by Kieran Scott
“Sounds good to me,” I said, handing her a napkin. “Maybe I could get my friend Greg to take the picture. He’s one of the yearbook photographers.”
“That would be perfect.” She quickly and unself-consciously wiped her face and fingers, then crossed her arms on the table. “So, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” I said.
“Why football?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Her shoulders rose. “Why play football? What made you pick that?”
I took another bite of mac and cheese. “I dunno. I’ve been playing since I was six years old. It’s just something I’ve always done.”
True looked at me strangely, like I’d said something she didn’t understand. Then she shook her head and sighed. “Okay, but why do you still play it now? What do you like about it?”
“Um . . . I don’t know. I like the team vibe thing,” I said. “The competition . . . I think it’s cool, like, lining up right across from these guys. You get to look ’em in the eye and sort of try to psych them out. And then, once the ball is snapped, it’s about survival. Who’s stronger, who’s faster, who’s smarter. It’s very . . . primal, I guess.”
True laughed, and the sound sent a warm flood over my stomach.
“What?” I asked, blushing.
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s nice.” True looked down at her food. She shoved her spoon into her yogurt and swirled it, like a tornado. “I mean it’s good. It’s good to have something in your life you really . . .”
I swallowed, waiting for her to finish her sentence. True looked up at me, those clear blue eyes full of pain. And not just regular pain, but a lot of it. A lifetime of it, if I had to guess. I tried to look away, knowing Darla was probably watching us, knowing that staring into another girl’s eyes was in no way gonna fly. But I couldn’t. I literally could not look away.
“Something you really what?” I said.
“Something you love,” True said quietly.
My heart banged against my rib cage. True picked up the plate with the muffin on it and passed it to me. “Here,” she said, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not going to eat it anyway.”
“Um . . . okay.”
I glanced down, and all of a sudden I was somewhere else. The plate was a different plate—ceramic with blue flowers—and the table under it was made of raw wood, not plastic. I saw True’s hand as she passed it to me, but it wasn’t her hand as it was now. It was softer, paler, whiter. And her nails were perfectly shaped and pink. But it was her hand. I knew it somehow. Then she looked up at me and smiled. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and behind her, a fire crackled inside a stone fireplace.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Suddenly I slammed back into the now. It was like being sucked down a long straw and splatting up against a glass window at the end of it. At least, it was what I imagined that might feel like. My whole face radiated with pain, and my skin felt tight over every inch of my body.
“Orion? Hey! Are you okay?” True snapped her fingers in front of my face. She’d already put the plate back down. The pain moved from my cheekbones into my skull and took root at the back of my brain, pulsating angrily.
“Yeah. Yes. I’m fine.” Both my hands gripped the edge of the table, but I didn’t remember putting them there.
“Good.” She looked concerned. “I thought I lost you for a second there.”
“No. I’m okay.” My fingers shook as I released my hold. “I think I just had déjà vu or something.” I cleared my throat and reached for my soda. After a few quick gulps, the pain subsided. Not totally, but enough that I could focus. “That ever happen to you?”
The look she gave me was both understanding and confused—somehow sad and somehow hopeful. She released a sigh and smiled.
“It happens all the time.”
CHAPTER TEN
Darla
I didn’t even look at True Olympia as I strode into the auxiliary gym for the Boosters meeting on Tuesday after school. The room stank of stale sweat and dusty, forgotten equipment, but since it had been pouring buckets outside since sixth period, they couldn’t meet outside. Everyone was sitting in groups on the floor, making signs for the game that coming weekend. From the corner of my eye, I saw True glance at me, but I ignored her. She was not worthy of my notice. At least, that was the image I was trying to project to the world.
I walked past a couple of girls who were whispering about “the attack” on Monday, which was what everyone was now calling it, and casting suspicious glances at True. I wondered if it was possible, what people were saying—that True was somehow involved. Not that I would be surprised to find one more layer of weirdness about her. When I saw Wallace sitting on the bottom bleacher, I hesitated. I actually felt nervous, not that I would admit that to anyone, ever. But what if he hated me?
Then Wallace looked up from his iPod and smiled. Which, okay, was a good sign, but . . . what was wrong with him? You didn’t smile at the person who completely ditched you as a best friend four years ago. You just didn’t.
“What’s up, Ding Dong?” he asked in full voice, clearing off the area next to him. “I heard you were joining our ranks, but I didn’t dare believe it until right now.”
A few girls nearby snickered.
“Don’t call me that, Wall-E.” I sat down in a huff.
“Someone’s in a mood,” he said, shaking his dark hair off his brows. He had these very dark-brown eyes that were soft like a puppy’s. Why he hid them with his hair I had no idea. “Shouldn’t you be psyched?” he asked. “Your beautiful face is plastered on every wall of the school.”
I blushed slightly and flicked a speck off my sweater. “Whatever. No one’s going to vote for me if people think my boyfriend would rather hang out with True Olympia,” I said, shooting her a dirty look. Ugh. So much for ignoring her. I turned toward Wallace, putting my shoulder between me and True. “Did you see them at lunch today? Why does he want to slum it with the losers?”
