Rory dropped the empty cup but brandished her brush like a weapon. “I have no interest in being your revenge on my sister or whatever your messed-up plan is. Do not try and touch me again.”
Monroe was gaping, spitting out yellow paint that had apparently gotten in his mouth. It spattered onto the red velvet doublet of what could only be the stolen Romeo costume. “I could get any girl—”
“Good,” I interjected from my spot on the floor. I tugged on Gatsby, who was in pup heaven with all the new smells and strangers to lick. “Then find one who’s actually interested, and leave us alone.”
Heads swiveled my way. There was way more interest in the stage than there’d been a few minutes ago. Phones were out and up. I was giving a performance I hadn’t auditioned for and didn’t want. And as an added bonus, I was doing so while wearing an outfit not fit for public consumption.
“You!” Monroe snarled. “You had your chance. You weren’t invited to my Rogue Romeo. You’re not fit to play Juliet.”
“And I don’t want to.” Gatsby spied Rory and jumped on the stage. I climbed awkwardly after him, trying to keep my robe closed. While I was careful to avoid the pool of paint at Monroe’s feet, Gatsby was decorating the floor with yellow paw prints. “No offense, Monroe”—which was a lie, because I totally meant offense—“but you’re not that good an actor. I’m not here for you; I’m here for my sister. And I’m going to walk out of this theater and forget that you even exist; because let’s be real, you’re not that memorable.”
He gave an exaggerated scoff, paired with an exaggerated eye roll, his overacting so egregious that the audience snickered louder than his over-enunciated “You. Wish.”
I couldn’t believe I’d ever found him attractive. Yes, he had all the right pieces and they fit together nicely, but every part of him felt performative. He was like the lollipop version of grape—artificial and kind of gross. I shook my head. “No, I really, really don’t.”
The guy who’d been attempting to climb the curtains jumped down and started a slow clap, and a few other people joined in. I might have looked to see who, but I was distracted by Rory’s tackle hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
For a second, I thought we were going to have a sister moment, but then she followed up with a panicked scan of the room. “Is Toby? Oh no, did you come with Toby? And what are you wearing? You’re so embarrassing.”
“Yes, I made Toby do his Tin Man knee-brace walk all across campus.” I ignored her criticism, because really there was no defense for my ugly-robe, braless, socks-with-flip-flops glory. Instead Gatsby and I followed her off the stage. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “He said it was a ‘Rogue Romeo Party.’ I thought it might be some sort of avant-garde performance. He said he wanted my help with signs and sets—” Her voice cracked. “But Monroe only invited me to get back at you.”
I was half tempted to climb back on that stage and slap his stupid, painted face. I might’ve if Gatsby hadn’t chosen that moment to spot Fielding down the aisle and lunge for him like a long-lost friend.
“Heel,” I hissed, and, “Rory, grab your stuff before this gets busted.” I noticed the other students were doing the same. Apparently my and Monroe’s showdown was the big finale, though he was still on the stage.
“Don’t leave,” he shouted. Though I was absolutely certain he was addressing the group of six chugging the contents of their cups as they headed for the back door. Not me. “I’m just about to get started. Sit down. I don’t need anyone else. I’ll do the whole show myself. Sit. Down!” He stomped from one side of the stage to the other. “Huck, get your butt in a chair. Mariah, I see you leaving. Get back in here. ‘Two households, both alike’ . . .”
“And that is our cue to go,” I told Rory.
“I’ll drive you.”
Gah. Fielding was like a mosquito that wouldn’t stop buzzing around. If mosquitoes could look breathtaking while they betrayed you. Where was his coconspirator? I didn’t see Ava anywhere, but she could’ve left in the first exodus.
I wanted to say no. Or say nothing at all. Or swat at him like he really was an insect. But a guy called out, “Security’s coming!” and really, what choice did we have?
I grabbed Rory’s arm and turned to Fielding. “Fine. But you’re not doing me a favor. You’re doing her one. Let’s go. Go. Go. Go.”
