous, bouffanty hairdo, which a gentle breeze from the sound was in danger of collapsing. “Where is your escort?”

  Jenna looked down at the toes of her combat boots (seriously…her feet had to be sweating so much. I would not want to be there when she pulls those things off). “I don’t have an escort,” Jenna said softly.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Hicks?” Ms. Hayes said. “You have to speak up, honey. I can’t hear you if you mumble.”

  “I DON’T HAVE AN ESCORT,” Jenna yelled.

  Ms. Hayes looked astonished. Clearly, from her expression, in the history of the Eastport Quahog Princess pageant, there had never before been an entrant who hadn’t shown up with an escort.

  “Are you saying you don’t know any young man who would be willing to act as your escort, Miss Hicks?” Ms. Hayes demanded.

  “No one who would be caught dead doing something this lame,” Jenna mumbled.

  “Excuse me, Miss Hicks?” Ms. Hayes went from looking astonished to looking irritated in about a second flat. “What did you just say?”

  “I said no, I don’t.” Jenna looked like she wanted to die on the spot. I didn’t really blame her.

  “Well, one of you boys escort her, then,” Ms. Hayes said, pointing one of her pink-and-whites at Seth, Dave, and Eric—who all exchanged panicked glances, as if to say, Not me, man. You do it.

  Ms. Hayes, however, doesn’t take any more guff from her players—the dramatic kind—than her husband takes from the football kind.

  “Eric,” she said flatly. “You do it.”

  “I’d love to, Ms. Hayes,” Eric said in his most actor-y voice. “But I’m Morgan’s escort.”

  “You can escort Morgan, then come around and escort Jenna after,” Ms. Hayes said, clearly not falling for the actor-y thing.

  “But that wouldn’t really be fair to Morgan, would it?” Eric asked. And he even had the nerve to put his arm around Morgan’s waist, causing her to widen her eyes and smile a little, as if she weren’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

  “Oh, no,” Morgan said, her pale cheeks getting a little bit of color in them. “It’s okay, Eric. Really.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” Jenna declared…and this time, she didn’t mumble. “I am fully capable of walking across the stage by myself, Ms. Hayes.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jenna,” Ms. Hayes said. “You have to have an escort. It’s Quahog Princess tradition. Seth, you do it.”

  I felt Seth stiffen beside me. “Gee,” he said. And I could tell he was smothering a laugh. “I’d love to, Ms. Hayes. But I’m not sure how Katie would feel about that.”

  “I’m fine with it,” I said loudly, feeling a flash of annoyance at Seth…and Eric, too. What was wrong with my boyfriends, that they couldn’t stand the idea of being seen onstage with a girl who, okay, might not be Eastport High’s most popular, but who’s still a human being, for God’s sake?

  Sidney elbowed me as soon as I said it, though. I knew it was because she didn’t want Jenna gaining any kind of edge over us, and if she didn’t have an escort, so much the better.

  And if Eric had to escort both Jenna and Morgan, it basically made both of them look like freaks, paving the way for Sidney and me to take first and second place, consecutively…not that there had ever been any doubt of this before (at least according to Sidney).

  But why was I trying to stir up trouble with my I’m fine with it?

  Except that I was fine with it. What I wasn’t so fine with was Seth—and Eric—being so rude about it.

  But then something happened that I was so not fine with, it made the other stuff I wasn’t fine with seem like nothing.

  And that was Eric Fluteley opening his mouth and going, “Hey, I know. Katie, why don’t you call Tommy Sullivan and ask him to escort Jenna, now that he’s back in town? I bet he’s not doing anything tomorrow night.”

  Eleven

  Seth didn’t drop his arm away from me or anything. At least, not right away.

  In fact, nobody reacted right away. Everyone just kind of stood there, going, “What?”

  Except for Eric, of course, who was busy laughing at his own joke. Which wasn’t even technically a joke, since it wasn’t funny. To anyone but him, anyway.

  Then Seth looked down at me through those impossibly long lashes of his, and went, “What’s he talking about, babe?”

  And suddenly, I knew. I knew just what Tommy Sullivan was doing back in town.

  And the memory of how I’d almost let him kiss me—would have let him kiss me, if he’d tried. Which he hadn’t—caused color to flood into my cheeks. I hoped no one would notice. Maybe I could just blame it on the heat, if anyone asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said dismissively. “I ran into Tommy Sullivan downtown this morning, and Eric was just driving by.”

  “That freak,” Seth said. I knew that if Ms. Hayes hadn’t been around, Seth would have used a different word to describe Tommy…one that also started with the letter F, but wasn’t quite as socially acceptable as freak.

  “Well, his grandparents still live here,” Dave, the smoother-over, said.

