“Me too.”
Maybe Kurt and Gabe’s problems were more than I could fix, but at least I’d tried.
My mom turned off her phone screen the moment I got into the car. “Is everything okay, Beatrice?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmhm.”
She booted up the hybrid engine and we drove in silence. I could see her glancing over at me every few minutes and I knew she wanted to say something. Probably itching to relate all the details from her most recent date with Benjamin Feldberger, and as much as I loved my mom, I just couldn’t handle an intensive conversation about her love life today. Maybe if I just stared out the window she’d leave me alone.
“How is Spencer?” she asked, catching me off guard.
Instantly, I could feel Spencer’s lips pressed against mine, his arm pulling my body close. I recalled every detail of that moment: the backstage murmurs, the glare from the stage lights, the fluttering in my stomach, the spicy-sweet scent of Spencer’s cologne. I could feel my heart racing, and the heat rose to my face as if it were all happening again, right there in my mom’s car. And I realized with a sinking sensation that I couldn’t recall my first kiss with Jesse in the same amount of overpowering detail.
“Beatrice?”
“I . . .” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “He’s fine.” I guess.
“I haven’t seen him around lately.” She cast another sidelong glance in my direction. “And I thought maybe things weren’t okay between you two.”
“He’s been busy,” I said. With Cassilyn.
“Ah.”
More silence.
“And what about your plan to get Jesse back?” she asked. “How is that going?”
“It’s . . . fine.”
“Fine,” she repeated. “Spencer is fine. Jesse is fine. You’re fine.” She stopped at a traffic light and turned to face me. “Only I am your mother, so I know that everything is not fine.”
There was no point in denying it. Momtuition had won again.
“You’re right,” I said. “Nothing is fine. Spencer’s not speaking to me and Jesse can’t decide who he wants to date.” Can’t or won’t?
“I see.” She smiled at me. “I think you cannot change what Jesse wants, no matter how hard you try. He has to figure that out for himself.”
I doubted very much if Jesse could figure anything out for himself at this point.
“But Spencer, well, I’m sure you can find a way to smooth things over. He cares about you very much, after all.”
Part two of the Formula 3.0: I’d drop out of the runoff. It would show my friends that I cared more about them than about beating Toile or even getting Jesse back. And at that moment, I desperately needed Spencer to know that.
I pulled my phone out of my bag and quickly typed a text:
Dropping out of the runoff. Beating Toile isn’t worth it.
And unlike the twenty other texts I’d composed to Spencer over the last few days, I actually sent this one.
Not that it mattered. By the end of the holiday weekend, he still hadn’t responded.
THIRTY-FOUR
AFTER SPENCER HAD ignored my text, I had steeled myself for school days full of lonely lunches and general ostracism, so I was surprised when I found my friends hurrying toward my mom’s car when she dropped me off Tuesday morning. Gabe’s face was ashen, Spencer’s jaw was clenched, and I knew right away that something was wrong.
“What happened?” I asked as soon as I closed the passenger door behind me. No need for Flordeliza to get involved.
“Bea,” Gabe said, placing his hand on my arm. “Is there any way you could go home sick?”
This didn’t sound good.
“Anak,” my mom called, rolling down the window. “Is everything okay?”
Momtuition. It’s real. “Fine, Mom,” I said, only half turning back. “I’ll see you tonight.” I waited until her Prius pulled away before asking again. “Seriously, what’s going on?”
Gabe sighed. “It’s the election.”
Oh, good. An opening. “Gabe, about that. I’ve decided to drop out. Beating Toile isn’t worth our friendship. So I’m just going to let her have it.”
I smiled, hoping he and Spencer would realize I was serious and things could go back to normal between us, but instead, they exchanged a worried glance.
“I think Toile already let you have it,” Gabe said.
“What?”
“She put up some flyers.”
“Toile and Jesse,” Spencer said, emphasizing the conjunction. “She had help.”
I was confused. “But Ramos said this was supposed to be a virtual election. No campaign materials.”
