by Meg Haston
Invalid password. Invalid password.
“Moooooom.” I groaned. I checked the clock over the door. They could be home any second. “Come onnnnn.”
“Password protected?” Stevie guessed. “My dad does the same thing with his. It’s like they don’t trust us or something.”
“Right?” As a last resort, I tried Murrow. She was always quoting Edward R. Murrow, basically the most famous newscaster ever. I hit enter.
Welcome, Sterling Simon!
“Yessss.” I opened a new e-mail. “Okay. Address?”
“LeviStoneRocks-at-gmail-dot-com.” Stevie’s heels banged against the desk. “What exactly are you doing—”
“I got it, I got it. Just give me a second.” My fingers flew over the keyboard, fueled by genius and desperation. This had to work. I couldn’t live in the rain forest with Stevie and Gabe. My hair could not handle that kind of humidity. “Aaaaaand, done,” I announced a minute later. “Here. Check it out.” I swiveled the desktop screen in her direction.
From: “Sterling Simon”
To: “Levi Stone”
Re: DYING CHICAGO GIRL REQUESTS LEVI STONE CONCERT BEFORE SHE CROAKS
Dear Levi,
My name is Sterling Simon. You’ve probably heard of me, but if not, I’m the solo evening anchor with Chicago’s Channel 5 news. And believe me, your series of concerts in Chicago this week is major news here in Chi-town.
I’m writing with a favor-slash-photo-op. Here in Chicago, at our own Marquette Middle School, we’re proud to boast your biggest fan, seventh-grade school president Paige Greene. Tragically, Paige is dying of infection from a terrible, rare, green flesh-eating bacterium called Verticopolus. (Don’t bother looking it up on Wikipedia. It’s a very technical medical term.)
It is brave Paige Greene’s dying wish for you to play a concert at her next (and probably last) school dance tomorrow night. It would mean so much to her. If you’re willing, Channel 5 would like to do a human interest segment on you tomorrow night on the news. Please contact me immediately to discuss this potentially huge publicity opportunity.
See you tomorrow, hopefully,
Sterling Simon
P.S. Please come.
P.P.S. If you do come, don’t mention this e-mail to Paige. She’s very self-conscious about her cracking green skin, poor thing.
A light went on behind Stevie’s eyes as she read. When she finished, I explained every minute detail, from the spark of an idea I’d gotten at the Burton Wells concert to the bitter taste of the coffee Zander had bought me. On our (non)DATE.
“So?” I felt jittery and alive, like I’d just tossed back another giant mug of coffee. “What do you think?”
“About the plan, or about your pathetic attempt to make me jealous that you were out with Zander tonight?” Her eyes were narrow with disdain.
I met her stare with silence. It was this trick I learned from Nessa and used on my toughest interview subjects. For some reason, silence makes people uncomfortable, so all you have to do to get someone to agree with you is wait them out. Eventually, they won’t be able to stand the awkwardness anymore, and they end up blurting out anything just to—
“About the PLAN, duh!” I shrieked.
Occasionally the method backfired.
Stevie took a maddeningly slow breath and leaned against the wall next to my computer desk, running her tongue over her irritatingly white teeth. “I think it doesn’t suck. It might bomb, but it’s the best we’ve got this late in the game, right?”
“It won’t bomb.” Not exactly the enthusiastic response I’d been hoping for. “And when he agrees, I’ll call in an anonymous tip to the station and say he specifically requested Mom, so she’ll have to cancel the date and do the interview. That’s the upside to having a mom who’s a workaholic.”
“Okaaaay.” Stevie twirled her silky black hair around a lavender-painted nail. “Oh. Don’t forget to put your cell number.”
“Right.” I bent over the keyboard and typed: P.P.P.S. It’s easier to reach me on my cell. Then I put my own number at the end of the letter.
“Wait.” Stevie suddenly sounded worried. “So if this works, does that mean Gravity won’t be playing the dance?”
