A Match Made in High School

by Kristin Walker

“Come on, turn those lights off! Find your partners and hit the dance floor! GET DOWN AND PAR-TAY!”

  Todd glanced at Principal Miller and mumbled, “She’s totally loaded.” And I—I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help myself—I laughed.

  Todd said, “I’m not dancing with you, Princess Pisspants.”

  I said, “I’m not dancing with you, Señor Shitslacks. Your ass stinks like chocolate tacos.”

  Todd looked at me, looked at Johnny, shook his head, and walked bowlegged toward the bathrooms, holding the diaper away from himself. When he passed Callie Brooks, he thrust it at her face and she screamed again. What a wuss.

  The lights went down and the music came back on.

  Johnny clapped three times. “That was awesome!”

  Marcie came over. “Well, Fee, feel better now? You know, you’ve got a seriously evil streak, girl.”

  Evil streak? Me? I’d never considered myself evil before. Was an evil streak something I should be proud of? I should have been proud that I’d humiliated Todd just like he humiliated me. I should’ve been proud that we’d executed the plan without a hitch. I should’ve been thrilled that everyone saw that I was the one responsible.

  But weirdly enough, I was something less than ecstatic. “Yeah, it was cool. You guys were great. Thanks for helping me out.” I high-fived both of them.

  “That’s what we’re here for, Fee,” Mar said.

  “Yup. Nothing says friendship like, sweet, sweet revenge,” Johnny said.

  I tried to laugh at Johnny’s joke, but truth be told, Todd’s whole admiration reaction had totally messed with my head. And the idea of Gabe sneaking off with some girl just wrung me out like a dirty dishrag. “You know what, Mar? Whaddya say we blow out of here?”

  Marcie’s satin forehead creased. “Already?”

  “Yeah, I just—I dunno. I don’t really have any desire to stay. We did what we came to do, you know? I’m just done.”

  Marcie gave me the head-wag-with-one-hand-on-the-hip routine. “Well, I’m your ride, and I don’t want to leave.”

  “Mar-cie,” I said. As in, Uh are you my best friend or what?

  But Marcie either didn’t get it or didn’t care. “Fiona. I helped you. Why can’t you stay for me?”

  “Come on, please? I just need to curl up and veg,” I said.

  “I—I could take you,” Johnny said, and then to Mar: “I could take her and come back.”

  I didn’t speak a word to Mar, but my eyes said, You are not seriously going to make me go home with Johnny Mercer, are you?

  Mar didn’t blink.

  “Thanks anyway, Johnny, but you know what?” I waved my hand in front of him and Mar. “Forget it. I can walk.” I turned and strode toward the door. I got five steps before Mar said, “All right, wait up, Fee. I’ll take you.” She caught up with me and we headed out together. I glanced over my shoulder, gave Johnny a wave of thanks, and we left.

  CHAPTER 8

  THAT NIGHT, I COULDN’T SLEEP. MY ANTIQUE BRASS bed creaked as I flopped around, trying to get comfortable. I kept playing the prank scene over and over in my head, trying to figure out why it hadn’t been as satisfying as I’d imagined. I didn’t get it. Sometime around two-thirty, I grabbed my iPod, pulled up White Blood Cells, and listened to music until I finally fell asleep.

  I woke up Saturday morning feeling like I’d been dragged behind a bus driving through a minefield. I hoped I hadn’t caught something like typhoid or Ebola under those bleachers. Besides not wanting to have a deadly contagious disease, I also didn’t want to cancel babysitting for Sam that night. I had to ask her parents about Todd coming along, too. Marvelous. Couldn’t wait for that.

  I rolled over to face the window beside my bed. Outside, the sun had the translucent, washed-out look that was the sign of a humid day. I closed my eyes and tried to fall back asleep. When that didn’t work, I decided I needed caffeine, stat. I threw off my covers and trudged down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen.

  My mother and several other women sat huddled around the kitchen table, conspiring over their coffee mugs. One of the women was Marcie’s mom. As she caught sight of my torn nightshirt and moose-covered pj pants, a flicker of horror lit across her face. I said, “Hi Mrs. Beaufort. Uh, Mom?”

