The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You

by Lily Anderson

  There was no spark of interest there. I’d had more chemistry with the homicidal clown. Even mid-panic attack, I’d enjoyed the warmth of the masked boy’s arm, his mute sense of humor, the faint peppery smell of his jacket.

  Developing some kind of gender-swapped Cinderella scenario about a boy who could be anyone—a freakishly tall frosh or complete stranger or, worse, Jack Donnelly—was beyond the pale of pathetic. It reeked of deep-seated psychosis.

  The real point was that I couldn’t force myself to have the warm and fuzzies for Peter. And I got the impression that the feeling was mutual. His offer had been logical in that I was female and he was male. We were both singular and could, in fact, combine to a plural. It wasn’t romantic. It was an equation. From what I could tell about relationships and love and all that noise, it needed to be more than just mathematically reasonable.

  I dried my hair, aggressively rubbing a towel over my head and relishing the feeling of being clean from head to toe. I put on pajamas and flopped down on my bed, fingering the threadbare hem of the Flash Gordon T-shirt that had once belonged to my dad.

  Sherry curled up on the edge of my mattress while I made Calculus notes. The empty Plexiglas case where the ranking would be posted swam in front of my eyes, daring me to work harder.

  An hour or so into working through asymptotic and unbounded behavior of single variables—yes, I am aware how much that sounds like a metaphor for my life—my phone rang, startling both me and Sherry, who tried to sniff out the source of the whooshing TARDIS takeoff sound. With a yawn, I reached over to my nightstand and answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” said Harper. “It’s me.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that she couldn’t see me. Considering we’d been friends since kindergarten, I really didn’t need her to divulge her identity to me at the beginning of a phone call.

  “Harper?” I croaked, adopting a wizened tone. “Harper Leonard? Is that you? It’s been a dog’s age, old friend.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She laughed. “Can we meet at the park tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” I said, straining to push Sherry’s face away from mine as he attempted to lick my cheek. I tucked the phone under my chin and wrestled him into lying down.

  “Great,” Harper said. “I already texted Meg. Does ten thirty work for you?”

  I could picture her sitting in her immaculate bedroom, a pen hovering over her sacred day planner. The image was much more entertaining when I remembered that she was dressed as Supergirl.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have no plans tomorrow other than homework.”

  “Great,” she said again. “I’ll see you then. Please don’t forget to bring my backpack with—”

  I sat up straight and cut her off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s it? See you tomorrow and don’t forget your backpack?”

  “Hmm?” she said, undoubtedly distracted by writing in her planner. “Oh. Um. Did you have a good time tonight?”

  “Did I have a good time?” I repeated. “Harper, if you think I’m going to let you hang up without telling me what happened after you left the haunted house, you have sorely underestimated me.”

  “But I’m going to see you in twelve hours. I’ll have to repeat everything to Meg.”

  I shot Sherry a conspiratorial look that he did not have the cognitive functions to reciprocate.

  “Are you still out with Cornell?” I asked, carefully keeping absolutely anything resembling judgment out of my voice.

  “No,” she said quickly. “He dropped me off about half an hour ago.”

  “Then you can give me bullet points now and save the epic recitation for tomorrow.”

  “Well,” she said. “We danced. We split a candied apple. We talked.”

  “Just talked?” I asked, grinning madly.

  “He told me that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about me. For years, I guess.” She had started whispering. “He was afraid I was just being nice or something and that I didn’t, you know, feel the same way.”

  “What clued him in? The fact that you went all klutzy when he was around or the long lingering looks in the lunch line?”

  “Neither. He decided to try anyway.” She gave a breathy laugh. “So, now we’re together. Together-together. We’re going to the library on Sunday.”

  “Oh, nerd love,” I said, reaching over to scratch Sherry’s ears. “That’s really great, Harper. I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks, Trix. I can’t believe it, you know? It’s—”

  “Magical?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  We promised to see each other in the morning. I set my phone back down and shoved aside my Calculus textbook, laying my head on Sherry’s back. He idly licked my hand.

  It couldn’t be that difficult to track down the homicidal clown, I thought, staring at the posters on my wall. If I was going to be sitting with the student council at lunch now anyway, I could at least ask for the name of the boy who had escorted me through the haunted house. Maybe I could try to leech some of the magic of the harvest festival for myself after all.

  [7:43 PM]

  Me

  Dad is trying to convince us to change our last name to Cumberbatch.

  [7:47 PM]

  Harper

  Are you guys watching the BBC Sherlock again?

  [7:53 PM]

  Me

  Don’t judge us. The Cumberbatches are a proud people.

  9

  I strode through the cafeteria with my standard tray of salad and a can of cola. I started moving toward the table populated by the student council, but I saw Harper and Meg sitting in our usual spot and changed course.

  “Does this mean we aren’t relocating our meals?” I asked, setting my tray down and hopping onto the bench next to Meg. I had expected to see some sign of Harper and Cornell’s newfound coupledom in first period, but I’d only caught a glimpse of him squeezing her hand as he passed her desk. “Shouldn’t we be with the student council now that you’re all squishy with the VP?”

  “We’re sitting here today,” she said simply.

