by Laura Preble
We walk in, and I have to admit, my jaw drops. The place doesn’t even look like it belongs in a high school. “It looks like a movie set.”
“It kind of is,” she says, leading me to what looks like a fifteen-foot cave lit from within with some ghostly green light. “Mom’s friends come through once again!”
“Is there something in there?” I peer into the entrance.
“Guess you’ll have to find out!” she grabs my hand and runs toward a row of cabana tents in bright-colored stripes of emerald, royal blue, violet, yellow, and orange.
“What is this?” People are buzzing around the tents, stacking boxes, setting up—in one case, a huge spinning wheel like in a casino.
“It’s our Pirates’ Market! We have a fortune-teller, a game of chance, booths where you can get ale (which is really just soda) and snacks, and a souvenir booth.”
“Yeah, I noticed the Jerk Chicken cart earlier,” I say pointedly.
Becca ignores me. “Elisa’s over there. She made, like, a thousand of these cool pins with our club name and a picture of Johnny Depp!”
“Wow. Hope she doesn’t get sued. And won’t your buddy Brandon be offended that we didn’t steal his likeness instead?”
“No. He’s cool. Wait till you meet him.” She checks her watch. “Wow! We’re running out of time. Do you want to work in here or help in the ticket booth?”
The idea of being around all this merriment makes me queasy, so I opt for the booth. She takes me outside again, where the steel drummers are tuning up, and locks me into a little glass cubicle with some girl who looks like the lead member of the Junior Accountants Club. “Hi,” she says curtly. “I’m Alice. Please don’t breathe on my cash box. I’m very concerned about infection.”
Great. So I’m stuck in a cube with a germ freak, a roll of tickets, and change for a twenty. Could life get better?
“Hey, Shelby.” Oh, yes. Life could get better.
“Hi, Anders. Hi, Ilsa. You guys want tickets?” They’re cuddling as if they share a hip.
“Yes, two please,” Anders says as Ilsa tugs at the red bandana around his head. “You’re going to the dance too, right?”
“I’m hoping not to.” I furiously tear two tickets and shove them through the little hole in the window. “Here you go. Have fun. Be sure to visit the haunted pirate island.”
“That’s not in the script,” Alice hisses at me from the side of her mouth.
“Don’t talk to me or I might sneeze on you.” She does sort of huddle against her side of the cube and seems inclined to leave me alone.
“Well, hope to see you inside,” Anders calls cheerfully as Ilsa adjusts her very revealing sequined tank top. “Ilsa is a mermaid. Isn’t that clever?”
“Yeah.” I smile robotically. “Great. Have a nice day.” I never noticed before that Anders sounds a lot like the muscle-bound Terminator guy. I wonder if he always sounded like that, or if I’m just more annoyed with him now?
Alice is fuming, yet terrified that I might infect her, which I can use to my advantage. I pretend that I have a violent cough, and I see her cringe and huddle a little closer to the side of the booth.
I sell a few more tickets, and as it gets closer to the official start of the dance, the crowds become thicker and thicker until finally it feels like Alice and I are in a foxhole trying to dodge dollar bills. “Wow, this is a really popular dance,” she says breathlessly. “I think I might be getting an asthma attack.”
“Because it’s a popular dance?” I scoff as I throw quarters out the little window to make change for a couple.
“No, because you’re taking up all the oxygen in here.” She loosens her collar and hands perfectly aligned dollar bills to a kid on the outside. “You know, it seems to be slowing down. Perhaps you should take a break.”
“Yeah.” Wow, even crazy Alice doesn’t want me. As I get up, a few people in the line outside the booth protest, but I wave at them and say something about virulent diarrhea, which shuts them up.
It’s seven o’clock, and the crowd is milling around, but inside, the music is pounding already. The Polynesian musicians are playing brilliantly, that kind of music that makes it impossible for you to be sad because it sounds so much like sunshine and sparkling water. Except that I am sad anyway.
I hear Becca’s voice amplified, which is sort of scary in a I’m-the-queen-of-the-world kind of way. “Everyone who has a blue ticket stub from our National Invisible Boy Day, please be sure to have it ready. Brandon Keller will be arriving very soon! We’ll be doing the date drawing at eight-thirty sharp, and then Brandon is yours for the rest of the evening!”
