Best Kept Secret (6 page)

“Well,” Mr. Ford continued, clearing his throat. “I'm pleased to introduce our student band for this evening. And I think they're really on to something with their name. Here they are … Pythagorean Theorem!”

With that, a spotlight shined on Forrest's face as he started a kind of yelly singing into the microphone. Though I couldn't hear the words exactly, the music behind them was not bad. There was Jimmy “Penguin” Carroway on guitar, J. D. Danner on drums, and Tyler Lima on keyboard. Luke Zubin was doing some kind of sound effects (there were bells on his sneakers) and playing an overturned plastic bucket, bongo style.

I won't lie. Pythagorean Theorem was a little rough in spots, but there was a song in there, maybe even one I recognized. And Forrest looked just as red-hot as ever, even more so with a guitar in his hand and brown hair falling over his eyes, which were closed as he sang some of the lyrics. I wondered if he was being intense or just straining to remember the words. I felt myself drifting toward some kind of waterfall. To save myself from this plunge, I forced my brain to think of bad things about Forrest. This was kind of like when you're trying not to laugh and people say “dead puppies.” But the only bad thing I could come up with was that he smelled like wet dog that one day in the car.

At first, the crowd was really behind Pythagorean Theorem. There was a lot of
woo-hooing,
especially when Forrest paused to introduce the band members. But the crowd grew restless after the band played a song Forrest said they wrote themselves. I scanned the stage area for Piper, and she still was just offstage, dancing like one of those glamorous girls who was “with the band.” Anger bubbled and boiled inside me.

“We're going to take a break and be back for another set later,” Forrest said to a mix of boos and claps. The DJ returned and a crush of people rushed toward him with song requests.

Just as I was about to ask Bet if she liked Forrest's band, I felt another tap.

“Want to dance, now that there's some real music on?” Jake said.

“Uh…”

“I have to go do some filming anyway,” Bet said, darting off before I could stop her.

Bet was going to do some on-the-dance-floor interviews for her follow-up report on whether the dance was a success, or if anyone was still fired up about the controversy. The only thing I was fired up about was the Forrest and Piper situation. Ugh, she was probably dabbing his sweaty brow with a towel right then.

“Sure,” I said, hoping desperately that both Piper and Forrest would see us dancing.

On the dance floor, I laughed, smiled, and tried to look my very coolest for the entire song. Jake seemed a little stiff, but at one point he grabbed my hands in a funny disco move. He wasn't so bad. I told him about how I was adding “flower” as a suffix to everything. That made me a dance-floor-flower, and in a minute I'd be a water-fountain-flower because I couldn't drink another drop of that syrupy punch. I darted off and kind of hoped that Jake wouldn't follow me. If this was how it felt to have someone like you, it felt weird and awkward. I wondered if this was how I made Forrest feel for all these years.

I found Bet in the cafeteria, where a bunch of people including Forrest and Piper were gathered around. Bet had her camera on. She wasn't interviewing people about the dance right then. She was filming another underground session of the Catch-It-in-Your-Mouth Olympics. The teachers hated this, so if you wanted to play, you had to be quick. It was only a matter of time before someone would come in and break it up. Mark Sheehan tossed up an orange cheese puff, but it bounced off his nose and onto the floor. Piper stepped up and caught three in a row. More cheers for Piper. Great. I looked around for Forrest, but he was gone. Piper started looking for him, too.

“Hello, like, where'd my date go?” she asked of no one in particular.

Back out in the lobby, it was clear where Forrest had gone. Pythagorean Theorem was back onstage. As much as I liked watching Forrest, I decided to go with Bet on her interview with Ms. Russo. Bet was set up in the big room the school band used to practice. In the interview, Ms. Russo had softened her position some. She said she never wanted the dance to be canceled. But she did want girls to feel confident and happy, not desperate for a date.

“Really smart, wonderful girls can be dumb when it comes to guys. Sometimes they forget everything else when a cute boy walks in the room—their real personalities, their friends, et cetera,” she told Bet's camera.

