by Gina Ciocca
“I was starting to think you’d skipped out on us, Your Majesty,” she says.
“Sorry.” The word comes out breathless, thanks to my rushing. “My pictures fell out of my locker and I had to improvise a storage system.” I hold up the plastic bag. “Good thing my mom is a bag hoarder and makes me carry one of these at all times.”
Jadie and I spent lunch in the yearbook room, printing up the photos from the Ridgedale’s Finest page, as well as some of our favorites from our cameras. We stashed our pics in our lockers until after school, when we’d start piecing together our vision of the ultimate showcase of student life: a collage of four-by-four photos, interspersed with print-ups of favorite quotes submitted by the students and captions from the Ridgedale’s Finest page.
“Congratulations on making the homecoming court,” Criselle says. A paper cutout is draped over her arm, a quote that reads, We try and keep our eye on the big picture, but the picture keeps getting bigger.
“Thanks.” I can’t help it. I beam.
Renata motions to the empty gym. “I know the bulletin board is supposed to be a surprise and all, but how did you guys convince Queen Meredith to move the perky-saurus squad elsewhere for practice?”
“Friday is usually weight training day,” Jadie pipes up, dropping a stack of photos onto the hall monitor’s desk. “They’re upstairs in the auxiliary gym. Should we get started?”
We spend a few minutes going back and forth about how to best lay out the pictures, toying with the idea of arranging them oldest to newest, or trying to cluster similar themes. But in the end we decide to let them fall where they may, so there’s a surprise to discover, no matter where you look.
I have to laugh when I see everyone else’s neat, uniform piles of photographs compared to my haphazardly stuffed bag. I must’ve opened my locker too quickly, because all the pics I’d stacked in my cubby toppled like a house of cards, landing in a heap of faceup and facedown messiness. I’m about to dump the bag and give them some semblance of orderliness, when my cell phone starts to ring.
“What’s up, Mom?”
“Can you be home in ten minutes?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The doctor’s office called to say they had a cancelation. If you can get out of what you’re doing, we can finally get that wrist looked at.”
I’m torn between wanting to be angry at her for calling the doctor without my permission, and wanting to jump for joy at the thought of finally getting some relief. I didn’t plan to wear my ugly brace at homecoming, but my swollen arm won’t score much higher on the attractiveness scale.
I rush over to Jadie, who has already swooped in on the picture pile, and explain the situation.
“Will you be mad if I go?”
She assures me that she and her minions have the bulletin board covered, and tells me to leave.
“See you at the game tonight, Your Majesty,” she calls after me as I practically skip out of the building.
* * *
An X-ray, a tendonitis diagnosis, and a cortisone shot later, I’m already feeling better. My arm looks neglected and abused, like it’s been stranded on a deserted island for a few years. But I’m so happy to have full access to all my limbs again that I don’t care.
Mom takes me home after the appointment so I can change into something nice. All the members of the homecoming court will be driven down to the football field in fancy convertible cars loaned by parents or teachers, and then we’ll have to walk out onto the turf and be introduced before the game starts. It’s usually a quick ceremony, but the attendance tonight will easily be in the thousands, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have butterflies.
My brothers beg to eat at Chick-fil-A beforehand, which isn’t the most royal of dinners. But I get through it without my meal becoming part of my blue maxi dress, so it’s good enough for me. As far as not being asked, “What if you trip?” at least three times by two eight-year-olds, that’s where I don’t fare as well. They then take turns cracking themselves up by inventing enough disastrous scenarios that it actually starts to mess with my head—until we pull up to the school.
There are four sleek, shiny convertibles lined up in front of the pillared brick of the main entrance. Each has a sign on the door with the names and ranks of the court members who’ll be riding in it: a red Cadillac that I know belongs to Principal Fielding’s wife for Meredith and Tyrell, a black BMW for Noah and me, a yellow Corvette for the junior prince and princess, and then a blue Volkswagen for the sophomores and freshmen to share. My heart jumps into my throat with excitement, and since I don’t have my camera, I pull out my phone to capture how perfect everything looks.
