How to Take the Ex Out of Ex-Boyfriend (9 page)

“You don't have to vote for him. There's plenty of time to decide that. This is just to put him on the ballot.” I held the paper and a pen out to her, but she didn't make a move to take the pen. “We're throwing a party next Saturday at seven thirty,” I said, still stretching out my arm. “And everyone who signs is invited. You can bring a friend. It will be fun.”

Both girls looked at me and giggled as though I'd said something funny. I smiled back at them anyway. “Come on, say you'll come.”

“But then they'd miss my party.”

I must have jumped six inches when I heard Wilson's voice behind me. I mean, you'd think one of the girls might have clued me in that he stood right behind me. But no, they were probably waiting to see if I'd do something truly mortifying like say, “Sign Dante's petition because everyone knows what a jerk Wilson is.”

Which at the moment I almost wished I'd said. Instead, I dropped my pen, and the paper fluttered from my hand onto the ground. While I picked them up, Wilson moved in on the girls.

“You know, I'm having a party at the exact same time as Dante's, so it looks like you ladies will have to choose whether you want to hang out with Biker Boy or come to the mayor's house.” He leaned in toward them, his smile going full blast. “The pool is heated, so bring your swimsuits.” He held out his clipboard to the group. “Speaking of swimsuits, you've lost weight recently, haven't you? You look great.”

Erin took the pen and clipboard, blushing, then signed Wilson's sheet. I hoped she choked on her gum.

I turned and walked back toward the school. I wasn't about to stick around here and let Wilson steal people from me. As I went toward the door, I heard the rest of their conversation.

“What time is your party?” Ginger asked.

Wilson laughed. “That depends—what time did Giovanna say her party was?”

“Seven thirty,” Ginger said.

“Then seven thirty it is.”

Chapter
7

A
ll the rest of the day it was the same. Wilson had suddenly transformed into Bickham High's own personal Don Juan. Wherever girls congregated, he was there, shoveling on the flattery, and in love with everyone he looked at.

I couldn't get anyone of the female gender to even look at my petition. It was ridiculous. I mean, after all, this wasn't a modeling contest. We weren't voting on some sort of escort service. This was student body president. And besides, Dante was as hot as Wilson, only in a less footbally, more Italian way.

The girls of Bickham should have seen right through all of those “You look great. Did you change your hair?” comments. I mean, we're girls. Of course we've changed our hair. That's what we do.

By lunchtime, the latest gossip centered on who Wilson would take to prom. He hadn't asked anyone, but suddenly a lot of junior girls thought they should go dress shopping just in case.

I still managed to get fifteen signatures, but these consisted mostly of geeky freshman boys who seemed far too happy to be invited to a party at my house. Several of them asked for my phone number.

I hoped Dante appreciated what I was doing for him.

Raine got people from the track team to sign. Charity hit up people from her church, and Daphne—well, Daphne was able to garner an easy fifteen signatures from junior guys who all wanted to date her.

After school, while Dante and I riffled through the refrigerator for snacks, Dante ranted about Wilson's tactics. “He purposely set out to sabotage my party. The guy is a total—” He glanced at Skipper, who sat eating Cheez-Its at the table. “S.O.B.”

“What does S.O.B. spell?” Skipper asked.

“Sob,” I said. “It means to cry.”

Skipper's eyebrows scrunched together like she still didn't understand, but she popped another Cheez-It into her mouth instead of asking more questions.

“You know who else is a sob?” Dante asked. “Jesse is a total sob. He invited the whole basketball team to Wilson's party. He invited the entire second period biology class. He even invited my friends. I'm glad you broke up with him.”

I fingered the grapes in my hand, not hungry anymore since the subject of Jesse had come up. And to think he'd told me he was going to use good sportsmanship. If this was friendly campaigning, what exactly was Jesse's definition of the unfriendly variety?

Dante took a package of lunch meat out of the fridge and tossed it on the counter. “We've got to stop Wilson from ruining our party. Let's change the date of ours.”

“How would we let everyone know our new time? We're not sure who's coming as it is. We invited a bunch of people and are only hoping some of them show up.”

“Then we'll have a better party.”

I popped a grape into my mouth. It was sour, of course. I ate it anyway. “Better than a heated swimming pool? Better than at the mayor's house? While we're passing out potato chips, Wilson will have his party professionally catered by some French chef named Jacques.”

“Then we'll ruin Wilson's party somehow.” Dante ripped open a lunch meat package, folded up a piece of ham, and ate it without the bread. “Do you know anyone from your days in detention who could take care of the job?”

“Take care of the job how?”

“I don't know. We could set fire to his lawn ornaments or something.”

I let out a grunt and waved one of my grapes at Dante. “You might have forgotten this, but I've already spent more than enough time talking to policemen. If you'll remember, I'm on probation.”

“I know, I know. I was kidding.” His eyes got a far-off look, and his voice slowed. “Still, I like the idea of a few of those potted palms going up in smoke. I mean, if you put trees in little bowls on your lawn, you're just asking someone to torch them.”

“Don't do it,” I said. “You might want to apply for something someday—like, say, college or a job—and tree-torching would look bad on your police record.”

This was something I unfortunately knew too much about.

Dante threw a couple of slices of ham on a piece of bread, then reached back into the fridge for the mustard. “Yeah, I guess you're right. I'd planned on being the family delinquent, but you've already taken that title.” He spread the mustard on his bread slowly, his humor, even his sarcasm, suddenly gone. “But I still don't want to let Wilson get away with it. He's turned our party into a contest. It's like the voting isn't secret. Everyone has to choose this Saturday who they support.”

I didn't answer for a moment, because Dante was right. Still, I felt the need to say something, to somehow make it all better.