“Oh.” I stared at the screen until the type in the e-mail blurred together. I’d been so blinded by my need to break up Mom and Gabe, I’d completely forgotten about Gravity. About our big break tomorrow night. “We’ll probably still play, right? I mean, he’s a busy guy. He’ll probably just come in, play a couple of songs for Paige, do the interview, and sketch out.”
“Right. Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.” Her brows unknit.
“Okay. Now for the visual aid.” I hopped up and pulled the photo strip from my back pocket. Four Paiges stared back at me in a cracked, bubbling, puke-green seaweed mask. Each picture was worse than the last.
“I don’t even wanna know why you have these.” Stevie’s hair brushed my shoulder as she hovered over the photo strip. “I want to look away, but I just can’t.”
“Right?” I cut out the picture where Paige’s mouth was twisted down and she sort of looked like she was dying. I think that was right after she’d threatened to kill me. Then I laid the photo facedown on the scanner and punched the START button. I attached the file to the message, my index finger hovering anxiously over the mouse. “Are we really doing this?” I asked Stevie. Suddenly, my stomach was a rubber-band ball of nerves.
She lunged across the desk and clamped her hand over mine. Then she smashed my finger into the left mouse button.
Message sent successfully!
“Guess so,” she said.
FATE IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD
Friday, 2:35 P.M.
“Is anybody, uh…” Zander nodded at the last seat in the second row of the auditorium, where Molly, Nessa, Liv, and I were waiting for the final bell to ring and assembly to start, along with the rest of the seventh grade. Onstage, Paige and Quinn sat behind the podium, where Sean, our American Government teacher, was making notes in his planner.
“Oh! Hey. Do you want to sit?” Hands shaking, I scooped up the heap of purses and bags we’d piled into the chair and deposited them on the floor, burying my gray round-toe boots in colorful leather rubble.
“Hey! That’s a new bag!” Molly glared at Zander before tugging a shiny yellow patent tote from the pile and cradling it in her lap.
“Sorry, Mols.” I exchanged a glance with Zander as he plopped into the seat next to me. After a few beats, the glance turned into a gaze. Neither of us looked away until my fingers and toes started to go numb and I was forced to break the stare for health reasons.
“So I, uh…” Zander eyed Molly warily, then stared into his lap. “I went to this concert last night.” A hint of a smile lit his lips.
“Oh yeah?” I stared straight ahead at Sean, sitting on my hands to keep them still. I couldn’t risk looking at Zander again. Nessa was only two seats away, and it was a miracle she hadn’t picked up on my crush vibes already.
“Yeah. It was kind of… amazing. You know?”
I know. The air in the auditorium was hot and stale, but I shivered.
“Please. How would she know?” Molly scoffed. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, and her ends stung my cheek. “It’s not like she was there.”
My toes curled in my boots. “It’s just a saying, Mols.”
“You ready for the dance tonight?” I might have been imagining it, but Zander seemed to scoot a little closer. “Only one more rehearsal till showtime.”
“Right. Showtime. Yeah.” I braided the end of my low side ponytail, then shook it out and started over. I’d checked my cell every three minutes, on the minute, since last night. Nothing. If Levi was going to be a no-show, there wasn’t any reason to come clean to Zander about the e-mail, was there?
“What’s up? You’re not excited?” Zander knit his brows.
“No. Totally. I am. Just nervous about
Paige, I guess.”
Molly snorted. “You should be. This is going to be a disaster.”
“Mols, you don’t have to look so happy about it.” Liv rolled her eyes toward the olive jeweled headband taming her shiny curls. “This could be really humiliating.”
“Traumatic, even.” Nessa grabbed a few sunflower seeds from a small plastic baggie in her lap, then tilted the bag toward us. I shook my head.
“I know!” Molly said gleefully. “Seriously traumatic.”
Zander glared at Molly. “You can’t just—”
“Hey. Goose. Move. I need to talk to Kacey.” Stevie appeared in the aisle, hands planted firmly on the waistband of her navy velvet bell-bottoms. “Now.”
“Uh—” Zander looked at me, confused. “Talk to Kacey? Seriously?”
I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Sorry. It’ll only take a sec.” I let my knee knock against Zander’s in a last-ditch attempt at contact.