My parents drop me off before heading back down the driveway. They always park at Meredith’s house and then walk back, to avoid the nightmare that the school parking lot can become on game night. As I approach the lineup of cars, Tyrell is circling the Cadillac, shooting the breeze with Principal Fielding about the gas mileage and the paint job. He nods when he sees me and comes over to give me a hug.
“Look at you, working with two arms again,” he says, twirling me around. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Are Meredith and Noah here?”
“I haven’t seen Granger yet, but I think Meredith went inside to pick up her flowers.” He glances back at the front entrance, and right on cue, Meredith emerges from the doors in a white dress and matching heels. There’s a silver sash across her torso, and in her arms is a big bouquet of roses that are the same deep red as her lip gloss. I excuse myself and run up the stairs to greet her.
“Hey! You look so pretty.” I’m all smiles and sunshine, but one look from Meredith tells me that something has already rained on her parade. My face falls. “What’s wrong?”
She sets the roses down at the base of a column and folds her arms across her chest. “I went to see your bulletin board after practice.” She says it like that in itself is an explanation. But I have no idea why a collection of pictures would bring such a harsh, defeated note to her voice and so much sadness to her eyes.
“Is there something wrong with it?”
She makes a disgusted sound. “Come on, Macy. What were you getting at by putting that picture of you and Ben up there?”
“What picture? I didn’t—” I try to tell her that I didn’t get to work on the board and that I haven’t even seen it myself, but she cuts me off.
“The one from the dance last year. The one you apparently took when you and Ben snuck off together. Ring a bell?”
Of course it does. But there’s no possible way that the picture she’s talking about could’ve made it onto the board. I’ve never, ever seen it on the RF page, and I was just scrolling through on the ride over. I don’t even have a physical copy of it. And neither does Jadie.
“I swear to you—”
Her hand shoots up to silence me. “Look, Mace. We both know that Ben would rather go to this dance with you than with me. And maybe I’m an idiot for saying yes again, and I’m definitely an idiot because I keep hoping things will change, but you didn’t need to go rubbing it in my face.”
“Meredith, I would never.” I take her wrist, hoping to make her feel the desperation she’s ignoring in my voice. “I didn’t put that picture on the bulletin board. I had to leave for a doctor appointment. I didn’t put any pictures on it.”
Her red lips purse. Both of her hands go up in a Never mind motion, and she scoops up her flowers before taking a step down. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. The real question is, were you lying to me when you said nothing happened between you and Ben? Because we both know Joel is a dead end. So if there’s something going on, I think it’s about time you admitted it to yourself. And to me.”
Her heels click furiously against the stairs, and I rush down after her. I manage to catch up before she can reach the Cadillac, and pull her aside.
“You’re wrong, Meredith. Ben didn’t ask me to the dance. He asked you. And even if I did
like him, I’d never do that to you.”
She puffs an amused snort, though she looks crushed. Beaten. Let down. But there’s an undeniable edge of vindication in her voice when she says, “Then why is history repeating itself?”
Thirty
SENIOR YEAR
Horns blare, and the cheer of the crowd grows louder as Noah and I wave from the backseat of our homecoming car, which creeps toward the football field at about two miles per hour.
“So you and Collins, huh?” Noah says. Great. He caught the tail end of my fight with Meredith. “And here I thought you had a thing for Hargrove.”
“I did. I do. Did.” It’s hard to keep up the Miss America facade when I’m this rattled. “I guess someone put a picture of Ben and me up on the bulletin board, and Meredith thinks I did it to spite her.”
“And why would she think that?”
“When I left homecoming last year, I was upset about being ditched. And Ben came outside to dance with me. He asked if we could take a picture, and in it, I’m kissing his cheek. That was when Meredith found us. And that’s the picture that somehow wound up on the board.”
