Stealing Popular (16 page)

“No, it isn't,” gasped my friend, terror filling her eyes. “Because they found it in . . . in . . . the worst possible place.” Fawn clung to me. “Coco, they found Dijon's tiara in . . . Adair's locker.”

“You're awfully quiet.”

“Sorry.” I gazed out the car window at the line of maple trees whooshing past. If I let my eyes go out of focus, the red leaves made a wispy blur trail across my brain.

“You only ate half of your dinner,” said Aunt Iona.

“Sorry.”

“Coco, you don't have to keep apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm sure everything will get sorted out with Adair.”

I didn't see how.

The facts were pretty solid. And pretty sordid. Mr. Falkner had discovered the missing diamond tiara at the back of the top shelf of Adair's locker. Shortly after that, the rumors started rocketing through the halls of Big Mess. Adair had been suspended. Adair had been expelled. Adair had been hauled off to jail by Security
Officer Burton. But I knew the truth. Fawn told me Adair had gotten so upset to her stomach, she'd gone home sick before lunch. I also knew my friend was innocent. For one thing, Adair was too honest to ever steal anything from anyone, and for another, she'd devoted her whole existence to trying to be accepted by popular girls like Her Fabulousness and the Royal Court. She would never blow it over some crown—even one worth three thousand dollars. It didn't make any sense. Something else was going on here. But what? Did someone know I had secretly changed the cheer scores? Was she (or he) trying to get back at me by punishing Adair?

I had been calling and texting Adair all afternoon, but she hadn't responded. I understood if she didn't want to come tonight and face everybody. Renata and I could handle the PTA. But I needed to know that one of my best friends was all right. Adair's silence was painful, and the longer it continued, the worse I felt.

When Aunt Iona pulled up to the curb next to the Big Mess cafeteria, the clock on the dashboard read 6:39. I reached behind the driver's seat, feeling for my nylon backpack. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I wish I could stay. If I didn't have group—”

“It's okay.”

My aunt led a support group for kids of divorce on Monday nights. I had gone to it for a while after my parents had split. It had helped (more than I was willing to admit at the time).

I got out of the car. “Dad said he was coming right from work, so he should be here by the time the meeting starts.”

“Call me when you get home. I want to hear all about it.”

“Okay.”

It was strange, seeing the Big Mess cafeteria at night. It seemed bigger, yet far less threatening than it did during the day when it was divided by social status. A bunch of parents were clustered together near the cashier's area. In the back Mrs. Gisborne was taking the plastic wrap off a tray of sugar cookies. Incredibly, Waffles was almost perfectly straight! On the left side of the stage Miss Grace was placing several chairs around a rectangular table that held four microphones. Next to her, Mr. Tanori was setting up a laptop and the document camera on a smaller table. A large, white screen hung above his head. On the far right side of the stage stood a wooden podium and microphone.

I touched the ugly, orange wall, and a fleck of paint came off on my finger.

Tipping my neck back, I let my eyes travel across the smooth, concrete surface. I could see my faces here. I could see them watching over the future Somebodies and Sortabodies and Nobodies that would come and go from Big Mess. Maybe one day some kid who didn't have anybody to eat with might look at them—really look at them—and feel a little better. A little more worthy. A little more understood. Wouldn't that be something?

It was sixteen minutes to seven. I checked my messages again.

I had a text from Liezel:
GOOD LUCK, BGMS ARTIST OF THE YEAR!

And another from Fawn:
U R GOING 2 B GREAT!

But nothing from Adair. Where was she? And why wouldn't she talk to me? Panic swelled in my throat. The “what ifs” were back. What if she didn't come to school tonight? Or ever? What if Adair thought I had something to do with planting Dijon's tiara in her locker? With all of my sneaking around, I had certainly given her reason to suspect me. What if I had lost Adair's friendship forever?

Renata was striding across the cafeteria toward me. Wearing Fawn's pale yellow, sleeveless, A-line dress, with a pair of mocha-brown beaded sandals, she looked like springtime. Renata had pulled the sides of her hair back behind her head, leaving wispy waves to frame her face. Renata's mother was with her. I recognized the eyes.

