by Meg Haston
“Say ‘my opponent,’ ” I interrupted from my spot on the bed. “Otherwithe people will get Imran’s name in their head.” I cracked open my fortune cookie and stole a glance at the slip of paper inside.
YOUR LUCK IS ABOUT TO CHANGE.
I rested the fortune carefully on my bedside table, next to the framed photo of me holding Ella the day she was born.
“Right.” Paige snagged a green ballpoint from my desk and made a note on her palm. “My opponent thinks you can’t handle the truth.”
“Booooooooooooo, ’ponent.” Ella jumped on the bed, waving a finger-painted poster board declaring her allegiance to Generation P. The springs in my mattress groaned under her weight.
“Okay. Keep going.” I reached for the bottle of Vivid Violet nail polish next to my alarm clock, rolled up my oatmeal-colored lounge pants, and started painting my toes.
“But with Paige Greene, you get a straight-talking candidate with a record that speaks for itself.” Paige’s nostrils flared with political passion. I think I even caught sight of a nose hair.
“Woooooooooooo! Hoo!” Ella cheered, bouncing even higher. Her masking-taped reading glasses fell to the bed.
“So choose the candidate for student body president who knows you CAN handle the truth. Choose to Go Greene.”
“Ohhhkay!” Ella giggled as she karate chopped the air, her sweaty curls matted to her face.
Paige’s shoulders relaxed, and she tapped her untouched stack of index cards against her thigh. “So? What do you think?”
“The truth?” I watched Paige’s eyebrows arch hopefully over her black plastic frames. The speech was… fine. Good enough, probably. And Paige had been slaving over it for the past hour, while I made a few much-needed editorial adjustments to her campaign rally video montage on gogreene.com. So what was the harm in telling her what she wanted to hear?
“Perfect. Couldn’t have done it better myself.” The second hand on my watch ticked loudly, like a gavel sentencing me to life for journalistic misconduct.
“Perfect?” Paige parroted skeptically. Her lips hardened into a thin line as she shuffled the note cards accusingly. “No notes. No feedback. Nada.”
“Nope.” I wheezed, feeling my heart rate start to spike. “Sounds great.” I looked over her shoulder, pretending to study the campaign strategy diagrams and colorful slogans tacked to the wall between my desk and the photo booth in the corner.
“Huh.” Paige sauntered over to the door and flipped the switch next to my floating wall shelves. White light spilled over me. “So… nothing about my delivery bothered you? You know, as a broadcast journalist, I’d think you’d at least have some pointers on—”
“WHEN YOU GET REALLY EXCITED, YOUR NOSTRILS FLARE LIKE MISS PIGGY’S!” I erupted. “I’m sorry, but that is NOT natural. There.” My middle toe twitched involuntarily, smudging the polish. Ugh. Ruined.
“I KNEW IT!” Paige yelled back.
Ella scooted closer to me, burying her face in my lap.
“And when you do the whole ‘You can’t handle the truth’ bit? You actually sound like that creepy old guy from the movie, which freaks me out even more than your Piggy nostrils.” I collapsed onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. There. I could breathe again.
Ella gasped. Paige was silent. I blinked at the plastic glow-in-the-dark solar system above me.
“Say thomething,” I ordered Jupiter.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” The floorboards creaked, and then Paige was sitting on the edge of the bed. She tucked her bob behind her ears, revealing two jeweled purple studs I’d never noticed before.
“Don’t get what?”
She flopped onto the bed, her head making a giant dent in the cluttered collection of pillows piled against my headboard. “You don’t get what’s wrong with saying everything you think, all the time.”
I took off my glasses and rubbed my temples. “Paige. Real journalists—”
“—don’t have any stories to break if they’re mean to all their sources,” Paige said quietly. “You have to figure out how to be honest with people without making them hate you for it.”
“People didn’t used to care that I was honest,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, they did. They were just scared of you before.” Paige turned onto her side and looked at me. The static from my pillows made her hair flutter around her face. I searched her eyes for a sign that she was kidding. But her expression was serious. I felt a pang of something in my gut. Guilt? Remorse? Mu shu pork?
