The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You

by Lily Anderson

“I’ve never considered how dirty that sounds.” Meg giggled. “Pinning.”

  “We don’t have pins,” Harper said.

  “Oh, we could find some pins.” I said. “If that’s what it takes to get this show on the road.”

  “Again,” Meg said with a snicker. “Dirty.”

  “Anyway,” Harper said loudly. She gestured to my heaping plate of greens. “What kept you?”

  “Oh, I had to stop Kenneth Pollack from braining some frosh. Nothing particularly interesting.” I paused and took a bite of salad. “Explain to me again why you didn’t go sit with Cornell when you got here? He bought you comics yesterday.”

  “Four comics.” Meg nodded. “That’s totally like a dowry’s worth of comics.”

  Harper pushed a pizza crust around her plate with her index finger, letting it slide through a smear of orange grease.

  “Because,” she said, “I’m not his girlfriend. And the student council is starting to plan the winter ball.”

  I caught a piece of spinach as it tried to escape my lips and shoved it back in. “The what?”

  Meg’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas who descended the stairs to find a unicorn sitting next to the tree. “You haven’t heard?”

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “I’ve had three pop quizzes today, so unless this winter ball is being thrown by Tolstoy or the struggling people of Yemen, no. I don’t know anything about it. Aren’t we still waiting for the harvest festival?”

  “Yes,” Harper said. She also seemed to be dangerously excited about this news but was holding it back better than Meg. “But you know how there’s a lull between the harvest festival and the spring fling?”

  “The lull known as finals?” I asked.

  “Right,” Meg said. She braced her hands on the table and leaned toward me. “They’re adding a third dance this year.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  In the name of us having a “normal” high school experience, the Mess allowed us to have the spring fling and the prom. The spring fling was more of a sock hop—no formal wear, lots of punch. Meg, Harper, and I usually went to it as it was more group dancing and less requiring of a date than the prom. We’d spent junior prom eating candy and having a movie marathon in my bedroom.

  “It’ll be more like prom than the spring fling,” Meg said, hurt by my lack of enthusiasm. “It’s formal, but it’ll be here on campus instead of at the fancy ballroom downtown.”

  “And there’s going to be a live band,” Harper added.

  “Do you think they know the Electric Slide?” I asked between bites.

  Harper and Meg exchanged an unamused glance. I could feel their combined excitement for this exercise in torture pounding against my temples. Or maybe that was a stress migraine.

  I allowed myself ten seconds of mental cursing and temper tantrum throwing before I said, “You’re going.”

  “Of course we are,” Meg said. “It’s an important school event. We went to basketball games.”

  “And stopped,” I said.

  “The tickets won’t be that expensive,” Harper said. “When Noni was telling me about it in Latin, she said that it wouldn’t be more than twenty-five apiece.”

  “Do you have any idea what I could do with the money I’d be wasting on a prom dress?” I asked, lowering my fork. “I could buy my Doctor Who figur—”

  “Trixie,” Meg interrupted. “This is our senior year. Wouldn’t it be nice to have one night where you got dressed up and—”

  “And?” I asked, turning on her swiftly. “What am I going to experience at some dance that I can’t feel right here in my uniform? I will go to the harvest festival because I like costumes and kettle corn, but there’s no way you two are going to talk me into going to a ball.”

  “Okay,” Harper said, cutting across Meg, who was primed to keep arguing. “Really. We won’t hassle you about it, Trix. It just seemed like it might be a nice thing for the three of us to do together.”

  But it wouldn’t have been the three of us. None of us had to say it, but we all knew. Harper would go with Cornell and be crowned the snow queen or whatever the winter ball award for prettiest couple was. Meg would undoubtedly find someone to go with her and have him running off to get punch whenever she got bored of talking to him. And I would sit at a table—probably the same table we were currently occupying—reading a book that was small enough to fit into a handbag. I could feel humiliation cropping up in my throat just thinking about it.

  “It’s not until the end of term,” Meg said. “And we still have the harvest festival next week.”

