Rumor Central (11 page)

T
houghts of revenge were fresh on my mind as I filed into my last class of the day. I was so ready to get home. I'd thought about skipping seventh period altogether, but I didn't need Mrs. Watson calling my parents and giving them something else to trip about.

“Settle down! Settle down!” Mrs. Watson said, ushering everyone into the room. Once we were all settled in our desks, she continued talking. “Now you know we're nearly at the end of the first semester. Some of you are fine and doing well with your grades. Others”—Mrs. Watson made a strange face—“well, you're not so fine. And remember, graduation may be months off, but every grade counts.”

I groaned because she had to be talking about me. Her class was needed for graduation, and every chance she got, she reminded us of that.

She walked around her desk with a stack of papers in her hands. The papers were our fifteen-page research term papers that counted for more than half of our grades. As she moved to the left corner of the room, I remembered the stress I'd felt over that report.

It may not have been my very best work, but I'd managed to get it in, and I thought it had turned out pretty good considering I'd waited until the last minute and been up until nearly three in the morning trying to get it done.

“So, if you have any questions about your grade, comments, or anything else, email me for an appointment,” she said.

The chatter had started back up and nearly drowned out her voice.

“Quiet down, and when you get your paper back, you may leave,” she said, raising her voice.

That announcement was met with cheers. I sat quietly because I needed her to hurry up. There were tons of things for me to do with the show and even though I understood the importance of this class and the others, I was already getting on-the-job, hands-on experience in my field, so it was hard to stay focused on this mess.

Mrs. Watson began to flip through the stack. She looked down the row as if she was counting the students seated in front of her. She fingered the edges of the papers; then she separated the ones she needed and passed them out one by one.

“Score!” a student yelled enthusiastically.

“Awesome! Dude, what'd you get?” another student asked someone else.

I watched all of this while I prayed. I knew I needed at least a B, but I could manage with a C. A D would cause major problems.

Slowly the teacher moved from the first row, to the second. After she passed papers back to students in that row, she moved on to the third row. I sat in the last row near the end.

When she walked over and stood at the front of my row, I suddenly wished she was just starting at row one. All of my confidence in the work I had done instantly disappeared.

I watched in absolute horror as the student in front of me reached the papers back. With a trembling hand I grabbed them before they fell to the floor.

My throat went dry and I felt my eyes begin to burn. My vision was blurred, and it wasn't until I heard the voice behind me that I realized I had stopped and stared for too long.

“Heeello!” the girl behind me snapped.

“Oh, my bad.” I quickly passed the last three term papers over my shoulder. I didn't even bother looking back because the girl behind me was one of the smartest kids in my school, so I knew that she'd aced the report. I took a deep breath, then looked at my paper.

Never in all of my years in school had I ever seen an F on a paper. The room began to spin, and I wanted to puke. Didn't an F mean you'd done absolutely nothing at all? How could I have gotten an F?

People around me began shuffling out of their chairs and it seemed like everyone else was happy with their grades. I didn't have any friends in class anymore that I could ask or confide in, so I had to assume that I was the only one who had flunked.

The word didn't even sound right swimming around in my head.

Maya Morgan flunked a class.

Maya Morgan flunked a grade.

Maya Morgan flunked.

“Eh-hem!”

Mrs. Watson's voice shattered my daze and that was when I realized we were alone in the room. I glanced around and wondered how everyone had left the room and I had never even noticed.

“Are you shocked by your grade or something?” Mrs. Watson asked.

I glanced back down at the paper and tried to find my voice. I couldn't understand why we even had to do this crap. Shakespeare, really? That man died like a trillion years ago and I didn't need to know anything about Shakespeare to be an entertainment mogul.

Okay, so the paper sucked. I still didn't deserve an F because I had turned the assignment in on time. That, alone, should've given me at least a D. Yeah, I know I had waited until the last minute and had to stay up nearly all night, and I hadn't gotten a chance to review the work before I'd turned it in, but I still didn't deserve a freakin' F. Mrs. Watson wasn't fooling anyone. She'd done this because she hated me. Even the teachers were hating on me.

