by Balog, Cyn
Dave groans. “But what about the game? Your next prank?”
I sigh. I guess writing “Peyton Brentwood—Harvard Reject” won’t have the same impact if she’s been accepted. “You don’t think I should?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Save it. Just a couple days. Until after the prank.”
“But that’s really evil.”
His face turns serious. “Hey. You never know what kind of evil pranks she has in store for you. All’s fair.”
“True,” I say softly, thinking about the past pranks. In every one of them, when I saw her face, it was cold and uncaring, meaning one thing: she didn’t care what it took to make me suffer. She’d taken our friendship, something real and good, and transformed it into a horrible little prank war just for the fun of it. And maybe she didn’t have all that much time to retaliate with another, really evil prank…but I know that if given the chance, she would jump at it. That’s just the kind of heartless person Peyton Brentwood is.
As I stand there at the curb, all I can see is her face that day at the party: that ugly sneer and her hard eyes. The others called me freak, loser, slut, but far be it for her to come to my rescue.
Peyton did nothing, just laughed. Laughed at her best friend.
I steal a glance toward Peyton’s house, but there isn’t any sign of life. And at that moment, I can’t help but feel something bitter surge through my veins. The phrase It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person doesn’t exactly apply. She doesn’t deserve to have everything she’s ever wanted. Not after the way she stepped on people to get there. Not after the way she swapped me for Best Friend 2.0, A.K.A. Bryn Samuels, at a time when I needed her most. She’d shown me the kind of person she really was—the kind of person who was just asking for a prank like this.
“Okay,” I finally say. I tuck the envelope under my arm, give Dave another quick kiss from the passenger side window, and hurry into the house.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Peyton
As I climb the bleachers next to the school baseball fields, I get a familiar feeling. Everyone’s looking at me. I check the buttons on my blouse and casually dust off the back of my jeans, hoping I haven’t committed a wardrobe malfunction. When I’m halfway to the top, I know for certain something is up. People are pointing at the baseball field and then at me. So I turn around.
I’m so shocked by what I see, I almost fall over. I should have known Jess would do something big and public like this. It’s burned into the lawn, big yellow letters arching from first base to third, just behind the pitcher’s mound: Peyton Brentwood: Harvard Reject.
I stare, for what seems like hours, as the words burn into my retina. Harvard Reject.
If Jess had done this a month ago, it might have been remotely funny. I might have spoken a flippant, “yeah, right,” and continued to my seat. A month ago, no one in school would have taken the message seriously. They all knew I was Ivy-League material.
Too bad I only applied to one school, and Harvard is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. The last bit of hope is about to disappear.
Eventually, everyone learned I didn’t get accepted. Two people at Willow High received them a month ago. I outranked both in the class standings, had more extra-curriculars, and did more volunteer work. It didn’t make sense.
But once they’d started bragging about their acceptances, I’d finally been forced to come clean about my wait list status. And now, for the past week, everyone’s been staring at me with knowing eyes. Looking down at me like I’m trash. I’m not Harvard Girl anymore.
I’m the Harvard Reject, just like Jess says, right there on the lawn.
The words blur as tears fill my eyes. I came to this stupid baseball game because Bryn reminded me that as a member of the Pep Squad, it was expected. Willow High was on its way to being state champs, and I couldn’t miss the big game. But if it had been up to me, I would have sat at home all night and wallowed in my misery and a half-gallon of Ben & Jerry’s.
I’m starting to wonder why I hadn’t told the Pep Squad to shove it. I don’t need extra-curriculars anymore. Not if Harvard doesn’t want me.
Today is June first. It isn’t even late May anymore. May is gone, just like my Harvard hopes.
There’s always the possibility that somehow the acceptance got lost in the mail. Maybe I’ll be the final person chosen from the waitlist, and the letter is on its way to me as we speak. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding and there’s been a glitch, and all I have to do is call and they’ll say, “Oh, Peyton, we’re so sorry! Of course you’re accepted!”
Either way, I’ve been a complete bitch to everyone in sight for a week. I know it isn’t fair to take it out on everyone else, but seriously: what was I supposed to do? I’ve been in constant breakdown mode ever since my waitlist letter arrived.
And now Jess is rubbing it in my face.
I blink back tears and scan the bleachers for her red-streaked hair. Or whatever color it is these days. She has to be here, for two reasons: the glory of her prank, and the glory of Dave Ashworth, shortstop extraordinaire. The two of them have been hanging out way more than expected for the last couple of weeks. I’m glad Dave has finally gotten his act together. I’d been afraid he wouldn’t be very convincing. Ever since I’d talked to him about it though, he’s finally taken it seriously. Lately, every time I see Jess in the halls, I can see that she’s falling deeper.
And after this prank, I can’t wait to see her heart shatter into a thousand pieces.
Just like mine.
After staring at me for what seems like forever, everyone returns their gaze to the baseball field. It isn’t often one of Willow High’s teams makes it so far into the post-season, and it’s just as rare that the final game is against our arch rivals: Vincent High. I resume my climb to the top of the bleachers and sit down, zipping my windbreaker as a breeze kicks up. It smells like hotdogs and fresh grass clippings and everything spring, but I don’t care. In my world, it’s storming.