“Hey, Coco,” said Renata. “This is my mom.”

“Hello,” said Mrs. Zickelfoos warmly, taking my hand. “I've heard a lot about you.” The way she said it sent a ripple of joy through me.

“Have you seen Adair?” I asked Renata.

She shook her head.

“I'll let you girls get ready,” said Mrs. Zickelfoos, squeezing her daughter's hand. “Good luck, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Renata's squeezed back.

A pang of envy stabbed my heart.

Mrs. Zickelfoos went to take a seat near the window, while Renata and I headed to the front to let Mr. Tanori know we were there. Teachers, parents, and students were starting to stream in. The tables were slowly filling up. Miss Grace placed three signs on the large table on the left side of the stage:
PRESIDENT
,
VICE PRESIDENT
, and
SECRETARY
. I still didn't see my dad. Or Adair.

“Okay, ladies, we are first on the agenda tonight.”
Mr. Tanori straightened his red tie with the tiny white polka dots. “Here's how it will work: I will introduce your group. Renata, you will be first. Go on up the stairs and straight to the podium to the right. Turn the microphone on and give your speech to the audience just the way you did in class. Um . . . I mean, the second time.” He chuckled. “Be sure and speak up. Coco, when it's your turn to show the design, place your sketch beneath the document camera, and it will be projected onto the big screen. When you're done with your full presentation, there may be some questions from the PTA officers seated onstage to your right. That's normal. Just answer their questions clearly and briefly, and if you get stuck, I'll be down in the front row, ready to help.” Mr. Tanori must have seen the fear on our faces, because he rushed to say, “I'm not anticipating any problems, though. So just have fun, okay?” Our teacher glanced around. “Is Adair here?”

“Not yet,” I said.

He straightened his tie again. “She is coming, though. . . .”

“She'll be here,” Renata said confidently. To me, she whispered, “If she doesn't come, I'll do her part.”

“Thanks.” It was good to have Renata to lean on.

Renata went into her relaxation routine of humming and wiggling. I set my backpack on the end of the seat and tried not to hyperventilate.

The air-conditioning system above the stage had kicked on, and it was getting chilly. My head was starting to feel tight. And I had to pee. There had to be at least a hundred people in the cafeteria, and they kept coming. What were they all doing here? I guess a lot of people were curious about the design. I saw Dr. Adams, Mr. Falkner, Mrs. Ignazio, Mrs. Dawkins, and several other teachers. There were plenty of kids, too, including Breck and Parker, and most of the students from my leadership class. It was getting noisy.

There was a thump on my back. “She's here,” said Renata.

Adair was coming down the window aisle, politely sliding past a group of students blocking the way. She was wearing her denim jacket, a powder-blue top with a splash of glitter around the crew neck, and jeans. She'd left her hair loose. When Adair lifted her head, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot. “Sorry, I'm late.”

I latched on to her arm. “I'm glad you came.”

“I almost didn't, but . . . this is our project, and I wanted to see it through.”

“Are you okay?” asked Renata.

“You mean, considering I'm suspended for two days?”

“What!” we burst.

“That's not fair,” said Renata.

“Everyone knows you didn't take Dijon's tiara,” I chimed in. “And we're going to prove it, if it takes all year.”

Adair sighed. “You can't right every wrong, Coco.”

“We can't let Dijon get away with—”

“Let's focus on what we're here for, okay?”

“But, Adair, you can't just give up—”

“Clarke.” Coach Notting was coming in through a side door.

What was
she
doing here?

“Hi, Coach.”

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about—well, you know—and if there's anything I can do. Well, you know.”

“Thank you.” Adair's voice broke.

The coach patted Adair's arm. “Go get 'em.”

Oh. My. God.

Coach Notting was giving comfort to a student? What parallel universe had I fallen into?

