They All Fall Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  “No, but that list is still a ticket to a better life.”

  I shoot her a look. “A better life, Moll?”

  “Better than what we have now. You’re going to get to go to list parties, Kenzie. I’ve heard they’re so much fun and every cute guy from miles around goes to them. Don’t you want a boyfriend?”

  “Not as much as I want to get into Columbia.”

  “Still Columbia, Kenz?” She can’t hide her disappointment. Since middle school, we’ve talked about being roommates at Pitt, but that was before I was old enough to realize that the town of Vienna, where we live, is really a bedroom community of Pittsburgh. The university is less than forty-five minutes away—too close to Mom for me to breathe.

  “Oh, I won’t get into Columbia.” I try for casual, but my voice cracks. Because I might get in. “Anyway, we have a year to worry about it.” I don’t want to hurt Molly by admitting just how badly I want to get as far, far away as possible from everything in Vienna. The only way I can justify that is if I get into an Ivy League—no ordinary college would be enough for Mom to let me move away—and live with relatives. My aunt Tina has already offered to let me live in New York with her, so Columbia is my ticket to freedom. Of course, there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year price tag on that ticket. “Don’t forget, I need a scholarship.”

  “You could get one.”

  I might be smart, but an academic ride to Columbia is next to impossible unless you’re National Merit, and I’m not. I don’t play sports, either. “I’d have a shot if I won the state and national Latin competitions. Then I might be able to get a classics scholarship, but you-know-who won’t even sign the form to let me go to State in Philadelphia this winter.”

  “Might snow on the roads?” Molly adds a smile to her joke, but that does little to ease the sting of the truth.

  “Yeah, and she pulled out the drunken-bus-driver line.”

  “Always.” Molly nods with pity, long aware of my mother’s obsessive nature and the reason behind it. She was next to me on those dark days after Conner’s accident, and she knows I live with the specter of a lost sibling. Of course, she doesn’t know … everything. No one knows exactly why Conner went down to that storeroom. No one except the person who asked him to go … me.

  “It’s still a big deal,” she says.

  I pull myself back to the conversation, stuffing guilt and grief into their proper boxes. “To get a scholarship to Columbia? No kid—”

  “To make the list!” She sighs, exasperated with me. “Kenz, enjoy the moment, will you? You’re a year from even applying to college, and that is going to be the very year you reign on the list.”

  “Reign?” I snort out a laugh. “It doesn’t make me some kind of princess, Moll.”

  “And fifth! Not tenth, Kenzie.” She’s totally not listening to me. “You are hotter than five other really hot girls. Big names, too.”

  “Oh, yeah, Chloe Batista and Olivia Thayne are virtual celebrities. Watch out for all the paparazzi in the junior parking lot.”

  She ignores my sarcasm. “You got more votes than Shannon

  Dill.”

  “Dumb as a rock, that one.”

  “And Bree Walker! They’re superpopular, pretty girls. And we’re …” She trails off and I have to laugh.

  “We’re not,” I finish for her, stating the obvious.

  “Well.” She manages a laugh. “We’re nerds.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m not in the band.”

  “You’re the president of the Latin club, take four AP classes, and tutor calculus. Card-carrying nerd.”

  So I’m a little geeky. “I don’t see how a stupid list changes that.”

  “You’re fifth!” she exclaims again, like she just can’t say that number enough. “I mean, you are right after Kylie Leff and Amanda Wilson, captain and cocaptain of the varsity cheerleading squad, and homecoming princesses three years running.” She recites their positions like she’s reading their resumes.

  “Together on the list as they are in life. Don’t those two ever separate?”

  “Don’t change the subject. You know our lives are about to change.” She throws me a grin. “Yeah, I said ‘our lives.’ I hope you don’t mind me riding your coattails to popularity, ’cause I’m totally on that train.”

  “By all means, climb on the train of mixed metaphors.”

  She shrugs. “Joke all you want. This is big.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I concede. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been text-bombed last night.”

