by Tiana Smith
“So I have a month?” I asked.
“Technically less than that. It’s retroactive for this whole month of October. He’s already written the top three leaders on his board, and he’ll announce the winner by homecoming.”
As if I didn’t have enough on my mind about homecoming. Why did that date have so many repercussions?
“Am I on the board?” I asked, leaning forward in my seat, food forgotten.
Robyn waggled her eyebrows. “Third place. Elena’s first, and Joey’s in second with his comic.” She was smiling too much. Probably because of Joey. She wouldn’t admit it, but I was pretty sure she was crushing on him.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
She dismissed my concern with a wave of her hand. “Yours, of course. I certainly don’t want it for myself.”
I squinted at her, but she calmly took a drink like she had nothing to hide. And maybe she didn’t.
I sat back. How could I possibly beat Elena’s gossip column? Especially with only a few weeks left? Gossip was what fueled our high school. Everyone read her column. I wrote for the opinion section, which was popular enough, but it wasn’t even featured on the front page. And Joey’s comic was brilliant. There were people reading it online who weren’t even going to our school.
Someone sat down beside me and I jumped.
“Logan.” I laughed nervously. I was so not prepared to face him yet. He’d just left me in a broom closet approximately twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes was not enough time to sort through all the thoughts competing in my head.
He held his hands up like he was surrendering.
“Don’t freak out. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable.”
Too late.
“You hear about the journalism competition?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Okay, so I want to help. What’s your next article about? I’ll make sure you have a killer photo to match.”
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled. Even if he didn’t love the paper, he cared that I did.
“Vending machine options,” I said. “So really any random picture of the vending machines will do.”
“Where’s the creativity in that?” he asked, smirking.
“Oh, as if you have a better idea?” It wasn’t like my article lent itself to many options.
In answer, Logan reached across me, his arm brushing against mine. He grabbed my apple and brought it in front of him. Then he stole Robyn’s chips. Logan took a few more random items of food from his backpack, like a Twix bar and a can of soda. I wasn’t about to let him see how curious I was, so I picked at my nails and acted like I saw this kind of thing every day.
Logan pulled a permanent marker out if his backpack, and he began to draw faces on the food. The apple looked horrified. The soda became predatory. The chips seemed smug. Then he arranged the items on the table in front of him, positioning them so all the food looked like it was attacking the apple, which was the only healthy thing there.
Okay, that was kind of brilliant. Not that I’d admit that to him. But yeah, it was a hundred times better than a picture of a boring old vending machine. Maybe I really did need his help with this competition. We’d have to spend more time together.
I shouldn’t have felt so excited about that.
Logan snapped a few pictures, making adjustments on his camera as he went. He stood up, put his camera back in its case, and tossed the apple back to me with a grin.
“Catch you later.”
Then he walked away like he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary.
I twirled the stem of the apple until it broke off.
Boys. Journalism. Internships. Everything swirled around in my brain, refusing to play nice. My fingers itched to pick up a pen and make a list—something that would make sense. But even that wouldn’t really solve things. I released the apple only to find I’d left sharp nail marks in its otherwise unblemished side. I stared at the tiny moons, the edges of the apple silently bleeding. There was no way around this. No matter what I did, someone was going to get hurt.
ten
By Tuesday morning, I had a plan. Vince was my best bet, so it was about time I started acting like it. I was the one who’d orchestrated all this, so I had to see it through. This was my only chance with him.
The thing was—I wasn’t prepared for the way that decision actually hurt. I blamed Logan’s wavy hair and the way he made me laugh. His stupid grin. Most importantly, the way all the nerve endings in my body seemed alert to his presence, firing along my limbs until every part of me felt electrified and alive.
But right now, those things were gone and all I felt was empty, because I knew today I had to rip off the Band-Aid. But so what? I was about to get something so much better. Like a boy who actually cared about his grades and his future. Someone who wasn’t playing me and who was perfect boyfriend material.
Last night I’d made a pros-and-cons list like Robyn had suggested. In between homework I wrote it out, comparing the two boys in my life. Everything on my list pointed to Vince—Logan might be flirty, and, okay, he had a nice smile. But Vince was actually being genuine. Vince was the one who didn’t try to hide us away in broom closets and secluded Ferris wheels. Vince was open and honest, even asking me out publicly and kissing me in hallways. Even if that did make things awkward, it definitely made a statement. Vince was serious. About his future. About me.
Robyn was right about the pros-and-cons list, even if she was wrong about the results. Seeing it on paper helped settle my mind, and I knew what I had to do.
I passed the office and heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt someone whack the back of my head with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Seriously?” I said and turned to face a girl I’d never met before. Her lower lip quivered and tears started to pool in her eyes. She threw the newspaper at my feet and ran away, clutching her backpack strap like it was a life preserver.
I stared after her in amazement. Slowly I bent over and picked up the newspaper. I hadn’t thought my opinion piece was that controversial, but obviously she felt strongly about vending machine options.
I shook my head and continued walking toward journalism. There were fifteen minutes until homeroom, and I wasn’t about to spend more quality time with Mr. Good if I could help it.
