The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove (18 page)

“Oooh, I can’t wait,” Jenny squealed. “I bet it’s the best ‘Path to Palmetto’ this school has ever seen.”

I beamed at her and nodded. It was certainly going to be memorable. And more importantly, after tomorrow night, Officer Parker wouldn’t be giving me any more problems. Now all I had to do was find a minute today to sneak into Ari Ang’s projector room and swap the tapes.

The bell rang, and the girls and I exchanged hugs.

“Happy Jessamine Day,” we called on our way to class.

En route to French, I knew I’d find Mike by his locker. I snuck up behind him and covered his eyes with my hands. He jumped and turned around, then tried to recover and look relaxed when he saw that it was me.

“Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know why that scared me.” He looked down at the Jessamine, and his old grin spread across his face. “Hey . . .
nice
bud. I’ve been listening to people sing the praises of that Jessamine all day. Now I see why. You wear it so well.”

He swooped me up, smashing the Jessamine a little in the process, but I didn’t even care. I sucked playfully on his neck and purred.

“I’m so glad things are back to perfect with us,” I said.

“Hate to interrupt,” a voice called from behind us. We broke our embrace to find Officer Parker, with his eyebrows raised and his hands on his hips. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to keep it clean in the hallway.” He shook his head at me. “And I thought you might have learned a lesson from our conversation last week. Maybe you’re just too much of a little sl—”

“You shut your mouth.” Mike’s fist was clenched, and I knew it was on its way around Officer Parker’s collar.

“Mike,” I jumped in, pushing them apart. “Stop it,” I gasped. “He’s right. Let’s just go to class.”

I hauled him toward our last class, and we left O.P. fuming in the hallway.

“Don’t worry, baby.” I grabbed Mike’s hand. “He won’t be on our backs for long.”

But instead of heading to my French class, I dropped Mike off at his history class and waited until the halls were clear. Then I slipped into the A/V room with the DVD burning in my bag.

The windowless studio was dark and cold, and I bumped into more than a few rolling TV stands before I found a desk lamp. I’d only taken one media class at Palmetto, my first semester here, but from the looks of the same rickety tape reels, torn projector screen, and mystifying PA system, you’d think not much had changed in the world of technology over the past three years. I waded past the dated electronics toward the attic, an alcove jutting over the back of the gymnasium. Tomorrow night, Ari Ang would emcee the dance from here.

The Anger was nothing if not organized, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find his neatly labeled multimedia binder for the Ball. I’d already labeled my replacement DVD with the same Mike ’n’ Nat sticker that decorated the real “Path to Palmetto” DVD, so everything was ready to go.

I pulled open the thick soundproof door to the attic and stepped in. The room was a myriad of knobs and blinking lights that I would never understand, but it did have one of the best aerial views in the school. The tinted window above the main control panel overlooked the gym, which overlooked the football field, where we’d all had so many good memories.

But when I leaned up against the glass to look out, I was struck by one specific memory, the kind of memory I was least expecting.

I’d spent the bulk of first semester freshman year working on my final project for Media 101, a documentary on the town of Charleston. I remember being surprised to find myself so into it—maybe all those hours cutting footage in the A/V room were an excuse to be away from Mom and her sugar daddy du jour. But in the end, I remember being really proud of it. I was watching the final cut after school one day in the alcove when Justin Balmer barged in unannounced.

I’d had the soundproof headphones on, so I didn’t hear anything until he tapped me on the shoulder. I’d spun around so fast I knocked them off.

“Whoops,” he sounded surprised. “I was looking for Amber. Sorry.”

Amber Lochlan was a cool older girl in my media class, who went on to be that year’s Palmetto Princess. She had the same short dark hair as I did, so maybe we could have passed for each other from behind. But I liked to think my hair was not as susceptible to humidity as Amber’s.

I shrugged at J.B. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “I know you.”

I froze, trying to shake my head that no, he didn’t. I wasn’t anyone he knew.

A smile spread across his lips. “You’re the new girl who keeps avoiding me. Which makes you my next target.”