“It’s worse than that.” Gabe swallowed. “They’re . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked to Spencer for help.
“They’re attack ads,” Spencer explained.
I froze, a chill running down my spine. “What do they say?”
Carefully, Spencer removed a flyer from his messenger bag and handed it to me. I recognized the graphics immediately: brightly colored daisies, just like the animation I’d done for Gabe’s campaign. Only instead of formulas written in their centers, these flowers had photos. The first was my sophomore yearbook photo—pre-Trixie, of course, and not particularly flattering. I’d been up late the night before, absorbed in a new book on statistics and their application with the behavioral sciences, and had slept through my alarm. With no time for contacts or a shower, I’d thrown on my glasses and pulled my hair up into a bun at the top of my head, completely forgetting it was school picture day. The result was cringe-worthy.
The second flower held a current snapshot of Jesse, and the third had Toile. There was a minus sign between my photo and Jesse’s, a plus sign between his and Toile’s, and then an equal sign led to the fourth and final photo: Toile and Jesse kissing.
Below, a single line of text: “Jesse chose Toile over Math Girl, and so should you.”
My hands shook as I stared at the page. Campaigns were campaigns, and of course they could get serious. But this was hitting below the belt, a sucker punch to my gut, and I couldn’t believe that Toile would sink this low.
“How many?” I asked, my voice raspy.
“A . . . a lot,” Gabe stammered.
“They’re everywhere,” Spencer added. “All over school.”
Spencer was right. Toile couldn’t have done this on her own.
Jesse.
I felt a sharp pang of sadness as I realized someone I had cared about had intentionally hurt me, but that emotion was replaced almost immediately by red-hot rage. I crinkled up the flyer, scrunching it into a ball in my hand, then I threw it aside and practically ran up the steps to the main entrance. I needed to find Toile and Jesse.
Spencer had been right: there were flyers everywhere. Like every two feet down the hallways, on the front and back of every door, up and down the staircase. Some had been removed, and I could see people huddled around them, whispering in hushed tones as I passed. I didn’t care. I could sense Gabe and Spencer following behind, and though I was relatively sure they were calling out my name, I couldn’t hear anything other than the pounding of blood in my ears.
I sprinted upstairs, pushing through packs of students as I went, aiming for Jesse’s locker. I saw the white sailor’s hat on Toile’s head even before I spotted my ex-boyfriend at her side, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back.
“You bitch!” I roared. Around us, the halls fell silent.
The color drained out of Toile’s face as I stormed down the hallway.
“Bea!” Spencer cried. I felt his hand on my arm, but I shook him free. “Bea, wait!”
“How dare you?” I got right up in her face, backing her against the wall of lockers. “This is dirty, even for you. Couldn’t beat me fair and square so you had to drag Jesse into it?”
“I . . . ,” she stammered. “I didn’t do it . . .”
“You’re full of shit, Toile. I know this who
le manic-pixie crap is an act.”
Her eyes darted back and forth. “What?”
“And I’m going to expose you. Understand? I’m taking you down.”
“Break it up!” a voice boomed. Mr. Poston pushed his way through the gathered crowd. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, sir,” Jesse said, taking Toile’s hand in his.
“Sure.” Mr. Poston spotted Gabe. “Muñoz, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
But I wasn’t going to force Gabe to cover up for me. “It’s my fault,” I said, stepping forward. “I was angry about those flyers.”
Mr. Poston looked from me to one of the posters and then to Toile. He pointed at both of us. “You two come with me.”
Principal Ramos stood behind her desk and pulled at the lapel of her vesty pantsuit. “Do you want to explain to me again what the problem is?”
I pointed at Toile. “She completely ignored your rule about no campaign materials.”
“I didn’t do it,” Toile lied.
I snorted. “Plus this flyer is in violation of rule number two of the Fullerton Joint Union High School District campaign bylaws: ‘Posters must not contain any of the following—references to sex, drugs, or alcohol, or personal attacks on other candidates.’”