“Your Miss Piggy comment,” Paige said. “Ow.”
“Sorry.” I shrugged. It was true.
“No, you’re not. But you should be. That’s really mean. Especially when you could have said something like ‘Paige, your enthusiasm’s great, but you might want to take it down a notch.’ ”
I sighed and wrinkled my nose. “Paige. Your… enthusiasm’s great, but you might wanna take it down a notch.” The words felt foreign in my mouth. Wrong, like I’d bitten into a hunk of tofu when I’d ordered steak.
“Okay. We’ll try something else,” she said, sitting up. “This is gonna hurt, but it’s for your own good.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “I… have something to tell you. Ever since my presidential bid in fifth, you’ve been so mean I’ve actually avoided being seen around you.”
“What?” I snapped, lunging for my pink throw pillow. “That’s a lie. I ditched you!”
She jumped off the bed and pushed herself onto my desk, gripping the edge. “Nope. I was embarrassed to be seen with you.” Her voice softened as her knuckles whitened against the wood. “I even told somebody that your mom used to pay me to walk to school with you, because everybody else was too scared to be your friend.”
Ella turned to me, her eyes wide as saucers. I could feel myself flushing, and I wanted to cover Ella’s ears with my hands. But it was too late.
“Okay. I get the point. Be nicer. Whatever. Can we move on?” I said quickly. I hated it when Ella looked at me like that.
“Not yet.” Paige put her hands on her hips. “Because I could have said all that like this: ‘Kacey. My feelings were really hurt in fifth when you didn’t support me after I lost the election. It made me feel like we weren’t real friends. I’ll really miss you, but I just… can’t hang out with someone who cares more about popularity than people.’ ”
My throat tightened. Behind her lenses, Paige’s eyes turned down at the corners.
“Paige—” I stopped and swallowed.
I was suddenly overcome with the urge to go back in time and prove that Paige was wrong. To show that all my advice, all the times I’d told the truth, had been to help people, not hurt them. The only difference between me and everyone else was that I said what I was thinking to people’s faces. And if I showed up to school, like Molly had once, wearing boots covered in hot-pink fur, I’d rather hear it from a friend than learn later that everyone had been talking about the dead Muppet strapped to my feet.
Because the truth was, if someone had pulled me aside when I was younger and said, “Hey, Kacey, just so you know, one day your dad’s going to pack up and leave,” then maybe I wouldn’t have felt so blindsided and stupid and devastated when he’d gone. The truth may hurt, but it was always better to know. Always.
“Paige,” I started again. It came out sounding like a whisper.
Downstairs, the front door slammed. “Girls?”
My head snapped toward the stairs. “Mom?” My voice sounded breathy and hoarse, like I’d just sprinted from The Square to the studio and back.
I heard the thunk of pumps being kicked off and deposited in the entrance hall, and then light but slow steps as they got closer. Seveteen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Mom popped her head in and smiled, her eyes heavily lined. It always seemed strange to me when she didn’t take off her show makeup before she got home. It took time to find her under all those layers. “So how are things in the war room?” she asked.
“Good.
” I caught Paige’s eye and tried a small smile. My face felt stiff, as if I’d just been crying.
“Hey, stranger.” Mom pulled Paige in for a side hug. Then she leaned over the foot of the bed, kissing Ella on the forehead. Finally, it was my turn. She smelled like perfume and bad coffee.
“Gearing up for the good fight, I see.” She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through my hair, which had deflated from rocker chick to baby chick.
“Want a campaign button, Sterling?” Since Paige grew up next door, she’s always had a free pass to call Mom by her first name. She grabbed a spare from the pile of buttons on my desk and chucked one in Mom’s direction.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Mom caught Paige’s underhand pitch and pinned the button to her cream blouse without flinching at the holes she was making in the silk. “How does it look?” She scratched my scalp slowly, the way she used to do when I was a kid and I couldn’t fall asleep.
“Lookin’ good. Maybe you could wear it on the air?” Paige suggested.
Mom smiled. “That wouldn’t be very neutral, would it?” she asked. “What about my reputation as an unbiased newswoman?”