  “They’re treating us like divorced kids,” Meg announced. “One day at our table, one day at theirs. And alternating Fridays.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Harper’s cheeks went red and she shoved her glasses up with her knuckle. “It was the only thing that made sense,” she said to her plate. “I don’t want to listen to the student council plan activities every single day, but the boys do have to check in with them. Especially now that the winter ball is coming up.”

  “Did you get any groping done when you went out on Sunday or did you just sit down and make a timetable?” I asked. “Excel is not sexy.”

  Three trays landed on the table with discordant slaps. Cornell sat down next to Harper as Peter and Jack Donnelly collapsed farther down the bench.

  “I’ve always liked the clean lines of a spreadsheet,” Cornell laughed, draping his arm over Harper’s shoulders. She lifted her face to his and placed a painfully chaste kiss on his cheek.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  “Hello,” he whispered back.

  “I know,” Peter said to me and Meg, shaking his head. “They’re already disgusting together.”

  “And yet no one has answered my groping question.” I took a bite of salad, grinning at Harper as I chewed.

  “And I don’t intend to answer it,” she said.

  “I could,” Peter said.

  Cornell glared at him. “But you won’t.”

  “I’m on Team Let’s Not Talk About It,” Meg said.

  “Thank you.” Harper lifted her slice of pizza and took a dainty bite. Cornell leaned over and stole a pepperoni. They took a moment to giggle at each other, undoubtedly having some kind of love-born telepathic conversation about that one time he pulled that piece of meat out of her tresses in freshman year. I took another bite of my salad.

  “So, what do you guys do around here?” Jack asked,
wedging most of a slice of pizza into his mouth.

  “Do?” Meg asked.

  He bugged his eyes at her. A droplet of grease slid down the side of his chin. “Are you guys like a club or something? You’re always together.”

  “You’re always with Nick and Brad,” I said. “What do you guys do?”

  Other than murder small animals and try to build a Deathlok.

  “Obviously I’m not always with them,” he said, flapping his pizza at me. “Right now, I’m here with you people.”

  Peter ducked his head toward his brother, as though exposing his neck to us would make him invisible. “You wanted to come.”

  Something slammed into my elbow, nearly causing me to choke on my fork. I looked up in time to see Ben West snag the soda off my tray, his assault weapon of a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. His hair seemed even less tidy than usual, sticking out more on one side than the other.

  “What the hell, West?” I snarled, reaching my hand out as I awaited the return of my drink.

  He glanced down at the shining red can clenched in his hand and admired his reflection in it before he cracked the tab. He took a long drink, setting his mustache aquiver.

  “Ben,” Cornell said.

  But West ignored him, wiping the back of his hand carelessly over his mouth to clear the cola droplets from the tips of his mustache. He looked down at me, his mouth cocked into a satisfied smile.

  “Your debt is paid, Beatrice Watson,” he said.

  “My debt?” I gaped at him. “The only thing I owe you, West, is the fourth-place spot when the ranking comes out today. And possibly a razor so you can get that thing off your face.”

  “I’d love to stay and chat,” he said, looking over my head at the rest of the table. “But I hate to deprive the student council of my jackassery.”

  The words slammed into my chest, negating all the venom I had stored up. I forced myself to look straight into his eyes. They were dark brown and did not match the smile on his face. I examined him closely. He was taller than I’d ever really thought about, easily the same height as the Donnelly twins, just thinner.

  If you’ve given up your murderous tendencies on Monday, find me in the caf. I owe you a soda for your trouble.

  Of course Ben West was the clown. Of course I had latched myself onto his arm and blathered on about how much I hated him, not knowing that I was telling him personally. Dear God, I’d devoted precious brainpower to thinking about tracking him down.…

  I was suddenly in need of a shower and some lye to start the arduous process of trying to scrub away that particular memory. Maybe I could ask my mom to have one of her med school friends hook me up with a lobotomy.

  “What are you talking about?” Peter asked. “Go grab Trixie another soda and have a seat.”

  “No.” My lips felt numb. “It’s his soda.”

  For the first time, I saw genuine dislike in West’s eyes. Not just the usual annoyance that persisted between us, but dense and unbearable loathing. I turned back to my salad and my guts pitched.

  “And my two minutes are up,” he said. “See you all later.”

  He strode across the cafeteria toward the student council table, leaving behind a silence that seemed entirely aimed at me. Meg raised her hand patiently in the air.

  “Yes, Miss Royama?” I asked weakly, not looking up from the salad I no longer intended to eat.

  She lowered her hand to her lap and popped her lips. “What the eff?”

  Cornell sighed, resting his elbows on either side of his tray. “At the harvest festival when Harper and I left the haunted house, Trixie ripped into Ben. He’s, uh, not happy about it.”

  “Trixie,” Harper said with a groan.

  “It is not my fault,” I spat. “I was having a zombie-induced panic attack. It’s not like he told me that he was the one in that clown mask.”

  Meg shuddered beside me. “Ew. He was a clown?”

  “Not the point, Meg,” Harper said quietly. She glanced up at me. “What did you say to him?”

  “How should I know?” I lied.