I took a step toward the entrance I’d used to barge into the theater—the heavy double doors at the top—but Fielding said, “No, this way.”
And clasped my hand in his.
Clasped my hand in his.
My hand. His.
If lightning and carbonation had a baby, that’s what it felt like when our skin met. His fingers folded over the back of my hand and mine did the same. My lungs stopped working, and so did my feet. Gatsby bumped into the backs of my legs and gave my bare knee a lick. I ignored him. I wanted to ignore everything but fingers and those sensations. To hold my breath and examine why there were fireworks detonated by his touch—why it had short circuited my brain, so that I was still saying, “Go, go, go,” while I wasn’t actually moving.
His thumb stroked the back of mine, and I wanted to purr. But instead I leaned into the tug he was giving me—and blinked back into the moment. Right. Party. Sister. Security. And I still didn’t know what role—if any—Fielding had played in all this.
He led us up onto the stage, around the paint puddle, and between several sets of curtains, each of which presented such a personal threat to Gatsby that he had to be cajoled to go through them. Then out a door I never would’ve found, which dumped us onto a dark path.
“Merri,” he whispered as the door shut behind us. “I need you to know that I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I had nothing to do with Ava’s text. Whatever her motives were—they weren’t mine.”
I wanted to believe him. To cling to his words like I was to his fingers. To bring his explanations into the light and examine them all. But first we needed to get through these dark woods. “We’ll talk about it later,” I said. “Now go.”
In front of me, Fielding led us off the sidewalk and through the woods. Beside me, Gatsby was snuffling and whining to explore. Behind me, Rory was complaining. Above me, trees menaced with grabby skeletal branches. Beneath me, roots vied to be the ones to trip us. Around us, the air had chilled, and all the animal sounds I loved during cross-country had disappeared, wrapping us in silence—except for the fact that I hadn’t stopped whispering “Go, go, go” under my breath as I clung to his hand and the leash and glanced back every couple of feet to make sure Rory was following.
When we stepped out of the woods and onto the main avenue, I exhaled. I could see Fielding’s car. Which meant we were almost free. I turned around one last time, one last trio of “gos” on my lips—and crashed into his back.
“Stop,” whispered Rory in a sigh of defeat as she bumped into me, jarring my hand from Fielding’s. Gatsby gave a weak woof of protest.
I pushed Rory off me so I could push off Fielding. Undoing our train-wreck collision and blowing a strand of hair out of my face, I looked up, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Wished hiding my face on Fielding’s back was an option.
“Misses Campbell, Fielding, I am so disappointed to see you here.”
The headmaster was backlit. The streetlamp pooled on his shoulders and bald head, but his eyes and mouth were obscured. Not that I needed to see his expression to know his disapproval; it dripped from his voice like mud and stung where it landed.
“Father, I can explain.”
“You told me you were at Tobias May’s house—not breaking and entering.”
“We weren’t,” I said. And if he thought my “we” applied to Rory . . . well, so much the better.
“Are you trying to convince me there’s not a party? Because I’m not an idiot, Miss Campbell. Campus security is breaking it up right now.”
“Oh, there was a party all right,” said Rory. “Monroe’s Rogue Romeo thing—but it was s
tupid, and she wasn’t even invited.”
Rory really needed to get a handle on times when sibling rivalry was and wasn’t appropriate, but at least for once, she might be helping, not hurting? Go, Lydia-instincts, go.
“If Monroe Stratford was throwing a party, you really want me to believe that you weren’t invited?” He pointed a long finger at me. “It’s a shame you didn’t heed those warnings about your behavior, Merrilee; this school had so much it could’ve offered you.”
My breath whistled out at his use of the past tense, and Gatsby’s leash slipped from my hand.
“She wasn’t,” insisted Fielding, snatching it up and tugging my dog to his side. “I was. Ava invited me.”
“Ava? As in daughter of the head of the school board?” His father’s voice went up in surprise. And I winced, remembering just how that invitation had been framed.
