One Night That Changes Everything (22 page)

“Yes,” I say, affixing a tutu sticker to the cover of the binder as a final touch. “But now we have a copy.”

“So?” She stares at me blankly.

“So now we can trade their notebook for mine, but we have
this
copy”—I hold up the pink monstrosity—“as backup in case they ever decide to start their crap again.”

“Oh.” Clarice looks like I’ve just taken away her innocence. “Kind of like …
extortion
,” she whispers.

“Well, not really,” I say. “More like blackmail. But they started it.”

Marissa nods. “Okay,” she says. “Now what should we—”

Her phone starts ringing then, and she looks at the caller ID. “Jeremiah,” she whispers. “I almost … I mean, I kind of forgot about him.” She looks dazed, like she can’t really imagine that she could ever forget about Jeremiah. She flips open her phone and steps away for a second, over
near a big table that’s piled high with office supplies.

I gather up all the stuff we’ve used, bring it over to the cash register, and drop it down on the counter.

The guy who works there looks down and sighs.

“Sorry, Sam,” I say, reading his name tag and surveying the jumble of empty packages, ripped-open stickers, cellophane, and, of course, the pinkalicious binder. “I guess I kind of made a mess.”

“Kind of?” he asks. But not in an unfriendly way. In more of an, “Oh, God, how am I going to deal with this?” kind of way.

“If you knew the night I’ve had,” I say, “you would understand.”

He gives me a thin smile, then picks up the binder and scans it.

From behind me, I can hear Marissa on the phone. “Yeah,” she’s saying. “I’m glad you had fun. No, I know, I just … I’m not …”

I start to feel a little nervous as I realize what’s going on. Jeremiah is finally calling Marissa, but it’s way too late to hang out. He probably spent the night getting drunk and grinding on different girls, and now he’s giving her some dumb excuse for why he didn’t call. I’m pissed, not only because I don’t want Marissa to get hurt, but because the three of us are having so much fun. And now Jeremiah’s going to put her in a bad mood and ruin everything.

I look at Clarice, who is using one of the plate-glass floor-to-ceiling windows to check her reflection and give herself the
once-over. She turns around, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. Whatever Jeremiah’s telling Marissa is complete and total bullshit.

Sam the cashier finishes ringing up my ballet stickers. “Your total is seventy-six dollars and eighteen cents,” he announces.

But I’m not really paying attention. I’m still trying to spy on Marissa’s conversation. “Yeah,” she’s saying. “It’s fine, I can probably come over later today instead. I just don’t understand why you didn’t call me earlier.” Marissa just listens for a minute. And then, it’s like a switch flips. And Marissa starts to, um, go a little crazy. “You were SMOKING UP with Brendan and Robbie?” she yells. Her eyes get really wide and start to bug out of her head. “And you had to hang out with them because I LOST YOUR POT? I did not
lose
it, Jeremiah; I got it TAKEN FROM ME BY THE POLICE.”

Sam the cashier looks at me nervously, and I try to give him a reassuring smile. I’m about to tell him it was a total misunderstanding, that Marissa’s not a druggie or a dealer or anything, but Marissa’s still practically screaming. “You know, actually, I don’t think I
will
be coming over later. I’m busy.” And then she ends the call. I look at her. She looks at me. Clarice looks at her. She looks at Clarice. Me and Clarice look at each other, and then we both look back at Marissa.

“Jeremiah,”
she says, “couldn’t call me earlier because he was getting high with his dumb friends. And apparently he thinks it’s my fault since I lost his pot. He invited me over
later today, but I said I was busy.” She looks shocked at her own behavior, like she can’t believe for the life of her that she would say something like that.

“Good for you,” I say.

“
Great
for you,” Clarice says.

“Is someone going to pay me?” Sam asks.

When we get outside, I have three messages from Tyler, and judging from his tone, he doesn’t seem too happy.

Message one: “All right, why the fuck aren’t you answering? You have five minutes to call me back, otherwise I’m putting your notebook up on the web. I don’t even care.”

He’s bluffing, of course, because I have two other messages from him. I’m glad I didn’t get that first one, because I might have just been scared enough to call him back.