“Oof. That sucks.”
“Tell me about it. And then the fire happened, and she didn’t speak to me for almost a year. Even though it wasn’t like that between Ben and me.”
“I don’t know. A romantic dance under the stars, outside the gym while the rest of the school, including his date, is inside? I can see how she’d think that’s something, Mace.”
“It was something.” I shake my head, wondering how the wrong words escape my mouth so damn often. “I mean, it wasn’t, but sometimes—in the back of my mind—ugh.” I bite at my cuticle, realizing I’m about to tell Noah something that I’ve never admitted to anyone. That I haven’t even completely admitted to myself. “Sometimes I think it could’ve been. If she hadn’t come out right at that second, sometimes I wonder if . . . maybe it might’ve been.”
Noah arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I respond with a feeble shrug. “But most of the time, I’m pretty sure I imagined it.”
It starts out as a singular jolt, and then Noah’s muscular torso is full-on shaking with chuckles. “I don’t mean to laugh, Mace.” Funny, he could’ve fooled me. “But after one look at Meredith’s face today, and knowing absolutely nothing else about the situation, I can tell you with total certainty: You didn’t imagine it.”
And just like that, it’s real. I don’t know why I believe Noah, who wasn’t even there, when he confirms something I’ve spent the past year second-guessing. But hearing him say it makes it a living, breathing reality, and suddenly the thing that didn’t happen is the thing that almost did.
But what difference does it make now?
It doesn’t. Whatever that moment under the streetlight might’ve had the potential to be, it passed us by. And it’s probably better that way, because I meant it when I said I wouldn’t do that to Meredith.
Not again.
* * *
By the time I’m able to sneak off the field after halftime, the school is locked. I’m dying to see the homecoming bulletin board for myself, but it’s not going to happen tonight. I even try to flag down Jadie after she snaps some group shots of the homecoming court, hoping she’ll have photos handy of the finished product. But Principal Fielding intercepts me, requesting pictures with the alumni and Meredith and Tyrell.
As I stand there, taking in the lights and the noise, I find myself wishing that Ben were here. There are so many things I want to ask him and a hundred things I feel like I should apologize for. A hundred others that make infinitely more sense if what Noah said is true.
But what I really want is for Ben to tell me that Noah is wrong. Because much like the night I stood on this field in total darkness, in the arms of a boy I thought I knew but didn’t, I’m going to keep going back to that moment under the lamppost. It’s going to replay in my mind until I’ve examined it from every possible angle.
And then I’m going to drive myself mad wondering what could’ve been instead of accepting what isn’t meant to be.
Thirty-One
SENIOR YEAR
We win the game, and the energy in the stadium is palpable. I know the guys are going to be extra amped at the diner tonight, but for once I don’t feel a pang of longing at having to miss it. I run over to Noah as soon as he and the other players are done high-fiving the members of the opposing team.
“Hey,” I say, tugging the sleeve of his jersey. “Any chance you want to skip Friday Night Eats and hang out with me tonight?”
Noah gives me a suspicious look. “Are you skipping because you’re hiding from Meredith?”
“No. I always skip.” He looks like he’s going to lecture me, so I don’t give him the chance. “Please? We can eat somewhere else if you’re hungry. I need to give her and Ben some space tonight.”
“Mace. You can give them all the space in the world, but it’s not going to make Ben want her if he doesn’t. Has Meredith considered that?” I shrink, at a loss for how to answer. His face softens, and he touches my shoulder. “Look, I wish I could hang out, but I’m meeting up with an old friend. Any other night, I’d be there in a heartbeat.”
“Oh. An old friend from Mortonville?”
“Yeah.”
“A touchy-feely friend?”
He grins. “According to you, I have no other kind.”
