by Rachel Shane
I let out a chuckle. “Hmm, I seem to recall Trevor going straight for you.”
He shook his head. “Your interpretation is wrong. I’m an Investigative Journalist. I’m trained to uncover the truth.”
I laughed. A real one. Oh God, I had to get away before his witty banter disarmed me.
“By the way, Genevieve approved your raise. She’s giving you double. She plans to tell you tomorrow so act surprised.”
My mouth dropped open in actual surprise. Double meant I could save up for December’s rent. “Thank you.” Without thinking, I threw my arms around him.
He buried his head in my neck. “You’re welcome.”
I stiffened. This was a very dangerous situation. Me, hugging him. I pulled away fast. “On that note, I’m walking away. Right now.”
A smirk played on his lips. “Usually when people say that, they don’t keep standing there.”
I lifted my leg and slammed it down behind me. “See? I’m actually going.”
His grin strengthened. “Seems to be taking a lot of effort.”
“Nope. I’m just…going slowly. To make sure you understand that I’m leaving.” I turned around and forced my legs into action. I blinked against the image of Harrison’s sexy smirk burned onto my retinas and my eyes locked on Nate and Dale in the corner. Holding hands. Thank God. At least I did one thing right.
Besides Harrison, I mean.
I did not just think that.
Finally, the event started. Predictability ensued and I groaned as one house after another acted out the very script I never bothered to write. The subtle jabs at each of the sororities earned chuckles, but by the forth tired version of the same jabs, people were growing restless. I focused on the inside Greek System jokes and not the parodies on beauty pageants that clogged my lungs and forced me to gulp desperate breaths of stale air. Then Layla’s group of wannabes stormed the stage. A few rolled eyes swept the room like a baseball game wave, the other girls dismissing them for not being real. Not belonging.
A grimace tightened my lips at the expectation we’d be greeted with the same sort of reaction.
The girls lined up chairs at the back of the stage, facing the audience, and plopped down. It’s Raining Men pulsed through the speakers, earning a few cheers from the other sorority girls. A few of the Beta Chi boys booed. Layla took the mic. “Welcome to the first annual Mr. Snowflake competition.”
Hoots and hollers erupted from the audience of girls watching and from the Rho Sigma Delta girls acting on stage. They clapped their hands and soon the audience joined in.
“First up we have Magic Mountain Mike,” Layla said, cupping her hand over the mic. “He’s definitely a mountain I want to climb.”
Her Beta Chi coach, a tall guy named Rico, strutted across the stage shirtless. His rock hard abs glistened as he thrust his hips toward the audience, eliciting louder shrieks.
“This isn’t fair,” Erin leaned into me. “The guys are only supposed to be coaches, not participants.”
I pressed my lips together, annoyed Layla stole our initial idea. Put Corey and our male pledges on display. But I guessed she assumed we’d be doing that too. And she wanted to beat us to the punchline.
“He’s got a lot of tricks up his sleeve,” Layla continued as Rico fell to the ground and did one-handed push ups while thrusting his lips. “And his wand is truly a thing of magic.”
Rico hopped to his feet and started pointing at his dick, in case we hadn’t gotten the pun. I rolled my eyes.
“But his talents don’t stop there. He’ll put a spell on you just from a single touch.”
Rico sauntered over to the girls in the seats and gently stroked one from ear to chin. She made fainting noises—or orgasm noises, it was hard to tell. Then he straddled her and mimicked sex with more air humping. She fanned her face and thrust up a big white sign with the number 10 written on it, earning a laugh from the audience.
The same sort of bad puns repeated as the next Beta Chi coach tried to win over the stage girls with his nerd chic persona, which consisted of Harry Potter glasses, a lightning bolt scar, and a robe opened up to his bare chest. Also a lot of dry humping the air.
But the audience went wild, loving every second of it. Their applause lasted for a full minute after they left the stage. I had to admit, their skit was good.
Ours needed to be more memorable.
I stomped onto stage and yanked one of the chairs so hard, it scraped against the wood. I poofed at my hair, teasing it bigger, and hoped my make-up looked pageant ridiculous. A sign circled my neck that read Stage Mom from Hell. I had a lot of inspiration to draw on to create this character.
