I kiss each boot lightly and wish it safe travels before tossing them as hard as I can at the grassy bank on the other side of the creek. It’s too dark to see where they land, but there are no splashes, so . . .
There. One problem solved.
Now to get me across. Okay, here goes. I mean, the water can’t be that cold.
OMIGOD, THE WATER IS THAT COLD!!!
I yelp and hop on top of one of the rocks sticking out of the creek, because no freaking way do my toes want an ice bath. Probably there’re some skin benefits to one, but—and I never thought I’d say this about any beauty regimen—I’d rather skip it at the moment.
“I’m not sure that’s a good—”
I don’t hear the rest of Charity’s sentence because as I go to put my next foot down it slides along the slippery rock and I flail my arms like an out-of-control windmill and that’s not enough to help and I’m losing my balance and I’m falling and I can’t stop myself and SPLASH!
I’m on my butt in the creek.
And it’s colder than an iceberg mixed with a Popsicle mixed with the look Mom gives me when I threaten to slam my bedroom door in the middle of one of her lectures.
I try to stand up, and fall again. The bottom half of me is, like, a thousand percent soaked, and seriously, could this night get any worse?!
The Brats are right at the edge, sticking out their hands to help me up, but no, no, nope, because I can tell—I can just tell—that they’re trying crazy hard not to laugh at me.
Yeah, thanks. So not helpful.
It’s not like I can get any colder or wetter, so I just clomp my way to the other side, gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering and also to keep from screaming, because I am sooo completely done with this mission.
OH. MY. GOD. I have a horrible thought. The worst thought ever.
“My phone!” I yelp, fishing it from my back pocket the second my feet touch dry land.
Sure enough, drops of water slide from the very-black-and-devoid-of-life screen and into my palm.
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry.
“Don’t worry. Our mom accidentally dropped hers in the toilet and she stuck it in a bowl of rice for two days to dry it out and after that it worked perfectly.”
For maybe the first time tonight, I have a warm, tender feeling for Hope. She was very appropriately named, because she’s sure dangling it in my face now. Let’s just pray she knows what she’s talking about.
I say a quick prayer to the phone gods and wrap my phone gently in my scarf, which I cradle in my hands. “Where are my boots?” I ask.
Hope holds one up and points at a clump of tangled sticks that I guess is some kind of bush or something.
“The other one went in there,” Charity adds superhelpfully.
I hang my head and take the deepest breath ever before dropping to my knees, placing my scarf-wrapped phone beside me, and crawling into the mess of branches that—oh goody—just happen to be covered in prickers. And burrs! Oww! Oww, oww, oww, OWW! I snatch my boot, back out, and rub my scratched-up neck.
I put on my socks. I’m not sure what to do with the boots. My jeans are so wet they’ll soak through the suede from the inside out, but option B is tromping up this ravine and across the soccer fields in just my Snoopy socks. Not only would I ruin my pedicure, but I’d probably get all kinds of cuts and scrapes, and the last four months of sleeping with lotion inside my spa slippers to ensure the softest heels ever would be totally wasted. This is seriously the most impossible decision ever EVER. Feet or boots. Feet or boots.
I take one step in my socks and land on a stick poking up in the dirt, and that decides it. Boots it is. I’ll just have to head straight for the hand dryer in the girls’ locker room!
“Um, you have a little—”
I wave Charity’s hand away from my hair and pat my head in the spot she was reaching for, pulling several burrs and a twig from my perfect blowout.
“There’re a few more if you—”
“Let’s just go,” I reply. What’s even the point? I’ll fix it all in the locker room, where—I just remembered!—I even have a change of clothes stashed away. (You never know when you might be bored of your current getup by the time afternoon rolls around; I’m all about the post-gym-class outfit change. Really, lots more people should subscribe to this concept.)
I stand and follow the Brats up the bank, but it’s slow going because I have to stop every five seconds to try to unstick my sopping jeans from my butt.
“You definitely wouldn’t last very long with Bear Grylls,” Charity says.