  I massaged my aching head and took another sip of cola in the hope that the caffeine would work some kind of magic and turn my day around.

  “I should have the costumes done by Sunday,” I said. “Do you want to come by and do a fitting? We could watch the Battlestar Galactica miniseries again.”

  The girls agreed. Meg asked for advice on an essay she needed to write on Jude the Obscure, complaining that she couldn’t even think about the title without starting to hum the Beatles. Harper sent sigh-laden glances over her shoulder at the table where Cornell pretended to not be doing the same thing. Equilibrium seemed to be restored.

  But I wasn’t dumb enough to expect it to last.

  [9:03 PM]

  Harper

  It’s going to be cold that night. Should I wear tights? It’s not a canonized part of the costume …

  [9:05 PM]

  Me

  Doesn’t Supergirl normally go around with her stomach showing?

  [9:06 PM]

  Harper

  I think Meg will be naked enough for all of us.

  [9:08 PM]

  Me

  Then you’ve answered your own question. Buy tights.

  [9:08 PM]

  Harper

  What about contacts?

  [9:09 PM]

  Me

  You hate them and they hurt your eyes.

  [9:10 PM]

  Harper

  But Kara Zor-El doesn’t wear glasses!

  [9:11 PM]

  Me

  Okay. Buy contacts. I’ll just cut the midriff off of your top real quick …

  [9:14 PM]

  Harper

  Fine. No contacts.

  6

  The week of the harvest festival, no one talked about anything else. During lunch, Harper, Meg, and I watched as Jack Donnelly begrudgingly climbed a ladder and strung fake cobwebs from the rafters. Mary-Anne France flounced around the quad, pinning up orange-and-black glittery signs that listed the price of admission, a herd of junior officers following behind her holding tape. Peter cheerfully greeted the lowerclassmen in the halls with his most presidential wave and fist bumps as he declared that the festival was the must-see event of the year.

  I had to admit that I was excited. In exchange for using my bedroom as a sweatshop, Meg had handcrafted my headpiece. It was sleek and black with massive curved horns attached to a hood that meant I wouldn’t have to worry about my hair. I’d strapped it onto my Iron Man pillow and propped it on my desk so that I could admire it while I was doing homework.

  Harper and Cornell provided hours of entertainment on campus by being the most awkward noncouple of all time. They continually checked in with each other to make sure they were still meeting up at the harvest festival. Cornell would pass our table in the cafeteria and say, “See you Friday?” And Harper would try to look composed and say, “Yeah?” as though they were not literally seeing one another in the present.

  “You don’t understand,” she groaned at me the day before the festival. “It’s weird.”

  “Oh no,” I said, giggling with Meg. “I understand that it’s weird. I am ensconced in the weird. Why don’t you go ask if he needs help putting up the decorations or something?”

  “I could use some help,” Ben West said, appearing next to our table with an armful of what appeared to be plain black trash bags. “My frosh disappeared.”

  “Move along
, Grizzly Adams,” I said without looking up.

  One of the bags slipped from between his arms and fell to the floor. Harper leaned over and handed it back to him.

  “Many thanks,” he said, tossing the bag back onto the stack.

  “You have your own frosh?” Meg asked, glancing around the caf as though she could spot a miniature West somewhere.

  His mustache gave a mocking twitch as he hoisted the bags higher in his arms. “All of the officers do. We have to show them the ropes.”

  “What is it you do on student council anyway?” I asked. “Just haul the trash bags?”

  He glared down at me. “I’m the treasurer.”

  “Really?” I turned to Meg and Harper. “Did we vote for him?”

  “I think so,” Meg said. “It was him or Mike Shepherd.”

  I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’m sure I voted for Mike. Who knows what kind of accounting failures West could be responsible for. By the time we graduate, our budget will look like Somalia’s.”

  West gave an unconcerned shrug and said, “Yo-ho-ho.”

  Before I had a chance to point out that references to Somali pirates were completely in poor taste, a small figure similarly dwarfed in trash bags streaked across the cafeteria to our table. I could barely make out the face hidden under the black polypropylene.

