FORTY-ONE
I WAS RELATIVELY sure I was having a panic attack.
I slumped against the smooth wall and bent forward at the waist, resting my hands against my knees. I gulped for air as if I’d just been running from zombies, and my heart was pounding.
Classic panic attacks included symptoms of: racing heart (check), feeling dizzy or faint (check), sweating (check), sense of hopelessness, difficulty breathing (check). I was experiencing at least 80 percent of these, so even without a medical examination, I felt pretty confident in self-diagnosing.
And, of course, I knew why I was panicking. I finally realized I was in love with my best friend, but it was too late. Any minute now, he and Cassilyn would be back at his studio in some form of undress, about to do something significant and meaningful that would bind them together forever.
Maybe I could stop them? I could go to his studio, pledge my undying love, and beg him to love me back.
My heart ached at the thought, because after watching the two of them kiss on the dance floor, I knew what the answer would be.
He’d be happy with Cassilyn, she’d make sure of it. She wouldn’t be constantly at odds with him, challenging him, pushing him, teasing him. Spencer deserved that. He deserved better than me.
My penance would be that I would have to watch their romance blossom and be supportive. If I wanted to keep Spencer as a friend—and the thought of losing him altogether was even more devastating than the thought of him never, ever loving me back—I had to make things right between us, then bury my feelings and never let him know.
But I wasn’t ready for that. Not tonight. Tonight I just wanted to go home and cry.
I turned, and was heading for the gym lobby when Michael Torres stepped out of a doorway, his usual MO, blocking my path.
“Hello, Trixie.” His voice was icy, his dark eyes so narrow I couldn’t even see the black of his irises, and a wicked little smile played at the corners of his mouth, taunting me. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Ew. “Can’t say the feeling is mutual.” I attempted to sidestep him, but he slid to the left, cutting me off.
“I have something here you might find interesting.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, activated the screen, and shoved it in my face.
“Michael Torres, how many times have I told you that I’m not interested in your manga porn?”
“Just read it.”
This was the absolute last thing I needed, and I was tempted just to drop his phone to the tile floor, stomp on it, and march out into the warm fall night. But there was something in his smile that unnerved me, a cockiness that reeked of triumph. So I wrenched the phone from his hand and examined the screen.
It was an article, published on the front page of the Herald’s website, and as I read the title, my stomach sank.
FAKING IT: How Three Fullerton Hills Seniors Manipulated Their Way to Popularity
An exposé by Michael Torres
“What the hell is this?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant and hoping the tremor that was making its way from my hands to my throat didn’t show. How had he found out?
“Keep reading.”
It was the sudden change that tipped me off. On the second day of senior year, Gabe Muñoz and Spencer Preuss-Katt arrived on campus in character. Gone were their “normal” personalities and styles, replaced by new personae, meticulously calculated to make them popular.
It sounds outlandish, a thing of fiction, but when Beatrice Giovannini—now “Trixie”—joined the charade a few days later, I knew something rotten was going on. Ms. Giovannini’s pet project is applying mathematical formulas to everyday life, and apparently she came up with one to make her and her friends popular. Was this one of her experiments? Was she using Fullerton Hills as a guinea pig for her diabolical machinations?
This reporter needed to know.
After a thorough investigation, I uncovered a series of notes taken by Mr. Muñoz in relation to this undercover endeavor wherein he discusses his new role as a stereotypical homosexual and its calculated effects upon certain social groups at Fullerton Hills. Mr. Muñoz, who is, it must be noted, the coeditor of the Herald, kept track of his progress, noting which behavioral characteristics and outlandish antics got the best reactions from his test subjects. He then used this information in an article he submitted to a well-known local newspaper in the hopes of securing a coveted internship.
For her part, Ms. Giovannini used her newfound popularity to get herself elected ASB president, over a much worthier—i.e., less fake—candidate, using a slur campaign. Mr. Preuss-Katt, though not immediately implicated in his friends’ flagrant misuse of power, is nonetheless guilty by association.
It is my hope that these allegations will be investigated fully and that during that time, Mr. Muñoz will be suspended from the Herald and Ms. Giovannini will be replaced in school government.
I stared at the screen. I had to admit that the writing was surprisingly good—considering Michael Torres only joined the school paper as a way of winning the MIT scholarship—but the content made me so angry my jaw was starting to ache from the force with which I clenched it.
“It went live before the dance,” he said. “By Monday, everyone at school will have read it, and I’ll be the sole editor of the Herald. Your hopes for that scholarship will be dead on arrival, and I’m sure the Register will drop Gabe from consideration for the internship.”
The internship. Gabe was so excited about it.
“Not that I have anything against Gabe,” he continued, “but, you know, collateral damage.”
“Why not target me?” I said, fighting the urge to strangle him. “Going after my friends is a dick move.”
He tilted his head to the side. “I did.”
At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then, suddenly, all the pieces came together. His declaration of war, Toile’s insistence that she hadn’t been responsible for the attack ad. She actually had been telling the truth for once.
“You put up those flyers.”
