by Meg Cabot
“Yeah?” Sidney’s smile was brittle. “Well, I do. But it is one thing to be catting around behind your boyfriend’s back with a guy your brother met at football camp, and who’s going to go back to wherever he came from at the end of the season,” she said, stepping into the slinky red number she’d bought at Saks the same day I’d bought my dress. “But it is quite another to be catting around with Tommy Sullivan!”
“I know,” I whispered. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Well, if you know that,” Sidney said, slipping her arms through the silky spaghetti straps of her gown, “then what are you doing it for?”
“Do you think I want to be?” I whispered back. “I can’t help it!”
“Look,” Sidney said. “This is our senior year. We’ve got homecoming…prom…senior trip to the city…tons of stuff. This is the year we’re supposed to live it up, have the time of our lives, build memories to cherish forever. And how are we going to do that if you are going out with a walking dead man? Because that is what Tommy Sullivan is, Katie. Once Seth and those guys get through with him.”
“I know,” I said mournfully. “But, Sidney, it’s just that…I…I can talk to him.”
Sidney looked at me like I’d just said I like to eat pizza without blotting the grease off the cheese with a napkin first.
“You can talk to him?” she echoed. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
“Well, I mean, between macking.” I knew this was going to be impossible to explain to Sidney. But I had to try. I had to try to make her understand. Because maybe if I could make her understand, I’d understand it a little better myself. “He talks to me about…well, like my photography and stuff. You know Seth never does that. Seth never talks about anything. I mean, about anything besides football. And food.”
Sidney widened her heavily made-up eyes at me.
“You’re only noticing that now?” she wanted to know. “You’ve been going out since before ninth grade.”
I sniffled. I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. “I know,” I said. “I guess I just…I mean, I was so flattered when he asked me—me, of all people—to go out. And then it just…you know. It was just how things were. Seth and I were a couple. We’ve been going out for so long. If I break up with him now, what will people think?”
“That you made a mistake,” Sidney said.
“Exactly,” I whispered painfully back.
Sidney shook her head. She looked faintly amused. “Well. What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Honestly, Sidney. I just…I don’t know.”
“Well, you better figure it out,” she said. “And quick. Because if you don’t, someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m not just talking about Tommy. Now turn around so I can zip you up.”
I turned around. She zipped me up. Then she said, “Good. Come on.”
And we ducked back out from between the sheets, just as Ms. Hayes appeared on the other side of the tent flap and, spying Jenna back from her performance with one hand tucked into the crook of her dad’s arm, asked, “Everyone got their escorts? All right. Good. Let’s go, people. Evening wear and question time. And…go.”
“Hey,” Seth said, appearing at my side and offering me his arm. “You look good, babe.”
“Seth,” I said. And then my throat closed up.
He blinked down at me with those sleepy brown eyes. “What?”
I wanted to speak. I did. I wanted to say something, then and there…
…Only I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t know how to say it.
“My name’s Katie,” I said, instead, grabbing hold of his arm. “Not babe. Okay?”
His confused gaze turned quizzical. “What’s the matter, ba—I mean, Katie?” he wanted to know. “Are you mad at me? What did I do?”
And I realized he was wearing that bewildered puppy look again.
And I couldn’t stand it. I really couldn’t stand it a second longer. Old Man Trouble wasn’t just hanging around my door.
He had set up permanent residence in my life.
I was in hell.
So of course I said, “Nothing. Never mind,” to Seth.
Because that is what I do.
I lie.
And we went out onto the stage.
Nineteen
“Miss Castle.” Ms. Hayes had made an elaborate display of shuffling the judges’ questions—written down on index cards—so it couldn’t be said that any one girl had been helped out by any particular judge by getting thrown an easy one. “Please tell this audience—and our esteemed judges—some characteristics of a Quahog.”
“Certainly,” Morgan said, looking ravishing beside her equally stunning escort. I hadn’t been wrong about Eric and Morgan: Together, they were prettier than a wedding cake topper.
