7 Clues to Winning You (9 page)

“Don’t worry about it.” His eyes bored into Jenna’s, but
he spoke to me. “I only did it because I knew it would turn her on.”

She cradled his face in both of her hands and said, “Oh, yeah, right. Sure. That’s the reason. God forbid anyone should know you’re secretly a good guy.”

“God forbid,” he said, and went in for more kissing.

I whispered a paper-thin “See ya!” not to disturb them. I stood up and hoisted my messenger bag onto one shoulder. I left the pretzels for Cy and headed for the hall bathroom to clean myself up.

I didn’t get three steps out of the cafeteria doors when I nearly slammed into the one-and-only person who could put the cherry on top of my hot crap sundae. That’s right, Luke Pavel. Why was I always running into this guy? And I mean literally running into him.

I was too frazzled to stop and chat. I could feel the moisture from the ketchup seeping into the cami I was wearing under the tunic. It was damp and cold and I really didn’t want it to get any worse. Nor did I want to strip off the ketchup-soaked tunic out here in the hallway. This required bathroom privacy.

I tried to dart past Luke, but he hooked his finger in the strap of my bag. “Holy crap, what happened?”

I must have looked pretty pathetic, because there wasn’t even a note of ridicule in his voice. That I could tell, anyway. For all I knew, Luke could be an expert faker and master manipulator. Yet for whatever reason, I suspected that wasn’t the case.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Just a little present from the Ash
Grove welcoming committee.” I sidestepped him, but Luke jumped in front of me again. God, this guy was like a bionic jackrabbit or something.

“Wait a sec. Wait a sec.” He held one palm up to me. The other hand straightened his glasses. His eyes became steel-blue agates behind them. “You mean someone threw this at you?”

I sighed heavily and switched my bag to the other shoulder so he couldn’t snag it again. I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and said, “Look, just let me go, okay? Don’t pretend you give a shit.”

I would like to take a moment to point out that, on the whole, I’m not a potty mouth. I try not to swear because I think there are almost always more precise and descriptive words to use instead. But occasionally, as in this exchange with Luke, the swearword
is
the more precise and descriptive word. Plus, I wanted to use the word as a weapon.

It produced the intended effect. Luke drew back, looking astonished. He opened his mouth, and while he was momentarily distracted by the effort of thinking up what I’m sure would have been a scathingly witty retort, I slipped by him, yanked open the bathroom door, and slipped inside.

Once the door closed behind me, I took a deep cleansing breath like my dad always did. Then another. Then I checked the stalls. They were empty. The cafeteria was on its own hallway off one wing of the school, so I figured that unless someone had a violent intestinal reaction to Mystery Meat Monday, these bathrooms probably didn’t see much action.

I dropped my bag on the floor, peeled off my tunic, and washed it out in the sink. I noticed a wet spot on my cami from the moisture that had leached through, so I blotted it with a paper towel. That wasn’t helping much, and the bell rang anyway, so I tossed the paper towel, wrung out my sodden, spoiled tunic, shoved it in the bottom of my bag, and left.

Thank God there was no sign of Luke outside the bathroom door, or anywhere. I melted into the torrent of students like slushy snow into a rushing spring gully and disappeared down the hallway.

By the end of the day, the watermark on my top had dried into a wobbly O right in the middle of my cleavage. It was a minor battle scar, I decided. I was just about to declare day two at the Ash Grove Penitentiary a victory when the afternoon announcements came on. Instead of hearing Gladys Bolger’s voice like yesterday, I heard my father’s.

Attention, Ash Grove students, this is Principal McKenna.

I know some of you have heard rumors circulating today about the Senior Scramble. Although I realize that the Senior Scramble is a long-standing tradition here at Ash Grove, recent as well as past events have caused me to re-evaluate the role and effect the Senior Scramble has on the lives of Ash Grove students. Because I cannot, in good conscience, sanction an event that can so easily result in criminal behavior, as well as emotional harassment and bullying of other students, I feel that it is in the best interest of the school to hereby prohibit the Senior Scramble from this point onward in Ash Grove history. I know many of you will be unhappy with this decision, but I
must remain firm in my obligation to protect the welfare of the entire student body. Anyone caught participating in anything resembling the Senior Scramble faces suspension.

On an unrelated note, there has been a snag in the yearbook publication schedule. Final yearbooks will not be available until
mid-July. At that time, they can be picked up at the front office, as the administration will remain open throughout summer vacation.

