“So, is that a yes?” I ventured.
He grinned. “Yes.”
“Come on, man,” one of the lacrosse guys said, and Gabe held up a finger.
“Well, I’d better go,” he said apologetically. “See ya, Poppy.”
“Bye.”
As the guys walked away, one asked, “What was that about?” and Gabe answered, “She just asked me to Sadie’s.” I strained to hear what came next. Finally someone said, “She seems cool,” and Gabe said, “Yeah.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back, feeling pretty damn good about how that went.
As I wandered down the hallway, texting the good news to Mary Jane and Whitney, I heard music—symphonic instrumentals and a female singer obsessed with the word “Hallelujah.” When I got closer to the art room, the music grabbed me. It was beautiful and beguiling. I wedged open the door and peeked inside. Behind the supply closet, Bridgette Josephs hunched over a long table, singing her heart out as she painted on a huge piece of paper. I froze, wondering if I could just listen unnoticed. However, she spotted me and abruptly stopped singing.
“Hey, Bridgette,” I said over the accompaniment, feeling bad for having startled her. “Practicing for choir?”
She busted into an awkward little dance, positioning her body between me and her project. “Poppy. Wh-why are you here?” she asked, craning her neck to peer around me. “Are you alone?” She pointed her paintbrush at me and red Tempera splattered on the laminate tiles. Although the floor had obviously been up close and personal with countless paint drippings (and Lord knows what else), she gasped when she noticed her personal contribution.
I snatched the roll of paper towels by the CD player, which was still blasting music, and tossed it to her. Only, the roll hit the margarine tub of paint, which flew off the table. The paper towels bounced under the table like a toddler hiding from the mess he made.
“Where are Mary Jane and the rest of your posse?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
“They left. It’s just me.”
She crouched and reached for the towels, then ripped off a bunch. “You know they wouldn’t approve of us talking like this.” The statement hung in the air as she wiped up the paint, red liquid bleeding through the paper towel and onto her palms. Before going to the sink to wash her hands, she carefully folded the banner in half.
I swallowed, wishing I’d kept walking down the hall. “I don’t care. I talk to whomever I want to talk to.”
Bridgette sighed and then grinned. “Good for you.”
“You and Mary Jane used to be close, right?” I said. “Best friends.”
She nodded. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
“What happened?”
She cleared her throat. “Oh, I’m sure Mary Jane and Whitney have painted a real pretty picture about our past.”
“They haven’t said much.” Just that they thought Bridgette was jealous of them, and that she didn’t think Mary Jane was good enough for Andrew (who was Bridgette’s longtime family friend).
Bridgette’s nostrils flared, and she seemed to be searching my eyes to see if I was telling the truth.
“Really,” I said, hopefully saving her the trouble.
She turned off the CD player. “Well, all right. I guess it won’t hurt anything to tell you about it.” She hopped up on the counter by the sink. “We were both in church choir. I’m a soprano and she’s an alto and the director liked to give us duets. We were pretty good, people said.”
“I didn’t know Mary Jane sings.” Of course, Mary Jane sang hymns whenever we were all supposed to, and she sometimes hummed along to songs in the car or at the mall, but that was all I knew.
“When she was a freshman and I was a sophomore, we decided to try out for the school musical together. Oklahoma! Of course, we both wanted to be Laurey, but we expected the lead to go to an upperclassman.”
“I bet you got it,” I said. “Seriously, Bridgette, you have an amazing voice.”
She snorted. “Maybe, but Mary Jane has an amazing face. An amazing body, amazing clothes. Amazing connections, too.”
“Mary Jane got the part?”
Bridgette lifted her auburn hair off her neck for a few seconds and then dropped it again. “Mary Jane got Laurey and Andrew got Curly.”
“What? You mean Andrew sings too?”
“Well, not really that well,” she said with a laugh. “There aren’t many guys here at Calvary who’ll even audition for a musical. All the guys around here care about is sports. But I talked him into it.”
Why would Andrew listen to Bridgette? I wondered. He barely even acknowledged her. She must’ve read my mind because she added, “He was my boyfriend.”