“What? You, Miss Chatter Box, are suddenly at a loss for words?” Mrs. Watson said. It was like she was enjoying my pain.

“Ummm, I kinda am,” I muttered.

“Oh, no, don't whisper now,” Mrs. Watson said.

Her voice was peppered with sarcasm and I didn't have the energy to fight with her or anyone else. I didn't have time to be worried about a stupid grade. There was a red-carpet event in a few days and that's where all my focus was. That, and trying to figure out how the heck I was going to make Bryce pay.

“When you're doing your TV show, you're a very confident and outspoken voice. Where's that voice today?” Mrs. Watson asked with her eyebrows raised.

She got up from her desk and walked to the row next to mine. She sat two chairs up from me in that row.

“Maya, you're way smarter than this. I know this show is very important to you, but I can't allow you to skate through my class when your peers are working twice, sometimes three times as hard as you,” she said.

“But an F, Mrs. Watson?” Maybe I could appeal to her soft side (although I didn't even know if she had one).

She turned up her lips. “Well, to be honest, if there was something less than an F that I could have given you, I would have.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, if I could've given you a complete zero, or something less, I would have,” she said.

I instantly wished I had shuffled out of the class right along with everyone else. I didn't need to sit and be ripped by my teacher. I needed to try and think about what dress I'd wear, or whether I'd meet my hair stylist and makeup artist at my house or at the event.

“I tried my hardest on this paper,” I said, channeling my inner actress. “I gave this paper everything I had. That's why I'm so stunned at my grade.” My chest heaved and I made myself cry (which wasn't all that hard because the thought of not graduating was enough to make me burst out into tears). But my theatrics, which normally worked on my parents, weren't moving Mrs. Watson.

“You're not being truthful, Maya,” she said, pointedly.

“Well, I thought I had done what I was supposed to. I mean, if you've done one paper . . .”

She stopped me before I could continue. “Maya, you didn't even do a spell check. Your own name was misspelled. There were sloppy errors any Microsoft program would've caught.” Mrs. Watson shook her head. “No, I'm sorry. You can't make me believe that you tried one bit. I felt like this paper was a complete afterthought for you, like the deadline snuck up on you and you rushed and slapped something together. This was completely unacceptable,” she said.

I decided I couldn't win. I'd let her finish making her point and get in the jabs she wanted, then I'd be free to go. Mrs. Watson and everyone else would see a different side of me once I became super famous. Graduation wasn't that far off anyway so I only needed to indulge her for a few more months and I'd be on my way to bigger and better things.

I glanced back down at the big fat red F that was circled on my paper and swallowed back tears.

“Maya, your diploma is on the line here,” she said. “I know you have your job and all, but how would it look if you're on TV, repeating the twelfth grade this time next year?”

My eyes widened. Would she seriously keep me from graduating?

“W-what can I do?” I so hated groveling, but since it was no one in the room but us, I would make an exception. “I can't fail this class.” A part of me wanted to bribe her. Shoot, I heard teachers make like five dollars an hour. Surely, she could use some extra money. But Mrs. Watson's mean behind seemed like a bribe wouldn't do anything but make her madder, so I kept my mouth closed and waited on her to answer.

She hesitated, thinking. For a minute, I didn't think she was going to give me a chance, but finally, she said, “I'm not sure, but maybe if you start coming in after school immediately you can make up enough to fix your grade and make it across the stage.”

I was just about to ask her whether we could start after the red-carpet event, but she quickly added, “The choice is yours.”

Mrs. Watson got up and walked back to her desk, where she grabbed her purse and left the room. And based on the look on her face, I knew I really didn't have a choice at all.

M
y life should really not be this difficult. I mean, I'm sure Beyoncé doesn't have this kind of drama from her parents.

So, I couldn't understand why I was standing here getting grilled by my mom. Dang, my dad had gotten all on my case just a few days ago. Now here I was again. I wish my parents could've gotten together, made some notes, and done all of this at one time. But since my mom was standing there with her lips all scrunched up and her arms folded across her chest, this was not the time to let her know I wasn't in the mood for a lecture.

“Maya, what in the world is this?” my mom said, pointing to the computer screen. I leaned in and peered over her shoulder.

