by Lauren Kate
"I'm sorry," I said, pressing my face into his chest. "My phone's been . . . acting up. I didn't--"
I stopped stammering when Mike put his hand on my shoulder.
"Nat," he said. It was then that I noticed he was trembling.
But Mike could bench-press more than anyone at school. He broke three state football records as a JV player. Not once, in all our years of watching horror movies, had I ever seen him flinch. If my life depended on it, I would have sworn that Mike King didn't know how to tremble. But now, his navy sweater quaked, and I left my head there, as if there were a way for me to absorb his panic. I lifted my head up and tried to smile up at his brown eyes. Then I took his broad, strong hands in mine and held them to my heart.
"Baby," I said, "look at me. Hold me. Listen to me. We don't even know if what happened was our fault."
Mike swallowed hard and shook his head. I held his chin in place between two fingers and whispered, "We have to hold it together, at least until we know more. I know there's a lot on our plates right now. Once we win Palmetto, we have to focus on the coronation speech. There's the student body to thank and--"
"Coronation? Are you kidding? That speech is the least of our worries," Mike said through clenched teeth. "Nat, I'm freaking out."
"The coronation speech is not the least of our worries," I huffed, as quietly as I could. "Don't you see? It's more important now than ever that we keep up the pretense that everything is okay."
Mike glanced around the hallway. "We shouldn't talk like this out here."
I watched him eye the janitor's closet behind us and saw the quick nod he did when he was making an impulse decision. He opened the door and pulled me inside.
But . . . we always went outside under the bleachers or to our secret waterfall above the Cove to talk. We didn't duck into dank janitorial closets with blinking red EXIT lights and empty garbage cans. Everything about this moment was wrong.
"What happened when I was in the car?" Mike asked, closing the door.
"Nothing--"
"Nat," he interrupted.
"I may have loosely tied him to the tree."
Mike pressed his forehead to the wall, away from me.
"Did you give him anything? Any drugs?"
"Of course not," I said. "What do you think I am?" I was starting to get defensive. "In fact, I took some pills off his hands. He should probably thank me that when the cops found him, he was clean."
Mike whipped around.
"What did you take?"
"I don't know," I shrugged. "Whatever was in his pocket. I just stuck it in your jacket. I was cold. I forgot about it. I mean, I have your jacket right he--"
Before I could even unzip my backpack all the way, Mike had grabbed his jacket from it and was rummaging through the pockets. When he yanked out the little orange bottle, he looked at me wide-eyed.
"What?" I asked--as if playing dumb might undo my mistake.
Mike crouched under the blinking red light to examine the label.
"Trileptal," he read slowly. "Indications: nerve-damage relief and seizure prevention. Take one pill every six hours." He squinted to read the fine print. "Seek medical attention upon missed dosage."
"I thought they were fun pills," I stammered. "I thought he'd never miss them."
Mike glared at me as he stuffed the suit jacket into his backpack. Then he thrust the pill bottle into my sweaty, shaky palm.
In a voice lower than I'd ever heard him use, he said, "Lose these."
CHAPTER Nine
THE FRUITLESS CROWN
"Nat, I swear, if you don't stay still, I'll never get this eyelash on, and then you'll be all lopsided."
How did I get here?
I was seated on a wicker pedestal facing the bulb-lit bridal vanity. The peach-toned ladies locker room of the Scot's Glen Golf and Country Club was full of my ladies-in-waiting from school. Amy Jane hovered to my right, waiting to glue the last in a box of twenty individual fake eyelashes to the outer corners of my eye. Jenny stood over me, her seven-gauge ceramic curling iron poised in the air. Behind us, the gaggle of underclassmen handmaids slung over giant floor pillows, buffing their nails and begging me with their liquid-lined eyes to be given a job to do.
This was what I'd been waiting for. But . . .
It was Wednesday afternoon, just before the coronation ceremony for Palmetto Prince and Princess. By Tuesday morning, even before the vote, the whole school had known it was going to be a landslide, but since they'd left J.B.'s name on the ballot in memoriam, they waited until after the official day of mourning to announce our win. Even then, it wasn't official until Principal Glass called us into his office yesterday to break the news with his killjoy bravado.