I sucked in the biggest breath I’d ever taken and found my mark in the center of the stage. I just had to get through this skit without boiling over and then I could go back to normal. I gripped Mackenzie’s hands and froze, smile plastered on my face the same way it used to be in the pageants. In fact, the heavy gazes of the audience felt the same too, oppressive, sweltering, invasive.
Erin lifted the microphone to her lips and presented the audience with her TV Host calm composure. “We’re coming to you live backstage at the six-hundred-sixty-sixth annual Ugly Pageant.” She paused for a minute, waiting for people to laugh at the 666 joke or the ugly one, but only a few mild chuckles rang out. All part of the plan.
Willow rushed up to her, holding a film clapperboard. “You can’t say that on TV! Start over.” She slapped the slate closed. “Take two.”
Erin rolled her eyes and acted annoyed, dropping the microphone to her side and calling to someone off stage and mumbling loudly, “But it’s true.” She let out a big sigh and then lifted the mic back to her lips, smile plastered. “We’re coming to you live backstage at the six-hundred-sixty-sixth annual”—she adopted an aggravated tone—”Anti-Beauty Pageant. Let’s interview some contestants.” Erin turned toward Mackenzie and me.
I sprang to life as if a spotlight had dropped onto me during a play and I no longer had to remain still. “Let’s go over the potential interview questions one more time,” I said in my old Texas drawl. “Quick. Who is the most influential person in your life?”
“The devil,” Mackenzie deadpanned. She spun around, decked out in full goth gear. She’d even sprayed her hair black.
I shook my head. “No, you’re being too peppy.” I pushed her shoulders down. “And try slouching more.”
She rolled her eyes. “Stop being a stage mom.”
My voice rose in volume and a Spanish accent that hadn’t been there a moment ago seeped into my words. “That’s good, but put more anger into it. You hate me. You hate the audience. You hate the world.” You hate your daughter.
Erin shoved a microphone in her face and gave a peppy, “Hi. I’m Erin Behr with Channel Ten News.”
“I definitely hate her,” Mackenzie said, and the audience chuckled.
“So how are you two prepping for the competition?” Erin asked. She really did make a perfect host, even in a satire.
“The usual. Gorged on burritos.” Mackenzie bent down and Nate played a farting sound effect. More laughter. “Slept with all the judges so they’d pick me.” She pointed to one of the chairs where Corey was sprawled out, shirt off, blanket pulled above his waist, smoking a cigarette and looking pretty pleased with himself. Next to him, our new pledge Amber mirrored the same pose and had even gone as far as wearing a tube top to appear topless beneath the blanket. Judge cards hung from their necks.
A few woohoos and hollers rang out. I gritted my teeth, my fingers stiff and trembling as the joke played out. It had been my idea, of course, but it still made hot rage swirl in my chest.
I patted Mackenzie’s shoulder to still my fingers. “Tell her the best part.”
Mackenzie snapped her fingers. “Oh right. I poisoned the competition.”
Corey rose from his chair and lifted a black tarp off the stage where a bunch of our sisters were piled on top of each other in seemingly awkward angles as
if they’d been dumped in an unmarked grave. Their tongues lolled, faces pale. They each wore the letters of one of the other sororities.
Mackenzie wrinkled her nose. “Not that they were much competition to begin with.”
That earned a mixture of boos and whoops.
Another sister strutted on stage with a perky corn-fed blond wig and a sign around her neck that said Naive. She was one of the new pledges, a junior named Elyse who Amber recruited a week after our initial pledge initiation. With her petite nature, cornfed locks, and swishy dress, she was the spitting image of Fallon. “Is this where I sign up for the competition?”
Mackenzie eyed her up and down. “You’re in the wrong place, honey.”
I whispered into the microphone. “I have some more poison in my bag.”
We waited. There were no more lines in the script. At least for us. Erin looked around uncertain. I tried not to break character as my eyes flicked toward the audience, searching for Fallon. Mackenzie gritted her teeth. “Should we…”
“I agree!” Erin said out of nowhere, ad-libbing. “Let’s kill her.”
