The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You (23 page)

 

[7:09 PM]

Ben

I emailed you the link to a better translation. I should send it to Harpo and Corny.

[7:10 PM]

I'm not going to send it to them. Now we can fight to the death for valedictorian. Ha ha!

 

[8:51 PM]

Ben

Earth to Beatrice.

[8:51 PM]

West to Watson.

[9:02 PM]

Trix?

 

19

The music pouring
through my headphones drowned out the whir of the sewing machine as I fed satin under the needle. I'd long ago learned to lock Sherry out of my room when I was sewing, as he had a habit of leaping up on the desk to see what was making all the racket and getting his paws tangled in the thread. My headphones blocked the sound of him scratching at my door, too.

I squinted against the glare of my desk lamp, watching as the machine serged the crisp
Star Wars
fabric to the slit I'd cut in the side of the black dress. I pinched the fabric until my fingertips went white with the effort of keeping the slippery satin from sliding away from me.

I didn't really have time to waste on an extracurricular project. I could have been asleep already, like my parents. I could have been listening to an audio version of one of my schoolbooks—like the recording of
The Cherry Orchard
I'd downloaded from the library—instead of a loop of
Doctor Who
scores.

But, no. I was awake in the middle of the night, attempting to be my own fairy godmother and put some personality into a lifeless sack of black satin that—had I not cut open the side—could have easily paid for months' worth of comics, Slurpees, and hummus-and-sprout sandwiches.

It was stupid—and pointless—to be disappointed by what had happened at lunch. For whatever reason, I had deluded myself into thinking that Ben West had asked me to the winter ball the way normal people got asked to fancy events. Like it was a real date. Like he was validating everything I'd overheard Meg and Harper talking about a month ago. But that wasn't what had happened. He'd asked me to go because, like me, he didn't actually want to have to go to this ridiculous showcase. I was moral support to keep him from being the fifth wheel on everyone else's double date. Because we were friends.

Gritting my teeth, I yanked the dress more aggressively under the machine's presser foot. After years of having only Harper and Meg, it was actually kind of nice that we'd branched out. I enjoyed spending time with the boys. I liked that Peter didn't understand all of our references—and vice versa—and that Cornell always had an interesting insight into our homework. It was nice having more real friends, instead of just classmates to nod to between classes.

But being friends with Ben bugged me. Walking to class together, murmuring comments in the cafeteria, the buzzing of texts pouring into my phone—it was false advertising. It looked like friendship, but it didn't feel like friendship. It felt like something else, like I'd been ramping up to something huge and found out that it was flat ground.

It was worse because it wasn't even his fault. He hadn't cornered me and professed his undying love. I'd heard about it third hand from two people who didn't even know that I knew. And who was to say that Harper and Meg were right? For all of their musing about Ben being absolutely gaga for me, there'd been no sure sign of anything other than him being a fairly likeable dude—once you got past the rambling.

The problem was me. In the crushing guilt of realizing that I'd been hurting Ben's feelings for years, I had opened myself up too much. I'd tried too hard. I'd gone from insulting him in the hallway to texting him from the second I got home until the moment before I fell asleep. I'd hunted for his good qualities and found them—he made me laugh and he pushed me to work harder and he always smelled like apples—Fujis, not Granny Smith. He was nice to Meg and Harper and didn't abuse the froshlings. He'd returned my copy of
Buffy
clean and with the packaging taped so the comic wouldn't bend.

The problem was that I actually liked him quite a bit. And the idea of him not returning that feeling in the same way was a new kind of awful.

I shut off the sewing machine and shook out the dress, which gave a crack of stiff fabric loud enough that I could hear it over the BBC orchestra in my ears. The added panel flared out of the mass of black satin, a pop of loud color and Lucasfilm intellectual property. It was everything I'd imagined it to be. I threw it on my bed as my phone bleeped, interrupting my music.