“You should save yourself the trouble,” I said, fumbling to pull my headset back on. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Ouch . . . so harsh.” He leaned forward, almost grazing my lips with his. “I swear we knew each other in another life. You should give me another chance.”

My body tingled at his touch, but my mind recoiled at his nerve. After a few panting breaths, I forced myself to push him away.

“Never,” I spit, not letting myself make the mistake of tacking on the word
again.

J.B. squinted at me then, and I hung there, terrified, after vowing how many times that I would never let myself feel trapped by a guy again.

And then what I remember most was the way his expression changed in that moment. The color drained from his face, and the side of his mouth started quivering. His eyes widened, like he was afraid, but then just as quickly, they narrowed into slits. He said nothing, just barged back out the attic door with awkward lurching steps that I’d chalked up to too much testosterone.

Now, three years later, alone in the attic again, I shivered. I’d been too consumed by my own fear that day to see what was behind his hasty exit. J.B. must have needed his meds, even back then. He must have been swallowing down those Trileptal as soon as he was out of eyeshot, while I struggled in my own way to compose myself over the control panel.

I yanked open the file cabinet. I
had
to stop letting him haunt me. I was going to make it through tomorrow night. And it wouldn’t be a good start to get busted lurking around the A/V room. Rifling through the file folders, I found Ari’s materials for tomorrow night. Inside the green tabbed folder were playlists for slow songs, playlists for fast songs, scripts for the faculty speakers. And our “Path to Palmetto” DVD.

This was no time for sentimental flip-flopping. I couldn’t think about the opening shot of the two of us walking arm in arm on Capers Beach. I swapped the CDs, slipped the original in my backpack, and headed for the door.

The bell for second period was about to ring, and I could still make it into my English class without incident. Tumbling back out into the brightness of the hallway, I turned the corner and nearly had a heart attack when I ran smack into Kate.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted.

“It’s called a hall pass.” She waved the laminated card in my face. “What’s your excuse?” Her eyes narrowed at me. “Why so on edge, Princess?”

There was a new iciness in her voice that I didn’t like the sound of. Had she seen me come out of the A/V room?

“Love your Jessamine.” I changed the subject swiftly, tugging on a particularly garish purple bell attached to her flower. “Did Baxter get it for you?”

“Mmm . . . more or less,” she stuttered. “He was able to call in the order absentee. I went to pick it up from the Duke last night—” She broke off, then looked up at me coolly. “You know what, I don’t need to justify this to you. You’ve made it more than clear what you think of him.”

I looked at the pride with which she wore that kitschy Jessamine and sighed. Mike and I had enough on our hands, what with taking the throne
and
taking down Baxter and O.P. We could not afford to have Kate cross over to the other side, too.

“Kate,” I cooed, cupping her cheek, “can’t you see, all I want is for you to be happy? And . . . if a long-distance rehab relationship spells happiness for you . . . well, who am I to judge?” I smiled, squeezing her shoulder in good-bye. “See you tomorrow night.”

CHAPTER Seventeen

“May I present,” Jenny read from her prompt into the microphone in front of the whole student body, “the Prince and Princess of Palmetto—Mike King and Natalie Hargrove!”

It was three hours later, and I was made-up and poured into my long plum-colored gown, standing hand in hand with Mike behind the curtain separating us from our subjects. Both of us wore our glittering crowns. I could feel the energy of the whole school on the other side of the curtain. When it rose, the crowd would roar, and Mike would escort me down the stage for our private waltz, the kick-off dance of the party. I couldn’t wait to get out there.

I knew my Jessamine sat in a glass cage under a spotlight on the stage so the rest of the school could come up and admire it more closely. I also knew that in a video projector at the back of the room, the very surprising DVD lay waiting for its premiere.

“You ready, baby?” Mike squeezed my hand.

“I’ve been ready for so long,” I said.