Message two: “Fine, Eliza. Look, I’m sorry we did this. We were mad, okay? You tried to mess with us and bring us down.” Actually, I didn’t. What I did was post something that was very true (okay, halfway true) online about one of their members. But whatever. Semantics, I guess. “Just give us back our notebook, and we’ll give you back yours, and we can just forget the whole thing ever happened.”

And then, finally, the third message, where Tyler has somehow turned into some kind of whiny thirteen-year-old.

Message three: “Eliza, please, can you just give it back to us? We don’t care what you post on Lanesboro Losers, we just really need that notebook back.”

I put the phone on speaker and play back all the messages for Marissa and Clarice.

“Wow,” Clarice says. “He’s, like, desperate.”

“He’s probably going to get his ass kicked,” Marissa says. We’re sitting in the car, the notebook and the pinkalicious binder sitting on the front seat. We stopped at the twenty-four-hour Walgreens next door to Kinko’s, where we bought snacks. And now we’re gorging ourselves while listening to the messages.

“Who would kick his ass?” I ask, taking a drink of my Snapple.

“The big boss,” Marissa says.

“Ooh, like in the mob!” Clarice says. She nods wisely, as if she knows all about organized crime. She leans over the seat and says, “Do we have any napkins up there?”

Marissa points to the glove compartment, and I pop it open and hand Clarice some napkins.

“Thank you,” she says, and wipes her hands daintily.

“What do you mean, ‘the big boss’?” I ask.

“Well, the 318s have been around for years,” Marissa says. “I’m sure they have some kind of leader, some kind of guy who’s the one in charge.”

“Tyler’s in charge,” I say, taking a big handful of caramel corn and popping it into my mouth. “Isn’t he?”

“He’s the president,” Marissa says. “But there’s probably someone else, like someone who’s been around for a while who, like, heads up the organization. Probably some
forty-year-old fat, balding man who is way too invested in what the 318s are doing and wants to live his glory days over and over through them.”

“Hmm,” I say, considering this.

“That’s what they do in my dad’s old college frat,” Marissa says. “They even have these dumb reunions where they get together every year and rent a party bus. Then they get drunk and ogle college girls and pretend they have a chance with them.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Wow,” Clarice says.

“Totally,” Marissa says, nodding. “So are you going to call him back so we can make the exchange?”

“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “I should probably call him back.” As much as I enjoy letting Tyler sweat it out, I do want my notebook back. And that will necessitate calling him back to meet up.

But when I pull my phone out, it rings in my hand. Cooper.

“Hello?” I say.

“Eliza?” he says. No
hey
this time.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Look, we want our notebook back.”

“No, I know,” I say. “I was just making a copy of it, it was—”

“Can you meet us in the school parking lot? In fifteen minutes?” He cuts me off, and then I get it. Tyler’s with him. They probably figured that if Cooper called me, I’d answer. Which
means they think I’m still half in love with him, which really pisses me off, since (a) I’m not and (b) the only reason I even answered the dumb phone was because I was about to call Tyler anyway.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll meet you there.” And then I hang up on him just in case he thinks I only answered because it was him.

When we get to the school, the parking lot is empty.

“Where exactly did they say?” Marissa asks.

“I dunno,” I say. “They just said the parking lot.”

“This place is really spooky,” Clarice says. Her eyes are wide as she looks out the window and takes it all in. The thing is, she’s right. This place
is
kind of spooky. The sun is just starting to peek up over the horizon, but for the most part, it’s still dark out. And even though there are lights in the parking lot, every space is empty, which just seems … wrong. Even when school’s out, the parking lot’s never empty, since there are always after-school activities or dances or sporting events or
something
going on.

“I really wish we wouldn’t have gotten here first,” I say. “It’s like getting somewhere first before a blind date—it’s awkward.”

“You’ve never been on a blind date,” Marissa points out.

“Yes, but I’ve seen tons of movies with blind dates in them,” I say. “Which is almost the same.”

We circle around the school a few times and then finally park over by the side of the gym. I lean my head back on the
seat and look up at the streetlights. A bunch of moths are flying around, attracted by the light, and I watch them for a second. The only sounds are the radio playing really softly in the car, and the heater blowing warm air out on its lowest setting.

