The Karma Club (15 page)

Today is an especially hard day for me to cope because it just happens to be Mason’s birthday, and I had been planning his big eighteenth birthday bash for the past year. I had the venue picked out, the decorations, the music, everything! I was going to do a politics theme, seeing that he’s the class president and totally into political science
and
because at age eighteen you’re finally considered a legal citizen and therefore able to vote.

I thought it was a pretty creative idea, but according to all the buzz going around the hallways, Heather is throwing him some kind of hot, exclusive, Hollywood-themed party tonight with limos and expensive gift bags and a live band. And even
I
can admit that sounds a hundred times better than what I had planned. But the thought of Mason spending his big special night with someone as perfect and gorgeous as Heather Campbell doing God
knows what in her perfect, gorgeous Mediterranean mansion just makes my heart lurch. And it certainly doesn’t help matters that her face has, regrettably, yet to show any signs of breaking out and she probably looks especially good in lingerie . . .

Okay, I promised I wouldn’t let myself think about that stuff.

“Maddy?” Spencer brings my attention back to the subject at hand. Which today is the use of conditional
if
phrases. Like, I would go to the store
if
I had money. Or I would
not
be here
if
I had just listened to Mr. Wilson when he was talking.

“Yeah?” I respond, as if I’m not really sure why he’s calling my name when I’m sitting right here.

Spencer laughs and says, “It looked like you were somewhere else.”

I shake my head adamantly. “No, no. I’m here.”

“I guess this stuff is about as exciting to you as it is to me.”

“Sorry,” I finally say. “I’m paying attention.”

And then, like he’s some kind of freak-show mind reader, he goes, “Mason’s birthday?”

My head immediately pops up. Much higher than it’s supposed to go, actually. “What?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Were you thinking about Mason’s birthday party tonight?” Spencer rephrases his question.

And now I’m wondering if maybe he’s one of those rare people who can read minds. And if that’s the case, I’m really screwed because I’ve already thought on more than one occasion how crappy it is that I’m stuck tutoring this guy. Then again, if he can read minds, I guess he’d be reading these thoughts too. And then I suppose I could look up at him and he’d raise his eyebrows and nod his head as if to say, “Yes, I’m a freak, I can read your thoughts.”

On the other hand, if he wanted to keep his superpower a secret, he wouldn’t nod, because he knows I’m expecting it because I just thought it.

God, this is confusing.

Well, anyway, even if he can read minds, it’s not like I will admit that he’s right, so I simply respond by saying, “No,” in a really defensive voice. “Why would you think that?”

Spencer shrugs. “You had this far-off look in your eyes, and I know the party is tonight because it’s all Jenna has been able to talk about for the past week.” I swear I see his eyes roll as he says this last part, and the slightly annoyed intonation in his voice seems to suggest that he’s not personally a big fan of birthday parties in general.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. “
You’re
not looking forward to the big Hollywood party?” I don’t really care what his answer is, I’m just trying to push his buttons and see if I can get a reaction that fits his disagreeable reputation. Because, in all honesty, he has not done or said anything even remotely snobby since we started these tutoring sessions.

I can see from the look on his face that my question has struck some kind of nerve. But he shakes his head and says, “No. I’m not going, actually.”

Not going?
I think immediately. To the big glitzy party that everyone is talking about? That seems pretty strange. Especially since he already said his girlfriend has been talking about it all week. What’s even stranger is I have this odd feeling that the reason he’s not going has something to do with me. I’m not sure why, though, because when I really stop and think about it, that whole rationale seems absolutely ridiculous. It’s not like Spencer
would refuse to go to Mason’s birthday party just out of respect for
me
.

Wait, would he?

I want to press him for more information, but I stay quiet and direct my attention to the half-conjugated verb on the paper in front of us. I do, however, take the opportunity to steal a quick glance at Spencer’s face. Like, I really look at him. And what I see is entirely unexpected. He looks kind of pained . . . hurt, even.

But then he looks up at me, and I quickly look away, mumbling something like “Yeah, I’m sure the party will be totally lame anyway.”

