Going Vintage (11 page)

Ginnie’s nearly to Critter Country by the time I catch up with her. “Where are we going? Some ride to get us back to our roots?”

Ginnie doesn’t answer at first but keeps walking until we reach the bridge that overlooks the Splash Mountain ride. She dangles her arms over the rail. “I didn’t know what to say. I just hate when Mom and Dad fight.”

I shrug. “They were arguing. So what?”

Ginnie cuts me a glance. “You don’t worry that they argue too much?”

“They’re a married couple. That’s totally normal.”

“I don’t think you’re a relationship expert,” Ginnie says.

“Hey. Still fresh, Gin.”

“I just hope there’s a way to multitask with this list. Help
you get over your relationship, sure, but maybe have Mom and Dad improve theirs.”

I stay quiet as a log filled with screamers crashes down the drop. There are only so many purposes The List can fill, but I don’t have the heart to tell Ginnie that.

Chapter 8

The five things I need to do to start a pep club (information from student handbook in the office, unearthed by the fourth secretary I asked):

1. Find an adviser: Mr. Hanover:

a. He has a soft spot because he was in pep club as a teenager
.

b. He has to be involved in name only
.

c. He has a thing for pocket watches, and I know my dad has five in inventory
.

d. And there may be some tears, just to cement him in?

2. Find five charter members: Ginnie
,
Cardin, Paige, Yvonne, and me
.

3. Write a mission statement: Prepping Orange Park High for the next level of pep!

4. Approval from student body president: Blake Mickelson
.

5. Approval from principal: Mrs. Gonzalez loves Blake, so once ASB approves, she won’t even glance at the sheet before signing on the line
.

My true-to-period outfit is purple gingham capris paired with a white oxford, Grandma’s necklace with the ring, and my hair in a high ponytail. No way am I rocking one of those hideous beehives—some sixties girls maintained hair sanity. I need to go shopping and pillage through Dad’s inventory tonight, or that seersucker dress is going to have to make a repeat appearance very soon.

I’m wishing I had a dress or something more professional as I enter the ASB room, short for Associated Student Body, our schools’ student government. The members sit on one side of the table, and a drop of sweat slides down my back as I approach what looks like my parole hearing. Blake Mickelson sits in the middle, and seriously, there is a
gavel
in front of him. I thought ASB was a way to proclaim your (albeit geeky) popularity, not an actual organization of power. The girl who won secretary tried to rap her speech. True, these kids got out
early for assemblies and school activities, but the authority of a gavel? Really?

Blake motions to the seat directly across from him.

“Go ahead and have a seat, Mallory.” His smile isn’t overly friendly, more professional, but the girls on the council narrow their eyes in dark jealousy.

Blake Mickelson is an accidental president. He ran because of a bet, won on his charm, and ended up being the most diligent leader to date. He actually
did
get a new vending machine, with organic snacks nonetheless. No one uses the machine, but it’s there, and that was enough to catapult Blake into political infamy. His hair helped his cause too. The boy has serious dreads, and you needed something distinct to stick out in a school as diverse as ours.

He glances down at his paper. “So, you want to start a club?”

I sit up tall in my seat. If they want to do this legit, I can play along. “Yes. A pep club.”

“Prep club?”

“Pep. You know, like rah-rah?”

“Don’t we already have that club?” Blake glances at his posse and a wall goes up like I’m not there. Like I wouldn’t have checked if a club existed before trying to start one.

The vice president, Chelsea something or other, pipes in. “ASB focuses on school spirit, so do the cheerleaders, color guard, and drill team.”

I do not roll my eyes. I do not point out that “spirit” is not the same as “exposing skin.” I keep the sarcasm out of my
voice, but only barely. “But none of those clubs are called pep club.”

“Lauren is the commissioner of pep,” Chelsea adds.

Lauren folds her arms across her chest. There are ASB commissioners for sports and publicity and apparently pep. “Right, so I should probably be a part of this.”

“That’s fine,” I say. Lauren must have waited for this moment for eons. How often does she commission anything? “But the point is pep
club
does not exist at this school.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” Blake says.

There’s a laugh at the end of the table. “A reason?”

Oliver Kimball. The literal outlier in this council of Blakeinites. I knew he’d be here, but I’m trying hard to not let his presence have any impact on me. He has a halfway grin on his face, like he’s really enjoying this meeting, but in an ironic way. I’m sure he told Jeremy that I was starting a club and that I’d be at this meeting. He probably planned to build me up with club guidelines before shooting me down in front of the ASB.

“What, you think a pep club would create an unbalance of spirit at our school? You think the other peppy types would rise up in rebellion because this girl …” He points at me. “What’s your name?”

“
Mallory
.” Like you don’t know my name. Gah, is tooliness hereditary? Passed on through the mother’s genes, like baldness?

“Because Mallory wants to start a club that’ll probably get five members and a thumbnail-size photo in the yearbook? Let her have it.”

Let me have it? Now I’m confused. Is Oliver Kimball on my side? The same Oliver who only listens to bands that haven’t been invented yet, who is anti-industry or -establishment or whatever is underground to be anti about, is promoting
pep
club?

No, it’s a trap. Guard up, Mallory.

The rest of the ASB stares at him. He pushes back his horn-rimmed glasses in response. I wonder if he has a prescription or if he’s just wearing them for looks. They do finish off his hipster look nicely. “Why are you guys looking at me like that? Who freaking cares? We passed Latin club, and that’s a dead language.”