  “Sorry, Ben,” the frosh squeaked. “I dropped all of them outside and—”

  Lowering the bags away from his face, I could see the frosh’s stricken expression. It made him look remarkably like a Jack Russell terrier, which made it easier to recognize him.

  “B. Calistero.” I grinned. “You’ve survived another week at the Mess! Congratulations.”

  West looked around at us, his jaw set in such a way that I could tell he did not like that I knew his minion. Harper and Meg turned to me in surprise. I didn’t often befriend the freshmen. Or anyone.

  “Meg, Harper, this is the frosh I stopped Kenneth from maiming,” I said, gesturing to the pile of bags in front of the frosh’s face.

  “Nice to meet you, froshling,” piped Meg.

  “I’m Brandon,” said the tiny frosh. “Freshman class treasurer.”

  West tucked his chin back in horror, turning his body to stare down his helper. Brandon cowered slightly, taking one step of rearward retreat.

  “The hot girl who saved you was Trixie Watson?” West asked, his voice heavy with disgust. “They had to take her entry out of the last D&D Monster Manual. Illustrators kept dying trying to capture her essence.”

  I felt myself flush in embarrassment and tried to shove the feeling aside. It was just as flattering to be referred to as a hot girl as it was horrifying to have West discredit the statement.

  “Oh, suck it, West,” I said, too preoccupied to think of something more clever.

  “Wow, Trix.” He guffawed. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Suck it, you loquacious loser. Or would you prefer I think of something referring to the fact that your mother left you and started a new family on the other side of the country?”

  Ah. A hit. A palpable hit.

  It was Meg’s comment about the treasurer race that had brought back the memory of the end of junior year. The quad had been wallpapered in campaign posters. Mike Shepherd had stood directly in the center of the M mosaic, screaming. It was easy to forget that Mike was a big guy. He was normally so docile, a gentle giant. Like Fezzik in The Princess Bride, only blond and pimply. But he’d lost it in the middle of a hot summer lunch period and started tearing down West’s posters left and right. The rest of the role-playing club had tried to stop him, begging him to remember that he and West were friends.

  “He’s not my friend,” Mike raged. “He’s a loser. His own mother moved to the other side of the country to get away from him. She replaced him with a new baby. I can replace him, too.”

  Mike got a week’s worth of detention. West had won the sympathy vote.

  I wouldn’t normally use the information to my advantage, but I was feeling a little stab happy after the dig at my appearance. West had set the tone of this exchange. I’d just matched him.

  In stereo, Harper and Meg sucked in pained gasps. West’s back straightened and his arms braced painfully against his stack of trash bags. He jerked his head to Brandon and stormed off across the cafeteria.

  “Bye, B,” I called after the frosh. “Don’t forget to be awesome!”

  Brandon stumbled and stammered, “Bye, Trixie!” before scampering after West’s long strides.

  Harper watched them go, a small frown appearing in the corner of her mouth. She turned back to me. “Is that the first time you’ve spoken since the nerd duel?”

  “No,” I said.

  Admittedly, the nerd duel had become a kind of stalemate between us. For at least two days afterward, we had tacitly ignored each other altogether. But at some point he’d made a snide comment to me in the hall and I’d called him Benedick again.

  “Don’t look so tense about it,” I said to Harper. “I promise not to do anything to destroy the fragile construct that is your relationship with your not-boyfriend. Even if he does have poor taste in friends.”

  Harper’s mouth fell open. She struggled for a minute before managing to say, “I wasn’t worried about—”

  “Yes, you were,” Meg hummed.

  Harper’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, maybe I was a little worried. I just want tomorrow night to be—”

  “Magical?” I offered, failing at concealing a grin. “Would you like me to accidentally trap you in a supply closet?”

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “Please give up the supply closet idea,” Meg begged me. “It’s really never going to work.”

  “Fine,” I said with an exaggerated flip of my ponytail. “I’m just looking out for your future children, Cornell Jr., Cornelius, and Cornelia.”