I tried to mask my shock. Or was it disbelief? “Mary Jane mentioned you and Andrew were old family friends . . .”
“Everyone in Pleasant Acres considers themselves ‘old family friends,’ Poppy.” Bridgette hopped down and grabbed her patchwork purse off the teacher’s desk. “So she wasn’t lying. She just conveniently skipped this part.” She opened her wallet and showed me a strip of little photographs, the kind you get from photo booths at amusement parks and seedy tourist traps. The photos showed younger Bridgette and Andrew in a variety of poses, from side-by-side stiff, to laughing hysterically, to one of him kissing her cheek. They actually looked like they made a good couple back then—so happy.
Okay, so Mary Jane never mentioned that Andrew and Bridgette used to be a couple. But why not? What was the big deal? If I wanted the whole story, I had to keep Bridgette talking. “So Andrew was Curly and Mary Jane was Laurey. What part did you get?”
She looked down at her black flats. “Mary Jane’s understudy.”
“Ooooh.” That sucked.
“Yeah. Well, I tried to be a good sport about it, and I was fully prepared to get over it. That was, until opening night. It was pretty evident the kiss between Mary Jane and Andrew . . . well, let’s just say neither of them are that good at acting.” She paused a second and her jaw moved side to side, as if she were deep in a particularly disturbing memory. “The weird thing is, she acted like nothing was wrong. Those days before her betrayal were the days I felt the very closest to Mary Jane. Solid, you know? Like nothing could ever, ever come between us.”
“Especially not a guy.”
“I really liked Andrew a lot, Poppy. I think I was even in love with him.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I said, my heart going out to her. “That had to hurt.”
She laughed, but it fell flat. “Well, not nearly as much as the day Mary Jane decided that Whitney Nickels would make a better best friend.” She slammed her hand on the table and then crossed her arms over her buxom chest. “I’m sure she thought it would be easier to just replace me than to try and smooth things over, you know?”
Andrew’s earlier conversation with David came to mind then, and it dawned on me that the “ex” he’d spoken of—the one who “got off on not getting him off”—was, in all likelihood, Bridgette. “Maybe you’re better off?” I ventured, not really sure what else to say.
She gave me a long, hard look and I read her nonverbal message loud and clear. “What do you want me to do, Bridgette? Stop being friends with them over something that happened two years ago? And . . . all over a guy?” I smiled, hoping my voice of reason gave her a much-needed wake-up call. “I mean, I know you were in love with him and I’m not denying that what she did was a horrible, bitchy thing, but . . . maybe it wasn’t on purpose. Maybe it just . . . happened.”
Bridgette seemed to be wrapped up in her thoughts. Then she blinked her hazel eyes a couple of times and said, “My dad got laid off around that time too. I sometimes wonder if she didn’t want to be my friend anymore because my dad works at a fillin’ station. She loves to shop and go to concerts and, well, after a while, I couldn’t keep up. Now that she’s BFFs with Whitney, it’s gotten even worse. Neither of them has a job, yet those two have the biggest, most expensive wardrobes in the whole town. Even the adults talk abo
ut it.” She paused. “I guess you fit in, in that respect,” she said.
“Wha-what do you mean?”
“Those are True Religion jeans, right? I know those cost a couple hundred bucks.”
“Yeah, well . . .” How in the world had the conversation taken such a drastic turn? I wanted to find out more about the Mary Jane–Bridgette feud, not examine Mary Jane’s and Whitney’s (and my) wardrobes.
“Sorry, I’m just saying. Anyhow, I can’t believe their parents dole out so much money. Can you believe how spoiled those two girls are?”
“Um, I don’t think their parents are funding their wardrobes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” Holy crap; why had I said that out loud?
“What do you mean?” she repeated.
“Nothing. I just mean that maybe their parents aren’t to blame, that’s all.” I grinned and shrugged it off like it was no big deal.