A massive female scream erupts from the gym. Guys stare, frightened, at the sheer sound volume of the girls. “Geez,” one guy near me says, “you’d think this guy was, like, in the movies or something.”
“He is, you moron.” His friend shakes his head. “Let’s go check out the haunted island. I heard it’s totally awesome and scares the chicks.”
That perks me up a little. The island, my island, is totally awesome. Maybe I’m not useless after all.
Inside, the gym is bursting with people. Colored streamers float above and the caves are now populated with kids hanging on them, sitting on them, and, if I look toward the back, making out in them. I see a vice principal heading that direction, so the making out won’t last long, but the place looks amazing anyway.
Becca, Elisa, and Amber are standing on a stage under the basketball hoop, and it’s all decorated to look like a jungle hut with two wicker chairs draped with Mardi Gras beads. Hanging above the chairs is a butcher-paper banner that reads Caribbean King and Queen and on a low table, two leis and two crowns are perched, waiting to be awarded to whoever is voted the royalty of the fling.
Becca spots me and waves frantically for me to climb up onto the stage. “Hey!” She grabs my hand and pulls me up, forgetting the stairs, then gives me a huge hug that crushes her plumeria necklace and sends a delicate scent into the air. “Brandon and Mom will be here any minute. Isn’t this exciting? It’s so successful!”
“Where’s Samantha Singer and her pet weasel, Fletcher?” I scan the crowd, but don’t see the red hair or the tall, blond mannequin.
“Haven’t seen either of them. I thought Samantha wanted to announce king and queen, but if she doesn’t show up by eight, I’m doing it.” Suddenly squeals and then a roar of approval and clapping rush like a wave from the front door to the stage. “Brandon must be here.” She motions frantically to the DJ, who abruptly ditches the CD he’s playing and switches to a hip-hop version of the theme song to Brandon’s show, Life with Brandon.
The crowd parts, a sea of sarongs and bathing suits and board shorts, and a guy in sunglasses, a white linen shirt, and Dockers struts up the aisle flashing his best movie-star smile. A groping field of female hands stretches toward him, and he touches fingertips as he walks by, leaving swooning girls in his wake. It’s truly disgusting. You’d think the guy found the cure for cancer or something.
“And here he is!” Becca screams into the microphone, trying to be heard over the shrillness of Green Pines’ loudest girls. She waves to Brandon and extends a hand to help him onto the stage, but he just jumps it like it’s nothing. Show-off.
“Hey, San Diego, what’s up?” he yells. He’s met with a swelling scream that even the guys join in on. “Welcome to Caribbean Madness! Have a great time, and remember, at eight-thirty, I’m gonna pick a ticket and whoever it belongs to is my date for the night. Let’s party!”
The DJ amps up the music, the crowd claps and screams, and the dance is officially in full swing. More people keep flooding in, the principals look nervous, and the music rocks. Couldn’t be better. So what do I do? Think about going home to my robot.
Becca dances next to me, bumping into my hip in time to the music. “Let’s go!” she yells at me. “Have some fun! Loosen up!”
“I’m so loose I might fall apart,” I say, too softly to be heard.
Amber seems glued to Oscar Andrade and she’s all smiles. “C’mon, Shelby,” she shouts. “It’s your party!”
Becca is chatting with Brandon, staring up at him as if he’s the most amazing thing ever created. She doesn’t have time to deal with my bad mood, and I shouldn’t make her deal with it, either. I jump off the stage, thread my way through the growing crowd, and suddenly somebody grabs my arm. It’s Becca.
She motions for me to follow her since there’s no way we could be heard over the music. We end up at the far end of the caves, sheltered a little from the constant heartbeat of the tunes. “Listen,” she says, breathless. “What’s up with you?”
“I don’t feel good. I’m going home.” I turn to go, and she grabs me again.
“You cannot go, Shelby. I won’t let you.”
“Really? What are you gonna do, send Brandon Keller to rough me up with a manicure?”