  “Those are terrible names,” Harper said. “Juniors are the choke chain of the patriarchy. It invalidates motherhood. I would lean more toward…”

  She trailed off, her eyes going wide behind her glasses as Meg and I giggled. She clucked and flapped her hands at us, begging us to disregard all statements about any hypothetical children.

  [5:46 AM]

  Meg

  I have makeup, shoes, and my crown all packed and ready to go. What am I forgetting?

  [5:52 AM]

  Harper

  A sweater?

  [5:55 AM]

  Meg

  Nope. My ticket money. Oops. That would be embarrassing.

  [6:07 AM]

  Me

  I *shiver* to think. Ha ha ha.

  7

  From the outside, the Mess didn’t look much different than it had when the last bell had rung. It remained stately and undecorated, blocking out most of the sunset with its looming buildings and shadowy front gate. There were people in costumes everywhere, clustered together in tight groups. I was sure anyone driving past was wondering how the genius kids had managed to get the date of Halloween wrong by almost a month. Or maybe everyone was used to us being superweird all the time.

  Meg’s high heels sounded like coconut shells clattering together against the pavement. It was like being followed by a Monty Python sketch. She and Harper clung to one another as we passed through the gate and hit a long line. We stood behind two sophomore girls I didn’t recognize, both of them dressed in blatantly store-bought witch costumes.

  Meg was bouncing slightly in place, although whether it was from anticipation or the rapidly cooling evening air, I wasn’t entirely sure.

  “Stop it,” Harper hissed at her. “You’re freaking me out.”

  “Sorry,” Meg squeaked. “It’s just, you know, this is our last harvest festival.”

  “We still have seven and a half months of school left,” I said, taking a step as the line inched forward. “Don’t get all nostalgic about it yet.”

  Mary-Anne France was sitting behind the admission table. She wore a short
blond wig and a long pink satin dress. Her matching elbow-length gloves were holding possessively onto the sides of a gray metal cash box. There were freshmen on either side of her, tearing tickets.

  “Ten dollars,” she said to me with a bored sigh.

  I surrendered my cash.

  “How did you get roped into working the cash box?” I asked.

  She brushed her wig with the back of her hand, showing off a fake diamond bracelet. At least I hoped it was fake.

  “It was either this or get stuck for an hour in the haunted house,” she said, wrinkling the little painted mole over her lip. “And there is nothing scary about Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Unless you’re afraid of drug addicts,” I said archly.

  “And presidential conspiracy theories,” Harper added.

  “Or the smell of Chanel,” said Meg.

  As usual, all attempts to be clever bounced off Mary-Anne’s zit-free face. She grunted a vague “uh-huh” and gestured for the three of us to take a ticket from the nearest frosh.

  The entrance hall was decked out in fake spiderwebs and cardboard skeletons with hinged joints. Someone had taped a sheet of paper over the ranking’s case. In dripping red paint it read: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES. I laughed at it as we walked out into the quad.

  There were lanterns strewn in the branches of the trees, casting a hazy orange glow on the festival. There were booths set up everywhere, mostly run by lowerclassmen. Dr. Mendoza, the principal, was sitting in a wet suit at a dunk tank that had a line that wrapped around the library building. There was a booth devoted to painting tiny pumpkins where a dozen people were slopping glitter onto squash. A cheery red cart popped and sizzled with an abundance of kettle corn. There was a booth of massive beverage containers that poured steaming hot cider into paper cups.

  You could say a lot against the ridiculous tuition we paid to attend the Mess, but, sometimes, we used it for awesome things.

  “Oh look,” Meg squealed, pointing up ahead. “There are the boys.”

  I started to ask who “the boys” were, but glancing in the general direction of Meg’s finger, I saw Cornell and Peter sitting at a table near the haunted house. Cornell was wearing what had to be Peter’s old basketball uniform, with a hairy sweater underneath and a headband with pointy ears attached. Peter was decked out in a full Buzz Lightyear ensemble, his giant forehead jutting out from under a purple felt hood.