"Now just a quick acceptance speech from each of you tomorrow," he said, his eyes looking past us like he was following a script. "Remember, the Ball is still ten days away, so kindly hold the party reins in until then. Tomorrow's just a small, family-friendly affair."
He cracked open a can of Coke and split it between three Styrofoam cups as if to drive home his crusade against substance abuse.
"To the Prince and Princess," he said.
"Cheers," I said, raising my cup and keeping my eyes on Principal Glass so I wouldn't be able to tell if Mike's hand shook.
"There," Amy Jane now said, stepping back to view her masterpiece. She held a mirror up for me to see. "You're fairer than a flower."
"And deadlier than a snake."
I spun around. The mirror tumbled out of my hand and shattered on the floor.
"Who said that?" I hissed.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Darla Duke penitently got to her knees and clasped her hands.
"I didn't I just," she stammered. "It's just something my grandmother used to say: 'Look like a flower, act like a snake,' or something. It's supposed to be a good thing."
The words tumbled from her mouth. Lies. Lies. Lies. Useless shrugs and lies.
"It means you know how to get what you want," she kept blathering.
"Well, I don't have to tell you what my grandmother told me about broken mirrors," Jenny butted in crisply. "Someone clean this up."
I looked at Darla, keeping my voice low so it would stay even. "Yes, we don't want anyone getting hurt."
While Darla and three other Bambies jumped up to scoop up the shards of glass, Kate stood up and leaned in to me. We hadn't spoken since Monday when she clued me in about Baxter.
"You okay?" she asked. "You seem a little--"
"Just nervous," I said. "About the acceptance speech."
"Of course," she nodded--even though Kate had seen me destroy last year's finalists in Palmetto debate tournaments. Public speaking was one of my strongest suits. It had to be: As Palmetto Princess, I'd be the official voice behind the mic at every pep rally and award ceremony for the next year.
As I watched Kate empathetically brush my hair in the mirror, I realized she would know I wasn't nervous about the speech. She knew that I'd perfected my coronation speech as far back as this time last year, when Marc Wise and Sadie Hoagland took the crown. It was all memorized, from the pride-of-Charleston theme behind our campaign, right down to whom to thank and in what order. It wasn't the speech that was wigging me out--it was the nightmare I'd had about this carriage ride.
"Oh," Kate said, interrupting my thoughts. "Your mom swung by and brought this over." She unsheathed a bright orange-matte tube of lipstick that my mom had been trying to get me to wear since she first put full makeup on me for the fourth-grade piano recital. It was the kind of color Mom could usually only get her corpses to agree to wear. I shuddered.
"That's what I thought," Kate said, whipping out a much less terrifying shade of shimmery pink. She showed me the name on the bottom of the tube. "See that?" she pointed. It was called Princess.
But when she dotted the lipstick around my mouth and held out the tissue for me to blot, all I could think about was the lipstick I'd put on J.B.
I went utterly cold.
>
The lipstick. The bound wrists. The pill bottle.
"The carriage!" the Bambies exclaimed from the corner. All of them dashed to the window. "The carriage is here! It's outside!"
"Tell me you went with the vanilla-flavored massage oil I suggested," Amy Jane said, coming up behind me to add a few more sprays of Aqua Net to my updo.
But there was no massage oil in the montage I was trying to stop from running through my mind. There were just J.B.'s blue lips in the carriage and the icy chill I'd felt when he'd closed his eyes in my dream.
There's been a change of plans, he'd said.
I needed to get out to the real carriage to prove to myself it had only been a nightmare--or at least that part of it had only been a nightmare. I needed to get on top of Mike and take a break from my J.B. paranoia. But when I stood up, just when I needed to show strength, I teetered in my sling-back heels, then collapsed on the vanity chair.
"Jesus, Nat, you're white as a ghost. More rouge!" Amy Jane called over for reinforcements. "What is it, honey? Talk to us."
"I forgot to lose it," I mumbled, thinking about the pills still tucked inside the inner pocket of my backpack. "Mike told me to lose it and I didn't."