“He’s here as a favor. Don’t be a jerk.” She’s looking at me as if she doesn’t really know what to say. We’ve always been able to talk before, but now . . . again, there’s that wall. I guess I should’ve known it would happen eventually. I’ve never really had a great, good friend. I don’t know why I expected to have one in high school.
“I gotta go.” Elbows out, I move out into the sea of bodies, trying to swim for the door, but Becca blocks my path.
“I know why you’re like this.”
“Like what?” Annoyed, I try to dodge past her, but she won’t let me. Stupid tallness.
“You’re mad because Fletcher didn’t keep pursuing you, and you wanted him to. And now you’re upset that you blew it when you really liked him.”
“That’s such crap! I never liked him!” I jerk my arm away, biting the words off like hard candy. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, since you’ve got your movie star and all.” I know this is a stupid argument, and that I sound like a real idiot, but it’s all I can think of to throw at her at the moment.
“Okay.” She puts her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to try to convince you that you really do like him. I’m also not going to tell you it doesn’t matter, because obviously it does. Now, mope if you want, but I think it’s embarrassing. But I will say this: No matter what guy you like, and which guy likes you, you are always a Queen Geek, and that should be enough for anybody. Case closed.” She walks away, and quickly gets lost in the ocean of bobbing heads and waving arms.
A lightbulb goes on in my head (or maybe the spit-swapping couple blocking the stage lights just moved slightly), but either way, I get this tingly feeling all over. I don’t have to feel this way over a guy, even a guy as admittedly perfect for me as Fletcher Berkowitz. I’ve wasted so much time over the past few years trying to convince myself that guys aren’t important, that relationships don’t matter, that I don’t need anybody, and that I’m totally happy alone. Maybe that’s not true anymore, and maybe I’m not totally happy. But all in all, I do have friends, and that’s worth a lot more than a hot guy with freckles.
“Time to announce the king and queen!” Becca screams into the microphone as the song ends. The crowd surges forward toward the stage, and from somewhere a spotlight hits Becca. She squints and puts her hand up to shield her eyes. “I have in my hand your votes for King and Queen of Caribbean Madness. Is this the coolest dance or what?” Shouts and stamping of feet bounce off the walls of the gym. “Could I have some music, please?”
The DJ puts on some generic love song and Becca dramatically tears open the envelope. “And your queen and king of the spring dance are . . . Samantha Singer and Fletcher Berkowitz!”
Just when you think things can’t get worse . . . the music gets louder and a rustling in the crowd turns into applause and hoots and hollers. I see Becca onstage looking for me with a worried expression on her face. The spotlight finally finds the happy couple as they walk regally to the stage, jump up, and graciously accept their Hawaiian flower crowns.
“Thanks to everyone who voted for me,” Samantha gushes. She is perfect, of course; her blond hair is done up in a complicated hairstyle that, if I attempted it, would look like two octopi having a street brawl. Her gold dress clings in all the right places; she looks like a glowing statue of a tropical goddess. How can you compete with a goddess? I know my mythology. I have zero chance.
I try to avoid looking at Fletcher, but my eyes are drawn to him. He’s wearing a sage-green shirt and khaki shorts, and he’s never looked finer. As Samantha rambles on about how glad she is to be the most popular girl in school, Fletcher shifts uncomfortably beside her. When it’s his turn to speak, he just says, “Thanks,” and hands the mike back to Becca.
“One more round of applause for our king and queen!” she yells. Fletcher and Samantha take their thrones as the rest of the kids resume partying.
For some reason, I just can’t leave, even though I desperately want to. I wander outside to the porch to watch people head up the haunted trail, and find a spot to sit. I watch group after group take their turns getting caught in the romantic mist, frightened by the ghostly actors who pop out of the foliage and the windows of the pirate ship. If I wanted to believe I was stranded on a rain-swept island, I could. At least, the stranded part seems pretty real.
I guess I drift off or something, because suddenly Becca is back on stage trying to be heard above the crowd again. “Everybody, it’s time to see who gets a date with Brandon!” she calls, and most of the kids outside start to drift inside, and I follow them. Becca’s on stage with Brandon Keller, who is holding her battered envelope full of blue tickets. All the girls push forward to the front of the stage; the guys hang back, looking disgusted and just a little jealous.
