A Match Made in High School (20 page)

“How many schools are here?” Johnny asked. “When do you guys go on?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. I looked at Simone for an answer.

“Do you know?”

“There are ten squads,” she said, “and each does a five minute routine featuring their best cheers. The first slots are rough, because the judges keep scores low, in case better squads come next. The middle slots are best because the crowd is enthused and the energy is good. The worst slot is the last one, because everyone is tired, and usually the squad has been psyched out by the competition.”

“Which are we?” I whispered haltingly.

“Mrs. O’Toole drew us as last.”

My stomach rose up at least halfway into my esophagus. I gagged and tried to swallow, but ended up semiconvulsing. Marcie and Johnny backed away.

“Uh, we’re going to get some seats,” Mar said way too nicely. “You just . . . try to relax and . . . have fun. Come on, hubby.”

“Good luck,” Johnny said. The two of them slunk away.

Good luck? Have fun? Wasn’t that what the freaking marriage ed packet had said? Goddamn marriage ed. If it hadn’t been for that stupid-ass course, I wouldn’t have been here poised on the brink of eternal disgrace. And why did Johnny Mercer have to come? Why did Mar have to bring him? I knew she wanted me to “get to know” Johnny better, but why here? I needed to focus on the cheers, but all I could think about was Johnny Mercer out there somewhere, about to watch me make a frenzied monkey’s ass out of myself. I 242 Kristin Walker

couldn’t bear the thought of looking idiotic in front of him. I wrapped my arms tight around my aching belly, tipped over, and laid my head in Simone’s lap. She started petting my hair. “It’s okay, Fiona. You’ll do fine.”

I didn’t think even sunny-faced Simone herself believed it.

AN houR ANd A hALF laTER, wE wERE oN dECk. The second-to-last squad—the one from Stonemount, actually—was racing out onto the floor. And I was crapping my briefs. Almost literally. I’d been to the bathroom three times so far. Apparently, my body was involved in a lastditch effort to relieve me of my doom. As well as the entire contents of my lower GI tract.

But now we were five minutes out. The competition had been stiffer than the muscles in my neck. The squad from Lincoln had clearly set the bar. They’d gotten the prime fifth slot, of course. They’d nailed all their jumps and tumbling sequences and done this stunt that looked like a flower blooming, or fireworks exploding, or something. Even so, I figured we stood a chance. If it had been Judith instead of me, I was sure ECHS would run away with the title. I glanced over at Todd. He was looking at me. He came over and whispered, “Something looks different.”

The squad from Stonemount was halfway through their second routine.

“Simone put makeup on me,” I whispered back.

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He pursed his lips. Turned his head back and forth to get a look from every angle. “It looks good.”

I sighed. “Spare me.”

“What’s that? Oh, I thought you said, ‘Spear me.’”

What the hell was he talking about? “Spear me?”

Todd stretched his arms up, laced his fingers behind his head, and got this shit-eating grin on his face. “Yeah. I figured you wanted me to bone you.”

My mouth fell open. I could not believe he was saying this, minutes before we had to go out. “You are a disgusting, depraved caveman, Señor Shitslacks, and I would rather get beaten to death with a stick full of nails than get”—I did the quote thingy with my chewed-nail fingers—“‘boned’ by you.”

“See?” he said with a smirk on his face.

“
What
?”

“Stick? Nail? Beat? Come on, you want it bad.”

I gave Todd my best I’m-trying-to-swallow-back-myown-puke look.

“Not that I’d give it to you,” he continued, “’cause I know you like the ladies. I wouldn’t want to spoil that for you.”

Well, that was it.

I put on my best sex-kitten demeanor and stood up. I brought my face within inches of his and purred, “You know, in a way you’re right. Because I would sooner sleep with Amanda than sleep with you.”

Todd faked a pained expression and brought his hand up to his heart. “Oh! Ouch.”

“That’s right,” I said, straightening up again and smooth-CHAPTER 31 245

ing over my body with my hands, pretending I actually was sexy. The squad from Stonemount finished up. “As much as I’d
love
to continue this revolting conversation, I’ve gotta go kick some cheerleader ass.” I lined up behind Simone and the rest of the squad.

Todd lined up behind me. “Hey Princess,” he whispered.

“You and Amanda—would I get to watch?”