“Yes. Merri was walking her dog when I got Ava’s text. I dragged her along to pick up her sister. I mean, look at her—does she look like she’s dressed for public?” I grasped the collar of my bathrobe and pulled it a little tighter. I knew I was a tie-dyed fashion nightmare, but had he really had to use that much disdain in his voice? While everyone scrutinized me and I wanted to die a chenille-covered death, Fielding added, “Her socks don’t even match.”
I whirled at him, hands on my hips. “What is it with you and my socks?”
It wouldn’t have surprised me if Headmaster Williams assumed I was the type of person who thought bathrobes were appropriate party wear. From the way he looked at me, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he thought I was the type of person who ate hair from shower drains.
But my parents could vouch that I’d been home all night, which they did after they got over the shock of their doorbell ringing at midnight and finding both their daughters on the wrong side of it, along with the headmaster and his son.
I snuck glances at Fielding throughout the interrogation. He was sitting on the opposite side of our dining room table—as far from me as he could get. And he didn’t look back once. Not even when I was explaining how I ran into him on our street or ran from him at the school.
Whatever I’d thought I’d imagined between us must’ve been a jolt of adrenaline. Because all that was left now was the dull ache of those memories. I rubbed my hands together and waited while the adults sorted out our punishment.
“I have to ask, Headmaster Williams, is every student at the party going to merit a middle-of-the-night visit from you? Or have you singled out my daughters for any particular reason? Because while I appreciate you bringing them home, perhaps it’s best to delay talk of punishment till the morning or Monday, when cooler heads prevail.”
Headmaster Williams turned the color of Mom’s table-cloth—red. “The handbook is very clear on matters like this.”
That danged handbook . . . I wanted to gather up every copy and create a big bonfire. But I bet even if I did—even if I deleted every backed-up copy off every network—it’d still come back and haunt me like Sleeping Beauty’s spindle.
He paused, and I felt like it was supposed to be for dramatic effect, but really it just made me want to “accidentally” knock his cup of tea into his lap. “Expulsion. Underage drinking is an automatic expulsion.”
“I see,” said Mom, but she sounded way too calm. And while she wasn’t a lawyer, she was Lilly’s law school inspiration. This calm meant, get out a fork and put on a bib, because you’re about to eat your own words. “Rory, were you drinking?”
“Only water,” Rory answered. When Headmaster Williams blew out a breath, she continued. “Breathalyze me if you don’t believe me. Was anyone else drinking? I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly conducting a poll. I spent most of the party painting.”
“That’s another thing,” the headmaster argued. “Rory admitted to vandalizing school property by destroying the theater department’s sets for the fall play.”
“Destroying?” I snorted. “Oh, please. If Rory painted on them, then they’re a thousand times better than they were before.”
“Merri,” Dad said. “Not helpful.” But Rory looked over and mouthed “thanks,” so I was still calling it a win.
“They were still trespassing,” the headmaster insisted.
“They were,” Mom agreed. “But if you set a precedent for expulsion for anyone who attended that party—even as briefly as Merri—then you’ll also have to include your own son. And apparently the head of the school board’s daughter. Who knows how many other students were apprehended by the campus security, but judging from what I’ve seen in the photos Merri was texted, it looks like dozens. Can you afford to lose dozens of students, Headmaster Williams?”
He gritted his jaw with a stubbornness I’d recognized in his son, but when I looked at Fielding, he was all raised eyebrows and deep exhales. He put a hand on his father’s arm. “Dad.”
Headmaster Williams shook him off. “Fielding, stay out of this.”
“I can’t stay out of this. It involved me too. Whatever punishment you give Merri, I’ll need the same one, if not worse, since I’m the one who drove there.” Even when saying my name and defending me, he wouldn’t look my way. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it couldn’t be good. “Maybe Mrs. Campbell is right—this is a decision better left for when you’ve had time to talk to the discipline board.”
“Fine,” Headmaster Williams said, rising to his feet. “I’ll let you all get to bed. Enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you girls Monday morning in my office.”