Wallace blinked. “Isn’t that kind of what you’re doing right now?”
I froze. Awkward! “You are not a loser,” I said, with as much certainty as I could force into my voice.
Wallace laughed and tapped at his iPad. “Yeah, right. That’s why you haven’t talked to me since seventh grade. Because I’m the coolest of the cool.”
“Come on. Don’t say that,” I muttered.
“Say what?” He lifted his shoulders. “The truth?”
“Whatever.” I really didn’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now. Okay, if we’re being honest? Not ever.
“Yeah, whatever. And by the way, True’s not a loser. She’s a friend,” Wallace said, sliding his iPad aside on the next bleacher up. “So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t trash her in front of me.”
Yeah. This was going well. “Well, I’m here. So what are we working on?”
“We have the pancake breakfast this weekend,” Wallace said, handing me a list. “At the end of the meeting today, we’ll ask people to sign up to take care of each of these things with their football player. Why don’t you look it over and see if you can think of anything I missed?”
I glanced down the page. Only one item had already been claimed. Next to “Place mats” he’d typed in “True & Orion.” Just seeing their names together like that made me taste bile.
“Why does she get first pick?” I asked.
“Apparently, that was the job your boyfriend wanted,” Wallace said, looking down at his iPad. “Don’t you want him to be happy?”
What I wanted was for a huge lightning bolt to pierce the gym roof and fry True Olympia where she sat. Was that really too much to ask? Mercifully, my phone beeped. I dug it out of my bag and was relieved to see a text from Veronica. Someone from my normal life! At least, I was psyched until I read it.
AT THE MALL! WHAT ABOUT THIS DRESS 4U?
I had avoided dress shopping yesterday afternoon by claiming I had a Skype call scheduled with my mom, and I’d kind of hoped that Veronica would just forget about it and move on to something else. Apparently, I was not that lucky. The picture popped up, and I almost gagged. A headless mannequin was sporting a pink dress that looked like something out of a nightmare movie from the eighties. I typed back,
YOU’RE KIDDING, RIGHT?
But I hesitated before sending it. Because what if she wasn’t kidding? Then I’d be insulting her taste. I sighed and my posture slumped. What was the right thing to text back? How to be diplomatic about this and not set her off? Sometimes text etiquette could be very complex. Especially when it came to Veronica.
“What’s wrong?” Wallace asked.
“Nothing.”
He angled for a look at my phone and snorted. “Halloween costume?”
“Apparently, it’s the dress Veronica wants me to wear to homecoming,” I said.
“What dress do you want to wear to homecoming?” he asked.
I scrolled to the pic of me in the blue dress and held it up so he could see.
“You look awesome in that,” he said boldly. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. I mean . . . you don’t think it makes my hips look fat?” I asked, tilting my head.
Wallace snorted. “Did Veronica tell you that?”
“No. Well, yes,” I admitted, my shoulders slumping. “But she was right.”
Another text from Veronica popped up.
HELLO???
I shoved the phone deep inside my bag. I was just going to pretend I didn’t get her text yet. How was that for diplomacy?
Wallace let out this snarky laugh and shook his head. “The girl’s good.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning my elbow on the upper bleacher and my cheek in my hand. I was mildly distracted by a group of freshman girls who were kneeling around a half-done banner, trying to figure out how to best outline the letters with gold glitter.
“She’s trying to sabotage you,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “You’re crazy.”
“Do I look crazy?” he asked.
I let my eyes travel slowly over his outfit. Black Vans sneakers, brown-and-black-plaid cargo pants, a black T-shirt with R2-D2 on it, and a leather bracelet wrapped five times around his wrist. Plus, there was black ink pretty much covering his left arm. An equation of some kind, it looked like. Of course, aside from the arm ink, the look worked for him, but he’d given me such an opening.
“Do you really want me to answer that question?” I joked.
Wallace turned sideways on the bench, pulling one knee up under his chin so he could better face me. “Let me ask you this. How did she react when she found out you were nominated? Did she squeal and scream and shower you with air kisses?”
“Um . . . not exactly,” I said cagily.
“Right! Because she was hoping someone else would be nominated. Someone who wasn’t a threat. Someone totally beatable. You’ve got Veronica Vine spooked, Ding Dong,” he said, lowering his voice so the snickering girls wouldn’t hear, at least. “And now she wants you to look like a pink cotton candy disaster to kill your chances.”
He couldn’t be right, could he? I mean, Veronica Vine could never feel threatened by Darbot the Geek.
“You’re not Darbot the Geek anymore,” Wallace said, like he was reading my mind. Which kind of got under my skin. We weren’t friends anymore. He had no right to think he knew what I was thinking. Even if he did.
“Okay, first of all, Veronica is my best friend, and while she may be a tad self-centered, she would never sabotage me.”
Wallace laughed and started to interrupt, but I lifted a hand to stop him. On the floor, one of the freshmen was about to dump a whole canister of glitter on a skinny, uneven line of glue.