  “Really?” She repositions herself in the driver’s seat like a bolt of excitement has just shot through her. “Anybody good? Read me some.”

  “Some … interesting.”

  “Like?”

  “Just, you know, kids.” I’m not sure I want to read that weird Latin one to her. But last night, before I went to sleep, I read every single message, and that one was still the most bizarre.

  Caveat viator, Quinte.

  Sent from a number that didn’t show up on Google, anywhere. An area code I couldn’t even find in the United States. It had to be some bonehead in my Latin class. But why was “the traveler” warned right after I had an accident?

  Ignoring the full-body creeps that shudder through me, I reach into my backpack on the floor to get my phone.

  “Let’s see,” I say, scrolling through the list. “I got texts from, oh, mostly the lunch crew and Latin club members. Drew Hickers said, ‘Grats, girl.’ ”

  “Grats?” She gave a good guffaw. “Who says that?”

  “Icky Hicky,” I reply, calling up our seventh-grade name for the first boy I ever kissed. “It’s mostly everyone trying to hide their utter amazement and not insult me with a ‘how did this happen’ even though we all know someone probably miscounted the votes and I got three. Counting Hick-man.”

  “I don’t know. I heard the vote tallying is closely watched. But who knows? That list is shrouded in secrecy.”

  “ ‘Shrouded in secrecy’?” I choke out a soft laugh. “Who says that?”

  “Well, it is. Do you know who counts the votes?”

  I don’t answer her because I’m still scrolling. I’ve been through the whole list and can’t find the Latin text. I start from the top again.

  “I heard that the guys really get pressured to vote,” Molly says. “Like there’s hazing or something if they don’t cast a ballot.”

  It’s gone. The text I read first after the accident is gone.

  “And someone once tried to start a movement to get the list name changed to the Hot List, but …”

  I barely hear her. How can that be? Texts can’t disappear, and I certainly didn’t delete it. Did I?

  “They were killed.”

  “What?” My head shoots up in shock.

  “I think that’s just band-room folklore,” she says with a sheepish grin, her dark eyes sparking with humor. “C’mon, we’re almost there. Read me the messages. Did anybody really popular write to you?”

  “Molly!” I know she’s always been a little more obsessed with popularity than I have, but this seems over the top. “Why is it so important?”

  “Because for the first time, some doors are open that have always been shut and locked,” she admits quietly, pulling into the junior lot behind the gym. “So sue me if I’m a little excited to elevate my social standing. Hey, you gotta have a list party! At least I know I’ll be invited to that one.”

  “As if my mother would let fifty beer-drinking lunatics into our basement for a list party.”

  “Then you better take me to the ones you go to.”

  “I will,” I promise, knowing my mother won’t let me go to parties anyway. I return to the phone, determined to find that text.

  “Swear it,” she demands. “You will not get popular without bringing me along.”

  “I swear it.” Could I have imagined the text after the accident? I was pretty dazed. But, no, I read it again before I went to—

&n
bsp; A loud thwack on the trunk makes me jump, and Molly lets out a shriek.

  “Oh my God, Kenzie,” she whispers, looking into the rearview mirror and grabbing my arm. “Look who it is. No, don’t look. Yes, look. But be cool.”

  Without moving my head, I slide my gaze to the side-view mirror, blinking into the morning sun to see a tall silhouette. Very tall, broad, and sporting a Wildcats varsity jacket. I know that silhouette; I’ve watched it from every imaginable angle.

  “Well, what do you know, Miss I Don’t Care About That List,” Molly says, turning to me with an awfully smug expression on her pixie-like features. “It’s Josh Collier, man of your dreams.”

  “He’s not—”

  She points a finger in my face. “Don’t even try to lie to me. You’ve crushed on him since eighth grade”

  “Seventh,” I correct her, fighting a smile.

  “Grats, Kenz!” Josh pounds the roof this time and lopes around to my side.

  Molly and I just stare at each other. “Who says that?” we whisper in perfect best-friend unison.

