The Inside of Out
Page 22
“Whoa.” Adam spun to face me, his brow furrowed. “The land deal hasn’t happened?”
“Nope.” I sighed. “The owner’s stalling. The school board’s working on him. That’s all I know.”
“I’ll find out more. That sucks, Daisy, I’m sorry.” He didn’t look sorry. More elated, actually. He started the car, ignoring my glare. “All right then, consider that our interview. Now I can ask you more important things. Question number one: What’s the best pizza around here?”
“Mario’s,” I admitted. “Unfortunately, it’s crawling with high-schoolers.”
“Terrifying.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a shame. I haven’t discovered any pizza even approaching edible since I flew down here.”
I leaned back to smirk. “What, are you some kind of pizza snob?”
“Have I mentioned that I’m from New York?”
“Seventy-three times. Is how many times you’ve mentioned it.”
Adam laughed. Then he glanced down at his knees and back up, his eyes searching mine. He moved a centimeter closer, and I froze, breathless, desperate for some latent telekinetic ability, so I could will his hand off the central console and onto me. Any part of me would do. But instead of inching closer, bridging the gap for him, I blurted, “That thing about the land deal? It should probably stay off the record.”
“Oh,” he said, tensing up. “Yeah, okay. You got it.”
“Sorry.” I glanced out the window. “It’s just my group . . . we’ve got this confidentiality thing—”
“It’s cool,” he said. Then he tapped the wheel. “You know, I’ll drive you home, but I should probably get back to campus. I’ve got to post something homecoming-related by tomorrow and I have a draft of a term paper due.”
I forced a smile, while the last of my nerves unjangled. “On what?”
“Stolypin’s agrarian reforms in turn-of-the-century Russia.”
“Ah.” I stroked my chin. “I would give you my thoughts on that, but I wouldn’t want you to be accused of plagiarism.”
Adam nodded seriously. “I appreciate your foresight.”
“Anytime.”
As we pulled up to my house, I saw the Veggiemobile in the driveway, but Mom didn’t seem to be peeking out the front window, so there was a small chance I could sneak in without having to tell her Adam and I weren’t dating for the fiftieth time this week.
“Listen, Daisy,” Adam said, putting the car in park. “Forget about that other party. Or the Madisons at your school. Did I get her name right?”
“Yes,” I laughed.
“The Cindy Becks, even. They’re not going to stop you.”
His brown eyes weren’t angry at me for quashing his story. They were warm. Easy to misread. I was blushing, and embarrassed that I was blushing, thus creating an inescapable blush cycle, so I flashed him the Black Panther salute and dashed out before he could say anything else nice to me.
He’s right, I thought as I walked up the driveway. Forget about Cindy Beck.
Except, um, there she was, in my living room, her entire face taking up our television screen. It was the local news, but my mom was yelling at her like they were having a video chat.
“How can you stand there and—”
“This event is about bullying,” Mrs. Beck drawled. “Bullying our community. Bullying this poor landowner, whom I’ve had multiple conversations with, and who is being pressured to act against his conscience!”
“Do you even believe the words coming out of your mouth?” Mom whirled around, her face purpling. “Are you hearing this?”
I staggered to the TV. “She’s meeting with the landowner?”
“At Chez Panisse, no less. Wining and dining him along with half the Republicans in Charleston County.”
“I can’t believe she hasn’t gone away,” I muttered, stopping myself from finishing the sentence: After what I revealed on national television.
“Throwing Natalie under the bus for her own personal ambitions. It’s disgusting.” Mom pointed the remote at the screen and eviscerated Mrs. Beck’s face with a cathartic click. “I never liked that woman.”
That was about as mean as my mom got. And if she was pulling out the big guns . . .
“How much trouble are we in?” I asked, my hand frozen on the staircase banister.
“That depends,” she said drily. “Do you have a backup location?”
Instead of replying, I decided to focus my energy on not throwing up. Then I shut myself in my room and texted Adam.
“What I told you about the land deal? Go ahead and run it.”
“You sure?” he texted back.
“Yep. And FYI—you might want to look into Cindy Beck’s political connections. I wonder if anything shady might be going on here.”
I was completely making that up. But Adam texted back:
“You are my favorite person right now.”
I blushed so hard it hurt, then wrote, “I bet you say that to all your sources,” and felt really cool for about an hour.
25
I was running exactly five minutes late to the Alliance meeting. In my mad rush to get there early enough to avoid Raina-glareage, I nearly barreled right into Cal. This was becoming a thing with me.
“Glad I caught you,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to head back to DC. Something’s come up with one of our clients. We need all hands on deck.”
“Ooh! Tell me! Politician? Sex scandal?”
Cal chuckled uneasily. “Nothing you’d guess. And if I do my job, nothing you’ll ever find out about.”
I was mulling that when panic struck.
“You’re leaving?” I grabbed his sleeve. “What about this rally? I’m supposed to give a speech? What do I say?”
“I’ll send you something tomorrow,” he promised, prying himself and his expensive shirt politely away. “Tweak it as you see fit. Other than that—you guys can handle the rally. And homecoming, for that matter. I’ll run damage control as needed from my office, but I have total faith that I’m leaving this event in more than capable hands.”