“Who is Bear Grylls?”
Hope answers, “He has that reality show where he takes regular people into the wilderness and teaches them how to survive. There was one with this girl and she had to eat ant larvae, and another time they couldn’t find water, so Bear drank his own pee!”
I hold up my hand as we step onto the soccer field. “You can just stop right there. Yes, being on a reality show is completely on my bucket list, but only one where some superhot bachelor is handing me roses or I get to marry a maybe real/maybe fake prince. That is it.”
“You’re weird,” Charity says.
“Seriously,” Hope adds.
Seriously?
Seriously?
JADE { 9:11 P.M. }
IT’S BEEN TEN MINUTES SINCE I snuck off to the locker room for the secret meeting. I need to get out of this gym pronto to get the supplies, but I’ve already used the bathroom excuse.
“Uncle G, I need some water,” I say, throwing in a fake cough for good measure.
“Okay, just hurry back,” he says. “You wanted to run a camera, and I want to make sure we’re ready for the big event.”
We’ve been ready for the last hour, and it doesn’t start until around ten, but I leave that part out and instead go with a cheerful, “Of course. I can’t wait.”
On my way, I text.
The one thing my accomplice has done right is some pre-dance recon work to find everything we need. I hide around the corner from his locker so no one will see me as he collects the bags of liquid soap that are supposed to be used as refills for dispensers. They’re clear, like those saline bags that hang in emergency rooms on hospital TV shows.
“Almost done,” he whispers.
“Hurry up before someone sees you,” I say.
“These are slippery,” he says as he shoves the refills in a small backpack. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
I run over to his locker to help him load up. Once it’s full, I grab the bag. “I’ll go stash this until it’s time. Which one did you say is open?”
“Forty-three,” he says, shoving a small tripod out of the way before closing his locker.
I can’t be gone much longer or my uncle will wonder where I am. An extended water break could look suspicious.
“Got it,” I say. “Watch for my text. It’s almost time.”
He nods, and I take off down the hall, avoiding all eye contact with the kids coming in and out of the hallway. The girls’ locker room door squeaks as I push it open. I poke my head in to make sure no one is in there. It looks clear, although . . . is that the sound of footsteps? If someone’s in this room right now, it could ruin my whole plan. Why couldn’t my accomplice have remembered the supplies earlier?! My heart beats faster, the thumping making my ears pound. I quietly tell it to shush. I don’t have time to be nervous.
I head over to the attached bathroom to make sure I’m alone. I lean down and check for feet under the stalls. All good.
I find locker number forty-three. It’s open and empty like it’s supposed to be. The backpack fits inside without me needing to shove it. Perfect. I’ll come and get it right before the big event so that I don’t risk getting caught with the evidence.
I shut the locker door and walk toward the exit, and that’s when there’s a clink-clink sound like something dropped to the floor. I
do a quick scan around the lockers, but there’s nothing. It must be my nerves playing tricks on me. I need to get back before Uncle Garrett sends a search party out. Or worse yet, suspects I’m up to no good. I mean, figures out I’m up to no good. Nothing is going to stop me from taking this band down tonight.
When I get to the gym, there’s a whole lot of noise near the punch bowl. As in, much more noise than normal from a room full of kids and loud, blaring music.
“What’s going on over there?” asks Uncle Garrett.
“I have no idea,” I answer. “Want me to check it out and get some photos for the website?” He nods, and I head over to see what all the commotion is about.
Some kids are freaking out. Some are laughing. More and more are running over as the crowd around the punch table gets bigger and bigger.
“Are you saying my teeth are green?” one girl asks.
When she opens her mouth and has her friend inspect them, I manage to snap a picture.
“I’m saying they match your dress,” says one of the boys as he and his friends bend forward, laughing hysterically.
A group of girls runs off, quite dramatically I must say, screaming about how their whole night is ruined. Yeah, your whole night is ruined because of something in the punch.
I smile. Just wait, girls. I’ll show you how to ruin someone’s night.