And finally, Luke Pavel, please stop by my office before you leave for the day.

Thank you very much, and have a pleasant afternoon.

My first impulse was one of self-preservation. I wanted to run. To leap out of my chair and make a break for it. If mere rumors caused me ketchup stains, I couldn’t imagine what would happen to me now. I pictured myself tearing down the hallway and through the parking lot to the safety of my car, then locking my doors and frantically scrabbling to get the key in the ignition while being overtaken by a mob of ravenous zombies with fake tans.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that there’d be many, many more people out in the hallway than were here in the classroom. So despite having everyone around me flip out and start yelling, and despite being pummeled with insults and angry stares, I drilled myself to my chair and stayed put. I made eye contact with no one.

Since nobody wanted to stick around school any longer than necessary, soon enough the classroom emptied out and I was alone. The next breath I took felt like the first one in hours.

Then I waited. I sat there and waited for the rush of satisfaction I was expecting. I’d gotten what I wanted, after all. The Senior Scramble, the yearbook, even Luke Pavel. No doubt, he was being read the riot act by my father at that very moment and was probably being threatened with disciplinary action if he didn’t cease and desist publishing
Buried Ashes
.

So I should have been elated.

Except, I wasn’t.

I felt only one thing.

Fear.

I tried to talk myself out of being scared. Tried to justify my actions. Tried to convince myself that I’d done this for the greater good. For everyone in all the other nose-picking or drunken or sexting pictures out there. The only problem was, obliterating the Senior Scramble and derailing the yearbook and screwing over Luke Pavel didn’t really help those other people. It didn’t really help anyone at all. It didn’t, I finally realized, even help me.

Ms. Eulalie and Ms. Franny had been right. There was no good scenario that could’ve come out of my actions. And now it was too late. Too late for the Senior Scramble. Too late for the yearbook. But maybe not too late for Luke Pavel.

I jumped up, grabbed my things, and sprinted down the hall toward the main office.

Much to my disgust, but not my surprise, when I slammed open the outer office door, Gladys Bolger shot five feet out of her chair and started smacking her phone like it was covered in spiders. I glared at her, resolving to tell my
dad about her deception after all this was over, and barged into Dad’s office. He was alone, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.

“Where’s Luke Pavel?” I cried.

He raised his head. “He just left. I told him to pull the online newspaper.”

“Did he agree? He didn’t agree, did he?”

A cold quizzical look came over my father. “Agree? Agree to what? I threatened him with expulsion, Blythe. That’s the penalty for bullying under my zero-tolerance policy. There was nothing for him to agree to. Either he terminated the newspaper or he didn’t graduate high school. Why do you look so shocked? I did everything you wanted.”

I stood there rooted to the carpet, my mind a mile above the room. My ears buzzed and my pulse hammered inside my skin. I seemed to be inhaling and exhaling at the same time and I couldn’t quite figure out how to breathe.

“Dad,” I said barely above a whisper, “I think I made a mistake.”

I RAN. I WAS CRYING AND RUNNING AND I DIDN’T know where I was going. I saw lockers flying by in a blurry smear. I could still hear Dad’s voice in my ears, furious, yelling. Could see the confusion on his face. Disappointment in his eyes. Accusation.

I rounded a corner and kept going, thinking I’d hit an exit sometime. Instead, I hit a dead end. I was in the cafeteria hallway. Instead of a door to escape through, there was just a huge, nasty mustard-and-green Ash Grove Fighting Eagles flag. I spun around and ran the other way. I saw a person start to cross the end of the hallway. When I realized who it was, I froze.

I ducked inside the girls’ bathroom just before Luke Pavel had a chance to see me.

I collapsed against the concrete-brick wall and slid down to the floor, crying even harder. It was the kind of sobbing cry you know you can’t stop, so you just have to ride it out. After a few more minutes of shuddering and hiccuping, my brain finally let my body relax a bit. I forced myself to breathe in and out. I could only get air through my mouth, though. My nose was completely blocked. My eyes burned
too. That’s probably why I didn’t notice right away that the bathroom ceiling was clouded with smoke.

At first, I thought the school was on fire. Then I saw feet under the door to the handicapped stall. Feet wearing thick, black, high-laced boots and patent-leather Mary Janes.

“Jenna?” I called. “Is that you? Cy?”