However, Bridgette wouldn’t let it go. “Then how do they afford all of it? You’ve seen their designer wardrobes. You’ve seen Mary Jane tossing out expensive gifts to people she barely even knows. How do they get all of that stuff?” Then, after an ominous pause, she asked, “Do they steal it?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Do they steal it? Bridgette’s words echoed in my aching head. A sharp pain stabbed at my tummy, and I found it hard to breathe normally. Get a grip, Poppy. She’s just guessing, I told myself. She doesn’t know about the shoplifting. I gulped some oxygen and, knowing I’d trespassed into dangerous territory, steered the conversation back toward safer ground. “You don’t need this.” I handed her the photo strip I’d been holding all that time. “You should throw it away.”
She stroked her finger over the bottom photo.
“I saw this movie once,” I said, “where a girl’s boyfriend hooked up with her best friend, and the girl picked up her cell and was going to call him, like a habit or something. But then she suddenly grew a backbone and deleted his number. It was very liberating. And when I broke up with my ex, I burned something of his that I’d been holding on to. Really, Bridgette. Get rid of those stupid photos. Move on.”
A sliver of a smile emerged on Bridgette’s face and she appeared so confident, so pretty. She tore the photo strip to shreds, her smile broadening with every rip. Then she tossed the pieces high into the air, like confetti. I was happy Bridgette had done that, and even happier she had apparently forgotten all about her shoplifting suspicions.
“What are you working on over here, anyway?” I inched closer to her top-secret project. “Is it for the Sadie Hawkins dance?” Knowing Bridgette, she headed the decorating committee. And lucky me, I’d get to experience her hard work at the dance itself.
Her hazel eyes widened. “Actually, yes.”
“Need any help?”
“You want to . . . help me?”
My offer kind of caught me by surprise, too. But what the hell, I had nothing better to do at that moment. And Bridgette finally opened up to me. She let me know why she and Mary Jane didn’t get along. I wanted to keep talking to her, to learn more. Oh, I still thought Bridgette was two fries short of a Happy Meal—but maybe if I got to know her better, I’d understand where she was coming from and could maybe even help her make peace with Mary Jane and Whitney.
“Yep. I’m all yours.”
Bridgette lifted the banner and handed half of it to me. “It feels good,” she said, patting her heart. “I mean, I’m finally moving on. Thanks for having me get rid of those photos. And this—this very sign—is the next big step for me.” Bridgette’s face practically glowed. “Okay, let’s get this thing hung. I’m thinking in the hallway, just above his locker.” She unfolded the banner and stood back to admire it. In bright red letters, it read: HOWDY, GABE! FOR A BANNER TIME AT SADIE HAWKINS, GO WITH BRIDGETTE.
I think I might’ve gasped out loud.
“I know it’s silly,” she said, “but I wanted to do something original, something big. You know?”
“It’s definitely big.” I swallowed and configured my gaping mouth into a smile.
She paused, a worried expression on her face. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s, um, . . . great.” Shit, shit, shit. This was so not good.
“Did I tell you Gabe drove me home Friday night after the barbecue?” she asked dreamily. “My Bronco was on the fritz and he offered. He’s so sweet and we have more in common than Andrew and I ever will.”
“Your truck broke down?” Not like I cared; I was just stalling so I could wrap my mind around what had transpired in the last few minutes.
“Well, not really. I just told him that.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m really excited for him to see this tomorrow morning. And nervous, too. It’ll be the first date I’ve gone on since Andrew, and I can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces when they see Gabe and me together . . .” A huge smile exploded onto her flushed face. “It’s going to be perfect.”
I hadn’t seen anyone that excited since the Broncos won the Super Bowl. How could I tell her that I already asked Gabe—and that he said yes?
After helping her hang the banner, I couldn’t get outside into the fresh air fast enough. Dialing Mom’s number on my cell phone, I almost ran smack into the back of a rickety blue pickup truck. A “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” sticker adorned the bumper, a metal bass covered the trailer hitch, and twangy country music played on the stereo. It took me a minute to recognize the cowboy in the driver’s seat. I wandered up to the cab and David tipped his hat at me. Why was he there? Had he forgotten something? “Hey little lady, need a lift?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess I do.” I dropped my cell phone into my backpack and then crawled up into the cab. “You weren’t waiting out here just to drive me home, were you?”
