7 Clues to Winning You (5 page)

“I wouldn’t call him skinny,” Jenna said. “He’s, like, lean. But in a cute way.” Cy reared back and fake-gaped at her. She blushed.

“Oh, really?” Cy tickled her ribs. “Cute, eh?” Jenna giggled and squirmed. Cy laughed. “So you think Luke Pavel is cute, do you?”

“Yes!” Jenna gasped. “He’s gorgeous!” Cy tickled harder and she squealed. “He’s so sexy with those hot, hot”—more tickling, more squealing—“hot Harry Potter glasses!” Cy kept her in wriggling hysterics for a few more seconds before finally letting her go. She laid her head on the table and curled her arm around it, panting. With the other arm, she gave Cy a shove, and he winked at her.

“I think I might have met him,” I said. “He called me ‘McMussolini’s daughter.’”

Cy huffed. “Yeah, that’s gotta be Pavel. He likes to bitch about Principal Mac being a fascist and the school being a totalitarian state, blah blah, yadda yadda, and other equally boring things.”

“As if that’s breaking news,” Jenna added.

A thought struck me that I hadn’t considered before that
moment. “Can I ask you something? Is my dad an okay principal? I mean, is he a nice guy or a jerk or what? Do people generally like him?”

Jenna shrugged one shoulder. “He’s not bad. I mean, Cy and I have … well, let’s say we’ve met him a few times, even though Vice Principal Hinkler handles most of the discipline problems. She gets off on it. What a gigantic douche bag. Your dad doesn’t treat people like crap the way
Fink
ler does. But sometimes he’s a bit, you know …” She tipped her head side to side and tried to find the right word on the ceiling.

Cy jumped in. “Like some psycho life coach robot spouting motivational sayings and cheering you on. Rah! Rah! You can do it! Keep a positive attitude and your problems will instantly disappear!”

Jenna drew figure eights on the table with her index finger. “He’s a little out of touch. He doesn’t really get where some of us are coming from. What we deal with day to day. But I mean, he’s not a dick or anything. Just kind of clueless.”

Cy hitched his chin at me. “What’s he like as a dad?”

I considered it for a second. “Not a dick. Kind of clueless.”

I almost said more. I very nearly told them how selfish my father was by moving us to Ash Grove just to advance his career, which wasn’t even a sure thing. But I decided that I really didn’t know anything about Cy and Jenna other than the fact that apparently they didn’t eat lunch. The bell rang, anyway.

Out in the hallway, I checked my schedule for a computer class so I could Google
Buried Ashes
. Fifth period was Intro
to Programming. I crossed my fingers that there’d be some free time at the end to mess around. Luckily, there was.

Intro to Programming seemed to stretch on forever. After we’d sat through a lukewarm instruction on how to make a batch file, we finally were turned loose to “work independently.” That’s teacher code for “If I have to teach you wretched sons of Satan one more minute, I’m going to self-combust. So, do whatever you turds want while I sit here contemplating suicide.”

The second I got the chance, I went online and entered the web address. My intention was to go into the archives and look at the post about the caption contest, as well as the post from a year ago where Luke Pavel uploaded my picture and started this mess.

But I never made it past the homepage.

BURIED ASHES

One-Stop Shopping for the Truth about Life at Ash Grove

Editor in Chief, Luke Pavel

Welcome back from spring break, groovy Grove-ies! The snow is melting and the sun is finally stepping up and getting the job done. Hopefully you juniors got a lot of rest because it’s that time of year again. That’s right—spring at Ash Grove means one thing:

THE SENIOR SCRAMBLE!

(Cue the hysterical screaming!)

This much revered rite of passage has initiated Ash Grove juniors into the senior class for decades. This year will be no exception, boys and girls. Right now, as you read this, the senior class is finalizing diabolical clues and assembling a mystery prize package that will blow your mind. Literally BLOW YOUR MIND. Wear a helmet.

For you newbies and freshmen who are scratching your butts right now wondering what the Senior Scramble is, here’s the scoop:

Every spring, Ash Grove seniors compose a grueling scavenger
hunt for the juniors to complete. But we’re not talking about collecting paper clips and seashells, oh, no. The Senior Scramble is a hunt for insane, illogical, impossible-to-get things.