“You have . . . faith?” I sputtered feebly. “We don’t have a venue and—”
“Sure you do,” he interrupted, backing away. “You’ll find out in the meeting. Gotta run, talk soon!”
Fixated on the spot he’d vacated, I jumped when Raina murmured over my shoulder, “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”
“I hope so,” I said. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
When we opened the door to the conference room, we found a sharp-suited woman with an awesomely huge poof of hair waiting in Raina’s usual seat, typing on a red laptop.
“Daisy.” She leaned to shake my hand as the others trickled in behind us. “Pleased to meet you—all of you. I’m Ivy. I work for the ACLU.” At Kyle’s bewildered blink through the doorway, she added, “The American Civil Liberties Union. We’re a group of attorneys and advocates who work to protect constitutional rights. Like your right to free assembly and equal protection under the law.”
“Oh. My. God.” Raina grabbed a swivel chair for support. “I knew I recognized you. You’re Ivy Diaz.”
Ivy cocked her head. “Yes. I’m—”
“AVP for Grassroots Advocacy! I am a huge fan of your work.”
Raina clapping, giggling, like a three-year-old meeting Santa.
“I’m honored.” Ivy smiled to hide her bemusement. “Well, if you’re a fan already, you’re going to love the news I’m here to deliver. I got in late last night and had an early-morning sit-down with Bill Levitt.”
The name was ringing faint bells when Sophie piped up, “The landowner.”
“I showed him this,” Ivy went on, sliding a printout to Raina, who slowly grinned as she scanned it. I craned my neck, but could
only make out the word “DRAFT” stamped across the top. “It’s an editorial, scheduled to be published in tomorrow’s New York Times, criticizing Levitt Holdings for pandering to conservatives and urging a boycott of one of his side businesses . . .” She squinted over at the editorial. “Cluck-Cluck Chicken Shack?”
Not Cluck-Cluck. Anything but Cluck-Cluck.
“He owns Cluck-Cluck?” Sean asked, pulling on his cheeks. “This cannot be happening.”
Kyle’s eyes went hollow. “But . . . but . . . shreddie fries.”
“Wow.” Ivy raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like I’ll have to try this place out.”
We glanced at each other, her words not computing.
“No need to boycott,” she explained. “Mr. Levitt is planning to expand Cluck-Cluck Chicken Shack to twelve new states in the west, so he agreed that it was not the best time for his company to become mired in scandal. He signed the land deed on the spot. And we buried the op-ed.”
“We have a venue,” I muttered.
“You have a venue,” Ivy repeated. “Thanks to your trusty local college reporter.”
I gasped. “Wait, Adam Cohen? That trusty local . . . ?”
My voice died out with the realization. Adam had written the op-ed? Did he know it was going to be buried? Leverage was one thing—but he’d just come thisclose to having his byline in the New York Times.
Ivy stood, gathering her laptop and bag. “I’ve got some calls to return, but I’ll be there Saturday to help. I owe Cal several favors, but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t miss it. This is a big moment. You guys should be proud.” She passed Raina a business card. “If you need me.”
Once the door shut, Raina cradled the card like a newborn chick. And the rest of us let out a scream.
After a lengthy round of high fives, the Alliance settled happily down to talking details—the rally, homecoming court, football game, dance. All of which were actually going to happen.
“Are we doing a bonfire?” I asked, woozy with hope.
“Not happening.” Jack laughed. “Let it go, Daisy.”
Cal had been advising us to drop the traditional bonfire from the beginning. Given how desperately everybody was scrambling for reasons to shut us down, we didn’t want to hand them something as obvious as a fire risk.
“Maybe we could build a symbolic fire,” Sophie suggested. “Make it out of cloth and lights.”
I nearly snorted at how fantastical Sophie made it sound, her hands tracing flames in the air. But then Sean leaned forward.
“Diego did something like that for Brigadoon! It was gorgeous. He’s an amazing artist. I’ll email him and see if he has any . . . ideas . . .”
His voice sank into a minor key. Poor Sean. Meanwhile, weirdly, Sophie’s face was twitching, wrestling down a smile. Odd. I mean, this was Sophie, but even for her . . .
“We’ve got our football teams,” Jack said, distracting me. “I posted on Facebook and got hundreds of responses. We’re going with: Eastern vs. Western Conference.”
“Sounds professional,” I said.
“It should,” Sean said, emerging from his poetic stupor to slap the table. “We’ve got three pro players coming out!”
“Not coming out of the closet,” Jack clarified. “Coming out to support us.” He blinked. “Which might mean the same thing, actually.”
“Any Pirates players?” I bit my thumb.
“Not yet,” Jack admitted. “I’m working on it. Maybe once they hear about the pro players? We’ll see.”
“Sounds like we’re in okay shape,” Raina said, back to her usual level of exuberance.
“Okay?” Sean stood. “We’ve got our venue! This is gonna be . . . the best night . . . not the first night . . . but the only night we need . . .”