A few people shot me dirty looks, and I quickened my pace. Had I submitted the wrong article by mistake? Maybe I’d accidentally sent in my piece on school uniforms or the one encouraging the school district to consider earlier school hours.
I opened the newspaper as I walked, turning the pages until I came to my column. It was the right article. So why was everyone giving me the cold shoulder? One boy booed at me when I passed, and I clenched my fist, crumpling the newspaper in the process. I rounded the corner and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the journalism door up ahead. I stopped a few feet away when I heard raised voices coming from inside.
“The one time, the only time I don’t review your column, you pull this?” Mr. Quince sounded furious. “You were late on the deadline, so I let it slide without review, but I can’t believe you would print something this malicious.”
“It’s a gossip column, Mr. Quince. It’s supposed to stir the pot.” It was Elena’s voice, and I unclenched my fingers from the newspaper so I could turn to her column. What mess had Elena gotten herself into now?
“Tame gossip, yes. Spiteful and vindictive hearsay, no.” I could almost imagine Mr. Quince running a hand through his hair like he did whenever he was upset. “You’re supposed to write articles on which students might be running for election or whether or not the cafeteria will get a soft-serve ice-cream machine. You’re not supposed to write pieces that paint a student as a player. This isn’t Beverly Hills 90210. Did you even have a reliable source?” His voice was getting dangerously loud, and I couldn’t turn the pages of the newspaper fast enough.
“Vince told me himself. He needed a shoulder to cry on.”
Mr. Quince scoffed. “And the word of an upset almost-boyfriend is completely accurate.”
I didn’t catch what Elena said next, because I had finally found her article and all the other sounds were muted to a low buzz.
You think you know someone. You might even think they’re your friend.
But you’re wrong.
Friends don’t use you for your popularity or desert you when they find someone better. They don’t lie to your face or sneak around behind your back.
Those aren’t friends.
They aren’t good girlfriends, either.
I swallowed down acid and put a shaky hand to my forehead. I tried to think logically, but black was creeping in on all corners of my vision, and I couldn’t help but feel lost. Betrayed.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that being connected to Vince had made me a prime target for gossip. Still, it hurt that Elena had been the one to drag my name down. True, my actual name wasn’t mentioned, but with the sprinkling of “facts” throughout the article, it wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots. And judging from the looks I’d gotten on the way here, people were already guessing that I was the “Friend Gone Wild.” I snorted at the unoriginal title. It was easier to mock it than to take it in. Anger was better. Angry people didn’t cry.
Mr. Quince was being nice when he called the article spiteful. It called me a player and destroyed everyone in its path. It even slammed Robyn for setting Vince up with someone like me. It hinted heavily that a certain matchmaker had blessed the union with Vince, which wasn’t fair. Then again, none of this was fair.
The back of my throat stung, and I had to resist the urge to tear up the paper then and there. I had to read the rest, even if it made me want to claw Elena’s eyes out.
None of it was good, and it kept going for far longer than I would have liked. Unfortunately, I had to hand it to her: Elena was a very good writer. If I didn’t know the truth, I’d be raising my pitchfork like everyone else. Her flair for the dramatic was evident in every line, stretching things well past the realm of reality. My eyes scanned the article again, looking for Logan’s name in case I’d accidentally missed it earlier, but thankfully, Elena had left out anything that could identify him. That was a small consolation, though. Elena had dealt plenty of damage even without mentioning any names.
The newspaper shook in my hands, and I crumpled it up as small as it would go. That didn’t give me enough satisfaction, so I threw it. Hard. It bounced against the wall and fell to the ground with an anticlimactic thud. I pressed my palms against my eyes, willing myself not to cry, but the blood rushing through my ears was more out of anger than embarrassment. This was so not okay. How could she?
I felt my face flush with heat just as Elena slammed the journalism door and brushed past me on her way down the hall. Her eyes glanced at me for only a moment, but I could have sworn I saw some remorse there. Not like it mattered. She could flunk French all on her own, because I certainly wasn’t going to help her anymore.
I debated whether to go into the journalism room or not, but at least I knew Mr. Quince was on my side. Everyone in the hall was watching me, so I ducked inside and hoped Mr. Quince wouldn’t bring it up. Yeah, right.
“Mia, I’m so sorry—” he began.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, cutting him off.
“I didn’t know. There will be repercussions for Elena. She’s disqualified from the competition. I promise I’ll—”
“No, really. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He gave a short nod and retreated to his desk, where he acted like he was busy, but I knew better. He kept sneaking glances in my direction, monitoring my progress as I strode across the room and pulled a laptop from the rack. I felt his eyes as I sat down at my table and then as I moved from the spot I usually shared with Elena. Even with her gone, I didn’t want that table anymore. Robyn usually sat on my other side, so I skipped a chair and claimed Megan’s seat. Hopefully when journalism class came around, Megan would be willing to make the change permanent. Ah, who was I kidding? I was totally skipping eighth period later today.