"What's she talking about?" Jenny whispered to Amy Jane. "I don't get it."
"Oh my God," Amy Jane said. "Were you and Mike going to play 'revirginized' in the carriage? You guys are kinky."
Before I could say anything to cover up my slip about the pills, my two ladies-in-waiting had helped me to my feet. Minutes later, they were guiding me out the door towards the carriage. I noticed Kate hung back.
"Listen, don't freak out," Jenny said, looking me in the eye. "You and Mike are the real deal. You don't need to break any school records out there. Just be yourself," she said.
Amy Jane slipped something into my hand. It was the same size and shape as the pill bottle, but when I looked down--
"I knew you'd forget the massage oil," she laughed. "I always carry extra."
I started walking slowly toward the carriage. It wasn't nearly as glitzy as the carriage in my dream, which was nothing less than an enormous relief. It was the same old wooden painted carriage that they'd been using for as long as there'd been Palmetto Princesses. The driver looked normal enough, too, faded jeans and a black blazer. But when he opened the door and held out a hand to help me up, his forehead was creased with worry lines.
"I'm sorry, miss, but I was told to let you know." He fidgeted with the buttons on his blazer. "He isn't coming."
What? I stuck my head inside the plush red-velvet carriage. It was empty.
I looked back at the girls' faces, huddled giddily in the window. I had no choice. I waved back like nothing was wrong.
"Just drive," I said to the coachman through gritted teeth.
It was a too-sunny day on the golf course, and I couldn't figure out how to get the blinds down inside the carriage. By the time we rounded the fourteenth hole, I'd bitten off all my fingernails and steam was coming out of my ears. In a dumb move that showed how out of it I was, I'd left my Juicy Fruit in my bag. I had nothing to help calm me down after being stood up by Mike. How could he? In front of the entire school and everyone's families? I was going to absolutely kill--
Someone was knocking on the carriage door. I shoved myself up against the window . . . and saw him. Mike was running alongside the carriage to keep up.
"Stop the coach!" I cried.
Before the horses had even slowed to a cantor, Mike swung open the door and climbed in. "I'm so sorry," he said, leaning over to kiss me.
I was still too furious and too stunned to move.
"I tried to call. I knew you'd be freaking out. I just . . . I needed some time to think about how to go through with this after . . ." He took my hands.
I waved a hand to cut him off. "Groveling later, mental preparation now. We have exactly three minutes to get in the royal mindset." I handed Mike a printout of the coronation speech. "Your paragraphs are in blue; mine are in pink, okay?"
"Um," Mike said. "Actually--"
"We're here!" I cried, looking out the window at the vine-coated trellis marking our entrance. Before we knew it, the coachman opened the door. He let out a low whistle as he helped me to the ground.
"I've been driving this rig to the coronation for a lot of years," he said quietly. "The stunt your guy pulled today, Princess, was a first. Don't let him off the hook too easy, okay?"
I looked at Mike. "Oh, I won't."
On the lawn, a yawning string quartet began to play but was soon overshadowed by the cheers of the crowd, calling out our names and waving loyally. Mike said nothing, just reached for my hand. We walked down the golden carpet to the stage.
The funny thing was, everything looked just like I had imagined, just like I'd planned out in my head all these years. There was my mother, in her tight Jessamine-print tube dress and high heels, tears in her eyes, hand in the Dick's. There were the Kings on the other side of the stage, smiling closed-mouth smiles and wearing expensive silk suits in corresponding muted shades. There were the last few years of Palmetto Court alumni flanking either side of the stage, including Phillip Jr. and Isabelle. There were all our friends, dressed to impress, eyes wide in expectation of hearing our speeches--and our carriage ride sexploits at the reception.
The only part of the vision that wasn't just as I imagined was us: the Prince and Princess of Palmetto. We were hand in hand, but I felt like Mike and I were worlds apart.
At the podium, he leaned in to kiss my cheek. His lips felt dry and rough. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the crowd's polite applause.