I snorted and pranced out onto the floor with everyone. Typical Todd. Any normal person would’ve given me a pep talk or some other phony thing. I hit my mark on the floor and struck ready position. Todd was far from normal, that was for sure. Then again, he’d taken my mind off the competition for a minute. Amanda called out, “Ready?” I yelled,

“Okay!” and realized that Todd had done it on purpose. He’d distracted me on purpose. So I wouldn’t stress. The squad and I launched into Steam. I kept my arms as straight as I could and clapped and smiled like a lunatic. Then we rolled into Catch the Fever. In the huge, gravitydefying pyramid at the end, all I had to do was go down on one knee at the side, hold up Simone, and flare one hand. Done. We dismounted and positioned ourselves for the final cheer, Maximum Spirit. Only, I must have been off my mark by a foot or two.

I started the cheer fine. Then the Russian came. I hit the jump, nailed it, even, but somehow, I landed even further to the right. Now, the next part was where Amanda, Takisha, and Tessa Hathaway do double back handsprings into back tucks. Todd and Jamar Douglass do round-off Russians. Kendall 246 Kristin Walker

Armstrong, Hillary Larchmont, Ainsley Finn, and Marissa Yee do round-off back handspring layouts. Simone does three back tucks front and center. And Christine Loving and I just do kicks on the sides. Christine only does them to balance me out. She actually can tumble pretty well.

But like I said, I was off my mark.

So when Amanda came toward me, mid–back handspring, and my leg was on its way up for the first of a series of forgettable kicks, somehow—and I cannot to this day account for it with anything besides pure coincidence and poor spatial comprehension—but somehow, my foot connected with the back of Amanda’s head. Hard.

Her left arm also bore a good part of the blow, but there was no mistaking the feeling of my foot bones cracking against her skull. My knee crooked with the halted motion, and the inertia threw me forward. Amanda managed to plant her hands on the floor, but the next instant, the pain must have hit, because she collapsed like an accordion, clutching her head. I lunged for her, easing the rest of her body to the wood floor as best as I could with my balance off-kilter. I’d screwed everything up. I knew that. All I could do now was damage control. I looked into Amanda’s face for some clue of what to do. She grunted, “Up,” and I obeyed. I hooked my arms in her armpits and hoisted her to her feet as the rest of the tumblers finished. We struck the final pose with everyone else in the squad at the same exact moment.

“TSSSSSS.”

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The crowd exploded. Whistles and hoots echoed through the gym. I guess the only thing more impressive than a perfect routine is a resurrected one. The applause seemed to buoy up the squad. Nevertheless, I was sure I’d lost the competition for us. Lincoln had been flawless, and we had definitely been flawed.

We pranced back over to the bleachers to wait for the judges. As we sat, Amanda held her head in her hands. Todd sat with his arm around her and whispered in her ear. Some guy from first-aid brought over an ice pack.

I prayed that there was such a thing as a sympathy vote. Finally, the head judge strode to the middle of the gym. Nobody moved.

He tapped the mic.

Announced the results.

Lincoln took the title.

We got second. Again.

I sat alone on the bus home. I’d expected as much. I deserved it. But when we pulled into the school parking lot, I stood at the front and said, “I’m really sorry, everyone. I’m sorry I messed up.” What could I say? I’d become the queen of contrition lately.

As people filed past me off the bus, some smiled, some patted my shoulder, and some kept their eyes on the floor. Takisha gave me a half-smile and a wink. Simone gave me a hug. I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure Mrs. O’Toole farted at me.

Finally, Amanda and Todd were the only ones still there. 248 Kristin Walker

Amanda got up from her seat and walked toward me. She still held the ice pack on her head. She stood in front of me and gave me her coldest running-of-the-bulls stare. I inhaled and prepared for the verbal lashing of a lifetime.

“We took second,” she said. That was it. She shouldered past me and climbed down off the bus.

I stood there dumbfounded by her cryptic statement. She meant that second place sucked, right? That she was disappointed, right? Or did she mean it as a good thing—that second place was okay and I’d helped them get there? Or did she mean that I’d sucked, but even so, they’d managed second place? I couldn’t figure it out.

Todd sauntered up the aisle. I looked to him for some kind of clarification, or absolution; I wasn’t sure which. “Is she mad?” I asked.

“She wanted to win,” Todd said. “And you kicked her in the head.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Let me finish. She wanted to win, but she knew we wouldn’t. To be honest, she didn’t think we’d even place. But you kicked her in the head, and we still got second. She’s not mad, Fiona.”

I couldn’t help it; I suddenly welled up. Why the hell I would cry over whether or not I disappointed Amanda Lowell was a concept I simply didn’t have the energy to explore. But there I was. “I tried my best,” I whispered.

“Everyone knows that,” Todd said. “She knows it. You did great, Princess.”

Then Todd Harding, Señor Shitslacks, the no-necked CHAPTER 31 249

Neanderthal wrapped his arms around me and hugged me. It was too much.