While waiting for the laptop to boot up, I looked over to where the newspapers were usually stacked near the door. The bin was empty, which meant Mr. Quince must have destroyed as many as he could—even though that couldn’t be good for the paper. But enough people had read the article already that I’d never stand a chance of stopping the rumors. Plus, the internet was forever. Even if Mr. Quince had taken her article down, students probably took screenshots.
I was supposed to meet Robyn at our lockers this morning, but braving the halls was the last thing I wanted to do right now. I pulled out my phone to text her instead.
—Hanging out in the journalism room. Forgot to ask Mr. Quince something about my next article.
Hopefully she wouldn’t ask what, because I had no idea. It was only a matter of time before she’d find out what had happened, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell her. A nagging voice in my head said Robyn might take Elena’s side. After all, I’d gone behind Robyn’s back, so now this was evening the score. Maybe Robyn would be next in line and she’d turn on me, too. Just like everyone else in the school.
The screen blurred in front of me, and I struggled not to cry. How was I ever going to leave this room?
The phone at Mr. Quince’s desk rang as I clicked open an email. I read the same sentence five times, blinking through the tears and trying to force my brain to function. The sound of Mr. Quince clearing his throat broke my concentration, though, and I looked up.
“That was Ms. Poly. She wants you to come to her office before homeroom.”
I shrank lower in my seat.
“Why does the guidance counselor want to see me?” I asked.
“She only wants to make sure you’re okay. She thought you might not be coping well. I mean, I might have let her know you’re hiding out here…” He gave an apologetic shrug, and I closed the laptop a little harder than I intended.
Mr. Quince didn’t say anything as I shoved the laptop back onto the rack and walked to the door. When I hesitated, he gave me a slight smile before bending his head back over his work. I opened the door and tried not to hold my breath, expecting the worst.
I was right.
Students glared as I walked to Ms. Poly’s office. No one spoke to me. I grasped the strap of my bag and tried not to look anyone in the eye. By the time I made it to the guidance counselor’s office, my shoulder muscles were tense and I had a headache the size of Vince’s biceps.
The door to Ms. Poly’s office was wide open as she sat at her desk and typed. I knocked and stepped through the doorway. She motioned me in.
I sat down and tried not to show my discomfort.
“You must be Mia…” She looked down at the newspaper in front of her, and I swallowed.
“Taylor,” I supplied when she didn’t immediately find it. I didn’t need her reading any more of that newspaper than necessary.
“Right. I recognize you from the school announcements.”
My cheeks flamed. I wasn’t sure whether she was intentionally reminding me of the pen incident, but I couldn’t help but feel the shame. Apparently, I was bound to be the center of school gossip no matter what I did—or didn’t do, for that matter.
I only nodded in reply, because suddenly I didn’t trust my voice.
“How do you feel?”
To my intense embarrassment, I started to cry. Everything I’d been so carefully controlling spilled out of me now, burning hot down my cheeks. I wrapped my arms around my middle, trying desperately to rein it in, but the tears only came harder. How come I could control every other aspect of my life, only to have things come tumbling down now, when I needed that control the most?
Ms. Poly reached across the desk, a box of Kleenex in her hand, and I accepted it with shaking fingers. I heard the bell ring, announcing the start of homeroom, and I hiccuped.
“I’ll be late for clas
s,” I said, wiping at my mascara. Too bad raccoon-eyes weren’t in fashion since I was pretty sure I’d gone well past smoky-eye territory.
Ms. Poly pushed her glasses on top of her head.
“Do you really want to go to class?”
My laugh turned into another hiccup, and I shook my head.
“Do you have any tests today or papers due?”
I nodded. “I have an essay due in AP English.”
“Do you have it with you?”
I nodded and pulled it from my bag, a few tears dropping onto the top page and smearing the ink. She placed it on her desk and folded her arms on top of it.
“I’ll get it to your teacher. You’re excused for the remainder of the day, Mia. Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow will be better.”
This only made me cry harder, since I knew it wasn’t true. Ms. Poly came around the desk and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Mr. Quince told me they’ll be publishing a retraction in the next paper. Elena will let everyone know that her article wasn’t based on fact and she didn’t have a reliable witness. This will blow over. Just give it time.”
“Th-thanks,” I stuttered. It was a nice thought, but I was 100 percent sure she was saying it to be nice. She knew more than anyone how high schoolers could be. Unfortunately, I was getting a firsthand demonstration, and it looked like it’d only get worse before it got better. A lot worse.
eleven
My phone buzzed angrily, and I stared at the name on the screen. No way was I going to talk to Elena. I hadn’t even answered Robyn’s We’ll talk later text and she hadn’t been the one to do this to me. But as much as it ached, I could understand Robyn’s anger. Elena’s article was proof that my blunders with Vince were reflecting badly on her business. I hated that I’d been the one to let things get so out of control.
I couldn’t bring myself to pick up Elena’s call, though. I’d spent the whole day stewing over what she’d done, alternating between feeling depressed, furious, and embarrassed. She didn’t leave a voicemail, and I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. All my emotions bounced around like a fruit cocktail of angst, swirling together until I could no longer determine which one was what.
