“Okay, so everyone knows what they’re doing?” I asked.
Mar and Johnny nodded.
Johnny shifted his weight and hitched up his jeans. “You got it all ready?” he asked me.
I patted the pouch pocket of my Connells hoodie. “Locked and loaded.”
“It’s not too late to walk away, Fee,” Marcie said.
“No chance.” I tightened my ponytail. “All right, let’s go in, split up, and make a recon sweep around the room. We’ll meet back up by the entrance. Sound good?”
They both said yup, so we went inside.
The gym walls and ceiling were strewn with silver and white streamers, silver balloons, and white tissue-paper wedding bells. It looked like a giant wedding cake had exploded in there. The lights were dimmed except for these colored dance lights and some kind of strobe-effect fixture. I peeled off to the right while Johnny and Mar went left.
I’d told them that we were looking for Todd. What I hadn’t told them was that I was also looking for Gabe. I hadn’t been to many dances (shocker, I know), so the anticipation of seeing Gabe at one was a major distraction. It was the main reason I hadn’t been able to focus on planning a prank. Luckily, Johnny had come up with a rather twisted and hilarious idea to get back at Todd. But first, we had to find him.
Once my eyes adjusted to the low light inside the gym, I caught sight of Todd and Amanda over by the bleachers. She dropped her purse down on the lowest bench, and he covered it with his jacket, presumably so no one would steal her stash of lip gloss, breath mints, and birth control pills. I knew she was on the Pill because she’d made a big deal of telling everyone about it one day in gym class, sophomore year. Her periods were irregular, she’d said. Her mother’s doctor made her go on the pill. Yeah, right. I guess it was only a coincidence that she’d started dating Todd a few weeks before. As for the lip gloss and breath mints, well, those were pure speculation. Her lips always looked like she’d been frenching a tub of margarine. And I hoped for her sake that she had some breath mints. She needed them.
Todd turned my way, and I jumped back around the side of the bleachers so he wouldn’t see me. Just as I peeked to see if the coast was clear, whose hotness passed right in front of me? You guessed it. Gabe. I made a mental note: black shirt, blue jeans. How did he get those brown curls to fall so perfectly? He started walking down the length of the bleachers, so I did the only logical thing—I ducked underneath the bleachers to follow him from there. I could just see slivers of him through the slats in the stands as he walked. Then he stopped. He was talking to someone, but I couldn’t see who. He sat on the bottom row. I had no choice but to get on my hands and knees and crawl closer to him.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been under the bleachers in a high school gym, but let me tell you, it’s no carousel ride. In our gym, there’s only so far the mops can reach under the bleachers. So even though it was the first week of school, the floor under the lower levels was revolting. Coated with sticky, dried soda, and encrusted with dust and dead bugs, candy wrappers, every variety of crumb and hair, and probably some unmentionable body fluids. But I didn’t flinch. I was a girl on a mission. I gagged as debris stuck to my palms, but I kept on. Finally, I got within earshot.
“But I need to see you,” he said.
Then a girl spoke one word. “Gabe . . .”
He wasn’t just talking to anyone; he was talking to a girl. Needing to see her. I tried to swallow, but my throat closed. I craned my neck to see through the cracks between the bleacher seats, but I only got a glimpse of Gabe’s ass. Not a bad view, really.
“You said we’d be together tonight,” he said. “I want to be with you.”
I strained to hear more, but suddenly, some superloud music started playing. I couldn’t hear a thing. But I’d heard enough. After a few more seconds, Gabe stood up and walked away. I never saw the girl. But I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to find out who she was.
First, I had a job to do, though. I crawled out, brushed my hands off, and met up with Johnny and Mar at the gym entrance. I pulled Mar to me and whispered, “I have to tell you something. Later.”
“Uh, Fiona?” Johnny said. “My buddy Noah is running the sound. He said that at eight-thirty, he’s supposed to stop the music. They’re going to bring up the lights so Principal Miller can make a speech or something. Might be a good time to do it. With the lights on. So people can see.”