“I . . . I—I don't know,” I stammered once I saw what had her so upset. I was cold-busted and couldn't think up a lie fast enough.

She turned around and glared at me. “You know what it is. Your history teacher said you didn't turn in your last two homework assignments, one of which was a major part of your grade. First, you get suspended from school, now this? What in the world is going on?”

I was tired. I'd had enough grief from Mrs. Watson. Juggling the show, school, and staying fabulous was taking its toll, and I just didn't have the energy to come up with another story. I decided to come clean. “Mom, I just need to do a little catching up at school. It's no need to trip. I've been busy. The show has me swamped.”

My mother narrowed her eyes at me and looked sternly my way.

“Now, when you said you were taking this job on, you said you could balance it with your schoolwork.”

“And I can,” I protested.

“Not according to this you can't!” She tapped the screen.“Not when you're not turning in your homework.”

And failing English,
I thought. “Awww, Mom.” I so wanted to cut this conversation short and go crawl straight into bed. I'd been shooting promos all day, then I'd had to make a public appearance at a celebrity event and I was just exhausted.

“Don't ‘awww, Mom' me. I have enough to deal with without having to worry about whether you're doing your schoolwork or not,” she exclaimed. Of course she would make this about her. My mom acted like the sun rose and set around her. And exactly what did she have to deal with? Tennis? The spa? Brunch with friends? Junior League?

She must've finally noticed my appearance because she added, “And what in the world is all that on your face?”

“It's called makeup,” I groaned.

She snatched a Kleenex out of the box on the counter and dabbed at my lips. “Wipe some of that makeup off, and who do you think you're getting smart with?”

I ducked my head out of her way. “I'm not getting smart. You asked me a question. We have to wear this for TV.” I wished there was a button I could push to make myself disappear. Better yet, make my mom disappear.

My mom tossed the tissue in the trash, then rolled her eyes as she shut down her laptop. “I can see now that this job is going to be a problem.”

“No, it's not, Mom.” The last thing I wanted was getting her riled up so I just agreed. “Okay, okay. I promise I'm going to buckle down at school.” The station wanted to send me to the MTV Awards next month in Los Angeles, so the last thing I wanted was my mom tripping and telling me I couldn't go because of some stupid grades.

“Get it together, Maya,” she warned as I made my way out of the kitchen.

I blew a frustrated breath and started heading up the stairs to my room before she found something else to gripe about. My cell phone rang just as I plopped down on my bed. I almost didn't answer it because the phone number came up as blocked, but I knew every time Tamara called me from her office the number came up blocked. It was probably her checking on me, so I decided to answer.

“Hello,” I said.

“Maya, don't hang up,” Bryce quickly said.

I groaned at the sound of his voice. He'd been blowing up my phone, sending me text messages apologizing and swearing over and over that he hadn't had anything to do with sending out my picture.

“What do you want, Bryce?” I asked. I don't know why I didn't just hang up. I guess a part of me wanted to understand how he could do something like that with my pictures. I needed to know if he really hated me that much. Not that I cared, but if so, it meant that he'd never really cared for me in the first place. I had really been feeling Bryce when we were together. I guess you could say even though I'd played hard to get, he was my first love. So for him to go there really hurt.

“Why are you bothering me anyway?” I continued. “Does your girlfriend know you're calling me?”

“Sheridan is not my girlfriend,” he protested. “We're just . . .”

“Are you going to the homecoming dance with her or not?” I asked, cutting him off. I noticed a picture the two of us had taken last month in one of those cheesy mall photo booths. We were acting silly, something I rarely did. But Bryce brought out the fun side of me. I'd loved just letting my hair down with him.

I stood, walked over to the picture, snatched if off the mirror, then dropped it in the trash.

“Well, yes, but it's because—”

“Then, whatever, Bryce. Save it.” I fell back across my bed.

He sounded panicked. “No, I'm trying to tell you, yeah, Sheridan and I are kickin' it, and she's cool and all, but I don't love her like I love you.”

Those words made me sit straight up in my bed. In our entire three months together, Bryce had never uttered those words to me.

“
Love me
? Since when?”

“Since I lost you,” he said softly.