Bryn comes up the bleachers and sits next to me. “That was pretty mean,” she says, gesturing at the field.
“I know. I think it’s because of my last one. I think she’s pissed about me embarrassing her in front of Dave,” I say.
The game hasn’t started yet, but someone next to me starts chanting, “Let’s go Mustangs, let’s go!” so I pick up the foot stomping and clapping, even though I’m not in the mood. I don’t bother shouting the words because I know they’ll come out half-hearted.
“What are you going to do?” she asks over the chants of the crowd.
“Retaliate, obviously.”
“No, I mean about Harvard. If you don’t get in. You don’t have any backup plans.”
I look straight at her as her words echo in my ears. Our guidance counselor talked about backup plans last September. I ignored her, of course, and her pleas that I also apply to a state university, just in case.
God, I can’t even get into a state university because the deadlines have passed.
I’m staring at Bryn, my mouth half-open as I realize what I’ve done. No Ivy-League, no private college, no state college.
What’s left? A part-time job at Pizza Hut and community college? I can just imagine serving Jess her pizza all summer, smiling politely as I refill her coke and get her another napkin. Hell, my brother and I can fill out the application together and work the same shift. I’ll finally fit in with the rest of my family.
On the bright side, maybe my dad will finally be proud of me.
And then maybe I’ll head off to school, where I’ll see every other Willow High kid on the local college campus. Knowing they’ll all look at me, pity me for not being across the country studying in ivy-covered brick buildings like I planned. They’ll all know I was a failure.
Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Why did I tell everyone I know, for the last eight years, I’d be going to Harvard? This would be so much easier if I hadn’t. If I could wallow in my pity and disa
ppointment alone and not have the weight of their stares boring down on me, dragging me under. Pity is one of those things I can’t handle. Losers need pity. Peyton Brentwood does not need it.
“I don’t…” I can’t even get the words out my mouth. Life as I know it is over. Over. “I need some air,” I say. Even though I’m outside already, the crowd is suffocating me. I get up and stumble down the bleachers. I have to get away from Bryn, from school spirit, and even more, away from those words burned into the grass.
I nearly fall off the last step and throw my hands out to catch myself, but I get my feet underneath me and break into a run, away from the field, away from everything and everyone. The background streams by, but I can barely see it through the shimmer of my tears. It feels like the sky is literally falling on me until my lungs are burning and I have to stop and lean against a classroom door to catch my breath.
I don’t realize I’m next to the locker rooms until Dave walks out the door, dressed in his baseball uniform, and stares straight at me. The rest of the team passes him, but he just stands there, staring across the gravel walkway.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I give him a look that says his question is stupid. There are tears streaming down my face and I’m panting like a dog. I can’t even breathe through my runny nose, thanks to the crying. What does he think? I shake my head, but can’t catch my breath to give a real response.
We just stand there in silence for a long moment, but he doesn’t leave.
I glare at him. “I just need to be alone, okay?”
He still doesn’t move, not at first. I can tell he wants to say something. He probably wants to offer some empty words of condolence, like everyone else around me. I really don’t need this. Not from him, not from anyone.
But what he says next surprises me. “I need to talk to you about Jess. And the prank war.”
I laugh, but it sounds sad and twisted. “Don’t worry. I already saw the shit she pulled out on the lawn. It’s too late to warn me.”
He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything I hear someone else speak. “You all right, sis?”
I turn around to see Evan approaching, his arm wrapped around a little brunette’s shoulders. She’s wearing a Vincent High T-shirt, and I realize she must be a senior there, and the two of them are going to go watch the game. I hate him for it, because he’s about to see Jess’s latest prank. And then he, too, will look at me with pity.
Jeez, if I never see another person for as long as I live, it will be too soon. A desert island sounds like bliss.
“No, I’m not okay,” I mumble.
“What?” he asks as he gets closer.
I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to explain to him why the existence he’s perfectly content with—living at home, bumming from menial job to menial job—is my hell.
“I’m not okay! Nothing is ever going to be okay!” I scream it at him, at Dave, at everyone and everything. I want to throw something or break something but there’s nothing around me. My fists are balled up, and I actually think, for just a moment, I might punch the building behind me.
But instead I break into a run again, my little flats clacking on the cement walkway with every frantic stride.
I wish I could run forever until even my life disappears behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jess
I squeeze the last bit of water out of my hair and pull a towel over it, then flip my head up. That’s when I see a ghostly white face reflected in the mirror from the darkened hallway outside the bathroom.
I’m about to scream, but catch my breath when I realize it’s just my mother. Considering how much I’ve seen her lately, it’s like seeing a ghost. Still, she’s classic Debbie Hill: Same briefcase, same pink suit and heels, same helmet of perfect hair, and standard disappointed expression directed at me. Our schedules have complemented each other’s so perfectly I’ve hardly seen her in months, but she hasn’t changed.
“Heart attack,” I groan at her, rubbing my hair furiously with the towel.