37
If they gave awards for the longest, stressiest weekend, that one would have won gold, silver, and bronze. I was too anxious to sleep, to eat without gagging. Too stressed to read. I was a zombie at the store. I barely managed a “that’s great” for Christina and an ear scratch for Marcie when the Makrises stopped by for a Howl-ween costume and so Christina could tell me about her soccer tournament.
I’d never been so relieved for a Monday morning, because there was no punishment worse than suspense.
It was somber on campus, and very little was happening by way of instruction. How could it, since every few minutes students were being fetched from or returned to class? Some came back weeping. Others silent and serious. Some had clearly imagined worse and were floppy with relief.
I would’ve loved to have known what Fielding thought—what his weekend had been like. I’d checked my phone and email obsessively, waiting for his full explanation of Ava’s text. It hadn’t come. And he was avoiding me. No, maybe “shunning” me was a better word? Because we’d passed each other on campus three times, but he hadn’t looked my way or spoken to me once.
Maybe he blamed me for us getting caught. Maybe he remembered that he’d hated me and decided first impressions were the truest. Maybe my luckiest socks—purple with gummy bears, red with dragons—offended his sensibilities to such a degree that he couldn’t stand to look at me.
Maybe he hadn’t been innocent. Maybe he and Ava had had a nefarious plot to get rid of Rory and me. Maybe he was pissed it hadn’t worked.
Gah, I hoped not. But I didn’t know what else to believe.
The other person I didn’t see was Monroe. But Hannah had an answer for that: he’d been expelled. His locker was already cleaned out. Hannah had a surprising amount of knowledge for someone who hadn’t been at the party. So did Curtis. Lance looked bummed that he’d slept through the whole thing. Sera just looked embarrassed. Each time someone came back to class, she ducked in her seat—like she was afraid they’d blame her for her father’s lectures and punishments.
As for Eliza—she was predictably annoyed that I’d gotten myself involved. “Is there a reason you didn’t just call her? It’s not like you actually prevented Rory from being punished, so what good came from you trespassing too?”
“I did. She didn’t answer. And thank you for the pep talk.” I turned around at our bio lab bench to face Toby. “Your turn. Feeling lecture-y? Because I definitely haven’t had enough of those in the past f
orty-eight hours. Feel free to warm me up before I go for my sentencing with Headmaster Williams. I swear he’s saving me for last on purpose.”
Toby shook his head. “Stupid knee. I wish I could’ve come with you.” I laughed, because that was Toby to a T. He’d never cared about the punishment as long as he got to join me for the adventure. “I still can’t believe Fielding went. I don’t think he’s ever gotten in trouble. Not even for, like, talking in class or forgetting homework.”
“Great, and now he probably blames me for the big black mark on his record.” Though I refused to care if he did or didn’t. Not until I had answers.
“You didn’t force him.” Eliza shrugged, clearly considering the matter closed.
I hadn’t forced him, that was true. I also hadn’t listened when he wanted to tell me his why.
“My only regret is that Monroe got expelled before I could tell him off,” added Eliza.
“Oh, no worries there. Rory and I both took care of that. You would’ve been impressed.” But before I could elaborate or stage a reenactment, another office aide walked into the classroom. And this time, the name that was called out was mine.
I’m not sure why Headmaster Williams called for me when he clearly wasn’t ready. There were two people sitting in chairs outside his office when I arrived, one wild-eyed and the other thumping her head against the molding. A third stood near them, red-eyed and makeup smeared. The plus side of this backlog of people was the gossip. Everyone knew his punishment before he went in. The downside was that we still had to go in.
The partygoers got two weeks of Saturday detentions. While this wasn’t exactly what I’d call “fun,” at least they were together. At least they weren’t suspended or worse.
News of Monroe’s expulsion was a perspective check that made any other punishment seem lenient. Word of his sentence spread through the campus like a chattering rush of floodwater. It curled around our ankles in whispers and messenger bubbles. People splashed in the news—titillated, shocked, scandalized, outraged, smug. It made my stomach turn.
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