As the coach moved off, my eyes locked on to a green-and-white wave headed in our direction. It was
Dijon, Venice, and Truffle. Her Fabulousness and the Royal Court were dressed in identical sweaters. Of course! Coach Notting had handed out the new cheer sweaters today. No wonder Adair was heartbroken. She had gone home sick and hadn't gotten her beloved cheer sweater. Dijon was in the lead, naturally, so I got the best look at her outfit. A silver horizontal zigzag stripe divided her sweater across the chest. The top third of the V-neck was white, and the bottom two-thirds was emerald green. A giant embroidered black-and-silver St. Bernard dog patch was sewn to the center of her chest. On her right shoulder another patch read “Dijon” in thick, fuzzy, green cursive letters. Truffle and Venice had similar patches with their names on them. The trio strolled to their usual table in the middle of the cafeteria.

Adair couldn't take her eyes off them.

“You'll get yours soon,” I said.

“No.”

“Sure, you will. Tomorrow you'll—”

“No, Coco,” she said firmly. “I won't.” The tiniest of tears slipped down a pale cheek. “I've been kicked off cheer staff.”

“What?”

“Coach Notting had no choice. Section Four, paragraph B of the Big Mess Cheerleading Constitution that I signed states ‘Cheerleaders are ambassadors of good sportsmanship and spirit. They must abide by all school rules and not behave in an inappropriate, disrespectful, or illegal manner, thereby dishonoring their school and the athletic team or teams they represent.'”

The fact that she could recite the thing by heart did not surprise me. “You didn't dishonor—” I started to say.

“Stealing doesn't exactly promote school spirit.”

“Adair, why do I have to keep reminding you? You didn't steal anything.”

“I know, but—”

“I don't know what kind of game Dijon is playing here, but it's not going to work. Tomorrow morning we're marching into Dr. Adams's office—”

“Shh. Please. Not here.” Adair put a shaky hand to her forehead. She was barely holding it together, and I wasn't helping.

I put my arm around her. “Sorry.”

I would not let Adair down. Somehow I would figure out a way to get her back on the squad. I already had a name for it: Operation Restore Adair.

“Dijon, darling!” We heard the clink of bracelets. Clutching a large cardboard tube under a skeletal arm, Mrs. Randle came down the middle row. She handed the tube to her daughter and continued toward us. Flicking a big chandelier earring made of pink crystals over her shoulder, Mrs. Randle paused to shoot Adair a nasty look. Then she climbed the side stairs to the stage and plopped her huge zebra-print purse on the table next to the first metal sign.

Unbelievable!

This couldn't be right. Dijon's mother was president of the Big Mess PTA?

The nightmare continued as we watched Mr. Wasserman (Venice's dad), Mrs. Gisborne, Miss Furdy, and Coach Notting go up the steps and take their seats at the table onstage. These people were the PTA officers—the ones we had to convince to approve our idea! We were dead before we had even begun.

Whoooo. Whooo.
Mrs. Randle blew into her microphone to signal it was almost time to start.

People began settling in. The place was packed. My team sat down, Renata on one side of me and Adair on the other. Renata was rubbing her bare arms. It
was
cold. Craning my neck, I caught sight of my dad strolling
through the door. He hadn't seen me yet. But at least he was here.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Take one thing at a time.

I could hear Renata humming. Strangely enough, it calmed me, too.

I unzipped my backpack and reached inside. My fingers stumbled over my leadership notebook, my day timer, my geography textbook, and two library books. My stomach did a flip. Quickly, I took everything out of my backpack.

But there was no mistake.

Everything was here, except the one thing I needed: my sketchbook.

That was missing.

“Did you lose it?” asked Adair.

“Maybe someone stole it,” said Renata.

Adair gasped. “I'll bet it was Stocklifter. Remember last year?”

I made another frantic, pointless search of my pack. “I thought I'd stuck it in here, but I must have taken it out, which means”—I let out a teeny cry—“it's in the backseat of my aunt's car. She dropped me off tonight and—”

“Call her!” hissed my friends.

Keeping my head low, I dialed Aunt Iona's cell. No answer. I left a panicked message. I texted her too, even though I knew it was no use. My aunt would have turned off her phone before starting her support group meeting. For the next hour she would be completely out of touch.