A Match Made in High School
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
First and foremost, I thank my husband, Sean, and our three sons for being so encouraging, patient, and ready with a hug whenever I need one.
I also thank my parents, Sue and Charles Ramberg, for their unwavering love and support (as well as for their sense of humor); Eric Ramberg and Anna Brunzell for always being there for me; Brenda Stanley and Steve Gerry for their tireless advocacy and enthusiasm; and Nancy Viau for her wisdom, friendship, and many laughs.
Sincere thanks also go to Ginger Clark for being fantastic and for taking a chance on me, and to Ben Schrank, Laura Schechter, and the stunningly wonderful people at Razorbill who worked so hard to make my dream real.
And finally, my deepest gratitude goes to you for picking up this book and opening it.
Thank you.
A Match Made in High School
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario,
Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2009 Kristin Walker
All rights reserved
Walker, Kristen
p.cm.
Summary: When the principal of her high school announces that every senior must participate in a year-long marriage education program, Fiona learns some unexpected lessons about people, friendship, crushes, and cheerleading.
ISBN : 978-1-101-57485-0
1. High schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction.
PZ7.W15299 Mat 2009
[Fic] 22
2008039670
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For all my boys. I lola.
CHAPTER 1
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.
I should have known the minute I went to get my favorite White Stripes peppermint tee and found it not in the drawer, but temporarily forgotten in the back of my closet, curled up in a crusty ball. Caked with two-week-old, nuked syrup that had shot out of the bottle, bounced off my waffle, and splattered me like a sweet paintball.
I should have known when I came downstairs and found my parents tasting each other’s tonsils in front of the kitchen sink, and nearly barfed on my sneakers.
Or when my best friend, Marcie—actually she’s my only friend, which is fine; you only need one—called to say she was running late and couldn’t pick me up. So I had to ride my freaking bike to school for my first day as a senior.
I should have known right then that I was pedaling toward disaster.
But I just chalked all that crap up to my normal, everyday bad luck.
I jumped on my bike and rode the five blocks to school. I live in the actual village center of East Columbus, not in one of the vanilla developments that have sprung up over the past ten years, circling the town about a mile out into the cornfields. Lots of kids from East Columbus High School live in those. The wealthier kids. Not that my family is poor. We just like old houses with cool architecture, like the ones in town. Most people who live in the developments and subdivisions think new construction equals money equals social status. Fools.
Living in town is the best. I can walk or bike just about anywhere. Well, okay, maybe not to the Prairie View Mall. But the library, coffee shop, and music store are all just a few blocks from my house. Which really comes in handy when I want to get the hell away from my parents.
Plus, the streets in town are all lined with these gorgeous, massive oak and maple trees that have been growing for, like, a century. And since the sun that day was insanely hot for seven-thirty in the morning, I stayed on the shady side of the street as I rode to school. I got there, locked my bike, and was flapping the armpits of my shirt in a futile attempt to dry the sweat when Marcie pulled into the lot. She yanked the rearview mirror over to check her face, dabbed her bottom lip, and got out of the car.
“Mar!” I called. “What’s with not picking me up?”
She half ran over to me as the bell rang. “Sorry, Fee. Ran out of time. Couldn’t get my hair right.”
Her hair was in a ponytail, just like we’d both worn all last year. Always either a ponytail or a braid. We’d called ourselves hair twins, even though her hair was a straight, silky dark brown, and mine was nearly black and had this strange wave and dull frizz. Then, just before school started this year, Mar chopped her hair to shoulder length and got highlights and lowlights. So even in a ponytail, her hair made the braid I wore today look like a long fuzzy turd. Not that I really cared. I only kept my hair long so I could pull it out of the way. I didn’t have the patience for hairstyles. Or makeup. Mar kept trying to get me to wear lip gloss because she said I had “full, pouty lips.” Personally, I thought my pouty lips had less to do with beauty and more to do with bad moods.
As we climbed the concrete steps to school, I almost asked Mar how long it could possibly take to do a ponytail. Instead I just said, “It looks fine.” She gaped at me like I was deranged. Clearly, a ponytail was her last resort. But I let it slide. I knew how nuts she was about her looks and crap lately. She used to just slather lotion on her face, pull her hair back, and go. But this summer she’d worked as a camp counselor. When she came
home, she was in full hair and makeup—eyes, cheeks, lips—the works. She even set up a standing appointment for the first and third Monday of every month at a salon in the Prairie View Mall to get her nails done (which I thought was ridiculous, but I’d promised to go with her sometimes to keep her company). I figured she must have had a backlash reaction to two and a half months of roughing it in the woods.