Now that the high of getting the 318s’ notebook has faded, the whole thing with Kate is at the forefront of my mind, and it won’t go away. I mean, yeah, it’s been there kind of the whole time, nagging me, but I think I was using getting my notebook back as a distraction, and now that the distraction is gone, I can’t stop thinking about it. I pull my phone out and text Kate. “
LOVE YOU K. AND I AM SO SO SORRY.
”

Five minutes later, she still hasn’t texted me back.

Ten minutes later, she still hasn’t texted me back,
and
Tyler still hasn’t shown up. So I start to freak out.

“What if they’re not coming?” I ask.

“They’re coming,” Marissa says.

“But what if they don’t?”

“Then you turn the bastards’ notebook in to the school,” Clarice says vengefully from the backseat.

“But what if it doesn’t work?” I ask. “What if it was some kind of decoy notebook? What if it’s not even real? What if they don’t even care that I have their notebook? What if they just decided that they would post mine, anyway?”

“You think they made up a whole notebook just to fool you?” Marissa asks doubtfully.

“They’re not smart enough for that,” Clarice pipes up helpfully.

“But what if—”

I don’t get a chance to finish, though, because at that moment the sound of car engines fills the air. Driving toward us are three cars, all of them filled with guys.

“Oh my God,” I say. “They brought their whole … their whole …
posse
.”

“Posse?” Clarice repeats. She wrinkles her tiny nose. “I don’t think anyone says
posse
anymore.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out what looks like a small can of hair spray. “But don’t worry, I have pepper spray.”

“Pepper spray?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know, if they try to do anything.” She shrugs. “You can’t be too careful, Eliza. You should have some too, the way you gallivant around the city all by yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I frown. “Tonight is the first time I’ve ever ‘gallivanted’ around the city by myself, and it doesn’t really count because not only did I not have a choice, I definitely didn’t have time to stop at a store and pick up any kind of self-defense paraphernalia. And besides—”

“Anyway,” Marissa says, holding up her hand and cutting me off. “They’re not going to hurt us.” She opens her door and steps out of the car. “They’re just pretending to be all macho.”

“How do you know?” I ask, looking at the car door handle and wondering if I should lock the door and stay in the car, or risk it and get out.

“Because there are cameras all over this parking lot,” she says.
“Remember last year when Tyler got busted for graffiti? He knows there are cameras, do you really think he’s going to hurt us?”

“What if they’re wearing masks?” I ask. “So that no one will be able to tell who they are?”

“The cameras would pick up their cars,” Marissa says. She puts her hands on her hips. She’s out of the car now, and she looks at me through the open door.

“What if they take us to an undisclosed location?” I ask. “With no cameras?”

“How would they do that if we refuse to get in the car?”

“I dunno,” I say.

“I’m still bringing my pepper spray,” Clarice declares. She loops the keychain part of it around her finger.

We both reluctantly get out of the car and walk around behind it. The parking lot is actually lit really well, which makes me feel a little bit better.

Tyler gets out of his car, and for a second, I feel like we’re going to have some kind of showdown or, like, shoot-out or something. A few more guys get out of the cars around him, including Cooper. I avert my eyes and look down at the ground.

“Did you bring it?” Tyler asks. In his hand is my purple notebook.

“Yeah, I brought it,” I say. I pull his black notebook out from behind my back and show it to him.

He holds his hand out.

“No way,” I say, pulling it back. “You first.” If he thinks he’s going to get me to give him his notebook first, he’s crazy.

“No,” he says. “You first.” I narrow my eyes.

“
You
first.” This is ridiculous.

“Fine.” Tyler holds the notebook out and I move toward him, but at the last second, he yanks it back.

“Real mature,” I say. I mean, really.

“Who gave you our pledge book?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to play innocent.

“Who,” he says, a little more growly this time, “gave you the 318s’ charter?”

“No one
gave
it to me,” I say. “I broke into your house and stole it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Tyler says. “My parents said you didn’t have anything when you left, and I was there after you were. The notebook was still there, and then it was gone.”