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Authors: Melissa Parkin

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The
fallen foliage of autumn danced about the streets as the Saturn rocketed down
each stretch, the greenery of the trees overhead ablaze with vibrant tinges of
red, orange, and yellow. This was the first time I saw with my own eyes the
splendor of the fall months. Up until eight months ago, I had lived in the
city, and there wasn’t much distinction between the seasons other than the
temperature if you didn’t visit the scarce parks.

When
we rolled out of the woodlands to the temporary open stretch of the oceanfront,
I observed the heavy overcast hanging above the Atlantic tides just off shore.
Despite the sun’s higher position in the sky, Maine’s coastline still burned
with the warm palettes of sunrise.

Gwen
roared into the school parking lot at 7:21 a.m. and took our designated space.
The seniors were privileged with seats closest to the building, but because we
registered our parking permit under Ian’s name, Callaghan granted us the next
best available parking for juniors since the charts were arranged
alphabetically.

I
threw the strap of my satchel over my head and adjusted it on my shoulder as
the three of us climbed out of the car.

“Hey,
Ginger-vitis!” called out a blonde four rows down. It was Stacy MacArthur,
captain of the cheerleading squad and resident high school tormentor, not to
mention Gwen’s arch nemesis.

“Keep
talking, Stacy. Perhaps one day you just might say something intelligent,” Gwen
replied with a fake smile as she smoothed out her red locks.

“At
least my head doesn’t look like it had a misadventure in Kansas,” Stacy fired
out.

“At
least I’m all natural, unlike a certain bottle blonde I just so happen to be
staring at,” rebutted Gwen with wicked delight. “Don’t think anyone’s forgotten
about that mousy brown hair you sported for fifteen years.”

“It’s
too early in the day for this,” I said, urging Gwen away from what was
inevitably going to be a physical confrontation.

Ian
and I each took one of her arms and guided her to the front of the building.

“I
hate her,” said Gwen, shaking herself out as if Stacy’s invectives had dampened
her. “I revel in the concept of karma, because when things come 360 for her...”

“It’s
gonna be an even bigger bitch than she is,” Ian finished as we headed up the
stone steps to the duel door entrance of the high school.

“Aww,
I love when you speak foully,” said Gwen. “And trust me, she’s every bit
disserving of it.”

“Although,
those are rather harsh words coming from you,” I said to Ian. “Something
personal there?”

“Asides
from the time when Stacy convinced everybody in our second grade class that I
was responsible for killing all their pets, then no,” he replied.

“Come
again?”

“When
we were seven, there was a serious case of canine influenza going around. A lot
of the kids’ dogs started getting sick. Some even died. And Stacy, being the
opportunist she’s always been, took it upon herself to persuade everyone that I
was dabbling in dark magic and was using it to wreak havoc on man’s best
friend.”

“And
they bought into that?”

“Unfortunately,
yeah,” said Gwen. “I seriously thought up until I was ten that he was
responsible for killing Archibald.”

“Archibald?”

“He
was an Irish Wolfhound I had growing up. We nicknamed him Baldy, because he had
a skin disease that caused severe hair loss,” Gwen affirmed.

“In
other words, it was the ugliest dog you’d ever see,” Ian chimed in.

“Hey!”
Gwen cracked, slapping his arm with the back of her hand. “Who asked you
anyway, Harry Potter? For all I know, maybe you did kill him.” 

“I’ll
take full responsibility for it if you admit that Stacy was actually right
about something for once then,” replied Ian, merrily greeting his pre-victory.

Gwen
simply pursed her lips, not even bothering to contemplate such a notion.
Admitting something complimentary about her greatest enemy was one thing she
was incapable of doing. 

As
much as I tried not to hate anyone, Stacy MacArthur topped my list of
most-unfavorable
,
teetering a fine line between that and
despicable
. Her bullying was
spared from no one, not even if you were a blind, handicapped nun. Thankfully,
Stacy had never crossed paths with such an individual, so I guess that could
still be left to speculation.

“Kansas?”
piped Gwen, pulling out her compact mirror to check herself out. “That doesn’t
even make sense! My hair doesn’t look like that, does it?!”

Ian
and I both struggled to hold back our laughter, seeing Stacy’s main purpose of
getting under Gwen’s skin take root.

“No,”
I assured. “Your hair’s fine.”

That
was a complete understatement. Gwen’s hair was far from fine. It was beautiful.
She had inherited her flaming red, multihued auburn locks from her mother, and
it had natural body and a silky smooth texture. Her hair was the envy of every
girl in school, even Stacy MacArthur.

In
fact, everything about Gwen was enviable. She was just short of 5”5 (minus the
heels, of course), naturally slender, blessed with just enough curves desired
by the opposite sex, and had dark blue eyes she accentuated with smoky makeup.

I
could not declare Gwen Meyer to be my best friend. No, she was more like my
partner in crime. She was impulsive and reactionary, daring and direct.
Surprisingly, those qualities were the ones that I found myself most desirous
over.