"Thank you all," Mike said when they'd died down. He cleared his throat and looked down at the speech I'd printed out for him. Then he slid it into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a napkin scribbled with notes. I reached forward to stop him, but he gripped my hand so tightly, I would have made a scene if I moved.
"You've all heard these acceptance speeches many times before," Mike began. "Some of you," he gestured behind us at the Courts of Palmetto's past, "have even given them yourselves. So you know the drill, and you also know how grateful and excited Natalie and I are to accept this honor." He scanned the crowd and squeezed my hand even tighter. "But today is about something else, and we would be wrong not to acknowledge the passing of a good friend and a great man."
Don't do this, Mike, don't do this.
"The man who should have been Prince," he said.
No he didn't.
"So in lieu of our acceptance speeches--"
No he wouldn't!
"Natalie and I would like to ask for a moment of silent prayer, and then we'll move right to the reception. We'll see you all tomorrow at the funeral."
I opened my mouth to respond, but when I looked at Mike, I knew: Everything we'd spent so long preparing for Palmetto Court was gone.
CHAPTER Ten
BLACK AND DEEP DESIRES
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
On Thursday afternoon, still nursing the wound of my usurped speech at the coronation, I stood shoulder to Mike's broad shoulder in the graveyard behind the church. We watched the pallbearers lower J.B.'s body into the ground.
"Whenever we are faced with such a tragic and unlucky loss," the rarely somber Minister Clover droned from his stat icky, clip-on microphone, "the community is, quite literally, seized with grief."
My head shot up at the choice of the word seize. The whole funeral had felt so dull and generic up until that point. Clover was notorious for his bad puns during sermons. Was he actually making a reference to J.B.'s medical condition?
Then I wondered: Did anyone besides Justin's immediate family--and now me and Mike--even know about his medical condition? I looked around at the downward-gazing, hands-clasped congregants but saw no glimmer of recognition in their faces. I thought back to Steph Merritt, honking her nose in the handkerchief and mentioning something about his pills--but it was obvious that she hadn't really known the truth. I
didn't get what it was about death that made all these people wail at the funeral of someone they'd never really known.
My eyes fell on J.B.'s older brother Tommy, whose arms encased his weeping mother. For a second, I thought it looked like he was glaring at the minister's word choice, but then it started to rain again, and a sea of black umbrellas popped up around the funeral. The musty smell of wet vinyl wafted over everything, and it was hard to see much more besides the giant white steeple rising up like a landmark in front of us.
In the bathroom before the funeral, I'd been smoothing out my ponytail when I came across three Bambies huddled together, crying. These were girls who only yesterday had been trembling with vicarious titillation as they watched me get escorted into the horse-drawn carriage.
I'd always known girls from the South could get a bad rap for being kind of saccharine, but Palmetto should have taken out a patent on its own brand of artificiality. These girls could change their attitudes more quickly than their clothes and never look worse for the wear. Everything depended on the venue and on whom they needed to impress.
I'd rolled my eyes at them in the bathroom, but it was mostly because even though I wanted to, somehow I couldn't bring myself to cry about J.B. In fact, I couldn't bring myself to do much these days. I couldn't answer that nagging text from my dad, still lurking in my mental inbox. I couldn't even relish my coronation--though I did have Mike to blame for that. But most disturbingly, for some reason, I still couldn't bring myself to get rid of that bottle of pills.
I wasn't going to swallow them. They were just an important reminder that I'd gotten us into this, and I would get us out.
But as I watched the black-suited men dump the black earth over the black coffin, piling it higher and higher to cover the big black hole, I started to feel claustrophobic, almost like I was inside that coffin with J.B. My umbrella hovered like a cage over my head. The itchy neckline of my dress constricted my throat so much that I could barely swallow. I leaned my head out from under the umbrella, but the drizzle and fog were hanging so low to the ground that it felt like even the sky was caving in on me. My chest heaved as I choked on the rain. I couldn't breathe.
Mike put his arm around my shoulder--more suffocation--and started to guide me back inside the church. It was over. I saw my mom waving from the doorway. I couldn't bear to listen to her ask me whether I thought J.B.'s coloring had looked natural at the open casket.