And from the audience I’m sure you could barely tell how much Eric was sweating beneath his tux. Enough so that his pancake makeup was glistening (Eric was the only guy who’d agreed to stage makeup when Ms. Hayes offered, but that’s because he’s used to it, on account of all his work in the theater).
“A quahog,” Morgan began, in a small voice, “is a mollusk—”
“A little louder, dear,” Ms. Hayes said, in a treacly tone completely unlike the one she’d used to yell at us during rehearsal. “The judges can’t hear you. And neither can the audience.”
“Oh,” Morgan said, lifting her mike a little higher. “Sorry.” We were using the clip-on microphones, because the hand-helds had never started working. But because there weren’t enough to go around—and nowhere to clip them, on our evening gowns—we just had to hold the tiny microphones in our hands, and speak into them. “A quahog is a mollusk, and as such, displays characteristics we’ve come to expect from mollusks, such as spitting and burying themselves in the sand.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as Ms. Hayes cleared her throat and glanced nervously at the judges.
“Oh, wait,” Morgan said, catching on. “You mean a Quahog like the football players? Or a quahog like the kind people eat?”
“Er,” Ms. Hayes said. “The former, dear.”
“Oh.” Morgan backpedaled, trying to figure out the right thing to say.
I felt bad for her. I really did. Especially since it wasn’t easy for a non-shy person to get up on that stage in front of all those people, with those bright lights shining down on us, and all this pressure. Not like the Oaken Bucket was counting on Morgan to win to draw in more business, or whatever.
But I’m sure Morgan needed the prize money, for new toe shoes, or whatever it is ballerinas buy with prize money.
Still, it had to be even worse for her, being so shy and all.
Morgan blathered something about how Quahogs are strong and true (whatever), which was clearly designed to please the judges and seemed to work. Score one for Morgan. Actually score two because her dance routine had been way better than anything the rest of us had done for our talent segments.
Then it was Sidney’s turn, and Ms. Hayes said, “Miss van der Hoff. Can you tell me what true love is?”
Naturally, Sidney took the Biblical route with her answer, since judges love that stuff. They eat it up like…well, quahog fritters.
“‘Love is patient—’” Sidney said, in her most sincere voice—the same one she uses when she was too busy partying to do her homework, so she tells the teacher her grandmother was sick and that she (Sidney) was at the hospital all night visiting her. “‘—Love is kind.’”
Yeah. Right. Try telling that to Seth. He looked super depressed over the way I’d spoken to him just before we’d gone on stage. What had I been thinking? Why had I been so mean to him? What’s wrong with me? I mean, it’s true Seth’s never been the shiniest knife in the drawer.
But that had seldom bothered me. Not before now.
Okay, let’s be honest: Not until Tommy Sullivan came back.
“‘—Love is not rude. It is not self-seeking, it is not e
asily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs—’”
Huh. Unlike Seth Turner. And the thing is, it’s so bogus. Because Tommy never even did anything to him. All Tommy had ever done was tell the truth…a truth that had needed to be told, because Tommy was right: It wasn’t fair that Quahogs got special treatment.
And how stupid was Jake Turner, anyway, to go around bragging about cheating, and in front of an impressionable little eighth grader? Jake Turner had ruined his own future, not Tommy.
“‘—Love always protects, always trusts—’”
The way Seth had always trusted me not to mack with other guys behind his back. Why did I do that, anyway? I mean, what was I looking for? Who was I looking for?
Because it’s not that Seth is a bad kisser. He’s an exceptionally good kisser.
Just not as good as someone else who’d kissed me recently. And I’m not talking about Eric. I mean, Seth’s and Eric’s kisses had never made my heart race the way a certain someone else’s had. And their kisses had never made me long to wrap my legs around them. And their kisses had never made me think about them at odd random moments when I was supposed to be thinking about what drinks to pour at the soda station, or where I’d left my eyelash curler.