“You’re
lucky your hair is so low maintenance,” said Gwen, pointing at my long, black
mane. “Mine can never decide what it’s doing.”

“Yeah,
I’ll call in Disaster Relief on your account,” I joked. “FEMA has some cleaning
up to do, just above your shoulders.”

It’s
not that I’m tragic looking or anything, but when someone as naturally alluring
as Gwen tries to downplay the attractiveness of her appearance, it only makes
me scrutinize my own faults all the more. My sister use to do the same thing,
and it always put me one step closer to dressing in ponchos and ski masks.

When
we reached my locker, Gwen spent the entire time analyzing herself in the small
magnetic-backed mirror I had pinned on the metal door.

“You
both have equally beautiful hair,” said Ian, coming up and roughing his fingers
through the top of my head until my face was covered with hair.

With
obscured vision, I grabbed a pair of sunglasses I knew was sitting on the top
shelf of my locker and I put them on over the hair. “I know, aren’t I just adorable?”
I cracked.

“Even
prettier than Cousin It,” laughed Ian.

“You
should try that look, Gwen. Not many could pull that off, but I think it would
do you wonders,” said Stacy, strutting passed us with her posse of wannabe
followers.

“Try
holding your hands over your ears. Maybe it’ll help keep what’s left of your
brains from spilling out,” I said unexpectedly, brushing the hair off my face.

Stacy
certainly seemed taken aback by my comment as well, since I usually assumed the
role of mediator between Gwen and her. She simply gave me a sharp glare and
stomped away.

“Look
who’s taken a turn to the dark side,” remarked Gwen. “I like it.”

“I’ll
catch up with you guys,” I said, seeing our English teacher, Miss Tipton,
heading into her classroom.

She
didn’t close the door behind her, so I knocked on the doorframe upon arrival.

“Ah,
Cassie,” she said, looking up from her thick rimmed reading glasses and
motioning me inside. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“I
was just wondering... you wouldn’t happen to have any extra credit work
available, would you?”

“Is
this for you or someone else?”

“Me.”

She
chuckled. “Cassie, you already have an A.”

“Yeah,
well, that’s just a grade. What I’m more concerned about is my grade point
average. If I can raise it with the help of my better subjects, it’ll help
cushion my worse ones,” I said, taking a seat on top of a desk in the first
row. “AP Bio’s proving to be a bit tricky for me, and you know Mr. Rothenberg’s
grading system hardly leaves chance for improvement.”

“What’s
your grade, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Eighty
six.”

She
laughed again.

“I’m
serious. I need help. One less than perfect test from him and I’ll be straddling
the terrifying lines between a B- and C+.” At this point, my voice had fallen
into that of a plea. “Please, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“I’ll
look into it,” Miss Tipton assured. “If I can think of anything, I’ll let you
know. Now, go run along, and try to actually lighten up. Take a chill pill.
Kick back your feet. Hang loose. Whatever it is you kids do.”

“Thank
you!” I bounced back up off the desk and nearly did a victory dance when I
exited, but since there were more students heading into the building, I decided
against it. Last thing I needed was a hideous video of me on YouTube doing the
fist pump or moonwalk.

 

Upon
being dismissed from Miss Tipton, I hastened down the hall to find Ian already
waiting for me at my locker.

“Chop
chop, little lady,” he said. “If you don’t get a move on, you’re not gonna beat
Mr. Rothenberg to Bio.”

I
slapped my textbook against his arm after dialing in my locker combination. “As
Franklin P. Jones would have said, ‘The trouble with being punctual is that
nobody's there to appreciate it.’”

“I
love it when you talk like that,” he said cheerfully.

Ian’s
complete acceptance and appreciation for my peculiarities was always welcoming
in the morning.

“You’ll
never guess what a little birdie just told me,” piped Gwen, rushing to my side
with an exuberant bounce in her step.

“Probably
because no one cares enough to speculate,” replied Ian.

Gwen
returned his remark with one of her signature eye rolls. “Brad wants to ask
Cassie to Homecoming.”

“Like,
Oh. My. God!” said Ian mockingly. “Move over Mount Olympus. Gwen Meyer’s
discovered the eighth wonder of the world!”

Amid
my chuckling, I managed to ask, “Is that name supposed to mean something to
me?”

“You
know Brad,” said Gwen insistently. “Brad Stevenson!”

My
unexpressive reaction said it all.

“My
God, come out from under that rock you’re living under and join society!” Gwen
exclaimed. “We have P.E. with him. He’s on the baseball team. Medium height,
athletic build, has pipes as ripped as Jeremy Renner’s.”

“Yeah,
not ringin’ a bell,” I replied.

“Follow.”

Gwen
led Ian and me to the west wing hallway that had a long, glass window overlook
of the gymnasium. She set her sights out for the stranger in question, and
pointed to Brad the second she saw him.

“Really?”
I said.

“I
know, right? Isn’t he a sweet slice of American pie?”