Sean had broken into song again. It was half-familiar . . . a musical? Wait, no. Winchaw Junction. Hannah used to recite-sing it before we went out for a wild night of mozzarella-stick eating and board-game playing. The realization made me smile and fight back tears in the same blink.
Stop. Everything is great.
“Um.” Kyle cleared his throat, eyes darting between Sean’s performance and Raina. “I actually have an update too?”
The table went silent.
Sean sat down. “Did they find them? The people who—”
He gestured to Kyle’s face. His bruises had faded quickly, thank goodness, but we all understood.
Kyle ducked his head. “No. Not that. They haven’t, but . . .” He perked up, changing the channel in his brain. “Anyway, this is better. I, um, got a speaker for the rally?”
“Yay!” Sophie said, clapping. “Good for you, Kyle, that’s wonderful!”
“My sister did, actually,” Kyle went on. “She goes to Harvard with . . .”
I tuned out, staring down the table, my mind stilled by the wonder of the sight before me.
Raina was leaning back in her chair, watching the ceiling, her eyes bright and wide and hopeful. She looked like a completely different person. Someone you could befriend. Someone you could wound.
She caught me looking and scowled.
“Hot damn,” Sean was saying, rising from his chair to shake Kyle’s hand.
Jack leaned over me to give him a high five. “I see national news crews in our future.”
I grinned along, pretending to have followed the conversation. “Sounds like Cal’s right, then.”
I turned to Raina and the ghost of a smile reappeared in her eyes.
“Yep,” she said. “We’re ready.”
My speech was good.
Too good. I had to look up what several of the words meant. But tweaking it didn’t feel right. Cal was the expert speechwriter. Who was I to screw with his masterwork?
Then again, how on earth was I supposed to pull off a line like: “In the years to come, the seeds we plant today will burgeon forth, germinating orchards for future generations of teenagers, so they too can taste the fruits of freedom”?
With seven hours to go until this evening’s rally, unable to keep a straight face while reading Cal’s speech into the mirror, I realized I needed a practice audience.
My first thought was Hannah. Of course it was. She’d been my one and only audience member for the past six years. But—maybe this could reboot us. I’d apologize for outing Natalie. And then I’d ask for help. Anything was worth a try at this point.
Mom was heading out to celebrate the land deal with her farm group at an organic cafe in downtown Charleston. I stopped her as she was looking for her sunglasses.
“You mind dropping me at von Linden Imports?”
“Visiting Hannah? Haven’t seen much of her lately.”
“I see her at school every day.”
I must have sounded defensive, because Mom had a pitying look in her eye when she joined me in the Veggiemobile.
“You know . . . friendships are living things,” she said, her voice singsong, like she was reciting a greeting card. “They evolve over time. That’s how they get stronger. But I know how hard it can be when one person evolves a little faster than the other.”
Was she seriously calling me unevolved? I leaned down, pretending to tie my shoe.
“I remember when my best friend had her first boyfriend. We were fifteen. Cassie was two months older, but all of a sudden, seeing her with him . . .” She started the car, shaking her head. “I felt like she was about a hundred years older than me. I couldn’t understand her anymore—the things she was interested in, how distant she was, even when we were doing the same things together that we’d always done. But then your dad came along that next year and I thought, Aha. This is what happened. She’d just . . . leveled up before me.”
The engine revved too fast as we turned onto the highway, my heart lurching with it. Leveled up. Did that mean I was losing the game?
“Yeah, I got that.” I pulled out Cal’s speech and stared at it. “I’m sorry, I really need to memorize this.”
“Okay.” I could sense Mom pressing her lips together. “I’ll be quiet.”
Her voice was so pinched—so careful—it made my heart twinge. If we’d been home, I might have thrown my arms around her waist and closed my eyes and pretended I was five again. But we were in a moving car, so I swallowed the feeling and kept my head down.
Hannah would be helping out in the shop today. Tan liked to “visit” on the weekends, gossiping with the neighboring business owners along Broad. Sure enough, as we pulled up alongside the shop, I spotted her across the street at a new bistro. The chef looked way too young for Tan, almost too young to cook, but he was grinning like an idiot as he chatted with her on the sidewalk. Tan had her hair swept back with a red scarf, her tunic dress flouncing off one shoulder. I’d never known Hannah’s mom to date—Hannah thought she was still too wounded by the divorce—but lordy, the woman could flirt.
“Pick you up after lunch,” Mom called as I stepped out of the car. “Then we’d better get you ready for the rally!”
I shot her a sarcastic thumbs-up as she drove away, then stared dizzily at my reflection in the shop-front window, scrambling to think of the best possible way to say “I’m sorry” without it sounding forced.
As usual, the door was propped to draw in window-shoppers. Why did it feel like an impenetrable barrier today, like I was a vampire who needed a formal invitation to step inside?
Bingo, I thought as a flash of red hair bobbed between the aisles, vivid as a flashlight through the glass.
Natalie Beck was here. Visiting Hannah. Skipping through the store. She sure made herself at home.
I growled and walked away, wondering where I should loiter until my mom’s meeting was done. I’d hit the corner when my phone rang.
Hannah.
I cleared my throat before I answered, glancing behind me. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Were you just at the shop?”