Pulling the phone out of the pocket of my pajama pants, I braced myself for another text that I wouldn't answer. Instead, there was an email from the Mess administrative office waiting in my inbox. There was no chance that the office secretaries were sending out emails after eleven to announce Free Ice Cream and Puppy day. I'd unsubscribed to emails regarding sports, orchestral concerts, and drama club performances. This would not be good news.

 

 

To:
Messina Academy Students

From:
Administrative Services

Subject:
Urgent Student Information

 

 

Due to a networking error on the part of the Messina Academy's homework portal, the administration asks that all students turn in any and all assignments in hard copy. Deadlines for Tuesday's assignments will be extended to Wednesday. The library and computer labs are available to those in need of printers. Please avoid use of your school email accounts until further notice.

 

Regards,

Dr. S. Mendoza, Ph.D., Ed.D.

 

I popped out my headphones. “Frak.”

 

[8:32 PM]

Ben

Two days and still no website.

 

[9:47 PM]

Ben

Thanks for bringing me those Daredevil back issues today.

 

Three days and no website. You'd think they'd change up the error code message.

 

[7:22 AM]

Ben

Four days and no website. What are you guys even doing in Programming Languages?

[7:23 AM]

Me

Worksheets. Why are you texting me when we're standing across from each other?

[7:23 AM]

Ben

Testing a hypothesis.

[7:24 AM]

Meg

Who are you texting this early?

[7:25 AM]

Me

Will you do my makeup before the dance tonight?

[7:26 AM]

Meg

Of course. Like I trust you with your own face.

[7:26 AM]

Me

Thanks?

[7:26 AM]

Harper

You guys look crazy right now.

[7:27 AM]

Me

I needed to point out to West that it's rude to hold secret conversations in front of your friends.

[7:28 AM]

Cornell

Did I miss a memo? When did we all take a vow of silence?

[7:29 AM]

Peter

Are you guys having a secret nerd conversation that I won't understand? I learn best through immersion.

[7:31 AM]

Meg

Peter, will you pick us up at 6:45 tonight at Trixie's? I don't want to give my parents the chance to analyze you.

[7:32 AM]

Peter

No problem.

[7:33 AM]

Harper

This is a flagrant misuse of technology.

[7:33 AM]

Ben

I'm going inside.

 

20

The sunlight was
fading into shadows, leaving the sky stretched out like a bruised eggplant. The tulle of Meg's skirt floated like one of the lavender clouds as she teetered in impressively tall sequined shoes, holding firmly to Peter's arm. Walking behind them, I examined the elaborate up-do Meg had crafted in my bedroom with the assistance of a dozen unintelligible diagrams and Internet videos.

I had narrowly avoided cauterizing my neck with a curling iron. My hair looked pretty much the same as it had when I'd taken it out of my ponytail. I pulled the mass of it over my shoulders for warmth and held my tiny purse a little harder as we followed the twinkling white lights in the sycamore trees toward the cafeteria.

“Now that is a wedding dress,” Meg said under her breath as we approached the ticket table.

The masses of white foofaraw that composed Mary-Anne's skirt took up all of the space under the ticket table. A silver tiara shone from the top of her dark hair as she stretched her hand toward Peter for his ticket. Her upper lip arched into a perfectly calculated sneer, just low enough to keep the tip of her nose safe from being stained rosy pink.

“Peter, your brother was looking for you guys,” she said. “He went to change.”

“Change for the dance?” Meg asked. Even in her towering shoes, she had to tip her neck like a Pez dispenser to see Peter. “Isn't he still banned from school events?”

Mary-Anne ripped through their tickets and flourished them back to Peter. “Apparently not.”

“He and my parents had another meeting with Mendoza earlier,” Peter said.

Meg whacked him with the massive white corsage he'd attached to her wrist in the parking lot. “How could you not tell us? Does this mean he's cleared?”

“I don't know. I haven't heard anything since they left the house.”

“Well, if you go inside, you'll see him soon enough,” Mary-Anne growled. “Let's keep the line moving, shall we?”

