by Balog, Cyn
“Sure. But the point is to do it because you want to be adventurous, not because you’re indecisive.”
He sighs, defeated. “So when do you start skydiving and climbing Mount Everest and wrestling mountain lions? After graduation?”
“Well, I’m thinking of working on a cruise ship. Saving up some cash,” I say proudly. “We’ll see.”
He slurps up the last of his Coke and says, “But really, Jess, aren’t you just escaping? Willow High treated you like crap, and you’re running away from it.”
“What? No, I—”
“The real world is a lot crueler. What makes you think you can survive there?”
Now it’s my turn to growl. “I could get along just fine at Willow if I wanted to. . I choose not to fit in.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, leaning back and putting his hands out. “Just checking.”
I hadn’t realized it, but my voice had been rising. I didn’t really care what the Peytons and Bryns of the world thought, but for some reason, Dave always got under my skin. Even when he was across the room, he mattered to me. And I’m not sure why I felt the need to convince him that not following ninety percent of seniors off to college didn’t make me a total moron, but his patronizing tone meant I wasn’t getting through. So why would he want to date someone he obviously thought was headed for a bleak and pathetic future?
“I don’t get people like you,” I mutter, shaking my head. “What’s it like to be so absorbed in what the world says you should be doing that you never consider what you want to be doing?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin and smiles. “The world says I shouldn’t be going out with Jess Hill. But here I am.”
“Ooh, big deal.” I jab my thumb back to where the two old men have fallen asleep in their coffees. “The only witnesses to this are a bunch of Alzheimer’s patients.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re a tough girl to please.”
I bat my eyelashes. “Does that mean you’re not going to try?”
He grins and motions for me to lean across the table, and as he does the same, I can tell I’ve sparked his competitive side. He brings his mouth close, so close that his breath is warm on my ear, and whispers, “Just the opposite.”
Chapter Fifteen
Peyton
As I push my way through the swinging doors backstage, I get a tingling sensation. Something’s up. When everybody sees me, they look away—no one is looking at me for more than two-point-five seconds. Not a good sign.
When I walk into the girls’ dressing room, I know something is going on. Bryn is sitting on a couch, a program for the musical on her lap, and her face scrunched up so it looks like a wrinkled prune. When she sees me, she cringes and holds it out.
I grab the program and I scan down to Patty Simcox. “Pays for Bent Wood? What does she think she’s doing?”
Bryn shrugs and then, as if she thinks I’m a complete idiot, feels the need to explain to me, “I think she’s trying to prank you.”
I rip the program in half and let the pages flutter in all directions. “Whatever. I can deal with it. Maybe people won’t notice.”
Bryn gives me a doubtful look.
I cross my hands at my chest and act like I’m not worried. “Hey. I sent thirty guys up to her with condoms, and she managed to make it work for her. I bet I can think of a way to spin this. Right?”
Bryn stares vacantly. She’s no help. Now Jess, she’d know exactly what to say. She’d probably waltz out there and tell them that bent wood feels better, and then turn it on someone like Ken Greeley so everyone thinks he’s the one who’s anatomically incorrect. And then everyone would be so busy making fun of him, they’d forget to tease her about the program.
Oh, who am I kidding? Like I have the guts to pull something like that!
I sink down onto the couch beside Bryn. “Do you think she’ll…you know…get caught?” I say, my voice hopeful. “I mean, jeez. Everyone will see it.”
Bryn looks at me for a minute and then shrugs. “Maybe. But you know the principal. He’s not exactly Nancy Drew.”
I snort. “I know. You’d think since Jess and I are the only ones in the entire school who keep getting pranked, he’d put two and two together.” I’ve been waiting for that moment, waiting for the light bulb to go on in his head, but so far I’ve been lucky.
Unfortunately that means Jess has been lucky too, but she’s bound to get caught by the end of the year. Especially if her pranks are this public. I’m not stupid enough to do something this obvious and over the top.
“And I was kind of hoping she’d tone down the pranks since my last one was so lame. That way she’s not so on guard when she finds out about my mega-prank.”
Of course, that was a long shot. Jess’s pranks haven’t been tame since the first day of sophomore year, when she really started getting into it. Somehow, she messed with the morning announcements; I’m pretty sure the principal hadn’t realized what he was saying until it was too late. Sandwiched between sporting tryouts and the cafeteria menu, he’d actually said, if you’re interested in a triple-x video of Peyton Brentwood, check out www… And then his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. Then he just started discussing meatloaf as if no one would notice.
I was called into the office twenty minutes later for a full explanation, but I played dumb. Yeah, if one of us got caught, the other would be the winner. But the problem was, I didn’t have any proof. And does it really count as getting caught if I turn her in?
“Oh my God, I almost forgot to tell you,” Bryn says, leaning forward in her excitement. “I heard about the date!”
“Really? Who told you?” I feel my heart beating faster in a happy thump-thump that makes me feel positively gleeful. Who knew revenge could feel so good?
“Ken. God, he’s so cute, you know? Did you see his new leather jacket? I swear—”
“Focus!” I interrupt. She can go on and on about Ken for days. She’s already got this sparkle in her eyes, like she’s in dreamland.