  Mom startled. “Oh, Fiona, we were just talking about you. Your marriage course, that is. This is the executive committee of the PTA. Ladies, this is my daughter, Fiona.”

  They nodded to me, and I waved without making direct eye contact with anyone. They looked like a bunch of mobsters planning a hit. I inched over to the coffeemaker, which was empty, of course, so I started making a new pot. Normally, I would’ve just grabbed a Coke, but one, I needed megadoses of caffeine, and two, I wanted to eavesdrop.

  “Vivian, did Principal Miller say exactly when she got school board approval?” asked a woman who had a curly mass of jet-black hair with a two-inch band of gray roots at her part. It looked like an electrocuted skunk had died on her head.

  “All she said,” my mother answered, “was that she appealed to them over the summer, and they called an emergency vote just prior to school starting.”

  “And we all know how conservative that school board is,” Electrocuted Skunk said. “But there’s conservative, and then there’s crazy. No offense, Michelle.”

  Mrs. Beaufort composed a smile and raised a hand to mean, None taken.

  “Appealed to them?” said a woman with gold earrings way too big and gaudy for 10:23 a.m. “More like cried on their shoulders. I grew up with Barbara Miller. So did half the board. It wouldn’t shock me to hear that Barbara told them some sob story about trying to raise two kids and work full time while her dirtbag husband flits around the world, burning up her savings account with some young, sexed-up tramp.”

  Mrs. Beaufort bristled. “Well, however she might have phrased it, it’s obvious that her divorce is coloring her judgment. Marriage is a sacrament, not a college prerequisite.”

  Mom got up and brought a plate of coffee cake to the table. “I feel terrible for what she’s going through, but to hold our kids’ diplomas over their heads—it’s too much.”

  Electrocuted Skunk twirled her finger in her mug handle. “And what about kids who aren’t even straight? It’s cruel, if you ask me.”

  “And I’m sorry,” Big Earrings said, “but how is some course going to teach them how marriage works? I’ve been married three times, and I haven’t figured it out yet.” She snorted. “I figured out how to call a lawyer, though.” She held up her hand, and Electrocuted Skunk high-fived her.

  A woman in a cream-colored jumpsuit who had been silent up till now set her mug down hard. “As president of the PTA, I move that we pledge our help to Vivian in her opposition to the marriage education course.” Mrs. Beaufort seconded the motion. “All those in favor?”

  Four hands shot into the air.

  Mom beamed. She’d successfully allied herself with the most powerful group of women in our little town. Housewives with anger issues, plenty of disposable income, and way too much free time. Mom was set. “Thank you, Cybil. Thank you, committee. I think we should start with a petition,” she said.

  I grabbed a cup of coffee and crept upstairs. I fished my marriage ed journal out from under my bed to make an entry. Over the years, I’d learned that under the bed was the best place to keep anything I didn’t want found, because there was so much crap—papers, magazines, dirty socks, grocery bags—that no one would ever suspect that anything of value was under there. Sort of like hiding in plain sight.

  Not that I thought the journal had any value whatsoever.

  Saturday, September 7

  The dance last night was . . . well, let’s just say memorable. Not that I stayed for long. I went, spent some “quality time” with Todd (now aka Señor Shitslacks), and left. Poor Mar—I dragged her out of there. But I was just fried. The planning beforehand, plus the stress of waiting, and then the deed itself. (Although Johnny Mercer kept me company, which was actually
okay. Either he’s really dopey or he has a wicked sense of humor. I suspect it’s the latter. For example, when he and Mar and I were at the store before the dance, I told them about how I have to get the cheerleaders their precious water, as if they even break a sweat. And Johnny said, “Hey, look on the bright side. You could always spit in it.” Isn’t that hilarious?)

  But re the prank. I have to say, I really expected to end up energized and juiced-up by the whole thing. Don’t get me wrong; it was hysterical while it was happening. But once it was done, and everybody went back to what they were doing . . . I dunno. The coolness didn’t last very long. I realized that I had absolutely no desire to stay. Bizarre. I had totally pictured myself spending the rest of the dance in full-on gloat mode. Which, okay, doesn’t say much for my character, but then again, in the end, I just left. So maybe I’m not a complete jerk.