“Ooooh, I like how you think, Johnny Mercer,” I said. I also realized that if we waited a bit, I’d have a chance to tell Mar about Gabe. I figured I should probably wash the hepatitis C off my hands, anyway, so I said, “I’m gonna run to the ladies’. Wanna come, Mar?” I didn’t really give her a choice, of course; I dragged her off by her elbow. We got to the bathroom and I checked around to see if anyone I gave a crap about was in there. Nobody was, so I said, “So guess what? Gabe is seeing someone.”
Marcie fluffed her hair in the mirror. “He is? How do you know?”
I got some soap and started washing my hands. In the fluorescent light of the bathroom, I could see they were pretty nasty. So were the knees of my cargos. I kinda turned my back to Mar, but I think she might’ve noticed anyway. “I heard him talking to her,” I said.
“Who was it?” She pulled a lip gloss out of her pocket and started applying.
“I couldn’t quite see.”
Marcie raised her eyebrows at me in the mirror. “What do you mean, you couldn’t quite see?”
“I was sort of hiding.” I left out where.
Marcie turned and glared at me. “You were eavesdropping.”
“Yeah, so?”
She slapped the sink and looked at the ceiling. “Fiona. Dignity. Come on.” I could read the pity in her face. She was so above these sorts of machinations. She always had been. Proper, well-bred. But stable and comforting. Actually, those were some of the reasons I liked her. Probably because I was none of those things.
“You don’t have any idea who it is, do you?” I asked.
Marcie turned back to the mirror. “What makes you think I know?”
“I bet Amanda knows. I wonder if it’s one of the cheerleaders. Do you think it could be Tessa Hathaway?”
“Tessa Hathaway? Her boyfriend started college this year. Do you really think she’s gonna drop him to go back to high school guys?”
“Maybe she’s lonely.”
“Let it go.”
“I’ve got to find out.”
Marcie sighed. “Look, let’s get back out there. Johnny’s waiting for us.” She straightened the little black stones on her necklace. Checked her amethyst earrings.
“Yeah, okay.” I dried my hands and we left.
We found Johnny sitting on the bleachers across the gym. Mar and I sat on either side of him. His shoulders sloped as he scooted forward to the edge of the seat and looked at his watch. He said, “Twenty-seven minutes until the speech.”
“We’ve got some time to kill,” I said.
Marcie stood back up and adjusted the strap on her lavender tank top. “I’m going to get something to drink. You guys want anything?”
I shook my head. Johnny said, “No, thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.” She walked off toward the corner of the gym where the snacks were.
“Don’t be late,” I called, kidding. But not.
Marcie fake-smiled over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Then she disappeared into the crowd of dancers gyrating around the gym floor.
“She doesn’t seem too excited about this whole thing, does she?”
Johnny shrugged. “Not much.”
I took off my glasses and pulled my hand into my sleeve so I could wipe the lenses with it. “It’s not her fault. Pranks aren’t her thing. She comes from a totally different social echelon. Her mother’s family has old money. Made it from one of the original Chicago stockyards. I don’t know how much is left, but Mrs. Beaufort still taught Marcie to sit up straight, use the right fork,
write thank-you notes. Manners. You know.”
“Oh,” he said, squinting up at one of the multicolored light units hanging from the basketball net.
I slipped my glasses back on. “Not that I don’t have manners. I do. But my parents aren’t nuts about them like Marcie’s mom. When I’m at her house, you know, I have to be so careful not to drink out of the toilet.” Johnny laughed. I said, “Her mom is nice, but she can be pretty snobby. This one time, Marcie’s parents took us into Chicago for dinner at Alinea, this molecular gastronomy restaurant.”
Johnny looked at me and scrunched up his face. “Is that food? It sounds gross.”
“Oh no, it’s a crazy-good restaurant. Won all these awards. And it’s nice—I mean linen napkins, real art on the walls, the whole nine yards. And men have to wear a jacket, right? So this one guy walks in, and not only does he not have a jacket, he’s wearing a baseball cap. When Marcie’s mom sees him over at the door, she gets all huffy and whispers, ‘NOCD,’ to Mar.”