But there’s a catch. (You didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you?) The hunt is also a race. Each item must be turned in, one by one, before the next item is revealed. The first junior (or team of juniors) to turn in the final item wins the Senior Scramble and lives on in infamy.

So juniors, get ready to rock! Clear your calendars and jack up your caffeine addictions. Gird your loins or do whatever else your loins might need. Pick your teams if you’re too chicken to go it alone, because …

The Ash Grove Senior Scramble starts in ONE WEEK!

JUST-POSTED UPDATE:
You may have recognized a new student around school this morning. Will this fetching junior be participating in the Senior Scramble this year? After all, technically, it would be a
repeat appearance
from last year!

I stared at the screen for a moment and then read through the article again. Then once more. By the third time I’d read “
repeat appearance!
” I had pretty much hit my boiling point. How insulting was that? How dare he?

Oh, I’ll be participating in the Senior Scramble
, I thought.
I’ll be participating in its demise. And
who does he think he is, calling me fetching? As if I’d accept a compliment from him.

I swear: those were the words ringing in my head. But I must admit that inside my body, something a little different happened. I couldn’t help feeling a teeny flash of delight at
having been called fetching. He called me fetching! He was still a jerk, though. No denying that.

But a girl likes a compliment.

I flicked that temporary insanity aside and resolved to have a little face-to-face with Editor Pavel ASAP and let him know he was in my crosshairs. I spotted him just after the last bell of the day, striding on those stork legs toward the school exit. A couple of his friends flanked him on either side. I trotted after him in baby steps, as fast as my pumps could take me. When I caught up with him, I grabbed the strap of the backpack on his shoulder. He turned around with a scowl that dissolved into a grin when he saw me.

“Is your name Luke Pavel?” I asked.

His blue eyes peered at me through those wire-frame glasses. “Guilty. So how was your first day? Make lots of friends?”

“Actually,” I said, “I think it’s you I have to thank for all the friends I made today. Or didn’t make, rather.”

One end of his mouth curled up like a dry worm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the way you’ve heartlessly humiliated me on your website. Numerous times. Even today.”

Luke Pavel winked at me and half-shrugged. “It was news. I had to report it.” He patted the side of my arm as if we were old pals. “Sorry, kid. Freedom of the press. What can I say? The First Amendment’s a killer.” He locked eyes with one of his buddies and they shared a conspiratorial chuckle. He turned to go, and I grabbed his backpack again.

“You know what else the First Amendment grants?” I
said. I didn’t wait for him to answer. “The right to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

His eyes widened and he stuck out his chin, impressed.

“And you can be sure,” I continued, “that I am going to petition the government of this school, and there will be a redress for my grievances.”

He cocked his head. “I see. So basically, you’re going to tattle on me to daddy. Is that what you mean?” He switched his backpack to his other shoulder and took a step away from me. “Go nuts. Herr McKenna can’t touch me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Illegal,” I corrected him.

“What?”

“You haven’t done anything
illegal
. You have done something wrong. Those two words are not synonymous.”

Luke Pavel whistled high and long. It reminded me briefly of a missile in descent. “Wow,” he said, “they sure do give you a good education over there in Meriton.” He put on an exaggerated hillbilly voice. “We dun never seen such smarts an’ words an’ learnin’ out here in the kern-fields of Redneckville.” One of his buddies snorted. The other one laughed and made a lame attempt to cover it by coughing.

I cranked up the lady look and said, “NO KIDDING.” I stiffened and walked past him, cutting just inside his personal space. Many times, Mom had advised me always to be the first to leave. Never be walked-out upon. That’s how she said it, too. Walked-out
upon
. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was tacky to end a sentence with a preposition. Mom came from old money and family breeding, but
her formal education consisted largely of cotillions, lobster bakes, and cocktail parties. Her high school diploma and bachelor of arts degree were basically formalities purchased by my grandfather to ensure her attractiveness to men. His real hope for her future hung on his unfailing belief that she’d marry well.

Luke Pavel called after me, “If you hate it here so much, then why did you transfer?”