He nods in agreement and goes, “Yeah. Totally overhyped.”

And I don’t really get any more insight into what he’s thinking because, after that, the conversation is apparently over.

Later that night, after I help my mom with the dishes from dinner, get a head start on my weekend homework, and help my sister brainstorm ideas for her upcoming science fair project, I boot up my computer, go directly to my Facebook account, and click through to Mason’s profile. This has become my nightly ritual. Sometime before I go to bed, I stare at his page. I know it’s really masochistic and sad, but I guess I’m just secretly hoping that tonight will be the night it will finally have changed. That Heather Campbell’s name will no longer be occupying the coveted “Relationship Status” spot that used to be mine.

I remember signing on a month ago and seeing her name there for the first time. It was right after I saw them show up to school together. That night when I logged in, she was magically there.
And I was magically gone. It was like I had vanished right into cyberspace or something.

That had made the whole thing painfully real for me, as ridiculous as it sounds. I mean, how sad is it that I needed a freaking Facebook profile to tell me that my boyfriend was no longer my boyfriend? As if Facebook is the official record keeper of relationships and you have to confirm all breakups and hookups with this sacred online registrar before you can consider them certified and approved.

Unfortunately, tonight is no different. Heather’s name is still there. And when I click through to her page, I see her sparkling brown eyes and perfect, blemish-free skin practically laughing at me from the screen. They remind me, not so subtly, that I am failing in my quest for revenge.

Suddenly, I feel very angry. The frustration is boiling up inside of me. There has to be a way to put a stop to this. Something that we haven’t yet thought of. The breakup scheme of all breakup schemes.

And it has to happen now!

I close Facebook and open up Mason’s e-mail account. I start scouring his in-box like a jealous girlfriend. But I’m really just searching for inspiration. Maybe we were too quick to rule out another e-mail exchange between Mason and Catherine Linton. Maybe if we make this round dirtier and even more incriminating it will do the trick. Heather is not likely to stand for a raunchy round of cybersex between the two of them, is she?

But just as I’m about to click on “Compose New Message” and try my hand at some romance paperback–worthy correspondence, I notice a new e-mail pop into the in-box.

It’s from someone whose name I don’t recognize.

Leonard Palmer.

Hmm.
I repeat the name over and over again in my head, trying to figure out if I’ve ever heard it before. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I click on the e-mail and start reading.

As my eyes skim over the text, my lips slowly part and my mouth eventually drops open.

Oh my God.
This can’t possibly be real. I can’t believe what I’m reading.

I feel like a miner who’s been digging for gold for months and months and yet returns home empty-handed every day. And then one evening, as I’m trudging home, feeling discouraged and ready to throw in the towel, I toss my pick violently over my shoulder in a defiant display and it embeds itself randomly into the side of a mountain.

When I turn around to see where the pick has landed, I blink in utter disbelief.

I’ve struck gold.

I know I
could simply call my friends and tell them what I’ve just read in Mason’s e-mail from the mysterious and life-saving Leonard Palmer, but this kind of breakthrough is so much better shared in person. I clasp a printout of the e-mail in my hands, tell my parents that I’ve decided to spend the night at Angie’s, jump into my car, and peel out of the driveway.

As soon as I’m on the main road, I pick up my cell phone to call Jade and ask her to meet me there. With one hand firmly on the wheel, I flip open my phone with the other and speed-dial Jade’s cell. I know, I know, I’m not supposed to be driving and talking on the phone at the same time. It’s against the law, blah blah blah. Obviously the law has to have some kind of loophole in case of emergencies. And although no one is actually dying or anything, this is still arguably a big freaking deal.

She answers the phone, and I immediately go, “Listen, I can’t explain now but there’s been a Karma Club breakthrough and I
need you to meet me at Angie’s in”—I look out the window to check which street I’m passing—“five minutes.”

“Really? What is it?”

I pound the accelerator to make it through a yellow light. “I can’t tell you. It’ll be better if you hear it in person. But trust me, it’s good.”