Dante and I have been looking out for each other for a long time. Mostly these days I feel like I'm looking out for him, but it didn't used to be that way. When Dante and I first started kindergarten, my parents had to make sure we went to the same class, because I refused to talk to the teacher. Dante had to speak for me for half the year.

I leaned against the countertop and surveyed my brother. “Just because they go to Wilson's party doesn't mean they'll vote for him. And maybe we can think of something—you know, something legal—to help our cause.”

Dante slapped the top piece of bread on his sandwich. “Do you suppose Dad and Gabby would let me hire a band?”

“Have you even asked them yet if you can have the party?”

He shrugged, picked up his sandwich, and took a bite. “I'll get around to it.”

“Don't you think you should do it soon?”

“I'm sure it will be soon.” He took another bite, and then I guess because I kept staring at him, he added, “I have a system. I'm waiting to ask Gabby at a time when I know she won't turn me down.”

“When is that?” I didn't believe such a thing was possible, but if it was, I wanted in on it too.

He ignored me and wandered toward the kitchen door. “We should get a head count of all the people who are coming, so we know how much food and stuff to buy. Ask around and see which of the people that you talked to will be here.”

“Right,” I said, but I dreaded the thought. I mean, what if no one came?

 

The next day at school as Charity and I walked to our first period class, Dante came up beside us. “Get this. Wilson is telling people if they sign my petition they can't come to his party. Two people came up to Brandon today and asked him to cross their names off my list.”

Charity let out a gasp. “That's terrible.”

“Plus, Stephen only got four names and he's out sick today. Or skipping, but anyway, I'm eight names short.”

Right after he said this, we walked past a guy who lives down the street from us. “Hey, Gibbs,” Dante called to him. “Can you sign my petition?”

The guy shrugged and frowned. “Sorry, I already signed Wilson's.”

“That's okay,” Dante said, but as soon as the guy was out of earshot, Dante swore. Charity swatted him. She's trying to break him of his swearing habit through the gentle persuasion of smacking him whenever he does it.

The muscles tensed in his jaw. “You think this is easy?” he asked her. “Here, you collect some more names.” He held the paper toward her, but she didn't take it.

“Sorry, but I got most of my names by telling people that my daddy would ask them to speak in church if they didn't sign.” She let out a sigh. “I can only threaten so many people.”

Dante shook his head. “My dad's an accountant. I have no leverage.”

We continued to walk through the flow of students. Dante rolled up the petition and tapped it against his leg as his gaze darted back and forth through the hallway. He looked like he wanted to club someone with it.

Charity kept glancing at him. She shrugged and said, “Well, you could always act like Wilson and shamelessly flirt with some girls.”

“Right,” he said.

“Come on, let's see you strut your stuff. Put some of that Italian charm to good use.” Charity pointed to a group of three girls standing by a locker. “There's some sweet young things, go convince them that you're the man they want.”

Dante tilted his head at her but kept walking away from the girls. “Does your father know you talk this way when he's not around?”

She smirked at him. “Coward.”

I tried to stop their argument by holding out my hand to Dante. “Give me the list. I'll get some names.”

Dante shoved the list in my direction without looking at me. His eyes narrowed as he considered Charity. “I can't believe you, of all people, would tell me to use people like Wilson does.”

She tilted her chin downward and gave him a crooked smile. “Oh, give me a break. I knew you wouldn't do it. You don't know how to be charming.”

His head jerked back as though she'd smacked him again. “What's that supposed to mean?”

She rolled her eyes.

I raised my voice. “So when I get eight more names—do you want the petition back during school so you can take it to the office, or should I bring it home?”

Dante still didn't look at me. “I know how to be charming.”

Charity laughed, like it was funny.

“You want charming? I'll show you charming.” He took the list from my hand and walked over to the drinking fountain where a couple of girls stood talking. They looked like easy enough targets. Freshmen. Maybe sophomores, but you could tell by the way they dressed that they wanted to be older. Well, either that or the expiration on their makeup was tomorrow and they were trying to use it all before it went bad.

I didn't want to stop. My trig teacher gets into a snit if we walk into class after the bell rings, but how could I keep from watching? Besides, Charity had firmly stopped. She leaned up against a locker with no apparent sign of ever moving again.

We watched as Dante smiled at the girls, leaned toward them, and laughed at something one of them said. Which was weird to see, because hey, this was my brother. It's hard to think of brothers as having a romantic side, since to us sisters, they are simply half-disgusting creatures who leave their dirty socks lying around, snore on the couch, and never clean the bathroom.

The girls laughed back at whatever Dante had said. One of them tilted her head and looked shyly up at him.

He handed her the paper and a pen. I could imagine him saying, “Have you lost weight lately? Have you changed your hair?”

How gross. “If he starts acting like Wilson now,” I told Charity, “I will hold you personally responsible.”

She let out a huff and sent an angry glare in Dante's direction, which was totally uncalled for, since she'd been the one to call him charmless in the first place. And then it hit me. Charity liked Dante. Why else would it tick her off that he was over there flirting with those girls?

Every memory I had of Charity and Dante together suddenly shifted. Things that had never made sense before became clear. I leaned against the locker next to her. “You know, next time you should be more specific and tell him who he's supposed to be using his charm on.”

One of the girls took the pen from Dante's hand and wrote something on the paper. Charity tore her gaze from them. “What do you mean?”

“Tell him he's supposed to be charming you.”

Her eyes widened, and then she let out another huff. “Why would I want that?”

Maybe I'd been wrong. “Never mind,” I said.

She blinked, as though trying to erase any emotion from her large blue eyes. “It would never work out between us. I'm not sixteen yet. Besides, he rides a motorcycle. And he likes it.”