Elyse out-turned her palms and backed away, squinting at us in confusion. My pulse thumped, the whole plan would go to hell if Fallon didn’t show up soon.
“Oh my God!” a voice from the audience shouted, a few beats too late. We all let out breaths. “Are you making fun of me?”
Fallon marched toward the stage wearing an identical outfit to Elyse. Same cut, same pattern.
I visibly tensed my jaw and pleaded toward Fallon with my eyes, a message that hopefully said, go away, we’ll discuss later. Mackenzie and Erin both shooed her away.
“And that’s my blanket!” Fallon rushed onto stage and snatched the blanket off Amber’s lap. She hugged it to her chest, her lip quivering, and I wondered when she grew some acting skills. Maybe that boyfriend of hers was rubbing off on her.
“Skit time out. Technical difficulties,” I whispered into the microphone and gave the audience a tentative smile before I turned my back on them and stalked toward Fallon.
We whisper-shouted, arms flailing, our backs to the audience. It had to look believable so we wrote out a whole script in case anyone was listening. What are you doing here? I thought you were at Liam’s tonight. Blah blah blah.
The boos started, growing louder. So did we. Our fight escalated from the quiet arguing to a full scale blow out as we traded barbs at each other. At first we talked about the usual annoying roommate stuff. She leaves her hair all over the shower drain. I never vacuum when I’m supposed to. She’s late on rent this month. I’m always borrowing her stuff without asking.
And then: we got ugly. The true form of the ugly pageant.
“You kissed my boyfriend!” she lobbed.
I fought back with a stronger blow, hurling all my anger into the fight. “He kissed me.” I lifted my chin in triumph. Liam had given us the thumbs up to ruin his reputation, at least for a little while. “And that’s not all we did.”
Ooohs and gasps rang from the audience. Fallon shuddered in tears. “I’m sick of it,” she screamed. “All of it. The parties, the mess downstairs, and most of all, how I’m left out.”
I crossed my arms and lifted a brow. “If you’re sick of it, move out.”
She stalked off the stage, bubbling and crying, and elbowed through the crowd toward the exit. The audience twisted around to watch her go. I stomped loud and angrily to my original mark, my arms crossed in defiance. “Let’s finish,” I snapped at Erin.
But she just shook her head. “It’s already over.”
And it was. Of course we didn’t win the competition. But when Layla rushed out after Fallon to present her with an offer she couldn’t refuse, I knew we’d won something greater. Her demise.
I’d meant to plod off stage and pretend to sulk against the bar, looking visibly upset to really sell this fight home. But a sting started at the back of my throat and exploded behind my eyes. As the next sorority took their place on stage with their plastered smiles and innocent jabs at a world I was once part of despite how separated I always felt from it, I cracked. My throat hitched and the room pressed in on me. I pushed my way through the crowd and fled to the street. The first snow of the season whipped up a spray of flakes into my face, but the cold felt welcome against my burning skin. My stilettos sloshed in the one-inch layer coating the sidewalk, and I skidded. I gripped the brick wall for balance and meant to keep clutching it until I rounded the corner but I sagged against it, sucking in desperate breaths and coaxing myself not to cry.
All this time, I had it wrong. It wasn’t anger fighting its way out of me. It was sadness.
A hand landed on my shoulder, soft and gentle, but I still flinched. Spinning around, I lost my balance and tripped right into Harrison’s arms in a gender-swapped repeat performance of the bar fight. He gripped my shoulders to steady me. “You okay?”
“I thought you left,” I said in lieu of answer. I’d assumed after his bullies had confronted him, he’d run back to his house with his tail between his legs.
“What? And let some sad football fans stop me?” He chuckled. “Never.” He pursed his lips in concern as he studied my trembling lips. “But I think your fight in there makes mine look lame.”
“It wasn’t real.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this. He was probably the least trustworthy person in the entire universe, the kind of person to latch onto a hidden truth and expose it. Except I felt some sort of weird solidarity with him when it came to deceit.