  “Kenzie?” He taps on the window and I turn, blasted by his slightly crooked, seriously cute half grin as he grabs the handle and yanks the door open with an air of possessiveness.

  “Hi,” I say. Beside me, I hear Molly let out a soft ugh of disappointment. What did she expect, witty banter?

  “Damn, girl,” he says, bending down to sear my face with eyes the color of a summer sky. “You made the list.”

  I give him an unsure look. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “You know what that means?”

  Molly’s grinning as she gets her bag from the back. “She’s starting to find out,” she says with a bit of an “I told you so” singsong.

  “It’s a big deal,” he says, his attention all on me. “Nice placement, too. Fifth.” He winks, sending a weight sliding right down my stomach and spine.

  “Thanks.” I reach for my backpack on the floor, aware that Molly is taking her sweet time getting out, no doubt to eavesdrop. “But really, it’s no big deal.”

  “I voted for you,” he says softly, a tremor of disappointment in his voice, as though I haven’t taken the honor seriously enough.

  “That’s …” Kind of unbelievable. “Nice.”

  “You almost came in fourth.”

  My eyes widen. “I thought the vote count was some big secret.”

  “It is, but I’m connected, babe.”

  Babe? Did Josh Collier just call me babe?

  He straightens as I get out of the car and then angles his head toward the school, those incredible silver-blue eyes still locked on me. “Can I walk over with you?”

  I turn to look at Molly. “Go ahead,” she says, giving us a finger wave.

  “No, come with us, Moll.” After all, she wants to ride the Popularity Train, and you don’t get much more popular than Josh Collier.

  “Well, I kind of have to go into the band room.…”

  He ignores her and steps close to me. “Bet you were stoked to see the list,” he says.

  Molly backs away and catches my eye. “You go on, Kenz. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  After an awkward beat, she takes off, leaving me alone and inches away from the guy I used to pillow-kiss when I first knew there was such a thing as kissing and that pillows were for practicing said art.

  “Weren’t you psyched?” he presses.

  “I guess, yeah.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder, painfully aware that the cool girls carry tiny purses and far fewer books … but they aren’t trying to get a classics scholarship to Columbia. I push aside a lock of my hair with my free hand, a little resentful that my breath is tight and my palms are damp and I didn’t have the foresight to put on some makeup, like Molly.

  “You don’t seem very happy,” he says, his casual hand on my shoulder burning through my jean jacket.

  “Well, I …” I dig for something other than You leave me speechless. “I kind of wrecked my car last night.”

  “Seriously? That blows.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Congrats, Kenzie!” A girl whose name I don’t know holds up her hand for a high five as she passes.

  “Thanks,” I say, brushing her hand. Is this what today is going to be like? Is this the power of the list?

  “You going to the game tonight?” Josh asks as we approach a set of wide, trapezoid-shaped steps. Right now, my legs are so wobbly I’m not sure I can navigate what we call the crooked steps.

  “The football game?”

  He laughs softly. “No,” he says, layering on the sarcasm. “Girls’ volleyball.”

  “No, I …” I shake my head. I don’t want to insult him because I know he’s on varsity, but I haven’t been to a high school football game … since Conner played and I was still in middle school. “Maybe,” I say, hedging bets left and right.

  “Kylie and Amanda are throwing a list party afterward. You want to go with me?”

  Holy, holy—

  “Hey, Collier!” Another kid in a football jersey jogs over to us, giving me a tipped chin in greeting. “ ’Sup, Kenzie.”

  Tyler Griffith wouldn’t have acknowledged me yesterday, let alone said my name.

  “Dude, you’re killin’ my game here,” Josh jokes, with a pointed look at me.

  “I’m saving you from being benched is what I’m doing,” Tyler says. “Coach wants us in the weight room for first period.”

  Josh mumbles a soft curse, then puts a hand back on my shoulder, turning me away from his friend. “So, see you tonight?”

  The list might be incredibly tacky and dumb, but a date with Josh Collier is … rare. Hell, a date is rare.