  “You guys looked pretty comfortable from where I was sitting,” Jack said, stealing a napkin from Peter’s tray. He rubbed the grease from his chin. “Cuddling in the quarantine zone.”

  “There was absolutely no cuddling,” I shrieked. “Again, zombie-induced panic attack. I was trying to get through without passing out.”

  “You were in pretty bad shape when I found you,” Peter said. I wasn’t sure if he was lying to cover for me or if he was being accidentally insulting.

  Cornell winced. “You said something about him being an idiot savant who shouldn’t have friends.”

  “Adding ‘savant’ to that should have softened the blow.” Jack guffawed.

  I whirled on him. “I really don’t need your help, evil twin. What are you even doing here? We aren’t your friends.”

  That plucked his laughter out of the air. He and Peter wore matching hangdog looks for a moment, but Jack’s soured immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the ceiling. “I’m just—”

  “She’s deflecting,” Meg said. She put her hand next to my tray. “Did you really call Ben an idiot savant?”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, a fraction too loud. “It’s not like he hasn’t said equally horrible things to me. Last week, he told me that the only difference between me and Miss Havisham was that she’d at least had one dude interested in her. And I accepted that Dickensian insult without having to whine to everyone about it like a girl.”

  “Gender normative and antifeminist,” Harper muttered under her breath.

  I grabbed my bag and threw the strap over my shoulder. “Fine. Call him back over and enjoy the absolute pleasure that is his company. Since Jack is so concerned with our lack of activities, you can start a Benedict West fan club for all I care. I’m going to the library.”

  “Trixie,” Peter said. “You don’t have to—”

  I looked down at his big, imploring blue eyes. My throat tightened into a vise, making it almost impossible to shove the words out.

  “I told you. You don’t want to deal with me every day.”

  The cafeteria door slammed behind me. I was fully aware that I was being melodramatic, but a slithering guilt was creeping up the back of my polo. It was easier to be indignant rather than confront it. I’d honestly never thought I’d see the day when one of my insults to West actually cracked the surface. I didn’t want to be the bad guy because I’d won the battle of wits.

  And wasn’t I just as injured as he was? Why couldn’t he have taken off his stupid mask and said, Hey, Trix, it’s me, your archnemesis. Look at my stupid mustache. Don’t go home and wonder whether or not I’m boyfriend material.

  The vinaigrette in my stomach jumped up and scorched my esophagus as I trudged into the library, passing the librarian without bothering to look at her. I threw myself down at a table, drawing my Economics notes out of my bag. My own handwriting stared up at me, meaningless.

  Why had West bothered escorting me out of the haunted house? Wouldn’t it have been more amusing to sit back and watch me collapse in a heap of velvet and horns while the kid dressed as Freddy Krueger called for help? Or was it all part of some master plan to get information to use against me later? If that was the case, it had obviously backfired since he was in a blind rage.

  I squeezed my eyes closed. I refused to take full blame for this. If Harper, Cornell, Peter, Jack, and Meg knew everything that had happened, they wouldn’t have been able to guilt me about it.

  But I couldn’t march back into the cafeteria after my grand exit. And I didn’t particularly like the idea of announcing to the group that West and I had shared some kind of pleasant exchange before I started slandering him to his masked face. Saying it out loud would make it true.

  So, I stayed in the library and highlighted important pieces of information in my Econ notes until the bell rang.

  * * *

  I kept m
y head down during Calculus and Programming Languages, taking voracious notes and avoiding raising my hand, even when Mike Shepherd started ranting about dotted-pair notation in the Lisp system in the middle of a lecture about C++.

  The bell rang and I dutifully shut down my computer, packed my bag, and strode out of the computer lab, cringing as I recognized the hallway that had been the entrance to the haunted house. I shoved through the door, using my messenger bag as a shield against my classmates, and darted toward the main building. The halls were packed tight, hundreds of students all trying to make it to the administrative office.

  “What’s going on?” asked a frosh.

  “Your first ranking is out,” replied a passing junior.

  I clenched my hands into fists as people crowded around me, all of us trying to press near the case. The people standing directly in front of the ranking lists ran the gamut of emotions, some laughing, some mute with shock, one girl wailing in unabashed misery.

  The administrative office was hidden behind blinds. The office staff didn’t want to deal with us on a ranking day. I would have bet my savings that the door was locked.

  Something heavy grazed the toe of my shoe and I spotted the back of B. Calistero’s head, his arm trailing his rolling backpack behind him.

  “Hey, B,” I said.

  He turned and stared up at me in surprise. “Trixie! Hi.”

  “Are you ready for your first rank?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Not really. I didn’t even know about this until ten minutes ago.”

  It was cruel that none of the freshman teachers bothered warning the new kids about the ranking. I remembered my own first ranking, the horror of seeing the name of everyone in my class listed next to a number. Meg had cried and Harper had tried not to gloat about already being in the top five. I wished that I could comfort B and say that eventually you got used to everyone knowing how you were doing in your classes. But you didn’t.

  “You’ll be okay,” I said consolingly. “Your rank doesn’t really matter until sophomore year. That’s when you have to start recording it for your college applications. This is a test run.”