TESS { 9:19 P.M. }
SOMEDAY, WHEN HEART GRENADE IS playing Paris and Beijing, we’ll have a real backstage area with dressing rooms and comfy sofas and bowls of M&M’s with all the ugly brown ones picked out for us. Today? We have the chorus room. And no M&M’s.
But it doesn’t really even matter, because the second I walk in, the excitement and the nerves hit me harder than that ocean wave did last summer in Florida.
“Whoa,” Mariah says. “It’s intense in here.” We were right in the middle of discussing our very important plans for Leif when it was time for me to meet the band. So I told her to come with me, even though she reminded me—for the hundred thousandth time—that she doesn’t even like our music. So I reminded her that there’s no way we can plot revenge if we don’t talk for the rest of the night. And then she heaved this enormous sigh, like I was making her give up the night of her life or something, and followed me here.
“It’s always like this before we go onstage,” I say, except that it’s way more so tonight. “Come on.”
Mariah trails behind me as I weave past the piano and the music stands to say hi to Claudia, our guitarist, and Faith, the bassist. Genevieve’s off practicing in a corner with her eyes closed, so I don’t bother her. Kate, the fill-in backup singer, shouts my name and wiggles her fingers at me. I don’t know her very well at all. She’s a sixth grader Faith asked to step in just for tonight to take Genevieve’s usual spot.
Claudia’s eyes flick between me and Mariah. She adjusts the stretchy black-and-silver top she’s wearing and raises her eyebrows at me.
I nod at Claudia at the same time as Mariah whispers, “You sure it’s okay for me to be here?”
“Yeah. She just wants to make sure it’s okay with me.” The feud between Mariah and me is legendary with the band. “Legendary” as in: They don’t really want to hear about it anymore.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” Kate says. “You guys want anything?” Everyone shakes their heads, and Kate flies out the door to the hallway.
I pull the drumsticks from my boot and set them on a chair. Then I fish out the bright lipstick my mom hates (also in my boot—really, who needs a purse?) and make my way to one of the mirrors. There are a lot of mirrors in this room. Apparently, the kids in choir like to look at themselves when they sing.
I trace my lips and wonder what Carmen’s doing right now. That’s another thing we won’t have to deal with when we’re big-time famous—parents making us go to silly things like weddings instead of our own concerts. As I cap the lipstick, something starts tapping behind me.
In the mirror, I can see Mariah. She’s picked up my drumsticks from the chair and is rapping out something on the piano bench. I whirl around. My first instinct is to snatch them away—because no one touches my drumsticks, especially not the girl I’ve been at war with since second grade—but I pull my hand back. She has no idea I’m even paying attention, and there’s something in her face . . . but I can’t figure out what it is. She’s not very good at drumming, that’s for sure. Her rhythm is totally off, and her arms are all stiff as she slams the sticks down over and over again. I don’t even recognize what she’s trying to play until she starts humming under her breath, so quietly I can barely hear her.
It’s “Hear Us Roar.”
I just stand there and blink as she bangs away. She’s totally oblivious to everyone else. Almost like she’s working through something in her head and isn’t even aware of what she’s doing.
Mariah Wilson. The girl who tried out for my spot in the band and lost. The one who then told everyone who would listen that Heart Grenade was a just a wannabe school band with generic songs and talentless musicians.
Huh.
“Hey,” I say, really quietly.
She stops, swallowing the song and thrusting the drumsticks at me. “Um, sorry.”
I want to tell her that no one touches my drumsticks. The words are just about to fall out of my mouth, but I clench my jaw shut. For some reason, I don’t feel like saying that to Mariah right now.
I drop the drumsticks back into my boot and decide to completely change the subject. “I think we should go with option B,” I finally say, as though the drumming thing never happened. “It has a much higher probability of embarrassment.” If we really are going through with Operation Make Leif Regret His Life Choices, it needs to be something he’ll never forget.
