by Meg Cabot
Which is the only explanation for why I blurted out what I did next. Which was, “The Quahogs are planning a blanket party for him.”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was desperately wishing them unsaid. What was wrong with me? I was ratting out my own boyfriend—well, one of them, anyway—to my town’s biggest gossip (well, besides my best friend and my other boyfriend).
Mr. Gatch’s fuzzy gray eyebrows instantly lurched upward. But not, as I assumed, because he sensed a lead and was trembling with excitement to write it.
“Are they, now?” he asked me mildly. “And just what do you expect me to do about it?”
“Well,” I said, flummoxed again. “I…I don’t know. I just thought you should know.”
Mr. Gatch’s hatred for the Quahogs (due to his dislike for all organized sports) was legendary. He was the one who’d spied Tommy’s story in the Eagle, and had gone ahead and checked on Jake Turner’s SAT score (which had, indeed, gone up by three hundred points from his previous attempt at the exam), and the scores of the other team members Tommy fingered (equally impressively—and incredibly—spiked), and blew the story townwide (and, ultimately, statewide).
Surely, hearing that the Quahogs were now planning something as dastardly as a blanket party, Mr. Gatch would leap to his favorite cub reporter’s defense…maybe write one of his scathing, bitter editorials, like the one that had outraged so many town officials, about how so many cats in town were suffering from hyperthyroidism, a direct result, Mr. Gatch believes, of impurities in Eastport’s drinking water supply.
But instead, Mr. Gatch said, “If there’s anyone who should know, it would be Tommy Sullivan, don’t you think, Katie?”
I stared at him, openmouthed. Warn Tommy? Was that what he was saying? That I ought to warn Tommy what Seth and his friends were planning?
But…what would be the point in that? Tommy Sullivan was back in town for one thing, and one thing only: revenge. To ruin the lives of everyone who contributed to the ruination of his, four years earlier.
In other words…mine.
Surely, it was in my best interest to let Seth and his friends do their worst.
Wasn’t it?
And yet…if it were, what was I doing in Mr. Gatch’s office, hoping my telling him what the Quahogs were up to would induce him to stop them, somehow?
There was only one explanation for it. And it wasn’t one I liked one little bit.
Swallowing hard, I said, “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Gatch.”
And then I turned around. And I got out of there as fast as I could.
Twelve
So. It had happened at last. Liam’s taunt, with which he’d been teasing me for years, was finally coming true.
I should have realized what was going on a long time ago. It all made perfect sense. The fact that I was going out with the hottest, most popular guy in school…yet making out, behind his back, with another guy.
The fact that I couldn’t bring myself to decide which of these guys I liked better, because the truth was, I didn’t like either of them all that much, except to make out with.
The fact that I had lied about it to both of them—and my best friend, and all of their friends, and my parents, and myself, too—so many times, I couldn’t even figure out anymore who I’d told what when about whom.
It had been there all the time, the plain, simple truth. Liam had been the only one ever to accuse me of it to my face:
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
It was true. I’m a liar. And I can’t stop thinking about boys.
I knew Mr. Gatch was right, and that I had to tell him. Tommy, I mean. Even though I was convinced he was up to no good—and the fact that I’d seen him in Mr. Gatch’s office just proved it. Whatever the two of them were cooking up together, you could bet that nothing good was going to come out of it. At least, nothing good for Katie Ellison.
And yet…could I really stand by and let that gorgeous face get bashed in?
No. I couldn’t.
Which I will admit makes me insufferably weak. But is that really such a surprise? That I’m weak, I mean? I make out with guys behind emergency generators. What else is someone going to call me? Besides a tease, which Sidney already told me I’m in danger of becoming if I don’t start putting out. As if I care.
I tried to stop myself, though. I took my time about changing clothes when I got home. I checked my e-mail. I flipped through the new Us Weekly. I played around with my makeup. I made and ate a tuna fish sandwich. I waited until the absolute last minute until I had to leave the house, or be late for work, then looked up the number to Tommy’s grandparents’ house and dialed it.