We dashed inside and headed to the auditorium. Customary first-day-of-school assembly. But just as we reached the double doors, somebody slammed into Marcie. She lurched forward and dropped her purse, spilling a pack of eyeliner pencils everywhere. Before I realized who it was, I turned and said, “Watch it! You idio—Oh! Hi Gabe!”
Gabe Webber—the secret love of my life since third grade when I’d twisted my ankle during field day and he’d put his arm around me and helped me all the way to the nurse’s office. How could I not fall for a guy who rescued me? Strong and quiet. Brown hair and wounded eyes. Totally hot. Totally cool. Always said the right thing. Never acted like a dork. Basically, the complete opposite of me. The kind of guy you figured probably spent weekends campaigning for homeless orphans, or replanting rain forests, or something. At least, that’s how my fantasies ran.
“Sorry, Marcie,” Gabe said. He dropped to the floor and helped Marcie gather her stuff together. When every rogue eyeliner was found and squirreled away safely in Marcie’s purse, Gabe stood up and offered her his hand. She took it, and Gabe pulled her to her feet. “I didn’t mean to bump you,” he said. “Somebody pushed me.”
I blurted, “Don’t worry about it! She’s tough.” And I slapped Marcie on the back just to prove it. She stumbled forward again and Gabe caught her arm. Oops. I expected Marcie to lay into me or at least glare, but she didn’t. She must’ve been hiding it so I wouldn’t look like a goon in front of Gabe. She knew how I felt about him. Of course, I’d sworn her to absolute secrecy. No one else knew. (Well, okay, I had told Samantha Pickler, the eleven-year-old I babysit for. But that was during Truth or Dare; I had no choice. It was either tell, or climb the dogwood tree in her front yard, moon cars that passed, and yell, “Fresh buns for sale!”)
Now, I’ll admit that years of unrequited love had tempered my obsession with Gabe a bit. It wasn’t nearly as consuming now as it had been in eighth grade. That was the last year the school took class pictures, and he and I were in the same homeroom. I bought a locket with my babysitting money, cut out Gabe’s little face and my little face from the photograph, and glued them inside the locket. I wore that necklace under my shirt every single day. But it got worse than that.
I also listened to every sappy love song on the radio, convinced they were singing about me. I even wrote down the lyrics to one that I planned to slip into Gabe’s locker anonymously.
You look at me but never see the love I feel for you.
But in your eyes I see the skies,
The endlessness of time and blue,
Like waves that span the raging sea,
And break upon the sandbar of your heart.
Of course, he doesn’t have blue eyes, his eyes are brown, but it didn’t matter. The song perfectly expressed my feelings for him, and when he figured out who sent it, he’d surely be moved beyond words and fall desperately in love with me. Luckily, Marcie stopped me before I gave it to him and made an absolute ass of myself. I mean, sandbar of your heart? Holy crap. Thank God for Mar.
Gabe touched Marcie’s arm. “You all right?”
“I’m okay now,” she said to him. “Fine. Thanks.”
He patted Mar’s arm and looked at me. “How about you, Fiona?”
He looked even better than he had last spring. Tan. Lean. But with just the right amount of muscle in just the right places. The way his T-shirt clung a little bit across his shoulders and pecs . . . Yum. I didn’t want to seem too psychotic stalker–like, so I said, “I’m good. Totally together.”
Then Gabe said, “Totally together women are my favorite kind,” and he turned and walked into the auditorium.
My eyes bugged. I grabbed Mar’s hand and squeezed it. I was Gabe’s favorite type of woman? What? I couldn’t believe he’d just given me that compliment. The very first morning of school.
Seeing him—wow—rejolted my feelings. I had to find a way to get him to notice me. No, not just notice me. More. I had to get to a place where I could reach up and caress that tan jaw without having Gabe issue a restraining order against me or call a mental hospital to have me forcibly removed. This would be the year. Senior year. Now or never. As Mar and I worked our way into the stuffy auditorium and found a couple of seats toward the back, I made a vow. This would be the year I got to touch Gabe Webber. I’d find a way to connect with him. Somehow.