“‘—Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth—’”
The truth. God, the truth. I didn’t even know what the truth was anymore. Except that every time I laid eyes on Tommy Sullivan, all I wanted to do was jump his bones.
It was true! Now that Tommy Sullivan had come to town, he was the only person I wanted to mack with!
“‘—Love always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”
Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Is that what love is? Is love not wanting to mack with anybody but just one person?
And was Tommy Sullivan that person? Was that why I couldn’t stand the thought of kissing Seth anymore? Was that why I’d told Eric I just wanted to be friends?
Because I love Tommy Sullivan?
No. No, that simply isn’t possible. I mean, Tommy Sullivan had only walked back into my life three days ago. How could I be in love with him when I hadn’t even seen him in four years? How could I be in love with a guy who accused me of not understanding myself?
But what if Tommy’s right? I mean, obviously he’s right. Because LOOK AT ME. I am standing here on stage with my hand through the arm of one guy, and all I can think about is another guy.
Is that a sign of a girl who understands herself?
Oh my God. It’s true. True love is when you can’t think about any guy except just one.
Which means…
I’m in love with Tommy Sullivan.
“MISS ELLISON!”
I jerked my heard toward Ms. Hayes. What was she yelling at me for?
“Miss Ellison, I asked you a question,” Ms. Hayes said, giving me the evil eye from over the index card she held. You are in so much trouble when this pageant is over, young lady, her look clearly said.
“Sorry,” I said, aware that my heart was thrumming so hard inside my chest, I could barely breathe. In love. With Tom-my Sullivan. My heart seemed to be saying, over and over again. “Could you repeat it, please? The question?”
Ms. Hayes cleared her throat. Then she read, “Why do you, Miss Ellison, love quahogs?”
“I love quahogs for their tender succulence,” I replied automatically, while Ms. Hayes, happy to see I’d recovered myself, beamed with encouragement. “And they’re especially tender…and…succulent…at the Gull ’n Gulp….”
My voice trailed off.
Because suddenly, it hit me. Right there on the pageant stage.
What I had to do. What I had to do to get Old Man Trouble away from my door. What I had to do in order to quit lying all the time, and put out the fire in my pants for good.
And so I just did it.
Because that’s the other thing love is. Sidney had said it herself:
Love is truth.
“You know what?” I said, dropping Seth’s arm. “I’m lying.”
A ripple of surprise went across the audience. I saw Ms. Hayes look down at the judges with an expression of befuddlement. The judges looked back at her in shock.
I knew, deep down inside, that I had just lost the Quahog Princess pageant. But I also knew, deep down inside, that I didn’t care.
Because you know what? I was tired of lying. I was tired of getting caught up in my lies. I was tired of keeping flow charts and secrets. I was tired of sneaking around.
I was just tired.
“The truth is,” I said into the clip-on microphone, “I hate quahogs.”
There was a gasp from the audience. But I didn’t care.
“I do,” I went on. “I’ve always hated them, since I was a little kid. They taste like rubber. You can do whatever you want to them. Fry them. Put them in chowder. Even make ice cream out of them. And they’ll always taste the same to me. Bad.”
I was laughing. I was the only person present who was laughing.
But I didn’t care. Because I was telling the truth.
And it felt really, really good.
“Um,” Ms. Hayes said. “Thank you, Miss Ellison. If you would just step back now—”
“But that’s not the only thing I’ve been lying about,” I said into the microphone. “Because I hate the other kind of Quahogs, too. Not the mollusk. The football team.”
What went through the audience then wasn’t a ripple. It was a wave. A wave of shock and resentment. All aimed at me.
But I didn’t care. I really didn’t.
Because I was finally telling the truth.
And it felt good.