Principal Ramos raised her eyebrows. “And how does this attack another candidate?”
“She’s dating my ex-boyfriend,” I said, feeling more disgust than anger. “That’s what the flyer references.”
“But I swear,” Toile began, “I didn’t . . .”
Principal Ramos held up her hand for silence. Toile froze midthought, then Principal Ramos whisked the piece of paper off her desk, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, and let it flutter into the wastebasket. “Toile, you are responsible for removing all of these by five o’clock today. Now, unless there’s something else, I think we’re—”
“You’re not going to punish her? How is that fair?”
Principal Ramos’s stare was icy cold. “Isn’t that the ultimate expression of democracy?” she said, throwing my words back into my face.
Ugh. Did everyone like Toile better?
“The election will continue as scheduled on Thursday. Now get to class.”
Toile scurried out of the office and down the hall with unexpected speed. Not that I blamed her. If she wanted to play dirty and Principal Ramos wasn’t going to lay down the law, then Toile wanted to stay as far away from me as was humanly possible.
An hour ago I was going to drop out of the election and let Toile have the ASB president job, but now? No freaking way.
Things were about to get ugly.
“Dah-ling!” Gabe’s sunny tenor rang out over the blanket of white noise in the cafeteria. “I see you haven’t been expelled yet. Too bad. I hear prison is hot.”
Spencer followed behind him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Bea would look horrible in orange.”
Gabe arched an eyebrow playfully. “Says you.” He slid his tray onto the table, then threw his arms around my neck from behind and hugged me so fiercely I choked. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For what we did at lunch on Friday.”
Despite the depths of social humiliation to which I’d been subjected, I smiled. I’d go through it all again if it meant Gabe and Spencer forgave me. “It’s okay,” I said. “I deserved it. And thanks, you guys, for looking out for me.”
Gabe squeezed my shoulders. “You’d do the same for us.”
“I just can’t believe Toile did that,” Spencer said.
Gabe motioned for us to lean in. “She swore to Cassilyn that she didn’t.”
I rolled my eyes. “She’s full of shit.”
“What did Ramos say?” Gabe asked.
I shrugged. “She refused to do anything. Toile has to take down the flyers today. That’s all.”
Gabe gaped. “That’s so fucked-up.”
“Right? I mean, I didn’t even want to win this election.”
“Didn’t?” Spencer asked. “Or don’t?”
“I don’t even want to win this election,” I said, correcting myself. I just want to get even with Toile.
“So what are you going to do now?” Gabe asked.
I was about to tell him that I was going to fight fire with fire, to go after Toile with everything I had and make her wish she’d never set foot at Fullerton Hills, when Spencer answered for me.
“She’s not going to do anything.”
Gabe tilted his head to the side. “She’s not?”
I’m not?
“She said it herself,” Spencer continued. “She’s dropping out of the race. If Toile wants it so badly she’s willing to rub victory in her boyfriend’s face, let her.”
I bit my lower lip. Spencer was right, as much as I hated to admit it. I didn’t want to be president, and no matter how desperately I wanted to beat Toile, it wasn’t worth risking my friendships. Doing nothing was the best option.
“Exactly,” I said. “She can have it.”
Gabe slipped his arm around my waist and gave me a quick hug. See? Letting Toile win was worth it. Even if losing went against every fiber of my being.
THIRTY-FIVE
WE ALL HUNG out at Spencer’s after school, just like old times. And by “old times,” I mean last week. Yet it was amazing how fast life could change.
Between Toile and the election (and Jesse, and Kurt, and Cassilyn, and Michael Torres, and my parents, and the formulas) our friendships had been strained. I realized, of course, that most of it was my fault, even though I’d just had everyone’s best interests at heart.
But hanging out in Spencer’s studio again was amazing. So despite what had happened at school, I was feeling pretty good about myself when I arrived back at the town house in time for dinner.