  Then, because Sidney glared at him—I guess because she was wondering how he knew so much about Tommy’s grandparents—Dave added defensively, “What? They go to my church. He’s probably here visiting them.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Eric said, before I could give him a look to shut him up. “He’s starting at Eastport High next week. Isn’t that what he said, Katie?”

  I closed my eyes again, expecting that chasm I’d thought was going to split open in front of Eastport Old Towne Photo to appear before me. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed this statement. Or, this being Eastport, a quahog spit, over by the sound.

  Then Seth cried, “WHAT?” at the same time Ms. Hayes declared, “Enough with the chitchat, people. We haven’t finished our rehearsal.”<
br />
  I opened my eyes. Still no chasm.

  But I really, really wanted to jump into one anyway.

  “Seriously,” Eric said, looking slightly alarmed by the decibel level of Seth’s outburst…which was high. “He told us so himself. Didn’t he, Katie?”

  That’s when Seth dropped his arm from around my waist.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, staring down at me with hurt in those puppy-dog brown eyes of his. “Tommy Sullivan is back in town? And you didn’t tell me?”

  And there it was. Exactly what Tommy was doing here, confirmed:

  HE WAS TRYING TO RUIN MY LIFE.

  But no way was I going to let him. Even if I maybe deserved to have my life ruined, for ruining Tommy’s, four years earlier. I mean, isn’t there a statute of limitations on life ruinage, anyway?

  “Honestly, I didn’t think it was that big a deal,” I said, blinking up at Seth with my most innocent expression—the one Sidney and I had practiced in her bedroom mirror in the event we were ever caught by our boyfriends issuing hottie alerts for other guys. “I only just found out myself. And, I mean, all that stuff with Tommy was so long ago. I figured it was all just water under the bridge.” (Thanks for that one, Mom.)

  But it was clear it wasn’t all water under the bridge for Seth.

  Which I’d sort of known.

  “My brother lost all of his scholarships because of what that guy did!” Seth cried.

  “I know,” I said. “But—seriously, Seth—don’t you think Tommy’s been punished enough for it?”

  “Why?” Seth demanded. “Because someone spray-painted that he’s a freak on the middle school’s gymnasium wall? You think that’s the same thing as what happened to Jake?”

  “You guys did run him out of town,” Jenna Hicks piped up, as she inserted the earbuds to her iPod.

  Seth shot her a quick look. “Tommy Sullivan ran himself out of town,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Jenna said with a laugh. “Because you guys were gonna kill him.”

  “Hey, now,” Dave said. “That’s not true.”

  Jenna let out another laugh. “Right,” she said sarcastically. Then she switched on her music, so she couldn’t hear the conversation anymore.

  I envied her.

  “People!” Ms. Hayes clapped her hands sharply. “That is enough! We still have work to do! Take your places…and—Miss Hicks. Miss Hicks!” Jenna switched off her iPod and looked at Ms. Hayes tiredly. “If you don’t show up with an escort tomorrow night, you won’t be allowed to participate in the pageant. Do you understand?”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  We all hurried to take our places, guys to one side of the stage, girls to the other. As soon as we were out of earshot of Seth and Dave, Sidney pinched me and hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me Tommy Sullivan is back in town? That is huge!”

  I wanted to whisper back, “I thought you already knew. You issued a hottie alert for him yesterday at the beach.”

  But then I remembered how I’d already lied and told her that guy was someone Liam knew from football camp.

  Seriously, it can get to be a problem when you can’t keep all your lies straight anymore.

  Something Tommy had already apparently realized. And which was no doubt part of his diabolical scheme to ruin me.

  So instead I just said, “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

  “Are you kidding?” Sidney whispered back. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the guys are planning a blanket party for later.”

  My stomach lurched. Because a blanket party is what the Quahogs call it when they jump a guy and beat him up (in the old days, they’d put a blanket over the victim’s head so he wouldn’t know who was hitting him. Now they don’t bother, on account of the fact that so many of Eastport’s cops are former Quahogs, and Quahogs don’t rat out other Quahogs).

  “That’s barbaric,” Jenna Hicks, who’d overheard, hissed.

  “Yeah.” Morgan looked pale, but resolute. “Violence is never the answer to any situation.”

  Sidney looked from them to me, and then burst out laughing—presumably at Jenna’s and Morgan’s naïveté.

  I pretended to join in with the laughing. But inwardly, I really wasn’t seeing anything too funny about the situation. Mostly I just wanted to kill Eric for bringing up Tommy in the first place. What’s the matter with Eric Fluteley, anyway? For a guy who claims he wants to go out with me (in public…not just make out behind an emergency generator) so badly, he sure had a funny way of trying to win me over.

  Then again, Eric didn’t know that just last night, I’d been fighting an urge to stick my tongue in Tommy’s mouth.