“Um, thanks, I appreciate it.” He’s not going to make a joke out of me just like he’s making a joke out of the ASB. “But I’m not the only one who needs pep. This is for the whole school, and if you look at my mission statement, you’ll see that it really is a necessary club. We don’t have pep rallies anymore, except for homecoming, and I was thinking maybe we could, you know, cheer for other sports besides football and basketball, maybe even like academic activities? Or something?”

“What, like cheerleaders for mathletes?” Blake asks.

“Sure, well, not cheerleaders.” So my mission statement was vague BS, but now that I’m actually talking about a club I was only forming so I could be the secretary, I start to think … hey. Why not make this club something worthwhile, something new and essential? Grandma didn’t achieve everything in life by being passive. If she were here, either almost-seventy Grandma or sixteen-year-old Vivian, she’d go all out. I should
push a little more than usual, make this something worthwhile. I’m here already, right?

Wow, so this is what follow-through feels like.

“We could organize the rallies!” I exclaim. “It’s like your job and the cheerleaders combined. We can do fund-raisers too, help you guys out with homecoming—”

Blake stacks some papers in front of him like a news anchor trying to stretch during the last few seconds of airtime. “We don’t need help. Homecoming is next week. We planned it forever ago. I’m going to say no. Sorry, Mallory. Seems like a bust. Thanks for trying.”

As if on cue, ASB members look down at the sheets of paper in front of them. “So, next item of business,” Chelsea says.

Just like that. They said no
just like that
. For no reason, because they could, because they have other items to get to, probably something essential to humanity like a bake sale.

I stand up and turn to leave, my knees wobbly. This isn’t a big deal. So I don’t have a club. It’s one item on the list. And it’s not like I’m peppy anyway.

But if I can’t do one thing on The List, why try any of it? Why try to live in some bygone decade, when I can just go home and call Jeremy like nothing ever happened. I can try to fake that feeling of security that I used to have with him, with my life. Because without The List, I don’t have a path to a fresh start; I only have my tainted past.

Without The List, I’m not a future Vivian. I’m just plain, old,
single
Mallory.

“Hey, wait. We didn’t even take a vote.” Oliver reaches over and pounds Blake’s gavel. “Order, order.”

“Hands off my gavel.” Blake’s voice is completely void of humor.

“Just following protocol,” Oliver says. “Don’t we have to do a motion to vote and get it seconded?”

“Since when do you care about that?” the commissioner of something special asks. “Have you ever talked in a meeting?”

Oliver points at me. “I just think it’s rude that we dismissed this girl when she obviously put something together and cares enough about this cause, however stupid it may be—”

“Hey!” I say.

He holds up a hand. “—to go through all the necessary steps to form a club and show up at this, I’m sorry,
boring
meeting. So we’re voting. Blake, pound the gavel or I will.”

Blake cradles his great hammer of power, staring at Oliver with fascination. “’Kay, seriously, you haven’t had an opinion since the bathing-suit debate for the back-to-school car wash. Where did that come from?”

“I’d like to motion a vote on whether … What’s your name?” Oliver asks.

“It’s still Mallory.”

“Mallory can form a pep club.”

I’m just as shocked as the rest of the council that Oliver is coming to my rescue here. The guy is usually his own faction, his own brand. He once wore the same T-shirt to school for forty-two days straight. Everyone speculated the reasoning behind the bright orange STAFF shirt—he was protesting
unemployment, flipping off commercialization, going green. I think he just did it because he could. To say, “Hey, I’m Oliver Kimball, and when I wear a shirt every day, it’s a statement, but with anyone else, it’s a hygiene issue.”

“I’ll second that motion,” Blake says. “So, fine. We vote. All in favor of forming a pep club, say aye.”

“Aye,” Oliver says.

“Aye,” I say.

“You can’t vote.” Blake shakes his head. No one else says anything as they wait for their fearless leader to weigh in.

“All opposed say nay,” the vice president starts.

“Wait.” Blake rubs his thumb along the head of his gavel, like magical leadership powers will spring out and aid him in this life-changing political decision. I bite my tongue. Come on, mighty gavel. Make him say aye.

“Fine.” Blake waves his hand dismissively. “I’m an aye.”

“Aye!” everyone else chimes in unison. Freaking lemmings.

“Have your club, but I don’t want this to be something you made up just to get your picture in the yearbook,” Blake says.

Do people really do that? “Of course not.”

“I want to see some of those things you talked about happen. Raise some money for a cause. Maybe you can help out with Spring Fling, once you’re unified. I really hope you get more than five members.”

I can’t guarantee that, but I give a brave smile. “I promise, it’s going to be a worthwhile club.”

“And, Oliver, dude.” Blake feigns a frown. “Don’t touch my gavel again. This thing is sacred, got it?”

I hurry out of the meeting before they change their minds. Oh, blessed gavel! We did it! I have a pep club. I’ll call the first meeting together, assign myself as secretary, and … and … do other official club things.

I’m halfway down the hall and a million mental miles away when someone calls my name.

“Mallory?”

I cringe at his voice.
Now
Oliver remembers who I am. Figures. I bet he was pretending to forget my name as some sort of statement about my breakup with Jeremy, like I’m not worth remembering now that I’m out of that couple. A freeze-out, a continuation of his rude comments Monday at lunch. And maybe what just happened in there was all a joke too. Oliver better not tell me that they’ve reversed their decision, that I don’t deserve my club. I’ll hit him. Nose, stomach, groin. I don’t care. “Yeah?”