I’m disappointed, but I smile anyway. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Same goes for you. And that includes hiding out in your house to keep someone else happy in their delusions.” I give him a look that says Touché, even though I have no intention of changing my mind about the diner. I wave and start to walk off, but he calls after me. “I’ll shoot you a text if I’m done early. My friend and I are just hanging out at my place, but”—he runs a hand through his hair, and there’s an air of nerves in the gesture—“I’m not sure how much we have left to say to each other. Either way, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I tease him that he’d better not show up wearing the same dress as me, and then we part ways. As I’m turning to go, I nearly collide with Jadie.
“Oh my God, I’ve been dying to talk to you,” I say.
“What’s the problem?” She detaches my hand from its clawlike grip on her arm. “Glad to see there was no permanent damage from brace-zilla.”
“Meredith is all bent out of shape about one of the pictures that went up on the bulletin board. Do you have any idea how a shot of Ben and me from last year’s dance would’ve made it up there?”
“Yikes. All I know is that if it was in the pile, it went on the board.”
“But it wasn’t on the RF page. And I sure as hell didn’t print it up, so how did it get into the pile?”
“No idea. I’m guessing Criselle or Renata put it up, because I’m not even sure which one you’re talking about. All I know is that the board came out way too amazing for drama.”
Principal Fielding beckons her over again, and I say good-bye before she can ask about going to the diner. Still, I feel like I need to warn Ben about the situation, so I take out my cell phone.
FYI, THERE’S A PIC OF YOU AND ME ON THE HOMECOMING BULLETIN BOARD. DON’T KNOW HOW IT GOT THERE, BUT M IS UPSET.
When I’m watching a movie half an hour later, neck-deep in my bedsheets, I still haven’t heard a peep—from Ben or from Noah.
And even though I told myself I was going to take tonight to relax before the homecoming dance, the silence only makes me restless. I get up and throw on some yoga pants, then head downstairs.
Soon I’m back in my car, heading out into the night.
* * *
I make a few aimless left turns before ultimately pointing the car in the direction of Noah’s neighborhood. I know he’s busy, and it’s not my intention to insert myself into his plans. But I guess I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever he’s hanging out with tonight, because he so rarely goes into detail about his life in Mort
onville.
One of the few traits he and Joel share.
The houses in Arbor Creek are almost identical—midsize brick ranches with matching bay windows and peaked roofs. In the dark, it’s hard to remember which one is Noah’s, until I spot the house with the Bulldogs lawn sign by the front walkway.
The one with Joel’s car in the driveway.
I pull over to the curb and press my brake, idling in the street. This can’t be right. Noah said he had plans with an old friend tonight, and unless he was using a very creative version of the word “friend,” he couldn’t have meant Joel. Then again, they were friends at one point. . . .
My curiosity is piqued. The shade drawn over the bay window is open a crack, but Mr. Granger’s profile in an armchair is the only thing I see inside. So unless I develop X-ray vision in the next ten seconds, I’m pretty sure I’ve hit a dead end as far as sleuthing this out. Still, despite the voice in my head that’s telling me to turn around and go home already, I turn off the car. And that’s when I hear a rhythmic thump, thump, thump coming from outside.
I squint into the distance, and sure enough, two boys are heading away from me toward the tennis and basketball courts in the center of the subdivision, one bouncing a basketball off the asphalt as they walk.
And maybe it’s a really stupid, nosy thing to do, but I wait until Noah and Joel turn the corner. Then I get out of my car, and I follow them.
I stay several paces behind, sneaking around the tall chain-link fence that surrounds the tennis court, doing my best to avoid the crunchy carpet of pine straw between the fence and the surrounding trees. I stop when I reach the corner, where I can watch the basketball courts without being seen. I’m very confused, but mostly I’m intrigued.
They spend a few minutes running the court, dribbling and stealing and shooting, with grunts and the scrape of their sneakers against the clay as the only sounds.
Then Noah stops and passes the ball to Joel. “Remember the last time we were on the courts over at your place?”
Joel’s body language changes instantly. His shoulders tense, and he keeps his eyes on the ground, watching the ball smack against the pavement. “Yeah. So?”