“Oh.” His brow furrowed. “Oh.” He nodded, clearly understanding the ulterior motives. “Good show then. She’s going to fall for it.” His head tilted. “So you didn’t kiss your roommate’s boyfriend?”
I let out a strained laugh. “I’ve only kissed one person I shouldn’t have.”
“You mean Matt, right?” He leaned next to me in that sexy way of his. “Because I have a vested interest in being a person you should have kissed.”
Matt. Crap. I’d forgotten all about him. And it seemed like he’d forgotten about me, too.
Harrison pulled back to study me. “Wait, if that was all a”—he glanced around to make sure we were alone, but then he clipped off the obvious end of his sentence: ruse—”then why are you upset?”
I shook my head. “I’m not.” Except my tears chose that moment to march down my cheeks, betraying me the same way my body always did whenever I was in Harrison’s vicinity. My teeth clattered and a sob ripped from my throat. Oh God, I was ugly crying in front of the guy I hated. In front of the guy I liked.
Harrison slid his hand in mine. “Come on, let’s go some place warm.”
I’D EXPECTED HARRISON TO take me to the warmest place of all: his bed. And I wouldn’t have minded. In fact, I was almost disappointed when he didn’t. Instead, he led me to the nearest warm place in our path, a greasy pizza parlor empty for the eleven P.M. hour but would be jam packed when the bars closed at two. We secured a table in the back and he scooted into the booth next to me, wrapping his arm around me. A waitress lumbered toward us and then swooped fast away at the site of me. I gulped air, trying to stave off the tears, be strong. Harrison stroked my back and let me rest my head on his shoulder until my airways unblocked and I blotted the last of my tears on a napkin.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay,” he said. “But if you do, I’ll listen.”
“What? No innuendo?” I whispered to test out my voice. It seemed to come out normal and the sound of it jarred me enough to scoot an inch away from him.
He shook his head. “Just talking tonight. I promise.” To prove his gentlemanly behavior, his arm fell away from around my back. “And anything said here tonight stays between us.” Harrison’s face was completely serious. He had become Internet famous for exploiting secrets, but the real truth about him was he kept them just as fiercely, as evidenced by the fact that he refused to reveal his sources.
Somehow the absence of his touch was both welco
me and a let down. “I used to do pageants,” I finally said. I’d already confessed the half truth to my friends, may as well let my enemy in on it too.
His jaw clenched. “Yeah. I know.”
I squinted at him, my heart amping. “How?” I’d always entered under a stage name, Bianca Aoki, my mother’s maiden name. She liked that it heightened the Japanese side of me even if that side was only a quarter and the rest of me was all Hispanic. In Texas, being Hispanic didn’t make you stand out in the pageant circuit.
He pointed at himself. “Investigative journalist, remember?”
“But—”
He sighed and did the one thing an investigative journalist should never do: revealed his sources. He told me curiosity led to him googling me. “Not for a story,” he rushed in. “Just because I wanted to know you better.” He thought I lived in Atlanta because of CNN but found no traces. So he got Holly to admit I was from Dallas and from there he found Bianca Cruz. But a thorough journalist doesn’t just stop at the obvious. A few search term combos led to articles about Bianca Aoki and the truth spilled out in hundreds of clickable links. Including the most scandalous one of all: the article detailing the shock when the front runner for the Miss Texas competition two years ago dropped out an hour before it started.
When I’d finally snapped.
Harrison drummed his fingers on the table. “I have a lot of questions. But I won’t ask if they’ll make you upset.”
I braced myself. “You can ask.”
“Why freezing ass Throckmorton?” he said.
I laughed. “That’s your burning question?”
“Well, it’s just that the heat of Dallas seems so tempting right about now.” Outside the window, snowflakes swirled in the air, creating whirls of white.
I knew Holly—and therefore Harrison—hailed from a small town only about an hour from here, still fully entrenched in the lake effect snow belt. “Distance,” I said. “That’s why I picked this school.”
He nodded. “I’m here because the best Communications program in the country is here and because I want to stay close to my sister, but sometimes I wish I could go away. Far away.”