“Oh, right. Well, I guess they went out this weekend or something. On, like, their date.”
“Okay. Details,” I say, with much more patience than I’m actually feeling.
She looks confused. “What do you mean?”
Bryn can be so annoying sometimes. “Didn’t you get details?”
She shakes her head. “No. Well, they went to a diner. Ken told me Dave didn’t say much besides that.”
I need to hire new informants. This is a total letdown. I look down at the shredded remains of the program and say, “I wonder if he can pull it off for this long. Prom is still over two months away.”
Bryn shrugs. “Yeah, but with all his sports, he won’t have time for many dates. If he starts now she’ll really buy it, hook, line and sinker.”
“Good point.”
Bryn and I change into our costumes. I’m wearing these skin-tight jeans that make it hard to move, plus an off-the-shoulder sweater. Bryn’s wearing a full skirt and saddle shoes. Her hair probably has a whole can of Aquanet holding it up in this giant bouffant.
The first act is already underway on stage. Bryn and I don’t come on until several minutes into the play, but we get up and watch the beginning from backstage, behind the curtains.
Opening night is always nerve-wracking. You’re never sure if everyone can really pull it off until the curtain falls on the first show and the audience is cheering.
“Speak of the devil,” Bryn whispers, nudging me. I look down the main aisle to the double doors and nearly fall over in shock.
Jess Hill is at a school event. At any moment, pigs are going to fly and hell will freeze over. She’s standing in the doorway, looking a little uncomfortable, like she can’t decide if she wants to sit down or just bolt.
“Jess Hill is sitting in the audience,” I whisper too loudly. Gina Thompson, on stage, glares at me. I mouth, “Sorry!” and then look back out at the seats. It’s hard to see more than shadows with the stage light
s on, but I see her sit. She’s in an aisle seat, and she’s looking around, like she might take off at any given moment, but I can’t get over that she’s actually sitting in the audience at a school play. Voluntarily. Dave’s school spirit must be rubbing off on her ugly rebel clothes.
I’m so distracted by her I almost miss my cue. Just as Gina says, “All summer long,” I realize I’m supposed to be halfway on stage already. I get into position just in time for my line.
Gina and the three other girls leave the stage just as I say it. And then there’s silence. There’s supposed to be music, and I’m supposed to sing my next line instead of saying it. I’m only on stage for five or six seconds, alone, when Bryn is supposed to come out. But she’ll only appear when she hears her cue, so I’m standing in the glaring lights alone.
All of the sudden, there’s this huge, booming baseline, so loud it rumbles the stage beneath my feet, and immediately some of the boys in the audience start whooping and hollering. They recognize this song.
And I know that’s not a good sign.
And then I hear it.
When the pimp’s in the crib, Ma, drop it like it’s hot, drop it like it’s hot…
Oh. My. God. Am I seriously hearing Snoop coming out of the speakers?
I’m just standing here, trying to figure out what to do, the stage lights hot on my face. I can’t see the audience but I can hear their laughter. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades.
I start to move towards the curtains but as I step to the side, out of the direct glare of the lights, I see her. She’s bent over, laughing so hard she looks to be gasping for breath.
And then I realize how stupid I’d been to think she’d come here to see the play. Of course she was here to continue her prank. She wanted to see her work in action. I realize I’m doing exactly what she wants: running off stage, red-faced and breathless.
No, I will not let her win. Peyton Brentwood does not say die. I want her to see this. I want her to watch as I prove her wrong, as I show her I’m just as good at this as she is.
So instead, I start dancing. Of course, this isn’t some awkward Riverdance thing. It’s a dance that belongs in a club, not on stage.
I’m literally dropping it like it’s hot. I can’t believe it even as I’m doing it. I don’t even think I’m doing it right, but I get a couple wolf whistles, so I figure it’s all good.
I shimmy my way across the stage, turn my butt towards the audience and shake it one more time, and then exit.
I’m laughing as I grab Bryn and swing her around. I’ve never felt more exhilarated. She’s staring at me with wide eyes, but the edges of her mouth are curled upwards. “I cannot believe you just did that!”
“Me neither.” I laugh and do an impression of myself. I just shook my booty in front of the entire school. I just ruined Jess’s prank. I’m on top of the world!
Someone finally gets the rap off the speakers and comes on the PA system, telling the audience there will be a short intermission while “the correct music is located.” Some guy boos, like he preferred my version of Grease to the real thing.
Eventually the musical gets back underway, with no more surprises.
I’m so glad Jess was there to see me ruin her prank. She’s going to rue the day she rigged my Harvard interview. Tonight was only the beginning.
Chapter Sixteen
Jess
Willow High’s detention room is called the Box because it’s as big as a closet, and just as suffocating. There aren’t any windows, but the walls are covered with inspirational posters with taglines like “success” and “faith,” the kind with nature photos of rainbows and waves crashing.
Despite the fact that they’re corny to the extreme, I have most of them memorized.
