by Lara Zielin
“You’ll tell Mrs. Wagner,” I said. “For sure?”
Jefferson smiled. It was meant to be reassuring, but I shivered instead. “I got this. I promise.”
I headed back to class only after I’d watched Mrs. Wagner’s office door close behind him.
Second period, Ms. Rhone had us waiting around for the election announcement, but it never came. “I guess we’ll fence until they interrupt us,” she’d finally decided after fifteen minutes had passed and still no Mrs. Wagner.
“Something’s going on,” I told Jess as we paired off. I looked around to see if Sylvia had come to class, but once again, she was gone.
“What do you mean?” Jess asked.
I almost didn’t reply, but the words were pressing against my throat. I needed to talk to someone—someone who would listen—about all this.
“You promise not to tell anyone what I’m about to say?” I asked.
Jess held up her deformed hand. “Scout’s honor,” she said. Her missing fingers meant that she didn’t make much of a scouting sign at all.
For the first time all day, I laughed. Jess laughed too, and something like relief flooded through me. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought I was.
“Okay, here’s the scoop,” I said, and told her, in a rush of words, about my fight with Sylvia on Thursday and how I’d seen the orange ballot in her driveway, as well as what had happened in the hallway that morning.
“Shut up,” she said. “Are you serious?”
I nodded. “I think Sylvia may have tried to rig the election.”
“Oh man,” Jess said. “What do we do?”
We. As if she was in this thing with me. I appreciated the solidarity.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess let’s wait and see how the election turns out. If she’s not the queen, I guess her plan will have failed and we won’t need to worry about it. Which would be nice because, I mean, maybe I’m making too much out of this. It’s just the stupid prom, right?”
Jess frowned. “I don’t know. I mean, fraud is fraud. I don’t care if it’s the prom or the stock market. Rigging something so that it comes out in your favor while everyone else gets screwed is lame.”
I exhaled. “I know. That’s how I feel too.”
“All right, then,” Jess said. “So let’s see how the election turns out and go from there.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed. “Commence Operation Sit on Our Asses and Wait.”
The morning stretched into the afternoon, and still there was no announcement. The students were buzzing, wondering what was going on. The teachers were conducting business as usual—or at least trying to.
In English class, we got one of our tests back on Catch-22. We’d had to answer a bunch of true/false questions about the first half of the book, then we had to write a short essay about whether or not we thought this was a novel about war and the military, or if it was about something else. I’d scratched out twelve sentences about how I thought that Heller was writing about life in general, not the war. I’d gotten the test back with a big red 98 at the top and a GOOD JOB! written in all caps from Mrs. Miller.
I stared at the grade until the letters blurred. A 98 was an A. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten an A. Usually I was happy with B minuses, and I certainly didn’t think a C was anything to get upset about. But an A? This was rare. Sylvia certainly wouldn’t have approved of it, but I guess I didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
When the bell rang and I got up to leave, Mrs. Miller called out to me. “Aggie,” she said, “I have a question for you. Got a sec?” Her silver jewelry clanked softly when she spoke.
I shrugged. “Sure.”
When the classroom had emptied, Mrs. Miller sat at a desk in the front row and motioned for me to do the same. “Nice job on the test,” she said, straightening her blackframed glasses.
“Thanks,” I said, still holding the test in my hand. “I’m digging the book.”
Mrs. Miller nodded. “I have to say, your style of writing was really refreshing. In my world, I usually get two kinds of essays: those from the kids who use this as prep for college essays and say all the right things, and those from the kids who haven’t read the book at all. Yours wasn’t either. It was honest. And it was clear you’d done the reading. It was a pleasure, really.”
I was beginning to get uncomfortable. Teachers never talked to me like this. “Um, thanks,” I said.
Mrs. Miller smoothed back her raven hair. “I wasn’t sure if you’d thought much about college,” she said, “but if you’ll let me, I’d like to encourage you to pick someplace with a good English and literature department.”
Oh God, I thought. Here we go again with the college talk. I wondered if she’d been set up by my mom for this.
“You don’t participate often in class, but when you do, your insights are good. This paper, and the promise of a few other things I’ve seen from you, make me think you have a gift for literary criticism. If you’re interested, there are good schools that can really develop that.”
The way she talked, it didn’t seem like Mrs. Miller was yanking my chain. “Is literary criticism when you read a book and then tell people what you think about it?” I asked.
Mrs. Miller nodded. “Sort of. Suffice it to say, you’re opinionated. And insightful. When it comes to books and literary criticism, those are two really good things to be.”
The warning bell for the start of the next class rang. “I don’t teach another class until sixth hour,” Mrs. Miller said. “What’s next on your schedule?”
“Chemistry,” I replied.
“Can you be late? If I give you a pass?”
“Okay.” I nodded. I’d never say it out loud, but sitting in the empty classroom with Mrs. Miller, the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows, wasn’t half bad.
Underneath the desk, Mrs. Miller crossed her legs. “I’m sure your mom must tell you this a lot, but you have potential, Aggie. I was curious if you’d thought about the future at all.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, watching her silver bracelet glint. “Like whether or not I want kids, or what I want to be when I grow up?”