“I’m sorry, can we pause this conversation?” I said.
Without waiting for an answer, I got up and crouched next to the girls and their sign.
“No, no, no, ladies. First, you should use a paintbrush to even out the glue and make a thicker line,” I said, grabbing a clean, flat brush to demonstrate. “Then you carefully scatter the glitter.”
I demonstrated, shaking the glitter out like it was salt, then blew away the excess. Voilà! A perfect outline. “See?”
“Wow. Thanks,” one of the girls said, looking at me as if in awe.
“Just let me know if you need any more help. I’ll be right over there,” I said, pointing at Wallace. I got up and perched myself next to him again. He smirked at me.
“What?” I snapped.
“Nothing. Unpause,” he replied.
I sighed. “Okay, secondly, I have zero chance of winning. The only junior ever to win homecoming queen at Lake Carmody High was Ruma Sen, and she was like a goddess among girls. And even if a junior could win, it would definitely be Veronica, not me.” I paused and toyed with the zipper on my messenger bag. “It’s an honor just to be nominated.”
“Can I talk now?” Wallace asked.
“Sure,” I replied tartly. “Knock yourself out.”
“Okay, first of all, everyone hates Veronica Vine.”
I pressed my lips together. If anyone in the world had a total right to hate Veronica, it was Wallace. I averted my eyes, trying to figure out what to say.
The girls on the floor continued their glitter line and high-fived, which made me smile. See? I was totally good at projects. I should have joined Boosters ages ago. If only Orion could see me now, he’d totally ask for me to take over and boot True to the curb.
Just thinking her name made me look at her, and she quickly looked away. Why was she staring at me? Freak.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, I get it. But ‘everyone’? Really?”
“Look, people pretend to love Veronica because they think they have to,” Wallace said with that I know everything look on his face that annoyed me even back when we were friends. “She’s mean, Darla. She’s mean to everyone. Even her boyfriend. Even you.”
“She’s not mean. Not . . . not anymore, anyway. She’s just opinionated. Men are intimidated by women who know what they want, so they label them as bossy or mean or bitchy, but she’s not. She’s confident.”
“No, no. She’s bitchy.” Wallace reached for his iPad and brought some kind of list up on the screen. “Have you ever asked yourself why Ruma Sen won homecoming queen as a junior?”
“She was a super-popular gorgeous beauty queen with a hot boyfriend,” I replied, flicking my hair over my shoulder, glad to be off the touchy subject of Veronica. “Duh.”
“Wrong again,” Wallace sang, which made me want to slap him. “It’s all about the numbers, Ding Dong.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said again, but this time through my teeth.
“Here’s how it works,” he said, tapping his iPad screen.
Nice. Just ignore me. Why was I ever friends with this person?
“Each class generally votes for the kids nominated from their own class, except for a handful of the freshmen and sophomores who vote for juniors and seniors because they think they should,” he explained, the rectangular glow of the screen lighting up his face.
“And you know this how?” I asked, studying my nails as if I was so uninterested. Although my interest was officially piqued.
“I’m on the homecoming committee. I helped count the votes the last two years.”
“You’re on homecoming?” I didn’t mean to sound snotty, but I did.
“Gotta round out my college apps somehow,” he said. “And you know how I love to crunch the numbers. Anyway, back when Ruma Sen was a junior at Lake Carmody, the junior class was bigger than any other class at the school. Thus, she won most of the vote. I went into the records and double-ch
ecked.”
“So?” I said.
Wallace turned his iPad screen toward me, holding it straight up against his thigh. His case was covered in planets and comets and shooting stars.
“So, right now the junior class is bigger than the senior class by seventy-two kids, and bigger than the sophomores by sixty-three,” he told me, pointing to the official school census. “That means a junior could win this thing. You could win this thing.”
I pulled the iPad closer to me, making sure that what I was seeing was correct. Wallace was right. The junior class was huge compared to the others. And if those were the people who nominated me, then maybe they would also vote for me. And if they did . . .
My mouth went dry. I imagined myself standing in the center of the tricked-out gymnasium, a sparkly crystal crown atop my head. Suddenly I could practically feel the hard plastic band against my skull.
But then my phone beeped again and the sensation died.
“You mean Veronica could win this thing,” I said, pushing the iPad back toward him.
Wallace rolled his eyes and slapped the cover closed over the screen. “Okay. You just keep telling yourself that.”
I smiled slightly. His mom used to say that to us when we were feeling down on ourselves about a project gone wrong. He must have picked it up from her. Suddenly it felt as if no time had passed. As if nothing had changed.
“You really think I could win?” I asked, glancing over at the freshmen as they held up their completed and totally perfect sign, then brought it over to the corner to dry.
Wallace followed my eyes and smiled. “Yeah. I really think you could.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
True
“So, you don’t think those guys are going to come after you again, right?” Claudia asked me after Boosters that afternoon. We stood in the front hallway under one of the big banners advertising the pancake breakfast this weekend, which we’d secured with about four rolls of tape.