“Oh.” Paige shrugged. “Right.”
Mom swallowed a yawn. “Okay, munchkin,” she said to Ella, pulling her onto her lap. “It’s time.” She plucked a piece of green Silly String from Ella’s curls. “Past time, in fact.”
“But I want”—Ella yawned mid-sentence—“to watch the show.” She rubbed her eyes.
“Tomorrow,” Mom promised. She scooped Ella up with a groan and carted her across the room. “Night, girls,” she called as she headed down the steps. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“Niiiiight,” we chimed in unison as they disappeared down the stairs.
“I just got this weird feeling,” Paige announced, before I had to think of something to say. “Like déjà vu, or something.” Her eyes fell on the stack of records piled on my desk chair, and she jumped up and started riffling through them. “Remember when I used to spend the night over here when your parents went out? And your dad would sneak party food back in a napkin and—” She stopped and gnawed at her lip.
“Paige.” I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. “It’s fine.” Why didn’t anybody get that the only thing worse than not having a dad was feeling like you couldn’t even mention him? I used to love those nights when Paige would sleep over, when Dad would heat up hors d’oeuvres on a paper plate and serve them to us on the living room couch. Mom would slip out of her dress shoes and they would curl up together with glasses of wine.
“Where’d you get these?” Paige was quick to change the subject, and I let her.
“That record store in Andersonville.” I yawned. “Hey. Put on the Joni Mitchell one. The record player’s on the floor there, by the photo booth.”
“So Zander’s date with Molly’s all set up?” Paige kneeled on the floor next to the booth. She lifted the needle on Dad’s old RCA, the one I’d just recently pulled out of hiding, and slipped the album from its worn sleeve. It crackled for a few seconds before the low, easy sounds of the first track filled my room.
I shook my head. “He’s asking her tomorrow.” Which reminded me. I reached for my cell on my bedside table and typed a quick text for Molly.
TOMORROW A.M., A LOCAL ROCK GURU MAKES MUSIC WITH A NEW LEADING LADY. MEET AT LOCKERS 4 DEETS. 7:15 AM—HAVE TO BE IN THE STUDIO BY 7:30.
“Awesome.” Paige beamed.
“Oh, and I did I tell you Carlos wants me back for a broadcast tomorrow morning?” I yawned, like it wasn’t a big deal. “He texted and said ratings are down and he heard my lisp was fading, so…”
“See? Told you everything was gonna be fine,” Paige said knowingly. “And you’re gonna be nicer, right? Like I showed you?”
“Leave the broadcasting to the pros, Paige.” My eyes fluttered shut. I’d only been off the air for a week, but it felt like years since I’d womaned the desk.
“Kacey?”
“Paige?”
“It’s really working. Our plan?”
“It really is.” My eyes still closed, I broke into an enormous metal-mouthed grin.
REUNITED, AND IT FEELS SO GOOD
Thursday, 7:17 A.M.
Early the next morning, I found Molly sitting with her back against my locker, looking like she’d camped out in Hemingway the night before. Her hair was pulled back into a messy low ponytail, and her black glitter eyeliner looked smudged, like she’d accidentally fallen asleep with it on. It reminded me of the time she’d passed out at ten at one of my sleepovers, and Nessa and Liv and I got through half a makeover before she woke up and wigged out. The photo booth pictures from that night were priceless. And tacked next to my locker mirror, until last week.
I wasn’t sure why, exactly, but I slowed as I got closer to her. It wasn’t that I was nervous; I’d rehearsed everything on the El ride to school. How casual and lisp-free my voice would sound as I dropped cryptic hints about Zander. And my back-to-the-airwaves outfit oozed power and control: my skinniest skinny jeans, the equestrian-style boots Nessa helped me pick out over winter break, and my cream cashmere sweater with the funnel neck and asymmetrical buttons. My high, tight ponytail meant serious business.
“Kacey! Hey! Okay, tell me everything.” Molly jumped to her feet and pawed a few layers out of her face. Her pink streak was fading, and her natural white blonde was starting to peek through again. Her eyes widened, pleading for help.