“I hate football,” I said. It was cool to hear my voice—telling the truth, for once—reverberating through Eastport Park. And even if people didn’t particularly like what it was saying, it still sounded like something I wasn’t used to hearing—me, telling the truth. “And I hate the way this town is about football. I hate the way we worship the Quahogs, and for what? They don’t save lives. They don’t teach us anything. They just chase after a stupid ball. And for that, we treat them like gods.”
Now the wave wasn’t just resentful. It was downright angry. Except, I noted, in the last row, where Mr. Gatch had actually stopped playing solitaire, and was staring at me. Beside him, Tommy’s jaw was slack as he stared at me too.
“Well,” I went on, “it’s true. Don’t even try to deny it, you all know what I’m talking about. We let the Quahogs get away with just about anything they want to, and if any one person tries to stand up to them—the way Tommy Sullivan did, four years ago—what do we do? We run him out of town. Don’t we?”
“Miss Ellison!” Ms. Hayes strode forward and tried to grab the microphone from me.
But I yanked it from her reach.
“What?” I demanded. Now my voice didn’t sound so cool, I noticed. In fact, it sounded kind of shrill. Even screechy. Probably on account of the fact that I was holding back tears.
But I wasn’t holding back anything else. Not by a long shot.
“We can’t even SAY anything bad about the Quahogs?” I asked the audience. “Why? They’re not gods. They’re just guys. Guys who play football. Guys who make mistakes.”
I spun around to face Seth, who was staring at me with an expression of total and complete incredulity.
“Seth,” I said, a little unsteadily, on account of the tears. “Tommy Sullivan did not ruin Jake’s life. Jake ruined Jake’s life. Jake cheated, Seth. He cheated, and he got caught, and got the punishment he deserved—the same punishment any one of us would have gotten if we’d been caught cheating. You have got to stop blaming Tommy for what your brother did. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But that’s how I really feel about it. I never told you before because…well, I guess I never even admitted it to myself before. But it’s the truth. The truth about how I feel.”
Seth had been shaking his head slowly the whole time I’d been speaking. And when I finished, he gave o
ne last final head shake, and then said—with what, if I’m not mistaken, was absolute contempt in those puppy-dog brown eyes—“If that’s true…if that’s how you really feel, then…we’re over, babe.”
There was a gasp. It was so loud that at first I thought it had been a collective gasp from the audience.
But then I realized it had only come from Sidney.
“I know,” I said to Seth, my voice throbbing a little. “And I’m really, really sorry.”
I meant it, too. I was sorry. Sorry I had strung him along for so long, sorry I was hurting him, just sorry. That wasn’t a lie, either.
Seth didn’t seem like he accepted my apology, though. He stomped to the opposite end of the stage and stood there with one hand over his face, like he was trying to get control over himself. After a second or two, Jenna let go of her dad’s arm, and went over to pat Seth comfortingly on the back. Which I thought was nice of her. If anybody could talk to Seth about living in a black well of despair, and all of that, it was Jenna, who claimed to have lived in one for years.
“Anyway,” I said, reached up to wipe some moisture that seemed to be creeping into my eyes, and turned back to the audience…and the judges. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I am not—and never have been—Quahog Princess material. So you had better disqualify me. Especially because the truth is, I am not a very good example to the youth of Eastport. You see, four years ago, I—”
“NOOOOOO!” Sidney shrieked—so loudly that Dave slapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to shut her up. He also had to grab her around the waist to keep her from hurling herself at me.
“Katie!” she yelled, though her voice was muffled behind her boyfriend’s hand. “Don’t!”
I said, “Sorry, Sid,” and turned back to the judges. The tears were flowing freely now. There was nothing I could do to hold them back.
“The truth is,” I went on, “I shouldn’t be named Quahog Princess, because four years ago, I did something—something I really, really regret. I spray-painted—”
“EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!” shrieked Sidney.
“—the words Tommy Sullivan is a freak across the outside of the newly erected gymnasium wall of Eastport Middle School.”