There’s enough space for six desks, and they’re packed so tightly you need to hold your breath and squeeze in sideways to move around. I’m sure it breaks some disabilities access law or something. My desk is the one in the back, and it should have my nameplate on it, since I don’t think I’ve missed a day here since March. This time around, my presence had something to do with telling my English teacher she was reinforcing gender stereotypes by not devoting equal time to the female transcendentalists as she had to the male ones. I’m not a feminist by a long shot; it’s just that we’d had a thousand word essay exam on Emerson and Thoreau, and I didn’t want to do it. So instead I’d written her a letter: Dear Mrs. Thompson, As transcendentalism is all about speaking one’s mind, I respectfully decline the opportunity to devote this sheet of paper to two overbearing and pompous men who have once again stolen the limelight from their female counterparts.
That wasn’t so bad, I guess. I suppose the detention was actually earned when she called me up to discuss, and I accused her of being a “brainwashing fascist” in front of the entire class. Yes, I’ll admit that was going a bit overboard. But I was grumpy today, and I thought she was trying to embarrass me by calling me out on my letter.
I’m sitting in the room after school, alone, studying a particularly moving poster of an enormous oak tree. Underneath, it says “courage.” I can’t remember what the tiny little writing under it says, but I’m improvising that it’s something like, “You’re in detention. Take the next step. Hang yourself,” when the door opens and in walks Dave.
My eyes probably widen to the size of DVDs. I’d sooner expected to see Mother Theresa. He stands there, unsure, looking at me. So I say, as if I own the room, “Have a seat,” and pretend to write something in my notebook.
He slowly walks to the desk next to me. “Isn’t there supposed to be a teacher here?”
“Miss Forsyth,” I answer, not looking up, then point to my eye. “Contact lens emergency.”
He nods, and I find myself wondering what he could have possibly gotten detention for. The athletes always get a little leeway when it comes to punishment, so it must be something pretty horrible. From Golden Boy Dave? Unbelievable.
But though I’m dying to know, I’m not going to be the one to ask. If he strikes up a conversation with me, fine. But I’m not going to be nice. Just one- or two-word answers, Jess. That’s it. Play it cool.
After our first and last date, he’d gone right back to ignoring me. Sure, baseball season is now in full swing, pun intended, so he’s probably mega-busy, but the way we’d ended things I’d expected some kind of follow up. Toward the end of the date, our fun little sparring had resumed. We’d connected. There was no exchange of bodily fluids, unfortunately, but he’d taken down my cell number and said, “I’ll definitely give you a call.” And not in an off-handed way that makes you wonder if it would happen. He’d touched my chin lightly, looked into my eyes long enough to make my stomach flutter, and put massive emphasis on the word definitely. I’d figured I would get a call sometime the next week, or that he’d make it a point to talk to me in gym class, but nothing. For three agonizing weeks.
I can see him studying me, so I scribble on the notepad in front of me, really small and scratchy so he can’t see it’s complete nonsense.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “What are you in for?”
I roll my eyes. Newbies always like to think they’re doing hard time, as if the Box is equivalent to Attica. “Same shit,” I say. “You?”
I’m proud I kept my word count down and haven’t resorted yet to babbling, which I always seem to do in his presence. But I immediately wish I hadn’t asked him a question. I’m supposed to make him beg.
“Physics. Coach said I should stay here and work after school, before practice. To avoid distractions. I have two weeks to get my grades up or I’m off the team.”
Of course. There couldn’t be anything scandalous with Dave. I flip open my Spanish book and try my best to ignore him.
He continues, “I know, not exactly exciting. You probably set someone’s hair on fire or something, right?”
I shake my head. I’m dying to tell him. But make him beg is echoing in my mind.
He lea
ns forward, so his head is only inches from my elbow. “Come on, tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” He continues for another minute, like a three-year-old who’s about to pee his pants, until he finally straightens and says, “Are you mad because I never called?”
I whip my head around and glare at him. “No. That’s your loss. I just have work to do.”
“Ha, at least I got you to talk to me.” He grins, victorious, then his face turns serious. “I wanted to call you, really. But then I got to thinking, what can I offer Jess Hill? She probably wants a guy who can juggle swords or carve ice sculptures or something.”
I squint at him in disbelief. “Actually, I was really looking for a boyfriend who was a good synchronized swimmer.”
He laughs. “Sorry. I know it was a dumb reason. So you had fun? When we went out?”
I nod slowly.
“Despite the fact that it was synchronized swimming-less?”
I give him a hard glare. “Look. It was fine. But you ignored me for three weeks and will only talk to me when we’re alone. That’s asshole territory.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I’ve been preoccupied with baseball. I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you?”
“Doubtful,” I mutter with a scowl, not looking up from my Spanish text.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him place something on the edge of the desk. A rectangular piece of paper. I tilt my head to the side a little more, to get a better view. It’s a ticket. From here, I can just about make out the words Modern Life is War.
“Oh my God,” I whisper in disbelief. “You have tickets to their show? I’m obsessed with them.”
“I know. And you’re going with me, on three conditions.”
I’m still gazing at the ticket in amazement. How did he know Modern Life is War is my favorite? I wanted to go to the concert, but I wasn’t brave enough to go myself. “What?” I say, thinking I’d probably go naked with him if he asked.