“Welcome, students,” Principal Miller said into the microphone up onstage. “And a special welcome to our freshmen.” She was wearing the same tired beige skirt suit she wore to every slightly special event at ECHS. Good thing she was African American. If she’d been white, she’d have looked nude in that pasty outfit.
I stuck my foot up on the green vinyl seat in front of me and tried to keep awake as Principal Miller droned on and on about what a fan-freaking-tastic school East Columbus High was. One of the top-ranked schools in Illinois. Blah. Blah. We were lucky to be here. Yawn. School rules. No cheating. No stealing. No lying. Blah, blah, blah. Snore. I scanned the auditorium and zeroed in on the back of Gabe’s head, seven rows up and three seats over. Then I tried to figure out whether the gum I smelled was watermelon or green apple.
Principal Miller said, “This next bit of exciting news concerns the seniors.” We all perked up a bit. Exciting news for seniors? What was it? A game system in the senior lounge? Elimination of gym class? Fridays off?
Oh no. Those were not meant to be.
“The school board and I have formulated a plan to address an escalating problem in our country.” Principal Miller paused to check her notes. “The divorce rate has exceeded a staggering fifty percent. One out of every two married couples will divorce. The family unit will separate. The marriage will dissolve and you will be left alone.” She looked at us. Scanned the room. Took a shallow breath. “All by yourself. With no one. In your forties . . . way past your prime.” She steadied her trembling body against the podium.
We froze, afraid even to breathe in Principal Miller’s direction. She froze too, and then slowly lifted her hand to pat down her hair. She smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and started speaking again. “Obviously, with these statistics facing us, we, as educators, cannot ignore the pressing need for instruction in the area of marriage. So, as a new prerequisite for graduation, seniors must complete a yearlong course in marriage education.”
We unfroze pretty quickly here. I mean, this was a new low for ECHS. I thought the cafeteria food that tasted like wet navel lint was plenty bad. Or the eye-watering stench of the third-floor girls’ bathroom. Or the gym uniforms that looked like they were leftover from a 1970s porno flick. Weren’t those humiliating enough? Apparently not. Our groans rolled through the auditorium like a thundercloud. But it wasn’t until she said the next thing that the lightning hit.
“Each male and female senior will be paired up and ‘married’ for the duration of the year.”
WHAT THE HOLY HELL?
Everyone pretty much lost it. Girls started screaming and crying. Guys jumped up and booed Principal Miller. People everywhere yelled and squirmed in their seats. Except for Gabe; he stayed perfectly charming and composed as usual. Mar and I didn’t move either, but only because we were completely stunned. This was totally unfair. Why hadn’t we been consulted on this terrible decision? What happened to democracy? What happened to the will of the people? Apparently Principal Miller was a descendant of Mussolini. Was it our fault her husband left her for their boobalicious twenty-one-year-old nanny? Hey, it’s a small town. News here travels faster than the flu.
“Quiet. QUIET!” Principal Miller cawed into the microphone. Everyone stoppe
d shouting their indignant protests and kept the noise to a low grumble. “You have no choice in the matter. If you wish to receive a diploma at the end of the year, you must complete this course. That’s it. Now, here’s how it’s going to work, so pay attention.”
No need to say that. We were riveted to our seats by iron bolts of sheer terror.
Principal Miller snapped her papers, adjusted her red-rimmed glasses, and began reading. “We have purchased a curriculum called Trying the Knot, the materials for which you will receive in homeroom. The registrar’s computer was programmed to randomly pair up the male and female seniors into couples. First period, Friday morning, there will be a mock wedding uniting you in marriage, with a dance following later that evening. Attendance is compulsory.
“Each term, either the husband or wife will choose a semester-long activity in which to participate. Together. You will be assigned a mock budget with mock expenses to cover using a monthly income derived from real money you must earn as a couple.”
A bunch of idiots started yelling, “What?” and “Hell, no!” and “No way!”
I yelled, “Bite me!”
“Now wait! Before you complain, listen up! The money everyone earns will be collected here at school. At the end of the year, the couple with the most successful marriage will split half of the total money collected.”
The idiots and I did some quick math in our heads and shut up fast. That could be a lot of coin.
“The other half of the money will be donated to a charity of the winning couple’s choice. Additionally, each month, the couple who earns the most real money for that month will be awarded a prize sponsored by a local business. Prizes include items such as mall gift cards, concert tickets, and a free limo to prom.”