“New hair color?” she asks, a tinge of bitterness in her voice. She should have had a beauty queen or a perfect little Peyton instead of me. All I ever do is disappoint her.
“Something like that.” At that moment, I would have loved to freak her out with a lime green ‘do, just out of spite. But the fact is, the past few treatments have done a number on my hair. So I’ve decided to strip away the black lacquer and let my hair breathe by taking it back to its natural color, strawberry blond. And since it’s grown out considerably, I’ve been thinking about putting in a bunch of funky braids, maybe going for the reggae look. But right now, I need to give it a rest. If she knew, she’d probably hug me for the first time in years, and that’s why I’m not telling her.
“Any plans for this weekend?” she asks offhandedly.
I know she’s expecting me to give a laundry list of the usual smartass replies: visiting an orphanage in India, a WWF Smackdown, that sort of thing. So instead, I brush past her and say, “Oh, you know—clichéd teenage ritual.”
She raises an eyebrow, like she doesn’t know. “And what ritual is that?”
“Prom?” I raise my own eyebrow as if to say, Maybe you’ve heard of it?
Her perfectly painted lips separate, like the Red Sea, until her jaw is nearly resting on the toes of her pumps. “You mean, the prom?”
I’m enjoying her reaction. Its not often I get to shock her. I wrap the towel on my head, sit down on my comforter, and start to file my nails. They’re ragged and stubby, but I guess that will happen when you ignore them. “Uh-huh.”
She stands there for a moment, no doubt running various scenarios through her head. Like, Maybe the school administration is giving out meth to encourage attendance? Or, She’s probably going to crash it, spike the punch bowl, and tell off the principal. I’ll probably be picking her up from jail later tonight. Finally she says, “When is it?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” She gives me an astonished look. I’m sure she’s thought about prom once or twice, since she was the queen of hers, but had just assumed her only child would rather stick needles in her eyeballs. And she’d have been right. But then again, neither of us had counted on things working out so perfectly with Dave. Knowing the way he cares about me, I feel like the proverbial swan. “Where’s your dress?”
I point to a cellophane-wrapped form hanging over the door of my closet. I’d spent an agonizing couple of hours in Macy’s one night, trying on dress after dress. All of them seemed too bubble-gum or revealed too much skin for me. Luckily, the dressing room had been empty of any other girls, girls like Peyton who belonged at the prom, or else I probably would have aborted the mission. But there was a small, old store associate who kept shuttling dresses back and forth for me to try on. Then, after Dress Number Fifty, I found it. Strangely enough, it was one the old lady liked, one I never would have picked out on my own: turquoise blue satin with black flower beading in the front and a tight black belt around the waist. It flared out just a bit with a little crinoline, and it was strapless. I’ve never given my boobs the responsibility of holding up my dress, but who knew? They actually rose to the challenge. And when I stepped out of the dressing room, and the old lady’s mouth opened to a giant O in the center of her ruddy face, I knew I’d found it.
“Oh!” my mother says, running a finger along the satin hemline, still stunned. She looks around, like she doesn’t know what to do first. “I need to get my camera.”
I groan. I haven’t had a picture taken of me in which I hadn’t flipped off the camera in about two years. “Just chill out, Mom, or I’m going to take scissors to it.”
She nods dumbly, as if I might really do it. “Are you…going with someone?” By the tone in her voice, I know she’s thinking her hopes are too high, like there’s no way she can have her cake and eat it too.
I consider telling her I’m going with another girl and we’re romantically i
nvolved. Instead, I just say, “Yeah.” I toss over a strip of pictures Dave and I had taken at the booth outside the movie theater. There’s one where I have my tongue in his ear and I am, incidentally, flipping off the camera in each one. But whatever.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “Jessica…is that David Ashworth?”
It figures that my mom would recognize popularity, even when she’s a generation removed. “Uh-huh.”
“The football player?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
She nods. “Of course. I was his parents’ real estate agent when they sold that Tudor down on Vickory Street. Nice boy. He’s been in your class for ages. I didn’t know you two were an item. He seems a little…” I’m thinking of belting her since I know she’s going to finish the sentence with out of your league, but instead she finishes with, “too tame for your taste.”
I laugh at her. Really laugh. So my own mom thinks I’m a wild child. I like that. “I’m working on him. Trying to loosen him up.”
She stands there for a moment, searching for her next words. I can tell she’s eager to help. Finally, she asks, “Do you need anything?”
I look at my reflection in the mirror and start to apply my foundation. “I’ve been dressing myself for years, so I can take it from here. You can go alert the media.”
She nods as if that’s something she might actually do and turns away reluctantly. I’m sure she was hoping we’d have this over-the-top bonding moment, and she could help set my hair or wrap my nails or whatever it is prom princesses do.
I decide since my dress is a little fifties retro, I’m going to put my hair into a neat updo. Once I secure it with about fifty bobby pins, I spray it and add a black flower clip to the back. Tilting the mirror in all directions, I’m amazed I was able to do it on my first try. It makes me look older, like I should be a librarian somewhere.