Mrs. Miller smiled. “More the latter. Is there anything you want to study? Anything you want to be?”
Normally this would be the part where I would stand up and tell off the teacher—or my mom—and ask her to stop meddling in my life. But I didn’t have any urge to do that just now. Without Sylvia telling me where to go and what to do, maybe it was time I started figuring things out for myself.
“I think I like bass fishing,” I replied slowly. “I’m pretty good at it.”
Mrs. Miller’s eyebrows shot up. “Bass fishing. Really?”
I nodded. “My dad asked me to join this local fishing group, the Bass Masters, because he thought it might help me straighten out, or whatever. And, I don’t know, I hated it at first, but now I really love it.”
Mrs. Miller nodded thoughtfully. “You know, there are some schools that teach kids how to look at the environment and make sure certain types of fish—bass among them—are harvested responsibly. Not overfished, in other words. There are other freshwater fish that are on the brink of extinction, like the sturgeon, and some schools help students look at how to save them.”
I found my heart was pounding rapidly. “Really?”
Mrs. Miller nodded. “Absolutely.”
Suspicion reared its head again. “Did my mom put you up to this?”
Mrs. Miller straightened a cuff on her shirt. “No. In fact, I wanted to make sure you heard this from someone who wasn’t your mom. I wanted you to know someone at this school believes in you.”
A few seconds of silence passed. I heard the clock ticking, heard a student run past in the hallway outside. “Thanks, Mrs. Miller,” I said finally. “I know I haven’t been the greatest student ever in your class. What you said—it was nice.”
Mrs. Miller smiled. “You’re welcome, Aggie,” she said.
“Thanks for listening.”
The hallways were quiet as I made my way to chemistry, which is why I heard the shouting so clearly when I passed the administration offices.
“She can’t be eligible. That’s what I’m saying. She should be disqualified.” I froze.
“Amy, I understand where you’re coming from,” a male voice replied. I figured it for Mr. Monroe, our vice principal. “But there are no rules for this. Next year, if you want to petition to put them in place, that’s fine. But this year, if she gets enough votes, she gets the crown.”
Amy. I was nearly certain that was Mrs. Wagner’s first name.
“Her pregnancy sends the wrong message,” Mrs. Wagner said, her volume rising. Pregnancy. She had to be talking about Sylvia. And from the sounds of it, Mrs. Wagner was trying to block Sylvia from being queen.
I crept closer to try and hear more. “I’m telling you, this is a mistake,” she said. “A very dreadful mistake.”
My mind spun. By now, Mrs. Wagner should know that the ballots had been tampered with. Jefferson should have told her about my run-in with Sylvia—that is, if he had been telling me the truth. The bogus ballots, if she was aware of them, should have been her biggest concern, I thought, not the fact that Sylvia was knocked up.
“Just go firm up your counts,” Mr. Monroe said. “Stop stalling. The school needs to know one way or the other.”
Hearing Mrs. Wagner’s heels click toward the door, I pulled a 180 and started speed walking in the other direction. I took the long way to get to class and, when I finally did, I was out of breath.
I handed my late note to Mr. Plower, my chem teacher, and took my seat. With my book spread out before me, I tried to follow along on a problem about molar mass, but all I could think about was what I’d just overheard.
Suddenly, the loudspeaker came to life. The whole class quieted down immediately. You could have heard an electron vibrating.
“Thanks for your patience while we counted this year’s vote!” Mrs. Wagner said. “I’m happy to announce Marissa Mendez is this year’s prom queen . . . and Ryan Rollings is the king. Congratulations to both our winners, and we’ll see you all at the Hofbräu Haus!”
I shook my head, trying to make sense of all my jumbled thoughts and emotions. I couldn’t tell if I was happy or disappointed, or if anything I’d seen and heard today still mattered.
I was trying to get a grip when Alex Hansen, one of the better students in the class, pushed his thick chem book off his desk. It landed on the floor with a sound like a gunshot. “No way!” he said. “I don’t believe this for a second.”
Mr. Plower stood up immediately. “That’s not appropriate,” he said sharply. “Pick your textbook back up now.”
Alex glowered and was reaching toward the floor when Andy Lowry pushed his chem book off his desk, too. “Alex is right. This is crap. Sylvia should be queen.”
Next was Zach Gullickson. Then Theresa Illam. Then Katie McFinn. The sound of their books landing was like cannon fire.
“Enough!” yelled Mr. Plower. “The next person who drops a book will get detention.”
The class quieted, but the point was made. There were students who thought the outcome of the election was bogus and that Sylvia should be queen.
And they weren’t all in my chemistry class, either. When the bell rang and I stepped into the hallway, I spotted clusters of students gathered around lockers wondering why the vote had taken so long and if the outcome was real.
It didn’t take long for them to organize. When I finally left school for the day, I was almost run down by a freckled kid who shoved a mass of papers in my face.
“Sign the petition,” he said, shaking the pages for emphasis. I looked at him but didn’t recognize him. Must have been a freshman or sophomore. “To make the administration recount the prom ballots,” he said.
