Rules for Secret Keeping (17 page)

If only Jake would give me a sign! Some kind of sign
before I leave that would let me know! I mean a
real
sign. Not something ambiguous like what just happened. I decide to walk out of his room verryyy slowly, just in case Jake wants to say something to make the situation better or to clarify things. But he doesn't say anything.

And then, right when I'm about to slip out the door, Jake finally speaks.

“Samantha?”

“Yeah?” I turn around, my heart soaring. He gets up and crosses the room, and for a second, I think that maybe he might try to kiss me again.

But instead, he holds his hand out. And when I look down, he's holding a note.

“Can you give this to Emma?” he says.

I take it. “Sure.”

It's not a sign, it's not a sign, it's not a sign.
That's what I tell myself as I stomp down Jake's stairs and out of his house.
It's not a sign, it's not a sign, it's not a sign.
That's what I tell myself as I walk home.
It's not a sign, it's not a sign, it's not a sign.
That's what I tell myself when I get up into my room and plop down on my bed, the note still in my hand.

It
can't
be a sign. Because it could say anything. They could be talking about anything! And unless I know for sure, I cannot jump to conclusions. But if I don't know for
sure
, how can I
not
jump to conclusions? I put the note down next to me on the bed. And then I pick it back up. And I know that this moment has been coming, it's been building, it's all been leading up to this.

So this time, I don't just almost kind of sort of break through the tape. This time, I open the note. For the first time in all of my secret-passing days, I read one of the secrets. Because I really just cannot take it anymore. And this time, I finally get my answer.

Because Jake's note to Emma only says one word. And that word is “yes.”

“IS THERE ANY POSSIBLE WAY THAT
maybe he meant ‘yes' about something totally random, like maybe she asked him if he's taking advanced math next year or something?” I know it's a stretch, but I'm desperate.

“No,” Daphne says. It's the next morning, and we're hanging out outside near the side doors, waiting for the bell to ring for homeroom. Daphne has a soccer ball, and she's kicking it against the wall of the school. I'm supposed to be playing goalie, but I don't think I'm helping her practice all that much, because the ball just keeps going soaring by me. Pretty much every shot she takes is hitting the wall. I know I'm supposed to make it a little hard for her, but I might be the least coordinated person in the history of the world. Seriously.

“Is there any possible way that—”

“No,” Daphne says. Another ball goes by me, and I reach down and pick it up, then toss it back to Daphne. “She was probably asking him if he liked her, or if he would go with her to the Fall Festival.”

“Thanks,” I say. Although I do have to give Daphne points for her honesty. At least I know she's not just telling me what I want to hear. That's why I haven't told her about how Jake and I almost kissed. I'm afraid she might tell me I really did just imagine it, and I'm so not ready to hear that.

“Look,” she says. “If you want to do something about this situation, then you have to work with the facts. There's no use being in denial.”

“True,” I say. “But what can I do about it? There's no way I can compete with Emma.”

“Yes, you can,” she says. She pushes her bangs out of her face. “You haven't even
tried.
And besides, who cares about Emma anyway?” She makes a very disgusted face. “You're much better than Emma. You're prettier and smarter and nicer.”

“I am
no
t prettier than her,” I say. Although the other things might be true. “And I don't know how to try,” I say. “I don't want to actually have to go after Jake, I just want him to like me.” I kick the ball back to Daphne, and she picks it up.

“Without even putting in any effort?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Without even putting in any effort.” Daphne kicks the ball again. “Do you really think I'm prettier than Emma?”

“There you are!” Speak of the devil. Emma's voice comes trailing across the side of the school like nails on a chalkboard, and she comes waltzing into view. Today she's wearing a white button-down shirt and a pink and gray plaid wool skirt that flares around her knees, and there's a pink and gray beret perched on her head. Huh. I wonder where she got a matching beret-and-skirt set. Like, where does one buy such things? I hardly ever see berets when I'm out, much less berets with matching skirts. “I've been looking all over for you. I was at The Common for, like, at
least
half an hour waiting.” She gives me an admonishing look.

“Why?” I frown. “We didn't have plans to hang out at The Common, did we?” I rack my brain, wondering if my maybe-real, maybe-imagined kiss has started to make me forget things.

“No, but you were there yesterday, so I figured that you would be there TODAY.” Emma gives Daphne a big smile. “Hi, Daph.”

“Hi,” Daphne says tightly. She doesn't look too pleased.

“Anyway,” Emma says. “Jake said he gave you a note for me.”

I pull it out of my bag and hand it to her. She opens it, reads the “yes” and then smiles. If she notices anything weird about it (a.k.a. the fact that I had to tape it back up after reading it), she doesn't say anything. All she says is “Thanks. And, like, just so you know, I'm sorry we made you do all that secret-passing.”

Made? As in past tense? “That's okay,” I say, even though it's so totally not.

“I think Jake and I are at a point now where we'll probably just talk directly.” She smiles again. “Oh! I totally forgot! Samantha, you owe me twenty dollars.” She holds out her hand. I notice her nails are painted pumpkin spice, just like Taylor's. Must be the new fall trend.

“Twenty dollars? For what?” Good luck getting it, I think. I'm broke as a joke.

“For your cowboy hat,” Charlie pipes up. She's walked up behind Emma. She's holding a to-go cup of something that looks hot, and she takes a dainty sip.

“Cowboy hat?” I sigh. “You guys, listen, I can't go as a wild cowgirl.”