Was she reading my mind? Did she know about me and Piper and Forrest?

“But boys are not the enemy. I hope I made that clear,” Ms. Russo continued. Without them, life would be much, much less … interesting, for sure.”

Ms. Russo seemed even more cheerful than usual. She said she was delighted at how the slightly adjusted Backward Dance turned out. Friends came with friends, and those who wanted to come as part of a couple did so. A boy could ask a girl and vice versa.

“Inclusive, not exclusive,” Ms. Russo said.

I so agreed that I piped in with, “Exactly! You can't believe all the relieved people who wrote to the PLS this week.”

Oops
.

I saw Ms. Russo sit up straighter and look over both shoulders before continuing. What she said next, she said in a whisper.

“Jemma, by the PLS, I assume you mean the Pink Locker Society? Isn't that group supposed to be dormant right now, shut down?”

We nodded.

“You girls would do well to keep all that Pink Locker business under wraps, understand?”

Yes, we nodded again.

Ms. Russo told us to wait a minute, stood up, and walked over to the door. She opened it and peeked her head out to look up and down the hallway. Just as she did that, we heard someone calling her name from the direction of the lobby.

“Yes, I'm here,” she called back. We heard her footsteps and then she said, “Right. Tell him I'll be right there.”

Ms. Russo poked her head back in the band room and said, “Sorry. To be continued.”

Bet and I just sat there a minute with me wondering how big a mistake I had just made. What if Ms. Russo told the principal and the principal told my parents?

“Ugh. Why do I always say the wrong thing?” I massaged my temples as if I had a pulsing headache.

“Don't worry so much,” Bet said. “I can't say for sure, but I think Ms. Russo is on your side.”

*   *   *

I left Bet and moved back into the loud music zone. I gave in—how could I not?—and spent some time with Kate and Brett. I had to admit they made a cute couple, and they were not one of those annoying duos who are so googly-eyed for one another that they make you, the third person, feel dumb. Still, when DJ Jeff said, “Let's slow it down a little bit,” and the music took an obvious turn toward a slow dance, I told them I had to go find Bet.

Really, that's the only trouble with going to a dance without a date: You feel like there's a spotlight shining on you when the music gets all quiet and couples start moving, hand in hand, to the dance floor. I didn't want to linger, for fear I'd see Forrest and Piper snuggling up. I might be forced to plow into them and force them apart. Maybe we could dance—all three of us—to show Piper just how much she had intruded on my deepest, longest, most treasured crush ever.

As I headed away from the dance floor, Taylor Mayweather and her replacement boyfriend brushed by me.

“Where's your sixth-grader?” she said.

The music was loud enough that I could pretend I didn't hear her. I had yet to see Forrest and Piper slow-dance, but I watched Kate and Brett, Tia and Fitzy, and a bunch of other couples make the awkward adjustments necessary. It looked to me like a hug, where you left some space between you and the other person. Then you shuffled your feet a little bit to the music. The part I knew I could never do is gaze into my partner's eyes the whole time. No lovesick staring contest for me, not even with Forrest.

But I was saved by the bell, or the vibration anyway, of my pink cell phone. I had turned off the ringer for the night and thought it might be my mom, or Bet trying to find me, but it came up as Piper. Shocked, I opened the text she sent to me and Kate.

COME TO MY LOCKER. IMPORTANT!

Fifteen

In moments, all four of us were gathered there. Bet saw me darting off and had followed me. I didn't stop her. Thankfully, Forrest was nowhere to be seen. I worried for a moment that they all had already found out that I spilled the beans to Ms. Russo. But that wasn't it.

“I told her,” I said, when everyone paused in recognition that Bet had come to the surprise secret meeting.

“Good. We need all the help we can get,” Piper said, flashing her phone at us. “Just look how many questions and messages the PLS got
during
the dance. We have people sending us messages
while
they are here!”

I noticed the questions coming in on my phone, but it wasn't, like, a zillion. Did we really need a meeting about this right in the middle of the dance?