“Your neck smells like cheese,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s my cheese cologne. I have a whole selection. Cheddar, American, Swiss.”

“Fromunda.”

He laughed. We broke apart. I looked at him. He looked at me. And I felt . . .

Nada.

Todd Harding was hilarious, smart, brave, compassionate, and my friend. That was all. It would never be more. But I honestly hoped it was for Amanda and him. That was how cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs my life had become. I actually wanted something to happen to Amanda that didn’t involve her going bald, breaking out in boils, or getting a tapeworm. Remarkable.

Todd and I stepped down from the bus, and he splintered off to find Amanda. I looked around for Dad, but he wasn’t there yet. One by one, everyone got into their cars and drove off. I stood there in the middle of the parking lot. With no ride home. All alone.

Then the bus pulled away.

Johnny Mercer was on the other side of it. Leaning on his car. Smiling at me.

My skin filled with bees again. I smiled back.

“Need a ride?” he said.

I hITChEd My CoAT up ARouNd My NECk ANd TRIEd to look as cute as possible while walking through the frigid parking lot toward Johnny. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I saw the bus. I thought maybe you’d be up for some pizza.” The sound of his voice warmed the cold December afternoon air.

“Sounds great. Where’s Mar?”

“She had to get home. Had a thing.”

“Oh. Okay.” I wasn’t sure what kind of “thing” Mar could have had that I wouldn’t have known about, but I didn’t give it much thought. I was starving and pizza sounded fantastic. I pulled out my cell and called Dad to tell him not to bother rushing over to get me, since he’d obviously forgotten. Johnny opened the car door for me, and I got in. His car smelled like . . . cinnamon. And what—peaches? But not real peaches: that fake, flavored-candy-type smell. And was that cloves? Weird. Maybe Johnny Mercer liked to bake. In his car.

“Sorry, it smells a little . . . fruity,” he said when he got in,

as if he’d read my thoughts. Maybe I’d sniffed loudly without realizing it.

“It’s not bad,” I said. “Kind of yummy.”

“My mom sells candles,” he said. He hitched his thumb toward the back. Eight or nine white cases sat stacked on the seat. “It’s her car.”

“That’s a lot of candles,” I said.

“That’s nothing. Those are just her samples. You should see the guest room. It’s packed. The whole upstairs reeks like a card store.”

Silence while we buckled our seat belts and Johnny started the car. The radio blasted, and his hand shot out to crank the volume down. He must’ve been listening to an oldies station, because the song “Come Sail Away” by Styx was playing. I knew this only because Styx is my dad’s all-time favorite band. He plays their vinyls all the time. So I knew

“Come Sail Away” pretty well. It starts out as a ballad about throwing off the mantle of everyday responsibility for a life of freedom and adventure, but somehow ends up in an alien abduction. Whaaaatever.

Johnny twitched his head and slipped in a Radiohead CD. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. I wondered if he was nervous because we were alone. But you know the weird thing? I felt kind of nervous myself. Which was strange. I mean, it wasn’t like a date or anything. We were just taking a ride in his car.

“It could be worse than candles,” I said.

“I guess.” We pulled out of the school parking lot. Once we 252 Kristin Walker

were off school grounds, off our main social turf, away from the comfort of our familiar, shared environment, the whole mood changed. We were out. Out in the world. Together. After a couple minutes, I said, “For example, your mom could sell bat guano for fertilizer. That would be worse than candles.”

Johnny huffed. “Yeah.” We stopped at a light. Johnny stayed quiet.

Oh, crap. I’d tried to lighten the mood a bit, but I might as well have burped out loud. I was such an idiot. Why did I always have to turn every awkward situation into a joke?

Couldn’t I just leave it alone?

Just to make things more uneasy, “Creep” started playing. Perfect. That song pretty much summed me up. What the hell
was
I doing here, anyway? Wearing a cheerleading uniform. And makeup. In a car with a guy. Alone. Who did I think I was? I was nothing more than a weirdo, and I didn’t belong here.

Then Johnny said, “You know what would be worse?”

I inhaled uncertainly and said, “What?”

“She could sell slop to pig farms.”

I laughed, relieved. He was playing along. Making sure I was okay. And it dawned on me that maybe Johnny had been thinking the same thing about himself when that song played. Well, not the uniform and makeup part, but the rest. And it might be bananas, but I found the idea that we were just two weirdos together strangely comforting.

“You know what would be worse?” I said. “She could sell CHAPTER 32 253

owl pellets.” I warmed my hands over the heat coming out of the dashboard.

“Owl pellets?”