“But you have to!” Emma cries. “We already got three costumes. We can't go as two cowgirls; I told you that's lame!”

“We already started choreographing the dance,” Charlie says, like the fact that they've already started coming up
with a dance makes it impossible for me to not go. I guess she doesn't realize that a dance is going to dissuade me even more.

“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “It goes like this.” She starts jumping around, doing what I guess is supposed to be a line dance or something. But she kind of looks like one of those crazy Irish jig people who are always on TV around St. Patrick's Day. Emma has no idea she looks ridiculous, and she beams at me when she's done. “Isn't that awesome? We came up with it ourselves.”

“You're going as a cowgirl to the Fall Festival?” Daphne asks. “With
them
?” She drops her soccer ball on the ground, and it goes rolling toward the school, where it bounces off the wall and into a puddle.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Yes,”
Charlie says. “And so you owe us twenty dollars for the hat. Now give it.”

“I thought the hats were free,” I say. “The ones we tried on at your aunt's.” Also, “give it”? Who says that?

“You were trying on things at
their aunt's house
?” Daphne shrieks.

“No,” I say. “I mean, yes. I mean, no, not her house, we were at this costume shop, it was—look, it wasn't because I was going to go with them.”

“You can be a cowgirl too, Daphne,” Charlie says. “I'm
sure we can find another costume.”

“But I don't want to be a cowgirl,” Daphne says.

“Sure you do,” Charlie says. She takes another sip of her drink. “Wait until you see the costumes, they are so totally ah-mazing.”

“So if you could bring us the money for the hat tomorrow, that would be great. And you too, Daph.” Emma waves at us. “Toodles.” And then she and Charlie disappear into school.

Daphne looks at me, her green eyes accusing.

“I'm not,” I say, “going as a cowgirl.”

“Sounds kind of like you are,” she says.

“Well . . .” I drag my toe in the dirt pile near the bench, watching the mark my ballet flat makes. “It could be kind of fun. We could bring a cowbell or something.”

“Yeah,” Daphne says. “Maybe.” She opens her mouth, like maybe she wants to say something else. But the bell rings then, and so she just picks up her soccer ball, wipes it off, and heads into school.

I'm not sure if it's my imagination or not, but it seems like maybe Jake is avoiding me.

Not, like,
avoiding
me avoiding me, but maybe just
kind of
avoiding me.

Case in point:

Wednesday, a summary:
Homeroom: Jake says hi, but then buries himself in a skateboarding magazine and does not talk to me. Emma tries unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation (so maybe it's not just me?). Later, after sixth period, I say hi to him as he passes by me in the hall. He says hi back, but doesn't sound all that thrilled about it. There are no secrets in my locker from him. Or from Emma. Or, um, from anyone else.

Thursday, a summary:
See Wednesday.

Friday, a summary:
See Wednesday and Thursday.

The weekend, a summary:
Jake doesn't call, IM, text, or attempt contact in any way.

Needless to say, by the time Monday morning rolls around, I'm feeling pretty cranky. How can I be anything but, when we haven't talked about our almost-kiss? Am I crazy? Was it really all in my head? Does Jake hate me? Are we not friends anymore?

In other scandals, Barb is coming tomorrow, and I have not gotten any secrets to pass in, like, a week.
And,
to top it all off, as if my life wasn't enough of a complete disaster, this morning I had to give Charlie twenty dollars for that dumb cowgirl hat. Daphne did too. We didn't even
want
to, but we somehow ended up doing it anyway. Although I guess it's not that surprising, when you think about it. I mean, Daphne and I are really no match for those two.

During second period, I decide I'm so not in the mood to deal with Emma and Charlie (they love to spend study hall passing notes, covertly watching videos on their iPhones, and gossiping—I can never get any work done), and so I head to the library, where I log in to one of the school computers to check my email.

Two new messages! Both from girls who were on the list of
You Girl
finalists! When I hadn't heard from anyone right away, I'd kind of given up on the idea that anyone was going to come through with an extra ticket. I cross my fingers and open the first email.

It's from the Darfur Girl. Greeeat.

Dear Samantha,

I am sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I put your email in my pending file, and as you can probably imagine, things have been sooo busy around here, and it took me a while to get to it. Orders for my FREEDOM bracelets have tripled in the past few weeks, and I've also started a new LIBERTY bracelet line. Feel free to check out my website, linked below, and pass it along to any of your friends you think might be interested.

Unfortunately, I don't have another ticket for the banquet. I am surprised you would think it
was okay to put out a mass email like that, asking for one. As you know, being chosen as one of the
You Girl
finalists is a big honor, and it's not fair to expect someone to give up their ticket because YOU want to invite two people. A lot of people want to invite two people. In fact, I have about
ten
or
eleven
people who are just dying to come and support me.

Looking forward to seeing you at the dinner!

Love,

Candace

www.candace4darfur.com

Ugh, ugh, ugh. I really might hate that girl.

The other email is from Nikki, the girl at the photo shoot who helped me with my lip liner that day.

Hey Samantha,

Nice to hear from you. I'm sorry I took so long to write you back, I actually don't use this email address that much. (I gave it to
You Girl
just in case they decided to spam me with offers for their magazine—I know, I'm sneaky.)

If you still need an extra ticket, I have one. I'm coming to the dinner by myself, since unfortunately my mom can't afford to take time off from work. Do
you want to meet in the lobby before the dinner and I'll give you the ticket?

I'll have a
You Girl
escort with me, since I'm traveling by myself. (Can you tell how excited I am about that? Not.)