Brandon sticks his hand into the envelope, pulls out a ticket, and reads the number: “The lucky winner, and my date for this evening, is number 904503. That’s 904503. Who is it?”
A frantic rustle of girls trying to read in the dark fills the room, and seconds tick by with no winner. People start murmuring, groans by the disappointed losers fill the room, and still, no date. “Didn’t you get a ticket?” a girl next to me asks. “You’re in that club, so you had to get one, right?”
“Oh yeah.” I take it out of my purse, just to check. Figures. 904503. I never win anything.
The girl is looking over my shoulder. “Hey. Hey! You won!” She grabs my arm and waves it above my head so I look like a puppet whose operator needs antispastic medication. “Here she is! She won! This girl won!”
Bodies press in on me, forcing me to the stage like a piece of kelp caught in a rip current. I try to swim against them, but it’s no use. It’s a mosh pit, and I’m the mosh, and it’s the pits. About six feet from the stage, somebody decides to pick me up and float me over the top of the crowd, so I’m lying, face up, on the hands of strangers, moving along on a tide of jealous girl hormones.
They dump me onto the stage in a heap, and Becca stares quizzically at me. “Here’s the ticket,” I say, handing it to her. “No kidding.”
I awkwardly get myself to a sitting position, and happen to look over at the perfect king and queen, who are engaged in some animated conversation. Just as I look away, Fletcher and I lock eyes. What is he feeling? Relief? Disgust? It doesn’t matter, I guess. He has his perfect queen, and she’s not a Queen Geek.
Brandon reaches out, take my hand and helps me up. He takes off his sunglasses and dazzles me with a perfect grin. “Hey, date,” he says as he takes me in his arms. “Ready to party?”
Hmmm. Could be worse, I guess. I feel myself let go for the first time in weeks. He smells good too, and gives a pretty good hug. But then he dips me backward, plants this big old movie-star kiss on me that sucks all the oxygen out of my body, and after what seems like about an hour, pulls me back upright.
The crowd screams, guys roaring their approval, girls moaning in envy. I check for drool (on my mouth, not his) and try to focus. So, maybe this date thing won’t be so bad.
Becca tries to be heard over the cr
owd. “Give it up for Shelby, our winner tonight!” It’s hard to tell which is louder, the music or the clapping. Finally Becca says over the microphone, “Okay, enjoy the dance, the games, the food, and our fantastic haunted island!”
“Come on,” Brandon says, taking my hand. “Let’s dance.”
The music has gotten mellow and gone from that constant hip-hop rhythm to a slow dance. He helps me off the stage, puts an arm around my waist, grabs my hand, and whisks me off, expertly, into a magic dance. I feel the eyes of all the other girls on me, but I can’t really concentrate on that, because the weirdest thing is happening: While I’m dancing with this absolutely gorgeous movie-star guy, I’m thinking about that stupid Fletcher.
“You’re a great dancer,” Brandon whispers in my ear.
“Thanks.”
After a pause, he says, “But you’d rather be dancing with somebody else, huh?”
I pull back a bit so I can see his eyes. “What?”
“I can just tell.” He pulls me back so my head is on his shoulder. “You dance with enough girls, you can tell when they’re already dancing with somebody else.”
I close my eyes and try to just get into the music, but his words keep ringing in my ears. Suddenly, he stops dancing. “Keep your eyes closed till I tell you to open them,” he says.
“What?”
“No, no. Just keep ’em closed.” He starts to back away from me ever so slowly, and just as I’m about to protest, he’s got his arm around me again. Except—
I open my eyes, and I’m dancing with Fletcher Berkowitz.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I told you I was going to take you to the dance.”
“But—”
He puts a finger to my lips, then holds me tighter. “We can talk later. But just listen to one thing before we finish this dance: I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, but even if you weren’t, I’d still want to be here with you.”
“But—”
To keep me from talking, he plants his lips firmly on mine, which is the one time I’ve not minded somebody telling me to shut up. “Oh, by the way,” he says when we come up for air, “I think I might owe you a hundred dollars.”