“But option A will be easier to execute.” Mariah puts her hands on her hips and gives me that competitive (and annoying) Mariah Look I’m used to. Which is much easier to deal with than drumming Mariah. Or nice Mariah.
“We need to be able to get in and out quickly, and we can’t do that with A.” I stride past her, back toward the other girls.
“Yes, we can, as long as we stay focused,” she says as she runs to catch up with me.
“I don’t think we can—”
“Picture time!” Faith shouts from across the room. It drowns out Claudia’s guitar and Genevieve’s vocal scales.
“Where’s Kate?” Claudia asks.
“Here! I’m back. Sorry,” Kate says from the door. “I was trying to find that yearbook guy to take a group shot of us. But of course he’s nowhere when I actually need him. Can you believe he actually took a picture of me trying out Ms. Huff’s Hula-Hoop earlier? Ugh!”
“I’ll take the picture,” I say.
Mariah stands off to the side as all of the band members crowd in for a giant selfie.
“Are you coming?” I ask Genevieve.
She looks super freaked out standing in front of the vivid red LYNNFIELD SHOW CHOIR NORTHEASTERN OHIO FOURTH RUNNER-UP banner. She finally nods and perches herself on the piano bench next to Faith. I hold out my phone as far as my arm will go. If Carmen can’t be here, the least we can do is send her a picture and let her know how much we miss her. But I can’t get everyone into the shot.
“Gen, scoot closer to Faith,” I order. “Claudia, duck your head.”
Genevieve inches toward Faith. “Sorry,” she says for no reason at all.
Faith grins and slings an arm around her shoulders. Claudia slouches down. And I still can’t fit everyone in. Unless we want to send Carmen a picture that has my head cut off. And that can’t happen, because these purple streaks need to be preserved for posterity.
“I’ll take it,” Mariah pipes up.
“Um . . . okay.” Considering how Mariah doesn’t exactly love the band—or, at least, how I thought she didn’t love the band, until I heard her humming one of our songs—I have no idea why she’d volunteer. But then again, I guess anything is possible with her tonight.
; I hand her my phone, and she steps back to get everyone in the shot.
“Ready? One, two, oh my God!” Her face contorts into a look of horror.
“What?” Claudia jumps out of the shot. “Is there a spider? Please say there’s not a spider.” She’s pulling her stretchy top away from her stomach, like she’s sure she’ll find a brown recluse hanging from it.
“No,” Mariah says. “It’s Kate. Her teeth are green!”
Kate slaps a hand over her face and runs to one of the mirrors. She opens her mouth and shrieks. Sure enough, her teeth are pea green.
“What did you do?” I ask.
Kate scrubs at her teeth with her hand, but that green isn’t going anywhere. “I don’t know! They looked fine when I fixed my makeup. And all I did after that was get a cup of punch.”
“I knew it!” Faith says. “I thought I saw some of the guys acting shady over by the punch bowl. They were totally up to something.”
“I can’t sing like this!” Kate says. “Everyone will laugh at me. It’ll be on TV! They’ll put it all over YouTube! I’ll be YouTube famous for having green teeth!”
My heart practically stops. “You can’t drop out now.”
“Please don’t,” Genevieve adds. She looks about ready to puke in the trash can.
“Guys, I can’t. I am so sorry. I have to go home before anyone sees me.” And with that, Kate dashes out of the chorus room.
Faith throws up her hands. “What are we going to do now? We’re on in an hour, and we don’t have a backup singer!”
“I’ll go see if I can find Abby,” Mariah says. “She was great in Carousel last fall.”
“But she doesn’t know the song,” Claudia says.
“We’re totally doomed,” Faith adds.
Genevieve doesn’t say anything. But she’s holding a hand over her mouth. This is so not good.
“We need someone who knows the song and who can at least stay on pitch,” I say.
Mariah nods. Then her face practically lights up. “I can do it. I can sing.”
“You?” I ask. There’s no way. I’ve never heard her sing. I mean, she was humming earlier, but that doesn’t really count.
Best. Night. Ever. Page 11