“Lumps of owl puke. Full of bird and mouse bones. Schools use them for science classes.”

“They do not.”

“They do.”

“That’s disgusting.”

I snuck sideways glances at him. His straw-colored hair had that kind of long, messy look and hung just over the tops of his sideburns. I was watching his long eyelashes blink when he turned and looked straight at me. I quickly spun toward the front so he wouldn’t catch me staring, but it was too late. I knew he’d seen me.

A block later, he said, “You know what would be worse?

She could sell dead frogs.”

I laughed a bit too loud and nodded. “Eww, yes. For dissection, of course.”

“Of course.”

We smiled and spent the rest of the ride trying to one-up each other on the most revolting things his mother could sell. I thought I’d had him with “buckets of chum” but he pulled out “raw pork skin” just as we got to Gino’s East. As we got out of the car, I tried to tug my coat down over my miniskirted butt. “I wish I had something else to wear. I feel like a dork in my uniform.”

Johnny held open the door to the restaurant for me. “Are you kidding? You look hot. Besides, do you know the odds 254 Kristin Walker

of a guy like me being seen with a cheerleader? You’re lucky I’m letting you wear the coat.”

I laughed and said, “Letting me? As if.” But what I was really thinking was, he thinks I look hot? And what did he mean by “seen with?” Did he mean that this was a date?

Were Johnny Mercer and I on a date? And tell me this, would it have been totally bizarre-o, crazy, insane for me to want it to be? Not that I did. I just meant
would
it? In a philosophical sense. That’s all I’m saying. Hypothetically! Whatever. We sat in a booth by the window and ordered a pepperoni pizza and two Cokes. Johnny said, “I was totally impressed by you today.”

“What?” I said, thinking I should keep things light, just in case it wasn’t a date. Which it probably wasn’t. I mean, I knew it wasn’t. “You mean by my sparkly jazz hands?” I treated him to his own personal showing of my jazz hands. He took my hands and lowered them to the table. His touch made my throat feel tight and furry. The waitress brought the Cokes and I pulled my hands out of his. I picked up my straw and started slowly peeling the end off its paper wrapper.

“Seriously, Fiona,” he said. “You should be proud of yourself. You stepped way out of the box, and lived.”

“Unfortunately, as I stepped out of the box, my foot landed on Amanda’s skull. I’m pretty sure that means I royally failed.”

“No, you didn’t. I mean, yes, you booted Amanda in the head. But it wasn’t a failure, because you didn’t back down. You were out there. Not everyone could do what you did. CHAPTER 32 255

That takes some courage.”

As Johnny finished talking, I put the opened straw end in my mouth and blew. The paper shot off the straw and pinged Johnny in the forehead. I tried not to laugh, but I didn’t try too hard.

Johnny touched his head where the paper had hit. I giggled. He frowned, knit his brows, leaned forward, and said, “Why can’t you take a compliment, Fiona? I’m trying to be serious, here. Why do you always have to turn everything into a joke?”

Same question I’d asked myself in the car.

I stopped giggling. I hung my head and examined my straw. I turned it end over end in my hands. “Sorry,” I said.

“It’s just what I’m comfortable with. I dunno. I guess it’s a defense mecha—”

Ping.

Johnny’s straw paper had thwacked me in the head. I looked up, and he sat there grinning, with the straw sticking out of his mouth. I couldn’t believe it.

He’d pranked me.

Johnny had gotten me all serious just so he could get back at me with his straw. Brilliant. I reached out to snatch his straw from his perfect teeth, and at that exact moment, right there, the precise instant I grabbed that straw . . . that was the moment I wanted this to be a date. It was the moment that, from that point in time onward, I would see, and think about, and feel about Johnny Mercer differently. Even though he’d been right there with me, all along. Or maybe because of it.

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And there were the bees again. More of them. Big ones. The size of small cars. Buzzing in my ears. Buzzing in my cheeks. Buzzing in my chest. Buzzing in my fingers. I handed Johnny his straw back and concentrated very hard on folding the paper wrapper into an accordion. Fold and fold. Back and forth. Fold and fold.
Do not think. About
the fact. THAT YOU LIKE. JOHNNY MERCER. JUST KEEP

FOLDING. KEEP ON FOLDING.

“Embalming fluid,” Johnny said.

My fingers froze midfold. “Huh?” It sounded like I had an air leak.

“That would be worse. If she sold embalming fluid.”

And, like a magic trick, the bees vanished. Flew away to buzz up some other girl. I scrunched the paper between my fingers and pointed in the air. “Fish guts. For shrimp farms.”