I handed her my ticket.

“You look nice,” I said.

Her scowl dimmed as she returned my ticket stub. “So do you. That eye shadow makes your eyes look less dreary. You should reapply your lip gloss, though.”

I wasn't wearing lip gloss. I'd swatted Meg's hand away when she'd come at me with the goopy wand.

“Good talk,” I said and moved with Peter and Meg through the doors of the caf.

The froshlings had been busy in the hours since the sixth-period bell rang. The cafeteria was transformed by bolts of white and gold fabric that hung from the ceiling and washed the room in a dim glow. The long utilitarian bench tables where we ate lunch had been replaced by small clusters of round tables covered in white lace and sprigs of evergreen branches. The butcher paper poem hung at the far end of the room, spilling onto the floor underneath a balloon arch. A line of people stood in front of it, waiting their turn to use their phones to take posed pictures.

Everything kind of smelled like stale grease and Pine-Sol, but I had to give the student council kudos for aesthetic.

The band was set up in the corner where our lunch table usually resided. They wore white blazers and thin ties that seemed at odds with their battered instruments and scruffy facial hair. As the guitarist played a static-laden riff, I felt myself start to grin. The student council had entrusted band selection to Ben West and Ben West had delivered a band that would re-create the dance setlist from
Back to the Future
.

The dance floor was packed with people clapping and capering. I doubted whether anyone else was jazzed to be listening to “Johnny B. Goode.” Everyone seemed to be giddy not to be studying. Even the teachers positioned around the room were less disgruntled than usual. Mr. Cline appeared to be singing along while Dr. Kapoor and Ms. Jensen cringed in secondhand embarrassment.

Meg, Peter, and I skirted around the tables. Peter kept pausing to thank passersby for coming. Meg said something to me that was entirely drowned out by the music and I had to lean in close for her to shout in my ear.

“Do you see Harper and Cornell?”

“They're probably dancing.”

“Then let's go find them!”

Peter gave me a
“Well, what can you do?”
shrug as Meg dragged him into the throng. I hung back. I suddenly felt extremely exposed in a strapless dress. I'd left my coat in the minivan. The band started playing a Michael Jackson song and I watched as Brad Hertz attempted to moonwalk, knocking into bystanders as he went.

A hand grabbed my elbow and I stumbled over my heels, nearly slamming into the nearest table.

“Careful,” Ben said in my ear. “If you break your leg, I'll never live it down.”

I turned, straightening my skirt with my shaking hands. He cleaned up surprisingly well. Not a wrinkle or scuff in sight. He had opted for a navy-blue suit and maroon tie with a crisp white oxford shirt. A pair of red high-tops peeked out from under his pant cuffs. They matched his tenth-Doctor hairstyle to a T.

You're friends,
I reminded myself.
Be friendly. Not
friendly
-friendly
.

“Cool band,” I said with an airiness that didn't quite match the frog in my throat.

“How long until everyone realizes they don't know anything written in the last thirty years?” He grinned at me, leaning in close to keep the shouting to a minimum. “Where are Meg and Peter?”

I pointed toward the dance floor, where Meg was spinning in circles around Peter, her skirt flapping around her legs in a purple blur. Peter had his fists up, rocking from side to side in true white-guy-dancing form. Ben laughed loudly.

“Have you seen Harper and Cornell?” I asked.

“They're around somewhere. I saw them drive in while I was helping the band unload.” He paused, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Do you want some punch?”

I clasped a hand to my chest in mock indignation. “Punch? I believe I was promised a soda.”

“I left my backpack in the chem lab.” He flapped his hands, as though magicking me to the spot. “Wait here?”

I nodded and watched him run out of the room. Pressing my lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot, I made my way to an unoccupied table. I opened my purse, pulling my book out of its depths. With one more cursory glance to see if I could spot Harper and Cornell, I turned my attention fully to
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe,
using my cell phone to light the pages. It wouldn't hurt to read for a minute or two.