“What’s NOCD?”
“Not Our Class, Dear. Marcie explained later. Anyone NOCD is clearly below the Beaufort family social station, according to her mom. She said her mom uses NOCD as a kind of code. Like a secret snob spy or something.”
Johnny scratched his sideburn and ran his fingers through his hair. He tried to get a cowlick over his right eye to stay back, but it kept falling forward. “I don’t get it,” he said. “If the guy can’t hear her, why use a code?”
I leaned back on the bench behind us and stretched my feet out in front of me. “According to Marcie’s mom, only people with no class actually use the word class. If you have it, then you never talk about it.”
“Oh.” Johnny nodded slowly. “Just like herpes.”
I cracked up. I mean I really cracked up. I laughed so hard I got a cramp in my side and had to roll over. Then I sat up and smacked Johnny’s arm with the back of my hand. “I’ve gotta remember that one.”
Johnny smiled at the floor. He tapped the toes of his black boots up and down.
“Are those Doc Martens?” I asked.
“Yup.” He reached down to retie the right one.
I nodded. “Nice.”
We sat without talking while a seemingly endless techno dance song pulsed through the gym. I picked at a fingernail. Johnny crossed and uncrossed his arms. Tapped his foot some more to the beat.
He said, “So . . . do you like music?”
It was a pretty stupid question. I mean, who doesn’t like music? Okay, maybe some puritanical zealot out in Hicksville. But really. It was kind of like asking, “Do you like food?” “Isn’t oxygen great?” “Have you got skin? I do.” I knew what he meant, though.
“Yeah. But this kind . . . not so much,” I said. “You like it?”
“Nah,” he said. Then tipped his head back and forth. “It’s okay. Some people like it.”
“I guess your friend Noah does.”
Johnny shook his head. “Oh, he doesn’t pick the music. He just operates the equipment.”
“Huh,” I said. I tried to blink my eyes fast enough to counter the strobe light. “Makes you wonder who picks the music.”
“Well, actually . . .” Johnny straightened up and cleared his throat, “since you mentioned it—it’s me. I do it.”
I gaped at Johnny. “What? No way!”
“Yeah, I’ve been putting the playlists together for every dance since freshman year.” He hitched his chin toward my hoodie. “You like The Connells?”
I shoved his shoulder. “Oh my God, you know The Connells? I love them.”
“Know them?” Johnny said. “Personally, I think they’re one of the most overlooked indie jangle pop bands of the post-punk movement.”
I blinked. “Wow. Uh . . . yeah, I totally agree.” I pulled my sweatshirt out straight to read it even though it was upside down and stuffed with prank ammo. “I don’t get why they’re not bigger.”
“’74–’75 did pretty well in Europe.” Johnny raised his eyebrows. “Who else do you listen to?”
I turned and put my knee up on the bench. “I’m a mad, psycho fan of the White Stripes.”
“Totally understandable. They’re beyond innovative. Jack White is a brilliant musician.”
“No kidding. And the Raconteurs?”
Johnny swiveled to face me. “Oh my God, his work with them is insane. ‘Salute Your Solution’ is coming up later in the mix.”
“Awesome.”
We grinned and nodded at each other.
The Velvet Underground & Nico’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror” started playing, and I said, “Wow, nice choice. God, if I’d known you were putting together the playlists all these years, I might have come to more dances.” Johnny opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but when the lyrics started, he just spun forward and hunched over his knees.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Super.” He shot me an okay sign without looking up. “No problem.”
I searched the dance floor for Gabe. Didn’t see him anywhere. But I did see Todd and Amanda plastered together, bobbing to the music. She dragged her claws up and down the back of his polo shirt as they danced.
Johnny lifted his head and watched the crowd too. One guy wrapped a silver streamer around his girlfriend and held the ends as she slow-danced in front of him.
“Do you like dancing?” Johnny asked.