  Or maybe he did know—some kind of boyfriend sixth sense—and that’s why he was trying so hard to get Tommy killed.

  It was hard to concentrate during the rest of the pageant rehearsal. Seth seemed really upset—I could feel his bicep tense up every time I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow so he could “guide” me to my spot on the stage…and I was pretty sure he wasn’t doing it to impress me with the size of his arm muscles, either, but because he was super worked up over the Tommy thing.

  He didn’t mention it to me again, though. I really hoped that was because he was coming to grips with the idea of Tommy going to Eastport High, and not because he was plotting what Sidney had mentioned—a blanket party. With Seth, it’s always hard to tell, because he’s so quiet a lot of the time.

  I used to think this was because he was really sensitive and deep.

  But lately I’ve sort of come to realize it’s because most of the time, he’s just thinking about what he’s going to eat next…a lot like my brother, Liam.

  Guys aren’t actually all that deep, it turns out.

  Well, except Tommy Sullivan. Who apparently has been carefully plotting my social annihilation for the past four years. It’s obvious he’s just been waiting until I’d risen to my current level of popularity/happiness before making his move. Because the higher they are, the harder they fall.

  And what could be higher than being Seth Turner’s girlfriend, and Sidney van der Hoff’s best friend?

  And, freakishly, I played right into his hands with my own weakness where hot guys are concerned. If he hadn’t caught me making out with Eric Fluteley, he’d have nothing on me.

  Well, nothing except my desire to make out with him, too.

  God, what is wrong with me?

  Rehearsal couldn’t end soon enough. The minute the photo op was over—Ms. Hayes had me snap shots of Morgan dancing and Sidney pretending to sing—and Ms. Hayes was like, “Well, I think that’s it for the day, people. Remember, you need to be here no later than six tomorrow night,” I kissed Seth good-bye and took off for my bike, saying I had to get my photos over to Mr. Gatch at the Gazette in order for him to publish them in tomorrow morning’s edition.

  After all that emotional trauma (not to mention Ms. Hayes), it was a relief to cruise over to the offices of the Eastport Gazette. Because whatever crazy thing tends to be going on in my life, it fades in comparison to the crazy things that go on at a small-town newspaper. When I walked in, someone was standing at the classifieds desk screaming about his neighbor’s barking dogs, and how the paper had to print a story about it or this person was going to take his story to the New York Times…and then we’d all be sorry.

  I swear the entire town of Eastport, Connecticut, is made up of wackadoos.

  I downloaded my pageant pictures into the art director’s computer. She promised to look them over and forward the best ones to Mr. Gatch, the editor in chief. I thanked her and was on my way out—I had to get home to change before my shift at the Gull ’n Gulp (Peggy won’t allow us to wear shorts to work, unless they’re neatly pressed white or khaki ones)—when I noticed the person Mr. Gatch had been having the meeting with coming out of his office.

  And nearly had a coronary.

  Because the person was over six feet tall, dressed in cargo shorts and a Billabong slim
tee, with broad shoulders and longish, red-brown hair.

  He didn’t see me. Mostly because I ducked behind a filing cabinet.

  I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. What was he doing here?

  As soon as he was gone, I hurried over to Mr. Gatch’s office door, which was still open, and went, “What was Tommy Sullivan doing here?”

  Mr. Gatch, who is a big, brusque man with no patience for anyone, most of all freelance photographers who are still in high school, looked up from his computer monitor in an annoyed way and went, “I’m sorry. But I fail to see how that is any of your business, Ellison.”

  I blinked at him. Mr. Gatch has a reputation for crankiness, but this seemed particularly ornery to me. It wasn’t like he and I were close.

  But he had asked ME, and not Dawn Ferris, the staff’s only other freelance photographer (she also works part-time at Office Max), to photograph his great-grandson’s second birthday party. I had thought this afforded us a certain level of closeness.

  Apparently, I had thought wrong.

  Flummoxed, I stood there in his office doorway, trying to figure out what to do. I could not—would not—leave the building until I knew why Tommy Sullivan had been in it.

  Because, deep down, I was pretty sure I did know. I just needed confirmation to make sure I was right, before springing to action.

  Mr. Gatch had already turned back to his computer monitor. “Shouldn’t you be at Quahog Queen practice or something?” he asked.

  “It’s Quahog Princess,” I said. He knew perfectly well what the proper royal title was. He had only been reporting about it for the past thirty years…maybe even more, if the rumors that he was in his seventies were true.

  “And I think you should know,” I went on, despite the fact that Mr. Gatch’s fuzzy gray eyebrows were lowered, a sure sign he was concentrating on a particularly complex game of computer solitaire, and did not wish to be disturbed. Still, it was as if I were seized by some kind of mania. I had to know what Tommy had been doing in his office. I just had to.