“I can’t believe you’re just figuring that out.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re not?” he cried. “Look at what you did to poor Toile. She’s done nothing but be nice since she got here and what did you do? Ruined her life.”
“Her life? What about my life! She stole my boyfriend.”
At the mention of Jesse, his face clouded over. “Maybe if you’d been a better girlfriend, he wouldn’t have asked her out. Maybe she’d still be single.”
My jaw dropped, realizing his motivation. “You have a crush on her.”
“I do not,” he snapped.
“Have you told her?”
His sweaty face turned red. “I . . .”
I laughed, more from surprise than actual levity. Michael Torres had ruined my life because he liked a girl and was too afraid to tell her. Unreal.
“This isn’t funny!”
He was right. It wasn’t. “You know what, Michael Torres? I was wrong. You’re not an asshole. You’re a giant pussy.”
“What?”
“Yeah, a pussy. You want to take me down? Be my guest. I fucking dare you to.” I didn’t care about the ramifications, I just really, really needed to tell Michael Torres what I thought of him once and for all. “But if all of this is just an excuse to show Toile how you feel about her, then you’re just as fake as we are.”
His eyes shifted back and forth. “I don’t . . . I mean, that’s not really . . .”
Awesome. I’d knocked him off balance. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let me know when you’ve grown a pair.” I held my fist out in front me, parallel to the floor, then opened my palm and pantomimed dropping a mic. I turned and left him in the hallway, still trying to formulate a comeback.
FORTY-TWO
I ROUNDED THE corner, head high, shoulders squared. But the second I was out of sight, I stopped and leaned back against the smooth glass of a trophy case. What t
he hell was I going to do?
This was a problem like any other. A complicated math problem. If Train A leaves Irvine at 2:30 p.m. traveling north at 25 mph with a steady acceleration of 5 mph until it reaches its max speed of 75 mph, and Train B leaves Fullerton at 2:45 p.m. traveling south at 60 mph with no acceleration, given the distance between the two stations to be 47.6 miles, at what time will Train A pass Train B, and what will be the speeds of the two trains at the time of their passing?
I mean, duh, so easy. I could do it in my head. Train A passes Train B at 3:05 p.m. traveling 65 mph to Train B’s 60 mph. Child’s play.
So if I can figure out that equation in less time than it took to read the problem, I should be able to figure out this real-life train collision. I just needed to think.
The lobby was quiet. I strolled past glass display cases full of Fullerton Hills’ sports trophy collection, my eyes roaming aimlessly over the fake-gilt placards and posed athlete effigies, trying to lull my brain into a state of functionality. The good news was that Gabe’s position on the paper was safe. Mr. Poston had already read Gabe’s article on his social experimentation. So that was good. Still, the article would throw Gabe and me back to the bottom of the social pecking order. And what about Spencer? My heart ached at the thought of him, but if he was Cassilyn’s new boyfriend, would that protect him from the social repercussions that were about to rain down on Gabe and me? And if so, was there some way I could take the blame for all of this and spare Gabe the fallout? I had no idea. Why couldn’t I figure this out? The Formula and its successors had come so easily. And now? Nothing. It was as if math were a foreign language I had yet to study and every variable and operator sounded like gibberish. In my time of need, my mathematical mind had abandoned me, leaving me without—
“Hey, Bea.”
I spun around. “Jesse! I didn’t know you were here.” At the dance, or in the lobby. I certainly hadn’t heard him sneak up behind me.
He smiled and edged closer. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Really?” After Michael Torres, he was the last person I wanted to see.
He nodded. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About us. I’ve missed you.”
I recognized that smile on his face, small and mischievous. The same one he’d flashed me in the car a week ago when he tried to kiss me. But that was a lifetime ago. I wasn’t the same Bea anymore.
“It hasn’t looked much like you’ve missed me,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “What did you say at the end of your campaign speech? ‘I want to thank my amazing girlfriend Toile. She makes my life better in every way.’”
Jesse hesitated. “Toile wasn’t who I thought she was.”
“And I am?”
I meant it to sound combative, but Jesse took it as an invitation. He stepped right up to me, backing me against the trophy case until his body was inches from mine. “I know you’re smart and cool and fun.” He lifted his hand to my chin, tilting it upward. “And now you’re ASB president.”
So that was it? “You mean, now I’m popular.” Toile had been embraced by Cassilyn and her friends from day one, while my friends and I had been threatened by the jocktocracy. Then as soon as “Trixie” started gaining attention, his focus was back on me. Jesse didn’t want a girlfriend who was at the bottom of the food chain, and now that Toile had been humiliated in front of the entire school, our roles were reversed.
“What’s wrong with being popular?” Jesse asked, throwing his hands wide. “I mean, you’re really cute. I thought so since the first time I saw you in class, and there was no reason you had to be as unpopular as your friends.”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “You thought you could fix me? Make me less of a loser so I’d look better as your girlfriend?” So that was why he’d wanted us to sit at our own table at lunch and to go to D’Caffeinated instead of hanging out with my friends after school. He’d been trying to separate me from my friends so I wouldn’t be tainted by them.
Instead of answering, Jesse stepped closer to me. “Remember how much fun we used to have?” he asked, his thumb grazing my cheek.