Oh God. This was awkward. Was he asking me to dance? My mouth hung open while I pondered the deeper meaning of his question. He must have sensed my apprehension, because he blurted out, “I hate dancing. I mean, I don’t hate it. I just—I’m terrible. I’m totally into music, but I really can’t dance.”
Phew. Relief. “Yeah, you said that this morning. Neither can I.” I hitched my thumb at the couples on the dance floor. “Not that I’d call that dancing.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
“Sometimes I wish I lived back when people had balls.”
Oh God. That did not come out right.
I said, “I mean back when they had elaborate parties and dances and everyone dressed up and knew all the formal dances and everything.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
We sat not talking for several songs. There were one or two predictable crowd-pleasers, but also some obscure gems. A little Chairlift. There was a little bit of The Killers. Some Plain White T’s (gotta play the hometown boys). And even this other local band I love called Kicked Off Edison. It was enough to show that Johnny Mercer’s taste in music basically rocked.
I drummed my fingers on the bleachers. “How much time?”
Johnny looked at his watch. “Eight minutes.”
I stretched my arms above my head and arched my back. “Where’d Mar get to?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe I should go look for her.” As I stood up, though, the music suddenly stopped and Principal Miller blew into the microphone. Her watch must have been running fast. Maybe that was how she caught her cheating husband. The lights brightened, and I saw Mar wave and give me a thumbs-up from across the gym. It was nearly showtime.
Principal Miller said, “Seniors! Seniors! Señoritas and señors!” She paused to laugh at her own lame joke. “Let me interrupt you for one moment. Well, we’re here to kick off the year with style! Yes! And to celebrate learning about marriage and partnerships! To start things right, I’d like each of you to dance the next dance with your marriage education partner. After that, have fun! And enjoy the evening!”
Nobody moved.
Except for Johnny, Mar, and me. I signaled to Mar and she made a beeline for Amanda. Johnny and I headed for Todd. We knew we only had seconds before the lights went back out. Mar got to Amanda first and started pointing to her face—distracting her with makeup talk, I assumed. Next, Johnny strode just in front of me. He circled to the right, turned, and “accidentally” ran into Todd from behind. Todd fell forward. Johnny caught him but continued to bump and fumble, apologizing profusely. As Todd was bent over, I casually wal
ked up to him, pulled our secret weapon from the plastic bag in my hoodie pocket, and slapped it on the ass of his khakis. With all Johnny’s bumping and fumbling, Todd hadn’t felt it. Only when he stood up and Amanda shrieked did Todd realize he was wearing an adult diaper filled with chocolate pudding, axle grease, and taco meat. The sticky-tabs helped, but the axle grease really made it stick.
“WHAT THE HELL?” he yelled. He wheeled around and saw me.
I crossed my arms and smiled. “Oh, poor baby,” I said. “Did Mommy forget to change your diaper?”
Todd peeled the diaper off his butt and made the fatal mistake of holding it up. Callie Brooks screamed like it was the severed head of her deity, Martha Stewart. Everyone around us turned and stared. Amanda heaved, covered her mouth, and went running off in the direction of the bathroom.
“Holy . . . What the . . . ? Oh, you are so dead, PRINCESS PISSPANTS,” Todd said. Loudly. So everyone would hear the name.
Except I had a name for him, too. I’d gotten the idea from Principal Miller, in fact. I took a deep breath and said, “So glad you like it, SEÑOR SHITSLACKS.”
A few people started laughing. A couple more joined in. Then someone yelled, “Hola, Señor Shitslacks!” and everyone burst into hysterics.
Then Todd Harding looked at me with an expression on his face that totally threw me. I’d thought he’d be scowling. Furious. But he wasn’t. He was smiling. And there was something in his eyes. At first, I thought it must be malice. It had to be hate, right? But I swear to God, as he held my stare, I realized.
It was admiration. He’d thought it was cool.
My mind zoomed. Was he yanking my chain? Trying to lure me in with his phony charm, only to set me up again? I stood there like a robot with an electrical short. I think I actually twitched. Suddenly Principal Miller—who either had missed the whole prank or had decided not to notice it—was on the microphone again.
A Match Made in High School Page 5