Jade is quiet, and I can picture her trying to do some sort of calculation in her head in an attempt to figure out what my so-called breakthrough could possibly be. When she comes up short, she says, “Okay, I’ll leave now.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of bright light. Like the kind you see when celebrities are making their way down the red carpet and the paparazzi are taking pictures of them. I wonder if there’s a celebrity in town, but I don’t dare look behind me because I’m already driving with one hand on the wheel and one hand holding my phone, and I can’t really afford to crash into a telephone pole right now.

“Okay, see you soon,” I say before hanging up and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.

Five minutes later, I arrive at Angie’s house and look into my rearview mirror to see Jade’s headlights pulling in right behind me. We hurry up the front steps and knock on the door.

Mrs. Harper answers, wearing her nightgown and an untied bathrobe over it. She looks at us and then looks at the clock on the wall. “Jade and Maddy, it’s almost eleven o’clock. Isn’t it a bit late for visits?”

“I know, Mrs. Harper,” I say. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but we really have to talk to Angie.”

Mrs. Harper sighs deeply and steps aside, letting us pass through
the open door. Then she calls to the back of the house. “Angela, your friends are here to see you.”

Angie appears wearing a pair of old boxer shorts and a T-shirt. “Did someone die?” she asks sarcastically.

“Not yet,” I say, flashing her a mischievous smile.

Angie catches my hint. “Right, okay. Let’s go to my room.”

We follow her, and once we’re safely behind her closed door, I rip out the e-mail and shove it into Angie’s hands, hardly able to contain my excitement. “Read this,” I command.

Angie takes the page and starts reading it while Jade hovers over her shoulder, trying to get a good look.

Angie’s eyes start to widen, and a few seconds later, Jade’s follow suit. They’ve arrived at the good part. The clincher. The sentence that is going to assure us a Karma Club victory bigger than we ever imagined.

Angie finishes reading first and looks up at me. “Is this for real?” she asks, her face covered with disbelief.

I nod slowly but confidently. “Yep. I found it in Mason’s e-mail. It arrived while I was logged in. And since he’s at his big, flashy birthday party, he probably hasn’t even seen it yet.”

Jade looks up at me next. “Cheated?” she confirms. “On his SATs?”

I nod again. “According to this Leonard guy,” I say, tapping the page. “Mason hasn’t yet paid him the other half of the five thousand dollars that he promised to give him in exchange for taking the SATs in his place.”

Jade covers her mouth with her hand. “This is
huge
!”

“I know!”

Angie’s face flashes with realization. “And this explains why he
had to take the test at another school, where no one would know that it wasn’t him.”

“Yes!” I say. I’ve already figured this out in the time it took me to get here, but it’s almost as fun rediscovering it all over again with my friends. “I mean, this Leonard guy obviously looks enough like Mason. All he had to do was lend him his school ID and voilà! Leonard is Mason for the day, Mason scores a whopping 2350 on his SATs and receives an early acceptance letter to Amherst College.”

Jade just shakes her head in disbelief. “I always thought that was a pretty big jump from a 1900.”

“It was!” I exclaim. “But he told me he went to one of those Kaplan classes after school to help raise his score. When really he was actually paying this guy five thousand dollars to take the test for him . . .”

And right then another realization hits me and I gasp. “That’s why he got the job at the pizzeria. He needed the money to pay this guy, which also explains why he quit a few months later.”

I never thought Mason would be capable of pulling off something like this. I dated him for two years, and suddenly it feels like I don’t know him at all. And now I’m starting to wonder if I ever did.

“So, what are we going to do with this?” Jade asks, her eyes buzzing with excitement.

“Duh,” Angie says, flashing her a look. “We’re going to send it to Amherst.”

I grin and bite my bottom lip in anticipation. Mason Brooks will never survive an SAT cheating scandal. He’ll get kicked out of Amherst’s incoming class. Our high school will revoke his status
as class president. He’ll be totally humiliated in front of everyone. And best of all, Heather Campbell will want nothing to do with him.