“Um, okay.” Zander looked back and forth between Stevie and me a few times, then slid off his seat. The seat bottom banged against the seatback as he stomped up the aisle.
Stevie slid in next to me. “So? Any word?” she said under her breath, without looking at me.
“I know you didn’t steal Zander’s seat just to ask me that,” I whispered back. “And no.”
“Test.” Sean took a step back from the mic, then thumped it with his index finger. “Test. Test.”
“We hear you, dude!” somebody yelled from the back row.
“Nothing?” Stevie hissed. “Not a call or anything?”
“Don’t you think I’ve been checking? Maybe we just have to accept that he’s not going to respond.” My throat closed up. How could this be happening? The plan was so perfect.
“No. I refuse.” Stevie death-gripped the armrests. “He’ll write back. I know it.”
“Look. I hate our parents together as much as you do. But—”
Sean cleared his throat again, looking directly at me. “As you all know, we’re here to give the floor to our candidates for eighth-grade class president, Ms. Paige Greene and Mr. Quinn Wilder.”
“Woooo-hoooo!” The auditorium burst into applause. In the front row, Jake Fields and Aaron Peterman jumped to their feet, doing what looked like some kind of end-zone victory dance. Onstage, Paige bowed her head, and Quinn mimed a roof-raising. Gross.
“Okay, quiet down.” Sean checked his watch. “I don’t have to remind you that voting in an election, even a school election, is a privilege. And I hope you’ll give both your candidates the attention and careful consideration they—”
“Speech!” Aaron shouted through cupped hands. “Speech. Speech. Speech.”
Soon the whole seventh grade, minus Stevie, me, and the girls, was chanting along with him.
“Hey!” Sean tapped the microphone again. “Seriously, guys. If you can’t keep it together, we’ll film the speeches and air them in homeroom on Monday. You can use the rest of the day for silent study hall.”
That shut everyone up.
“Better. Just a reminder: I’ll ask you to hold your applause until both candidates have finished their speeches. First up, we have Ms. Paige Greene.”
The auditorium was dead silent.
“You can clap for the candidates.” Sean sighed into the mic. “Just hold your applause until after they speak.”
Paige clutched several pages of notebook paper to her chest and strode to the mic to the tune of stilted applause. Her chin was up and her gait confident. Considering the disastrous circumstances, she looked pretty good. She’d swept her bob back in a mini ponytail and trimmed her bangs. Evenly, for once. Her usual square black frames had been replaced with a retro pair of cat-eye glasses, and the leather-piped blazer we’d picked out looked commanding but cool. Around her waist was a surprisingly stylish skinny green belt.
“Goo—good afternoon, Marquette.” The rattle of Paige’s notebook paper revealed her nerves. My stomach dipped, and I straightened up in my seat. “And thanks—thank you all—for your time.”
“I can’t believe he hasn’t called,” Stevie muttered under her breath. “I’m never downloading him again. Even for free.”
“Good. Because that’s illegal. Kind of like breaking and entering. Now shut up so I can hear.” I angled my body away from Stevie. It was stupid, but watching Paige up there all alone, just a weekend away from losing everything to Quinn Wilder, suddenly made me want to bawl. She’d worked so hard and wanted this more than anything. She deserved this. And just when things were starting to look good, somebody swooped in and ruined everything. She was powerless to change it. It was just fate. Cruel, backstabbing, nothing-she-could-do-about-it fate with a capital F.
“What is a leader? Well, the dictionary defines the word leader as, quote, a person who has influence or authority.”
Oh, no. The dictionary opener? What happened to her old speech, the one we’d practiced so many times? Anyone who had ever spoken in front of ANYONE ELSE, EVER, knew the dictionary opener was the hallmark of a terrible speech. And from the sounds of backpacks being unzipped and the number of cell phones popping up around me, the seventh grade had officially lost interest.
“I’m Paige Greene, and I’m asking you for the chance to continue as—to still be your—” Paige faltered. The bright auditorium lights spotlighted the sheen of sweat on her skin. Right now, she looked dewy and youthful. But in five minutes, she’d be drenched and defeated. “To be your eighth-grade president leader.”