  Oh, and one more thing. This journal may soon become recycling, because my mother has got this marriage ed course in her crosshairs. One of the things that can make my mom a huge pain in the ass sometimes is that when she sinks her teeth into a new project (like this, or say . . . forcing me to get a terrible haircut when I was twelve), she pretty much hangs on until the victim quivers in defeat. If you don’t think it’s true, then check out my seventh-grade yearbook picture. The yearbook company changed my name to Frank Sheehan because they were sure the kid with the buzz cut in the photo couldn’t possibly be a girl. That’s what they said when Mom called about it, anyway. She never nagged me about my hair again.

  CHAPTER 9

  I’D BEEN WATCHING SAMANTHA PICKLER EVER SINCE her family moved into Arborview Estates four years earlier. I’d seen Sam change from a nonstop-jabbering kid into a bright, sassy eleven-year-old. She was funny, beautiful, and way, way cooler than me. I never felt unlucky when I was around her. Plus, she made me laugh.

  “Come on in, Fiona,” Mr. Pickler said when I got there.

  I stepped into their spotless foyer. Normally, I don’t like houses in developments, but Mrs. Pickler had pretty decent taste, décorwise, even if she was a neat freak. The paint in the foyer was this organic copper color, set off by black accessories, caramel wood floors, and a giant glass vase filled with deep green eucalyptus branches. The whole place had that spicy, clean eucalyptus smell.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Actually, Mr. Pickler, I have a question to ask. We’re doing this project in school”—I couldn’t bring myself to say it was a marriage education course. I was humiliated enough just to say this much—“and my partner and I have to earn some money together.”

  “Oh, is it an economics project?”

  “Uh, kinda. Anyway, I was wondering if it would be okay with you to have him come here to babysit with me.”

  Mr. Pickler drew himself up. “Wait a minute—your partner is male?”

  “Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?”

  “You know Sam’s mother and I have a strict no-boyfriends policy, Fiona.”

  I literally felt myself gag. “Oh, no way, Mr. Pickler. Todd Harding is not my boyfriend. Please. Nooo.”

  “Todd Harding? Got hurt playing football a few years back? Is he your project partner?”

  Uh-oh. “Do you know him?”

  “He lives down the street. Moved in about the same time we did.”

  “Oh, great,” I said without sounding like it was great at all. What can I say? I’m a rotten liar.

  “I’ve got no problem with Todd coming to help babysit Sam.” He turned sideways and pointed at me. “I’m not paying double, though!” He laughed at himself. I laughed too, because I had to—he was the guy who paid me.

  “In fact, since it’s warm out,” he said, “you and Sam could take a walk down there so she can meet him, if he’s home.”

  “What a terrific idea, Mr. Pickler!” I said with totally sarcastic cheer. He couldn’t tell the difference, though. “We’ll do that.”

  “His house number is . . .” He tapped his fingers together as he counted the houses. “319, it must be. To the right, down the street, fifth house on the right.”

  “Great! Thanks!”

  Sam came galloping down the stairs. “Fiona! You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting forever.” She jumped to hug me and a strand of her strawberry blond hair got caught in my glasses. “Ow!” she cried. I took off my glasses and gingerly pulled the hair from the frame. The strand stuck out from her head, but it wasn’t terribly noticeable, since the rest of her hair was kind of a mess too. Sam hated having anyone brush her hair, but she forgot to do it herself most of the time. It drove her mother nuts. But what really bugged her mother were Sam’s fashion choices, which were not unlike mine. Our motto was: If it’s clean and it fits, we wear it. Actually, clean is sometimes optional. Today must’ve been one of the optional days, because Sam had a red dribble stain down the front of her peach-colored shirt. A cherry Popsicle was my guess.

  Sam’s dad started tugging on the cuffs of his shirt and straightening his tie. “Sam’s mom and I should be back around eleven.” He called up the stairs, “Victoria! Time!” He kissed Sam on the head. “Don’t get Fiona in too much trouble, Monkey-child.”

  “Sure thing, Ape-man,” Sam said. “Not too much. Just a little bit. Got it.”

  “Guess what? Fiona’s going to introduce you to a friend of hers. Won’t that be nice?”

  “Oooh! Who? Who, Fiona?”