“Heck no.” He turned down the music and then reached into the cup holder to produce a deck of faded cards. “I’ve been meaning to catch up on my solitaire, and this seemed as good a place as any.”
I gave him a little courtesy laugh and he steered toward Calvary Road.
“I’m sure my reputation precedes me, but if not, I happen to be a great fisherman. I won the blue ribbon two years in a row at Catfish Days.” He tilted his head and waggled his eyebrows. “I can go catch a fish real fast in that lake over yonder, and you can put it under Gabe’s bed—”
“Thanks, but there’s no need. He said yes.”
“He did? Then why so glum?” He offered me the bag of Swedish Fish.
I took a couple and flung them into my mouth, thoughts of Bridgette stomping through my skull. She felt like Mary Jane stole Andrew from her. And now she was “moving on” by asking Gabe to the dance. What would she think when she found out I’d already asked him? It wasn’t like I could un-ask him. How could I have known she had a crush on him?
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I mumbled with my mouth full.
David didn’t ask me any more questions—besides how to get to my house—which I thought was cool because I didn’t want to have to lie to him anymore. He dropped me off and said through the open window, “By the way, I knew all along Gabe would say yes. He might be dull as ditchwater but he ain’t stupid.” Then he winked at me and coasted away, leaving me in a cloud of impending doom.
And, as it happened, directly under an actual cloud: a big, dark storm cloud that was all too eager to soak me as I hauled ass across the yard. Once inside, I caught my breath and wiped the rain off my face. Then I reached into my backpack and took out my cell phone. Sliding down the wall into a somewhat comfy squatting position, I scrolled down my contact list, the lighted bar hovering over Bridgette’s name.
I could call her and tell her I’d already asked Gabe to the dance. It would probably piss her off, but wouldn’t it be better to piss her off now than later? Or maybe I should call Gabe and give him a head’s up. Maybe he’d even consider going with Bridgette, if I insisted that it was okay with me. After all, it was a very casual affair and, from what I’d seen
, Gabe didn’t find Bridgette revolting or anything. Come to think of it, they looked kinda cute together.
I didn’t have Gabe’s number, though. I was going to a school dance with some dude I didn’t even know well enough to have his phone number. Some guy I didn’t find interesting enough to have asked for his number. And, obviously, vice versa.
Holy shit, I don’t know what to do. And the more I thought about it, the more confused I became. Hoping a walk might help clear my mind, I grabbed my umbrella, purse, and MP3 player and headed outside.
Slogging through the rainy streets, music by Cobra Starship, Secondhand Serenade, and Social D kept me company, and I eventually found myself at the little Milk ’n’ More convenience store. Whitney must’ve been rubbing off on me, because I suddenly craved chocolate. A Butterfinger would totally hit the spot. As an Outback wagon drove away with a full belly of gasoline, I whisked open the door. The pungent odors of hot dogs and popcorn replaced the earthy, rainy aroma I’d been enjoying. I cinched my umbrella, the excess water sprinkling the doormat. The man at the cash register gave me a cursory nod before burying his nose in the Pleasant Acres Examiner. Swaying my umbrella, I rounded the first aisle and browsed the rows of candies, glad to see my favorite chocolate bar.
I had the sudden, inexplicable urge to lift something.
Trying to appear casual, I glanced skyward, and when I spotted the big, round mirror in the corner of the ceiling, I felt defeated. But if the cashier wasn’t looking at the mirror while I took something, he’d be none the wiser, I reasoned. And, if he wasn’t keeping tabs on me, there was no reason why I couldn’t get away with it. Leaning backward, I saw the cashier reading the newspaper, not paying attention to me at all. My heart thudded excitedly in my chest.
I grabbed a Butterfinger—the red herring item, as Mary Jane would call it—and as my hand lowered, I snagged a pack of gum and dropped it into the open end of the umbrella. With a sssssk, it slid down the nylon and landed in the tip with an almost inaudible thud. It was just a stupid pack of gum, nothing big or expensive. It was hardly even a challenge. Still, after I’d completed that tiny shoplifting maneuver, there was no turning back. Nowhere to go but forward. Do or die. Adrenaline surged through my veins, and my feet rocked toe to heel with energy and anticipation.
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