President leader? This was too painful to watch. I closed my eyes and imagined myself rushing the stage, steamrolling Paige out of her misery.
“I’d like to highlight my record during my time as seventh-grade president.”
“NO THANKS!” somebody yelled.
“Hey!” I shouted over the giggles, whipping around to glare at the crowd.
“Um—” Paige’s voice cracked as she stared down at the podium, shuffling her papers. One floated out from the pack, and she scampered to save it, sending the other papers flying. Diving to her hands and knees, she clawed the first page from the edge of the stage.
Come on, Paige, I willed her. You can do this.
She stood up and brushed herself off, the light reflecting off her lenses. Her jaw tightened, then she crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and chucked it into the audience.
“Okay, people. I know you don’t want to be here. But this is America. And democracy. So listen up.” Even without the microphone, her voice was clear and loud. The giggles and whispers and texting sounds stopped. Stevie and the girls leaned forward a little.
“Look.” Paige planted her hands on her hips and started pacing the length of the stage. “Here’s a little something you might not know about me. I love politics. Like, am completely obsessed with it. I could recite all the presidents in reverse order by the time I was six. I know the preamble of the Constitution by heart. And yes. Sometimes I watch C-SPAN for fun.”
I knew it. KNEW IT.
“And none of those things make me the most popular kid here, which is fine. They don’t make me the best soccer player, or the prettiest girl. But they make me a really good class president. And I think I’ve proven that to you guys over the past year. Quinn Wilder’s a great guy, but he’s never even been to a student council meeting.” She turned to face Wilder. “No offense.”
Quinn hair-tossed his forgiveness.
I gripped the edge of my seat, reminding myself to breathe.
“It’s simple,” Paige continued. “If you think I’ve done a good job and want someone in office who really wants to be there, you should vote for me. If you’re ready for a change, then okay. Maybe I’ll have to get good at soccer or something.”
Everybody laughed. Even Quinn cracked a small smile.
“So vote for me, Paige Greene. That’s all.”
“WOOOO-HOOOO!” I shrieked, leaping to my feet. The rest of the grade followed my lead and burst into riotous cheers. Confetti poured from the ceiling,
and Quinn Wilder yelled, “I QUIT!” and carried Paige off the stage on his shoulders. Oh, and Oprah showed up and gave everybody in the audience a free car and some solid life advice.
Okay. So maybe that was all in my head. In reality, I whistled, and a few people clapped politely, and Paige took an awkward half-curtsy that made it look like she was about to wet her pants.
When she sat down, Quinn walked to the podium. And that was when everybody jumped to their feet and started screaming.
“WHAT’S UP, MARQUETTE MIDDLE?” Quinn hair-tossed and double fist-pumped, which was apparently the secret code for Queen’s “We Are the Champions” to start blaring from the speakers. Paige sat stiffly in her seat, her ankles crossed and her eyes wide, looking as traumatized as a band geek held hostage at a frat party.
One more hair toss, and the music dipped to a normal volume. “Thanks, guys. Have a seat. I’m gonna keep it short and sweet, ’cause it’s Friday, and I know the ladies wanna get home and start getting ready for the dance tonight, am I right?”
The ladies? I tasted lunch.
Molly leaned forward in her seat as Quinn slid the mic out of its holster on the podium and started slinking around the stage like a bad Vegas lounge singer. I had to admit, though, he did look pretty cute. His sandy blond hair appeared extra silky under the lights, and his dark-wash jeans and silvery-blue henley were wrinkled enough to give off a casual vibe without being sloppy. Well played, Wilder. Well. Played.
“I just have a few questions for you guys, and I want you to answer loud and clear, so I can hear you. Are you sick of having homework over winter break?”
“YEAH!” everybody yelled. Paige’s already thin lips did a vanishing act.
“Do you think standardized tests blow?”
“YEAH!”
I looked over at Molly to exchange eye rolls. But her face had turned a purplish-red color.
“Ohmygod. He’s amazing!” she breathed.
I blinked. Was my class actually falling for this? Was Molly actually falling for this?