A drum roll rose up from the orchestra pit, and the glittering purple curtain rose up in front of us. Mike and I blinked into the bright lights shining down on us. I held my breath. The gym was packed with everyone we knew, transformed into the best-looking versions of themselves. Thick drapes of pearls covered the ceiling, giving the whole place the feel of an opalescent tent. The music for the classic Palmetto waltz began, and Mike turned to me and grinned.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

We’d gone over the routine a hundred times before—in Mike’s bedroom, in the halls at school, under the bleachers as foreplay. But when we started dancing, I realized that we hadn’t practiced once since everything happened with J.B. For a moment, both of us seemed to remember this at the same time, and we looked at each other a little bit terrified. But then, amazingly, the steps came right back to us both, as naturally as if we’d been rehearsing around the clock all week. The lights were so bright I couldn’t see anyone in the crowd, but I could imagine all of their faces, upturned and smiling at our first dance.

“Let’s hear it for the royal couple,” Jenny emceed when the song came to a close. The applause was loud and passionate. “Now, I invite you all to come out to the dance floor and
get on down.
”

Mike swung me around in one final lift and dipped me back for a kiss.

“Drinks?” he said.

“Drinks.”

We scooted to the back of the room where the massive bowls of virgin lunch-lady-made punch were being customarily spiked by Rex Freeman’s team of JV protégés.

“This is quite an operation, Rex,” I laughed.

He shrugged. His flushed face was as red as his hair. “I can’t do all the work myself,” he said. “How about two royally strong ones for the Prince and Princess?” he called to his workers.

The drinks were delivered, and Mike and I sat on a tall booth looking out at the party spinning before us. Everyone looked incredible—big hair and bold colors for the girls. The guys wore classy tuxes with handkerchiefs matching the color of their dates’ dresses.

“We needed this, didn’t we?” Rex said, with a rare tone of sincerity in his voice. “I mean, after the week we’ve all had, we all needed to just let loose.”

Mike and I looked at each other and nodded.

Rex clapped us both on the shoulder. “It’s you guys who are making things right again. Another Prince and Princess might have lost it. You two kept everyone strong this week.”

“Thanks, man,” Mike said, putting his hand over Rex’s, but keeping his eyes on me. Rex looked down and shuffled his feet. When he looked back up, he’d lost his serious look and had his usual lecherous gleam in his eyes.

“Well, I feel like a pud now,” he said. “I’m going to go get in touch with myself again by breaking off a piece of that Bambi over there.”

When he was gone, I leaned my head on Mike’s shoulder. He was laughing.

“Take a look at what’s happening on the dance floor. All my hard work is paying off.”

I followed Mike’s pointer finger and spotted Kate, in a pink cocktail dress, mugging down with a tall dark-haired and anonymous football player.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Who cares,” Mike said. “It’s not Baxter Quinn. Rex told me Baxter had the nerve to show up tonight—”

“
What?
” I gasped.

“Don’t worry,” Mike rubbed my neck. “He never even made it through the doors. Apparently he reeked of whiskey, and Glass sent him right back to his parole officer.” He pointed back out at the dance floor where the linebacker was grinding up on Kate. “Looks like that dude is definitely going to get the job done tonight.”

Everything was falling into place. Even though Officer Parker was keeping busy separating kids who were getting too freaky on the dance floor, at least he was giving us some space.

Before we knew it, Mike and I were being called back up to the stage where the dance committee had wheeled out two thrones for us to sit on while everyone watched our “Path to Palmetto” footage . . . or so they thought.

Principal Glass took the stage.

“Just a quick word,” he droned.

“Yeah, right!” someone hooted from the dance floor.

“To congratulate the student body,” Glass continued oblivi ously, “on your maturity and grace in the face of such a difficult week.”

“I’ll show you grace, asshole,” the hooter shouted again.

Whoa. I was all for taking little jabs at how lame Principal Glass was, but I was surprised that someone would be this ballsy about it. I tried to think of who would have the nerve. . . . Baxter Quinn
bette
r not have weaseled his way back in here.

Why didn’t Glass stop to quiet the crowd?