A feeling that lasted all of 3.5 seconds, the time it took to open and close the front door.
“Mom, I’m . . .” I froze in my mismatched shoes.
My mom was in the kitchen, perched on the edge of the counter. Her legs were crossed, skirt hiked so far up her thighs I felt the need to avert my eyes, and she balanced a three-quarters-empty wineglass in one hand while the other grazed up and down the micro-check business shirt of the man leaning into her. He was on the short side, probably not much taller than my mom, and slight of build, with a thin spot in his salt-and-pepper hair just at the back of his head. His hands gripped my mom’s waist tightly and his lips pressed almost as tightly against hers as the two of them made out like middle schoolers in a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven—a sloppy, tongue-happy display that was equal parts fascinating and gross.
“Mom!” I repeated loudly. “I’m home!”
Benjamin Feldberger, Esquire—which is who I assumed our visitor was—broke away from my mom and spun toward me, wiping her lipstick off his face with the back of his hand. Meanwhile, my mother didn’t even slide off the counter or put down her wineglass. Instead, she bounced her top leg back and forth like a gangster’s moll in a Prohibition-era movie, swirling her bathtub moonshine in her glass and looking utterly self-satisfied.
“Beatrice,” she cooed, smiling from ear to ear. “You’re home.”
“Yeah, I just said so. Twice.” I hitched my tote bag up on my shoulder and headed for the stairs. “I’ll just eat in my room tonight.”
My mom clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That’s no way to treat our guest. I’d like you to meet Mr. Benjamin Feldberger,” she said, relishing every syllable. “I’ve told him so much about you.”
Fibonacci’s balls. I plopped my bag down at the foot of the stairs, plastered my best happy-daughter smile on my face, and turned to meet him. I wasn’t even sure why I bothered. This guy, like all the others, would be running for the hills when he realized that my mom expected to see a ring on her finger before the end of the year, at which point he’d be replaced with a newer model. “Nice to meet you.”
Benjamin Feldberger, Esquire, was nervous. I could tell straightaway. He didn’t know whether he should
look me in the eyes (or look at me at all, for that matter) and so instead, he focused on a spot about a foot to my left when he stuck out his hand for a shake, as if we were business associates at a mixer. “Pleased to meet you.”
He was about my dad’s age, but without Andrew Giovannini’s imposing presence and cocky swagger, and I guessed that he was more of a behind-the-scenes legal mind than a rock-star litigator like my dad. He wasn’t much to look at either—thin lips, watery eyes, rosacea on his cheeks and forehead, and his wispy, thin hair was less than a decade away from total baldness.
Still, when he turned to look at my mom, his entire being lit up, as if she ignited some deep, secret passion of his soul that he didn’t even know existed. I knew that look. It was familiar.
It was the way Jesse looked at Toile.
Did I have a manic pixie dream mom?
She slid off the counter and readjusted her skirt. “Benjamin is joining us for dinner tonight. Will you set the table, Anak?”
“I . . . I hope I’m not interfering with your studying,” Benjamin said nervously as I retrieved silverware from a drawer. He spoke in quick little spurts, gasping for breath between them, as if assessing the impact of his words after each flurry. “Flordeliza has told me all . . . about your academic successes . . . and your plans for MIT in the fall.”
My mom opened the oven door and retrieved a bubbling casserole dish. “Beatrice is a mathematical genius,” she said. “She’s applying for early decision.”
“Very impressive.” He took a quick gulp of air. “Do you know . . . what you’ll study? Theoretical . . . or applied . . . or—”
He was interrupted by the doorbell. At seven thirty on a Tuesday night? Had I left something in Spencer’s car?
“I wonder who that could be?” My mom’s voice practically sang, and her face was bright with excitement as she eyed the door. Suddenly, I knew exactly who was ringing our bell.
“Mom . . . ,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“Flordeliza,” she corrected me. Really? We were still working that ruse? “Could you answer the door, Beatrice?”
I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl Page 18