“Who
told you he’s interested?”

“He
did, just now during your little powwow with Miss Tipton.”

“I’ve
never even talked to him.”

“Well,
you’ve still seemed to have left an impression. So?”

“What?”

“You
want me to introduce the two of you?”

“Why?”

“Because
he’s cute, and you need a date for Homecoming.”

“No,
I don’t.”

“Hold
the phone. What aren’t you telling me here? Someone already asked you?!” asked
Gwen gleefully. “Was it Will? No, Nate! Or Ben?!”

“No,
no, and hell no,” I declared. “I’m not going to Homecoming.”

“The
hell you’re not. Homecoming is a staple for every teenage girl. It’s a
milestone that you’re not missing out on. Only complete outcasts don’t go. If
you want to ensure your façade of normalcy, you have to.”

“As
much as it pains me to say this, she does have a point,” Ian denoted. “It’s a
necessary evil for surviving the shark infested waters of high school.”

Gwen
began backpedaling towards the stairwell that led to the gym. “So, are you
coming?”

“I’m
not going with some random stranger, especially if I’m not interested in him.”

“You
don’t think he’s cute?”

“I’m
not saying he’s unattractive, but he’s not exactly making my pulse race. If I
have to be dragged by my hair to this thing, I would prefer to go with someone
that I at least like. Saying ‘yes’ to Brad inspires the same indifference as
saying ‘yes’ to the cafeteria’s soup of the day. Isn’t the point of Homecoming
to have fun and to be with someone you really like?”

“Excuse
me, Bella, but if only the love struck, googly eyed, hopeless romantics went to
the dance, then we’d have about as strong of a turnout as our chess team
matches. For the female half of the class, it’s about getting dressed up and
feeling like a princess for that one night with adorable eye candy on our
arms.”

“While
the guys think about nothing other than scoring with their dates after getting
them tipsy on spiked punch,” added Ian.

Gwen
instantaneously punched him in the arm.

“And
that’s exactly why I’m not going,” I affirmed.

There’s
no reaction more urgent to correct than that of a woman scorned, so Ian was
clearly burdened with having to salvage Gwen’s hopes.

“Okay,”
he said, wrapping an arm safely around me. “If it comes down to it and you
can’t
think of
anyone worth going with, then I will happily accompany you. And I promise not
to get you too drunk.”

“Aww,”
I chuckled. “How sweet of you.”

“No!”
exclaimed Gwen.

“What?
I like that idea. If Prince Charming and his stallion don’t ride up, then at
least I know that I’ll spend the evening with someone I know I can enjoy being
around.”

“And
you’ll look like an even bigger Bi-otch than if you didn’t go at all,” declared
Gwen irately.

“Care
to explain?”

“Based
on calculation, you’re gonna wind up turning down at least a handful of offers.
Then let’s say you go to the dance with Houdini over here. You’re telling me
that won’t drop your high school social rating?”

“I’m
right here, you know,” Ian pointed out.

“Take
it easy. It’s not about you and your social status, mostly,” Gwen confirmed.
“Everyone knows the two of you are friends, so when you go, people are going to
ask if you’re more than that. Then you’re gonna pull the whole ‘no, we’re just
friends’ bit, and it’s gonna make Cassie look like a snob because she rejected
perfectly good classmen. They’ll know it won’t be because she was already taken
or because she already had her sights set on someone in particular, but because
her discarded suitors just weren’t living up to her pretentious standards.” 

“Did
I not get some kind of teenager’s survival guide that the rest of you were
issued?” I asked. “I’m really not sure if I’ve been living in a cosmic rabbit
hole recently, but high school has never had this many rules.”

“This
isn’t about high school. This is the basic system of modern dating,” replied
Gwen.

“Terrific,
so for the next two weeks I’m gonna have to dodge every potential suitor,” I
moaned.

“Oh,
babe, your naivety sometimes is truly adorable. No, the guys don’t ask the
girls until the very week of the dance.”

“The
logic being...? If this is supposed to be about us getting dressed up, then why
is there no time given in advance to prepare?”

“Because,
no man wants to come off as needy. If he asks the girl too early, then it gives
us females the upper hand. We know he likes us a lot, and possibly too much. So
if you’re skeptical about him, then his urgency corroborates further doubts
because you don’t want someone clingy. And if you happen to be one of those
clingy girls, then this could overwhelm the situation if the guy’s not as into
you as you thought. In other words, it’s a man’s worst nightmare. In the
meantime, we go out on the prowl for our dream dress and accessories. With our
window shopping completed, we can step up to the plate at a moment’s notice
with a simple run to the store. Crisis averted.”

“Averted?
That whole logic in itself is a crisis,” I said, already mentally exhausted by Gwen’s
rundown.

“Well,
then at least appreciate your dodging-timeline being cut in two.”

“True.”

The
two-minute warning bell blared overhead, and we parted ways for class.

BOOK: Divine Vices
10.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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