“Hmmmm … I noticed some people were asking questions, too. I felt bad that people were home needing help instead of having fun at the dance,” Kate said.

Our phones vibrated, almost in unison.

“And there's another one!” Piper said. We all looked at our screens.

We all watched a new e-mail message appear in the box. The subject line said “SLOW-DANCING SCARES ME!”

“Well,
I
wouldn't know how to answer that one,” I said, looking at Piper.

“I don't know either,” Piper said, “since my date is either playing music or outside with his friends.”

Piper looked both angry and sad, but I didn't care if she was having a bad time with Forrest. In fact, I was not-so-secretly pleased.

“Are there any emergency questions?” Kate asked.

“There are a few from people who didn't come and are kinda lonely at home,” Piper said. “And some others are from people here at the dance who, like, don't know what to do or say to the people they like.”

Our phones vibrated again.

“There's another one!” Piper said.

As I looked back through the evening's mail, I saw the usual mix of questions about the PBBs (periods, bras, and boys). But as Piper and the other girls chitchatted behind me, I noticed one message that stuck out.

Dear PLS,

I am sad, sad, sad, and you are the only one I can talk to. I am not being conceited but I am very talented in a particular sport, so much so that if I told you which sport, you'd immediately know who I am. Let's just say that I have been in the newspaper and the principal is forever mentioning my latest achievements on the morning announcements. How I wish he'd stop!

This did bring to mind a couple of girls—one an ace basketball player, the other an all-county soccer player. Whenever anyone mentioned these girls, a parent was likely to say, “Must be nice to be college-scholarship material.” I, on the other hand, despite my former flirtation with gymnastics and my new affiliation with the track team, was not scholarship material, apparently.

Well, the trouble is that I no longer want to do that sport. I wake up in the morning, wishing I didn't have to go to practice. I've even started “forgetting” required pieces of my uniform or equipment. But that hasn't worked. Someone always finds me a replacement this or that. My mother has twice interrupted her workday to zoom home and retrieve the “forgotten” item. I can't bear to tell my parents, coaches, or teammates the truth: that I just want to stop playing right now.

I don't care if I'm good at it. I don't care if I could make it to the Olympics or get a free ride to college. I'm just done, done, done with it. If I tell the truth, everyone will ask why, and I can't really explain. I've even thought of doing something like breaking my finger or toe or something so I'd have to take time off. I'd do anything to stop. Pleeeeease keep this message a top-secret secret.

Signed,

Queen Quitter

Just as I was sifting through my memory to try to match Queen Quitter with one of those alpha athletes in our school, another message came in.

“See?” Piper said.

But the latest message wasn't from anyone at the dance or Queen Quitter or any one of our usual customers.

Girls,

Really, it's time to close up shop. I'm not the enemy, but you're on dangerous ground!

A P.F.

“Dangerous ground?” What did that mean?

But I still wanted Piper to feel dumb for calling this impromptu meeting. Really, what could the four of us do at this minute, standing in the hallway outside a dance?

“I say we answer these on Monday, like usual. I really don't see why you called us here,” I said.

Piper dropped her chin to her chest and spoke these words to the floor: “I guess I just wanted to see you all. I feel alone here even though I'm with someone.”

That was about all I could take, so I walked away and Bet followed me. Kate stayed behind with Piper. To talk about what? How terrible it is to be at a dance with the hottest guy in school?

*   *   *

Back out in the lobby, Mr. Ford was back at the microphone, this time with Ms. Russo at his side. He was thanking Pythagorean Theorem. Forrest looked tired, sweaty, and like he was ready to exit, stage left.

“A nice round of applause for this band that has a lot of … uh, promise.”

A smattering of claps followed.

“Before we turn it back over to DJ Jeff for the final half hour, Ms. Russo would like to say a few words.” Ms. Russo smiled out at the crowd and announced that she was forming a blue-ribbon committee to advise next year's eighth graders for the Backward Dance. Anyone who was interested was asked to sign her clipboard, and she'd be getting in touch soon with meeting dates.