A couple of weeks ago, I might have killed to feel Jesse’s fingers against my skin one more time, but now it just made me sick to my stomach.
“Used to have,” I repeated. “Past tense. We’re—”
“Jesse!” Toile raced across the lobby toward us. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept in days. Dark circles ringed her usually bright eyes, and I noticed that they were hazel gray, not bright violet. I guess those had been fake too. Her outfit was decidedly not manic pixie as well—yoga pants and a formfitting hoodie with sneakers and a noticeable lack of headwear. She looked like a normal girl home on a Friday night.
So this was Sybille Jeffries.
The instant she saw me behind her boyfriend, she stopped dead in her tracks and I watched as all the color drained out of her face. “What are you doing?” she breathed, her voice hoarse.
Jesse dropped his hand and took a step back. “Just talking.”
“You talk with your mouth,” Toile and I said in unison. Our eyes met, and she looked about as surprised as I felt.
Meanwhile, Jesse swayed back and forth, shifting his weight forward and backward, almost as if he was trying to decide between the two of us. I intensified my glare, hoping it gave a crystal-clear Back off vibe. It worked. Jesse turned to Toile and took her hand.
“Bea was just reminding me of old times. It was nothing, I promise.”
Oh, that was it. I shoved him. Hard. “Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t push him,” Toile said, getting between us.
I threw up my hands. “Don’t defend him. And definitely don’t listen to him. He’s as full of shit as you are.”
She tensed. “I am not full of shit, Trixie.”
But I wasn’t going to let this be about the two of us. Right now, our anger needed to be focused on Jesse. “Do you know what Jesse did the week of the election? He drove me home after school and tried to kiss me.”
Toile’s eyes shifted to Jesse’s face. “I . . . I don’t believe it.” But she kind of sounded like she did.
“Believe it,” I said. “And just now he was about to do the same, but I stopped him.” I pointed my finger in Jesse’s face. “I don’t want you anymore. And I certainly don’t have to put up with your shit. I deserve to be treated better, and so does Toile.”
“I do?” Toile said.
“Yeah,” I said. “You don’t have to settle for a boyfriend who only likes you when you’re getting attention from the popular people. He should like you all the time. No matter who you are.”
Toile blinked. “You’re right.” She turned to Jesse. “I do deserve better.”
I backed Jesse toward the exit. “Got anything to say to that? Any excuses to make?”
“I . . . I just . . .” He swallowed. “I like you both. I was confused.”
“Was?” Toile asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean . . .” He stumbled over his Converse. “I gotta go.”
Then he sprinted out the door.
FORTY-THREE
TOILE AND I stood shoulder to shoulder as we watched Jesse flee down the hallway and out of our sight. Hopefully, out of our lives.
It felt so ridiculous now that I’d ever fought over him.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out.
“It’s not your fault he’s an asshole,” Toile said, in a very un-Toile-like manner. Hmm, maybe I was going to like Sybille better.
I turned to face her. “Not that. The photos I posted. I know now that you didn’t put up those flyers.”
She sighed. “I tried to tell you, but—”
“I know, I wouldn’t listen. But Michael Torres just admitted to it.”
She shook her head. “Michael Torres? Why?”
I smirked. “Why do you think?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh.”
I was mostly there. Might as well just cop to it all. “I told myself everyth
ing I did was about winning Jesse back, but it wasn’t. It was about beating you.”
She half smiled. “Well, I kind of figured with the whole Trixie thing.”
“I was angry,” I said, feeling defensive. “I mean, you did steal my boyfriend.”
“I know,” she said. “But I swear, when he asked me out he said you two had broken up weeks ago. He told me . . .” She dropped her eyes to the ground. “It doesn’t matter what he told me. I understand why you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
Toile arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“I was hurt when Jesse picked you over me,” I conceded. “And when Spencer explained the whole manic-pixie-dream-girl thing, I thought maybe I could reinvent myself and win Jesse back. Then that day in Principal Ramos’s office when I realized you were playing a role too—”
“How did you know?” she asked. “I mean, know for sure.”
I grinned. “You quoted a line from Garden State. Which I’d just watched.”
She sighed. “I love that movie.”
Ew.
“You’re right,” she continued. “I was playing a role. Those photos you found . . . My dad’s a navy doctor. A specialist. It’s kind of hard to fit in when you’re in a new school every year.”
“Every year?”
She nodded. “Since fourth grade. Even by military family standards, it’s been ridiculous. But he retired last spring, and we settled in Fullerton. I wanted to make some real friends here before college, so I came up with the manic-pixie thing.”
“Which I just ruined.”
Toile shrugged but didn’t say a word.
I felt horrible.
We wandered down the hall in silence and popped out the front door of campus into the warm fall night. It was eerily quiet, especially considering that the dance was going on inside. We were in that dead zone: everyone had already arrived and no one had left yet. “Can I ask you something?” Toile said. She was watching me acutely.
“Sure.”
“Did you love Jesse?”
“Yeah.” The answer was automatic, and even as the half-assed admission came out of my mouth I realized how hollow it sounded.
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