I swallowed. A petition? “Get out of my face,” I said, brushing past him. My head hurt, and I just wanted to go home. I’d had enough for one day.
Chapter Twenty
MONDAY, APRIL 20 / 3:20 P.M.
I was in my car, about a half mile from my house, when my cell phone rang.
I fished it out of my bag and looked at the caller ID. It was a local number, but not one I recognized. I decided to answer it.
“Yeah?”
“Hello, is this Margaret Winchester?”
I rolled my eyes. A telemarketer. “Yes, and I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
I was ready to snap my phone shut when I heard, “Wait! Don’t hang up! I’m not a salesman!”
I put the phone back against my ear. “What?”
“My name is Rod Barris. I’m a reporter with the St. Davis Letter. Are you Margaret Winchester?”
“Aggie,” I replied. “My name is Aggie. Nobody calls me Margaret except my mom.”
“Aggie, I’m calling to do a story on you. I’m not a salesman, I’m a reporter.”
My blood chilled. Surely if the local paper wanted to do a story on me, it had to be bad. What had I done?
“Wh—why would you want to write about me?”
“My neighbor is in your club, the Bass Masters. John Garrison? He told me you were the only girl in the group and that you were probably one of the best fisherpersons among them.”
I exhaled with relief. “It’s just fisherman,” I said. “Even for the girls, you’re a fisherman. You don’t have to say fisherperson.”
“I see,” Rod said. I could hear papers shuffling. “So would you be interested in being profiled? For the paper? John told me you have a tournament this Saturday. I take it you’re competing?”
Rod had his facts straight, I could say that much. There was a tournament this Saturday, and unlike the opener earlier in the month, this was an actual competition, which you had to pay to enter. There were judges who weighed your fish and everything. It was a pairs competition, meaning you had to fish in twos, and first prize for the winning team was $1,500. My dad and I had signed up months ago.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m in it. I mean, my dad and I are.”
“Well, how about this. I’m on deadline for a few other stories, but I could meet you somewhere to talk this evening. A café maybe? I know it’s last minute, but I’d love to file this piece sooner rather than later. What do you say?”
I pulled over onto a side street and let the engine idle. What did I say to that? My name would be all over the town paper as a bass fisher. I’d probably have to talk about how much I liked it, which would mean the game was up. People like Fitz and Sylvia would discover that, despite everything I’d told them, I really loved being on the boat and on the water. I’d be outed.
I took a deep breath. The conversation I’d had with Mrs. Miller was still fresh in my head. Maybe bass fishing was the start to something bigger in my life. Maybe it could open doors down the road. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
“Yeah, okay,” I said to Rod. “How about I meet you at Tickywinn’s tonight at eight?”
“Perfect,” Rod replied. “See you then.”
When my mom came home a few hours later, part of me hoped she might start talking about prom, maybe filling me in on what the administration was saying about it. Another part of me wanted to tell her what I knew. And still another part of me just wanted to see her. We hadn’t spoken much since the Sense and Sensibility fight.
She’d gone grocery shopping—leave it to my mom to still tick off her to-do list while the school panicked—and hauled all the bags into the kitchen by herself.
“Hey,” I said, reaching into a bag to help her unload.
“Soup on the left, Aggie,” my mom corrected when I was about to put a can of Campbell’s in the wrong spot.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Good to see you too. My day was fine, thanks for asking. What’s going on with prom?
When all the groceries were unloaded, I sat down at the kitchen table. I knew I should probably tell her what I’d seen with Sylvia and the ballots, but
suddenly the idea of forming words seemed harder than dragging my boat to Loon Lake without a trailer.
“Aggie,” my mom said, looking over at me, “are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
My mom came over and sat next to me. “Aggie,” she said, straightening the place mat, “I think we should talk about what’s happening at school. Especially because it involves Sylvia.”
I blinked, surprised that I wasn’t going to have to bring this up on my own—my mom was going to do it for me.
“I’m still trying to piece together exactly what’s taking place, but whatever happens, just know it has nothing to do with you. If someone tries to involve you, I want you to walk away. Do you understand?”
I looked at my fingernails. My mom was being vague, probably intentionally, and she was also assuming I wasn’t already involved in the prom debacle. I thought about telling her how Rod Barris had called me, even if it was about a bass fishing story. Still, there were no guarantees he wouldn’t ask me a question about the prom. Or about Sylvia. Which meant that at this point, saying to me “this has nothing to do with you” was like saying “just ignore the hole” to someone teetering on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
“Aggie?” my mom said again. “Do you understand?”
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “I guess I don’t totally understand what’s going on at school. Is Sylvia the prom queen?”
My mom rubbed her temples and rolled her head from left to right. “The situation is really complicated, Aggie,” she said. “It’s really a mess.”
I thought about the kid shoving the petition in my face after school. “A mess how?” I asked.
My mom took a breath. “Well, I’ve been told there were many, many ballots turned in for Sylvia,” she said, “but I never saw them. The cheerleading coach, Mrs. Wagner, was the one who counted them. In the end, she told me that Marissa won, and I believed her.”