I stopped. Pivoted. Sauntered back to Luke Pavel. Made my eyes into slits and leaned toward his face. “I wasn’t given a choice.”

His expression blanked. Then his brows knitted like he was puzzling something out. I didn’t stick around to hear his next witty comeback. I spun around and left. I couldn’t help doing a bit of my supermodel runway walk to make sure that my pencil skirt looked good from behind. That was another trick of Mom’s.
Way to go, Mom.
Who knew she’d come in so handy?

As I stalked away from Luke Pavel, generations of haughty women walked with me. They were in my DNA. Even though I tried to suppress the snobbery like Bruce Banner does to the Incredible Hulk, sometimes it just overtakes me. To be perfectly honest, there are also times it’s pretty helpful. Just like the Hulk is for Bruce.

Only half of my DNA was upper class, though. The other half was blue collar. When Mom brought home a young high school English teacher who’d enchanted her with romantic lines lifted from Shelley, Keats, Browning (and of course Shakespeare), my grandparents freaked. When Mom told
them that she and Dad were engaged, Gran threatened to cut her out of the will and Granddad actually got the key to the antique gun case. Then he said that Dad owed him for sixteen years of private school and university tuition, not counting the three years at the most exclusive preschool in Manhattan. To which my father said, “You put Anne in school when she was only two years old? What kind of father does that? No wonder she gravitated toward a teacher rather than some overbearing, alcoholic elitist who’d never done anything with his hands but count money.” Dad was a bit of a radical at the time, and he had a big mouth. A freethinker leftover from the seventies. And also, to Granddad’s horror, a Democrat.

It was only when they threatened to elope that Gran backed down. There was absolutely no way she’d allow it. Everyone would think that Mom was “in the family way” (which is the wealthy way to say preggers), and that simply could not be tolerated.

So they resigned themselves to having Dad for a son-in-law and threw an extravagant, black-tie New York wedding. My father’s family drove in from New Jersey and were politely ignored for the evening. I’ve been told that they took ample advantage of the full bar, however.

After I came along, things smoothed out a bit between my parents and grandparents. Even more when Zach did. When Dad got the job as principal seven years ago and began hinting at something even higher, Granddad took it as an aspiration to politics and began slapping Dad on the back and shaking his hand and listening to Dad’s conversation
at the dinner table. When Dad registered as a Republican, I think Granddad nearly cried.

On my way to the main office, I composed my petition for redress. I made a list of reasons why Luke Pavel’s online rag and the Senior Scramble should be given the ax. Posting the picture last year was nothing more than bullying. I knew for a fact that Dad had a zero-tolerance policy for that, so the bullying angle was probably my best bet. I would include the caption contest and yearbook picture in my bullying argument too. With any luck, I might be able to get him to recall the yearbook proofs.

As for the scavenger hunt, well, that was simply a bad idea. It had the potential to get out of hand. It was probably illegal, technically, even if it did just involve petty theft. It wasn’t fair to expect the police to turn a blind eye to criminal mischief every year. Someone could easily get hurt. Someone
had
gotten hurt. And frankly, the scavenger hunt was tacky. I decided I’d save that last point in case I needed to appeal for my mother’s help.

I would present my case in a sensible, logical fashion. I would not get upset. I would not play the crying card. There’d be no need to. Dad would see that I was right about the online newspaper, right about the Senior Scramble, even right about the yearbook. He would be taking a firm stance on bullying and sparing the junior class indignity and peer pressure.

It would make him look like a strong and responsible leader to the school board when the superintendent position opened up.

* * *

Just before the head secretary, Gladys, put on her official secretarial smile, I caught a glimpse of burnt-out exhaustion on her face. In that second, she’d looked ten years older than in the next, when she blinked a few times and said cheerfully, “Oh! How was your first day?”

Long ago, I had made two policies for myself: never complain to strangers, and never answer kindness with antagonism. So even though I wanted to tell her that it was terrible, then brush by her without permission and barge into my father’s office, I didn’t. I put my own official smile on my face and said, “It was fine. Thank you for asking. I was hoping to see my father for a minute. Is he available?” Dad’s workday didn’t end until an hour and a half after school did.