  “Maybe, if I can.”

  “I’ll text you.” He leans closer and puts his mouth near my ear. “Fifth.”

  CHAPTER III

  I don’t get it. Indefinite integrals and Riemann sums make zero sense no matter how furiously I take notes in Calculus. Actually, not that furiously because I’m still getting texts—did my phone number get published on someone’s Facebook page? Every message that’s from an unrecognized phone number gives me a little flutter, but each text is more congratulatory and friendly than the last.

  Molly’s right about the royalty factor. It’s crazy and weird and, okay, not completely horrible.

  Under my desk, I skim through a few more texts.

  Three people text to tell me the girls who got ninth and tenth were calling the voting fixed. And apparently Austin Freeholder is so pissed off his twin sister, Alexia, isn’t on the list that he’s demanding a recount.

  “Is it, Kenzie?”

  I look up at the sound of my name, a quick squeeze of dread when I see Mr. Zeller lift his reading glasses to get a better look at me. Is what … what?

  He angles his head at my blank expression. “Is it a horizontal asymptote in that case?”

  I close my eyes and shake my head. “Can I get a hall pass, Mr. Zeller?”

  He lets out a typical Zeller sigh of disgust, but he likes me and isn’t going to be a jerk about letting me off the hook.

  “Hurry up so you don’t miss the homework assignment.” He tears a yellow slip from the pad and I take it, mumbling thanks as I rush into the silent hall dying for a gulp of solitude.

  I’m suddenly hit hard with a memory of what it was like to be on the radar. After my brother died, almost two years ago, people stared at me. Not with envy, but with pity. And, of course, sadness, because I reminded them that one of Vienna High’s brightest lights had been snuffed out in a freak accident. But I’d been a freshman, swamped by grief and overwhelmed by high school. I actually don’t remember much of my freshman year. By the time I became a sophomore, no one noticed me anymore.

  Until today. And now the looks aren’t pitiful or sad. All morning, I noticed kids checking me out. During class changes, I could just imagine their thoughts. That one made the list? The skinny one with brown hair? I guess from a distance she’s got nice eyes and a decent smi
le, but … is she listworthy?

  Some of the looks, though, were from boys, eyeing me like a new target has been added to their game. I’m not sure how I feel about that, even from Josh Collier. After all, I’m the same girl I was yesterday, minus the list placement.

  There’s a bathroom not too far away, but I’d rather take a longer walk, so I slip into the stairwell, going down to the first floor toward my locker bay.

  In my pocket, my phone vibrates again, but I ignore it. I consider texting Molly to meet me to take a walk across the quad for air, but she’s in History and I know Moriarty won’t let her leave.

  Rounding the corner, I’m relieved to see an empty hall, and as I pass each classroom, the sounds of teaching and laughter and even the quietness of test taking somehow soothe me. This part of school makes sense: the learning, the classrooms, the teachers, the homework.

  Unlike my brother, who personified the “big man on campus” cliché, I’ve never been very adept at navigating the social stuff. Conner never met a stranger, but I’ve battled shyness my whole life, and it only got worse after he died.

  So maybe this list isn’t a bad thing. Maybe this will change life for Molly and me. Holding tight to that thought, I wander past the biology lab, the faint scents of formaldehyde mixing with the lingering smell of freshman boys doused in Axe. My feet follow the blue-and-white-patterned linoleum floor, circa 1940.

  Before I reach the new wing of the school, I turn into the last locker bay, nothing more than a dead-end hall with about forty lockers and two bathrooms. Molly and I celebrated at registration last summer when we got this choice location, usually reserved for seniors. The lockers are as ancient as this original part of the building, with a row of glass blocks along the top of the wall that lets in natural light on sunny days. No one cares that the lockers are rusty; these alcoves are old-school (literally) and they are off the beaten path. And right now, I couldn’t love that more.

  Facing the lockers, I put my hand on the cool cobalt metal and take a deep breath. What is going on with me today?