The stall door opened a crack and Jenna peered out. She saw it was me and started cracking up. Her face disappeared behind the stall again and she said way too loudly, “It’s just Blythe!” I heard Cy snort and snicker and then snort again, and the two of them stumbled out of the stall. “Holy crap!” Jenna said, trying to lean back on the windowsill behind her. “I thought we were so busted!” She and Cy fell into sniggering hysterics again, clutching at each other for support as they tipped left and right.

“Are you guys getting high?” I pushed myself against the wall and stood up. “Oh my God, you’re smoking pot in the school bathroom. How cliché is that? God, this is such a bad after-school special.”

Cy shook his head at me for several long seconds before he finally said, “Nobody ever comes in these bathrooms.”

Jenna came over and wrapped her arms around me. “What’s wrong? Is it your dad?” I nodded, and her pink shaggy hair poked me in the cheek. Jenna pushed herself off me and held my shoulders. A smile bloomed on her face and her eyebrows danced up and down. “Wanna get high?” Cy wagged a small silver pipe in front of my face. It looked like something a garden gnome would smoke.

“Oh, ho … !” I made myself chuckle to be polite, but I
waved the offer away. “Oh, no thanks. Thank you. But no. Thanks.”

Cy leaned his elbow on Jenna’s arm, which was still riveted to my shoulder like an I beam. “I hate to break it to you, Blythe,” he said as he waved the pipe widely through the air, stirring the haze into swirls, “but you already are.” The two of them dissolved into a snorting, giggling mass again.

Of course, they were right. There was probably enough secondhand smoke in there to knock out a horse. I didn’t want to add “getting stoned” to the long list of reasons for my dad to hate me right now, so I grabbed my stuff and said bye to Cy and Jenna. I pushed the door open, ready to meet some fresh air.

Instead, I met Luke Pavel. Waiting for me outside the bathroom. He must have seen me after all.

For a reason I couldn’t comprehend, the first thought to cross my mind was what a mess I must look like. And smell like.

I pushed that aside, and the next thought was that Luke was pissed. Not furious or livid or enraged. He was pissed. That was the precise word for it. I knew he had every right to be.

“Have fun getting high?” he asked. “Now, what would dear Daddy say about that?”

“No!” I objected. “I’m not—”

“Please,” he sneered with condescension, “I could smell it from down the hall. Go ahead and lie if you want, though. Your bloodshot eyes pretty much say everything.” I opened my mouth to explain, but he took a step toward me. Instinctively,
I retreated. He nodded toward the door. “I guess you were having yourself a little celebration in there. Congratulations are in order, after all. Yippee for you, Blythe. You won. Way to go. I hope you’re happy, because no one else is. It took less than two days for you to screw over the entire school. You’re like a hurricane. Hurricane Blythe, a category-four crap storm. Oh, it was social suicide, no doubt. But impressive nonetheless.”

I stood there silently taking his chiding. I had a right to deny the pot, but nothing else. I tried to bear up with dignity, but by that point, my eyes were too used to crying. With almost no warning, they started up again. I tried to fight it, but all that did was make my chin and lips quiver uncontrollably while the fat tears tumbled down.

I got no sympathy from Luke. “Oh, here we go!” he said. “Things don’t go your way, so you start the waterworks. Such timing. Is that how you manipulate Daddy?” He laughed sarcastically. “You are some piece of work, you know that? And to think I actually felt bad for you today when you got pelted with ketchup. And yesterday, I thought I saw a glimmer”—he pinched the air in front of me—“just a tiny hint that you might be a smart, brave, decent human being.” He dropped his hand and drew upright. “But I was so wrong.”

He spun around to leave, but this time I was the jackrabbit. I rushed in front of him and planted my palm on his sternum. “You think you know me?” I cried. “You think that just because you recognize me from a photo, you know me? That since you know my father, you know me? Well, you don’t. You don’t know anything about me, Luke. Because if
you did, you’d know how hurt I was when you posted that picture last year. You’d know how long it took for me to get over it. You’d know how confused and betrayed I felt when my father took my home and my friends and my life away from me. How terrified I was of coming to school yesterday. How right I’d been to be scared. How degrading it was just to walk down the hall. How stupid and naive I was for thinking that maybe if I spoke to you, you’d realize that it was partly your actions that were making things horrible and difficult for me, and then maybe you’d stop. Maybe you’d turn out to be a smart, brave, decent human being yourself. But I was wrong too, Luke. It looks like we were both wrong.”