“Nice,” he said. His hazel eyes flashed as he smiled. “Well played.”

The pizza came and we split it. I ate as much as Johnny, which impressed him for some reason. I guess he thought girls were supposed to be dainty eaters or something. The waitress walked by with a basket of fries, and Johnny said, “Did you know that if you strain old fryer grease, you can use it in a diesel engine instead of diesel fuel?”

Not exactly what you’d call sweet talk. Not exactly an appetizing subject for a restaurant. But totally and utterly cool. “No way!” I said.

“Yeah. I saw it on this science show. These guys got a vat CHAPTER 32 257

of fryer grease from some restaurant, strained the chunks out, and poured it into the tank of a diesel car. It ran as well as on diesel fuel. Too bad it doesn’t work in cars that run on gasoline, though.”

“Yeah, otherwise your mom could sell vats of used fryer grease out of the guest room. That would be worse.”

Johnny laughed. I loved making him laugh. And it seemed so easy to do. Talking to him was different than talking to Todd. It was all of the fun without the effort of maintaining it. Just totally organic. Johnny made me feel like I was clever without trying to be. And pretty. And valued. He made everything about me seem more special.

Like, say I was a song. Well, Johnny made me feel as though I’d been remixed. The melody didn’t change, but it wasn’t just the same one-dimensional sequence of notes anymore. Instead, he brought out all these harmonies—these low and high notes—that made the music fuller. No more discord or dissonance. Around Johnny, I was the best possible rendition of myself. When the check came, he paid for the pizza, even though I offered to cover my half. Normally, I’d have felt bad not paying, but the fact that he paid provided further evidence that this might be a date, so I was okay with it. We played “What would be worse?” all the way back to my house. Johnny pulled into our driveway but left the engine idling.

“Thanks for the pizza,” I said. “And the ride.”

“No problem,” he said. “Anytime.”

258 Kristin Walker

Now, if this had been a date in a romantic movie, then that would’ve been the point where we leaned into each other and kissed. But this wasn’t a romantic movie. And apparently this wasn’t even a date. Because here’s what happened: I sat there for a few seconds and he made absolutely no move toward me. So I got out of his car. He watched me walk to the door and waved goodbye. I let myself in and slammed the door behind me. Not a date. Not a romantic movie. Just my own lousy, unlucky life.

I SpENT ThE REST oF ThE AFTERNooN REAdING. I finished
Pride and Prejudice
and decided Elizabeth Bennett was a moron. She’d fallen in love with Darcy just because he did a few nice things on the sly. Did that make up for the fact that he’d been a prick to her all along?

She should’ve married the guy who was taking over her father’s estate. Okay, so he was her cousin. That was a little gross. But he was a nice guy. Probably not too bad-looking. Polite. And, in the end, good enough for Elizabeth’s friend. It seemed to me that Elizabeth Bennett was a bit of a snob herself. She and Darcy were both a bit jerky. But maybe that was the point. That they realized the error of their jerky snob ways just in time. And Darcy fixing everything for Elizabeth’s sister without anyone knowing was pretty cool. All right, so maybe it was a bit romantic after all. I couldn’t exactly blame Jane Austen for being a romantic. What the hell else was there to do back then for fun?

On Sunday, I put off calling Todd about our apology letter as long as I could. When I finally got around to it, Mom was just finishing up on the phone in the kitchen as she stirred a bubbling pot of meatballs and sauce for dinner. 260 Kristin Walker

Spaghetti and meatballs was my favorite. It would be a nice concession for having had to do this stupid letter. Mom said,

“Great, Cybil. Everything’s all set. See you tomorrow,” and hung up. I asked her for the phone and took it up to my room for privacy. I hadn’t told my parents about getting in trouble at school, and I didn’t plan to.

I dialed Todd’s number. He answered. “Yo, hello?”

“
Hola
, Señor.”

“Hey there, Princess. Calling about the letter?”

“Yup.”

“Hey, I heard you were with Mercer yesterday,” he said.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve got spies everywhere,” he said. “Are you two going out?”

My stomach shriveled up into a nut when I realized I couldn’t say yes. “I dunno. I mean . . . no. I dunno. I guess not. No.”

“You should,” Todd said. “Mercer’s a good guy. Much better than that tool Webber.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“I tried to warn you. Amanda can’t stand him. She says he’s a selfish bastard.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said.

“Listen, what are we going to write for this letter?”

“I don’t know. Every time I think of apologizing, I get pissed. We didn’t do anything wrong. Technically.”

“So let’s not write it,” he said.

“What? Just blow it off?”

“Yeah. Screw the letter. How can they keep us from