“Hey.” I gave her a small smile. For the first time since everything had happened between us, I didn’t want to strangle her with her own metal-studded dog collar. Something about how helpless she looked, waiting for me, needing me, made me want to throw my arms around her and squeeze. I wanted to tell her that soon everything would be fine. And then smack her for everything she’d put me through. “Um—”
“No!” she said, a little too loudly. “Wait.” The fluorescent overhead lights made her eyes look wild. “Is it bad?” She lunged toward me like she was going to grab me, then took a step back. “If it’s bad, I don’t wanna know.”
“Well—”
“I knew it.” She backed up to the lockers and let the crown of her head rest in defeat against a painted metal vent. “He would be the only guy at the school who doesn’t love me.”
I let that one go. “Mols,” I said gently, releasing my messenger bag to the floor.
“Yeah?”
I took a seat on the checkered floor and patted the square next to me. “It’s not bad.”
“ ’Kay.” She slid down my locker and plopped onto the floor. Then she turned her head and rested her cheek against the locker. “So.” She grinned. “Start from the beginning before I. WIG. OUT! What are you WAITING for?”
“So you know how I’m in the band now?”
“Yeah.” She sniffed, like she wasn’t the least bit jealous.
“So yesterday, Zan—Skinny Jeans and I were hanging out at this record place, and—”
“Name?”
“Vinyl Destination. You’ve been there, you love it. Your favorite section is the Best New Artists wall in the back room.”
“Check.” Her gaze fell on my wrist, where Zander’s bracelet peeked out from beneath the cuff of my sweater.
I yanked my sleeve over my hand. “Anyway, while we were there, he… said he was thinking of asking you out.”
So I took a few artistic liberties with the truth. Paige had told me to be nicer.
“He just happened to bring it up.” She braided the fading pink streak, then undid it and started over.
“Mm-hmm,” I said through pursed lips.
“OhhhhhmyGOOOOOOODKacey! You’re the BEST!” She side-tackled me with an enormous hug, smashing her cheek against mine.
“Owww!” I laughed, spitting out a clump of her hair, which tasted like pineapple pomade. “Get OFF, nut job!” But she held on tight, smashing my glasses into my cheekbones.
“Start from the beginning. Tell me eve
rything, like, word for word.” She pushed herself onto her knees, looking petrified and exhilarated at the same time. “Verbates.”
“There’s not that much to tell,” I said, holding back a smile. I’d never seen her get this flustered over a guy before. Though I’d never admit it aloud, guys were the only thing she understood a little better than I did. It made sense if you thought about it, since she had a half-brother in college and a dad at home. To be fair, I didn’t have that kind of study material. “Except he said he thought you seemed pretty cool, and—” I dug into my jeans pocket and pulled out the shimmery peach gloss I’d been using to shellac my lips together. “Here.”
She grinned and swiped it, slathering on a thick coat. “And?”
“And I said you were—cool, I mean—”
“Oh. Uh, hey.”
Molly had been so busy body-slamming and quizzing me that neither one of us had noticed Zander heading toward us, spiral notebook in hand. On the back cover was a bumper sticker that read Mean People Suck.
We scrambled to our feet.
“Wanted to wish you luck on the broadcast.” He glanced at my wrist and smiled.
“Oh. Thanks.” I nudged Molly in the ribs.
She flicked her hair over the shoulder. “Hey, Zander Jarvis from Seattle.” Her voice sounded almost as raspy as Nessa’s great-grandma’s, a lifelong smoker with chronic emphysema.
Zander gave a crooked half smile, then raised his eyebrow slightly at me. I blinked back at him, sending him psychic vibes to ask her out.
“Uh, hey… Molly…”
“Knight,” Molly purred. “From Chicags.”
“So, what’s up?” I asked quickly. Ask her! Ask her now!
“Actually, I uh, wanted to talk to Molly,” he said. “I, uh, heard you were a die-hard fan of Acoustic—”
“Obv!” Molly turned back to Zander. “They’re so raw, so…” Her voice faltered, like she was getting distracted by Zander’s face.