I wanted to tell him that he hadn't
lost
me, he'd
dumped
me but since those words would never, ever leave my mouth, I remained quiet.

“I'm just saying, I miss you, boo.”

I felt myself getting sucked in by his words, so I quickly shook myself out of my trance. “Bryce,
miss
me with that foolishness because I'm not even buying it. You're the only person I sent that picture to so you had to have sent it to everybody.”

“I know you don't believe me, but I would never do anything like that. I mean, I'm happy for your success. I wouldn't try to mess you up like that. If anything, I wish I could be a part of all your success.”

You could have been
, I wanted to say. Now, he had a better chance of getting with Beyoncé.

“All I'm saying is, I don't want you believing I would do something like that,” he continued.

The strange part is that had been what didn't make sense about all of this. Sending that picture was just not Bryce's character. But still, if he hadn't done it, who had?

I decided to ask. “Then how did the picture get out if you didn't send it, Bryce?”

“I don't know. I've been racking my brain thinking about it,” he replied. “It's on my phone, but you know I keep my phone with me at all times.” He paused like he was recalling something. “Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“Except the other day when Sheridan was over my house and my mom called me outside to help her bring the groceries in,” he slowly began. “I left my phone sitting on the coffee table.” He sounded like he was thinking. “When I came back, I was a little shocked because the light on the phone was on. Sheridan told me it had rung, only I didn't see a missed call.”

“So you just left it alone and took her word for it, huh?”

“Nah, my mom was trippin' and I was distracted. That had to have been what happened. Sheridan had to have seen the picture and sent it to herself when I was dealing with my mom.”

“How convenient. Your girlfriend is the one who sent the picture out, not you,” I said, my voice filled with sarcasm. “Yeah, right.” But even as I was shooting his explanation down, my gut told me that Bryce was right on the money. Sending that picture to everyone was a Sheridan move if I had ever seen one. But still, I wasn't cutting Bryce any slack.

“Not that I believe you. But if I did, it doesn't matter anyway. You and Sheridan are both losers. So lose my number,” I said, pressing the button to end the call.

Sheridan Matthews. She was the one behind this! “You conniving little wench,” I mumbled. Bryce was a lot of things, but he was never dirty like that. But that was classic Sheridan.

I picked up the phone and punched in her number. I hadn't called her since I'd started working at
Rumor Central
, but I needed to give her a piece of my mind. Her phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Somebody must've stolen this phone because I know Maya Morgan isn't calling me,” she answered with an attitude.

“No, only one person is in the phone-stealing business,” I replied.

“What do you want?” she said like I was truly bothering her.

“You think you're slick,” I began. I was so angry that I began pacing back and forth across the room. “I know it was you that sent out that picture of me on Bryce's phone.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” she replied innocently. “Ooooh, you mean the
Playboy
bunny photo that you sent my boyfriend.”

I bit down on my teeth to keep from going off. “He was
my
boyfriend when I sent it. And if he's your man now, why was he telling me how much he loves me five minutes ago?” I couldn't help but throw that in. “Maybe if you go stuff some tissue in your bra, you can take some pictures Bryce will want to carry around.” I knew that would cut her since she was so self-conscious about her small breasts.

“Screw you, Maya! You're the only slut that takes dirty pictures,” Sheridan screamed.

I debated going there with her, but I wasn't about to engage her. I just had a warning for her.

“Karma is no joke, Sheridan.”

“Am I supposed to be scared?” she replied, calming down. “Yeah, you might have some dirt on me, but just remember, any dirt I did, you were right there with me as I was doing it.”

She was so right about that. There were a few things about Sheridan I'd considered revealing, but I'd nixed each one of those ideas because that would've been incriminating myself as well.

“Don't even play me,” Sheridan said. “You have nothing on me. And if I did send the little funky slutty picture, you need to be thankful that's all I did. With everything I know about you, I could make it where Bryce thinks you're the biggest whore in the whole state of Florida.”

I was just about to reply when she added, “Don't call me again,” before hanging the phone up in my face.

“Ugh!” I screamed, as I hurled my phone across the room. I was livid.

Sheridan Matthews didn't know who she was messing with. But I was definitely about to show her!