  Before I could answer, Mrs. Pickler strolled down the stairs in a cocktail dress, singing, “’Byyye Sammy. Lovvvve you.” She ran her hands over Sam’s hair to flatten it and then kissed her on the forehead, leaving behind a big old set of burgundy lip prints. She waved at me as she and Sam’s dad walked out the door. “Hi Fiona. ’Bye Fiona.”

  “Have a nice”—she shut the door—“night. Okay. Whatev.” I wiped the lip prints off Sam’s head with my thumb.

  She swatted my hand away. “Who am I meeting?” she demanded.

  “You’ll see. Get your shoes on.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re taking a little walk.”

  “Walk? You’ve never taken me on a walk in your whole life,” she said. She pulled open the coat closet door and fished around for shoes. “That’s exercise. You hate exercise.”

  “True,” I said. “We’d better go really slowly then. Lumber, even.”

  “We could plod.” She sat on the bottom stair and pulled on her purple canvas sneakers without untying them.

  “Plod, yes. Nicely done! We shall go for a plod.”

  She jumped up. “It is a lovely evening for a plod.”

  “Shall we?” I offered my elbow to her.

  “We shall.” She slipped her arm into mine.

  It was still light out, but the sun was getting ready to set. It was the time of day when the sunlight shines sideways, so everything looks like it has its own special spotlight. That time of day is always hushed. I like to think of it as the planet’s big yawn before going to sleep for the night.

  “Where are we plodding to?” Sam asked.

  “Not far,” I said. If I was lucky, Todd would be out ravaging Amanda somewhere, and not home. But then again, luck was not my thing.

  I put my hand on Sam’s shoulders and steered her in a zigzag down the sidewalk. “So what’s our plan for later?”

  Sam spun around to face me and walked backward with one hand on her hip and one hand flitting through the air between us. “Well, I couldn’t decide between a scary movie and a romantic movie, so I got my tarot cards and laid them out. But I don’t know how to read them, so I said, ‘Forget it,’ and threw them on the floor. And guess what? One with a heart on it landed on top of everything else, so I said, ‘That’s it!’ And so romantic movie it is. Sixteen Candles. Our favorite. Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course.”

  I’d give her anything. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so I guess I think of Sam as one. Besides, when she gets mad, she’s like a wet cat. I’ve only seen her temper a few times, but never directed at me. I just like to make
her happy.

  She chattered on. “Should we do our nails too? My mom got a new color. Passion Plum. It’s sort of purple, and you know how I love purple. But it’s not really purple, just sort of dark purple, you know?”

  “Sure.” Despite her tomboy look, Sam loved pretending to get dressed up. She was forever trying to glamorize me. One time she’d insisted on giving me a complete makeover with bright red nail polish, matching red lipstick, black eyeliner, and black mascara. She thought I looked gorgeous. I thought I looked like an overzealous vampire after a feeding.

  “Can I stay up till midnight?” she asked.

  “Nine.”

  “How about eleven?”

  “Ten.”

  “Okay, deal.” We made these negotiations every time, even though I always let her stay up as late as she wanted. She usually fell asleep on the couch by nine-thirty or so anyway. “Just don’t tell your parents.”

  “Never!” She laughed.

  “Pinky-swear?”

  “Pinky-swear!” She hooked her pinky through mine and squeezed.

  We turned up Todd’s driveway. “This is the place,” I said. Sam shot ahead of me and rang the doorbell. I wasn’t fast enough to stop her. My plan had been to knock lightly and tiptoe away. But Sam hammered the doorbell at least half a dozen times.

  When no one answered, I thought I was off the hook. We started back down the driveway just as a silver minivan pulled in. Señor Shitslacks was at the wheel. I could tell by the look on his face that he was one, trying to piece together the puzzle of why I was there, and two, figure out if I had possibly set some explosives on his front porch. He slowly opened his door and got out. Never took his eyes off me for a second.

  “Smooth ride,” I said as he came around the front of the van.

  “Beats walking, townie.”

  “How did you know I was a townie?” I said, all smart-ass like.

  Todd chuckled. “You just told me.”

  Pshhh. I waved him off. I’d gotten the “townie” thing my whole life, but it never bugged me. Kids who came to my house would always shut up when they saw our hidden back staircase, or took a ride in our dumbwaiter.