Tommy’s grandmother answered.
“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said in the chipperest voice I could manage. “It’s Katherine Ellison, Tommy’s old friend from school?”
There was a pause, during which, no doubt, Tommy’s grandmother thought about the way I had left her grandson out to dry after he’d done the right thing and stepped forward about what he knew concerning the Quahogs.
Then Mrs. Sullivan said, “Oh, Katie! Hello! How are you? I saw that lovely picture you took of Mrs. Hinkley at her great-granddaughter’s christening last spring. You are so talented!”
“Um,” I said. “Thanks, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m looking for Tommy. Is he there?”
“Oh, no, dear,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “I’m afraid he’s out and about.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. I told myself I was relieved. “Okay. Well, do you happen to have his cell number? He has a cell, right?”
“Oh, yes, he does,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “And he gave me the number…let me see. I know it’s here somewhere.”
I listened to Mrs. Sullivan rustle papers around, and then go, “Bud? Bud, do you know where I put the number to Tommy’s cellular phone?”
Then Tommy’s grandfather could be heard in the background going, “I told you to pin it up onto the bulletin board. Why don’t you ever pin things up to the bulletin board? That’s why I hung it there.”
I looked at the kitchen clock. If I didn’t leave for work NOW, I’d be late and Peggy would dock my pay.
“Um, Mrs. Sullivan?” I called into the phone. “Mrs. Sullivan, it’s okay.”
Mrs. Sullivan, after some more rustling, came back to the phone. “Oh, Katie, dear. I can’t seem to find the number.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said quickly. “If you could just tell Tommy I called, I’d really appreciate it. All right?”
“All right, dear,” Mrs. Sullivan said, still sounding distracted. “Where could I have put that number?”
I hung up because I had to jet. I nearly got run over, like, ten times along Post Road, I disobeyed so many traffic laws trying to get to work on time. I made it, but with only five minutes to spare.
I was locking my bike up when someone slipped his hands around my waist and whispered, “Hey there, cutie,” in my hair.
Is it any wonder I whipped around and slapped his hands away? I mean, I was feeling very tense. And I hadn’t been having the best day.
“Hey,” Eric said in an offended tone, looking hurt. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I exploded. “What’s wrong? You’re what’s wrong, that’s what. Why did you have to tell Seth and those guys that Tommy Sullivan is back in town?”
Eric blinked a few times behind the dark lenses of his Armanis. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” I glared at him. The sun was really bright…and hot. I was still panting from my bike ride, and a little sweaty. Which I guess would be one of the advantages of having a car. You wouldn’t need to worry about arriving places with pit stains. Still, I stood with my hands on my hips anyway. Because I didn’t care if Eric Fluteley saw my pit stains. Not anymore. “Exactly what I said. You were totally trying to stir up trouble.”
“I was not!” Eric cried.
“Oh, you so were,” I said. �
��What I want to know is why? What did Tommy Sullivan ever do to you, anyway?”
“Nothing,” Eric said, looking defensive. “God, what is wrong with you today?”
I stood there, squinting at him in the strong sunlight. What was wrong with me today? I didn’t even know. Except for the part about me being nuts.
But then again, I’m pretty sure I’ve always been nuts. It’s just that this whole thing with Tommy Sullivan finally pushed me to actually admit it to myself.
What was I doing? What was I doing with this guy in front of me who, yeah, okay, was hot and a talented actor and all.
But was it Eric Fluteley I liked? Or the guys he played on stage? I mean, when I kiss Eric, am I kissing Eric…or Bender? Or Jud?
And standing there in the hot sun, listening to the seagulls fight over a stray french fry on the boardwalk, I suddenly knew. It was Jud. Poor, lonely, lovestruck Jud. And Bender, who spilled paint on the garage floor. Not Eric Fluteley, with his headshots and his daddy’s BMW.
And the realization made me feel a little sick to my stomach.
“You know what, Eric?” I heard myself saying to him. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Eric continued to blink behind his dark sunglasses. “Can’t do what anymore?”
“This,” I said, pointing to him and then to myself. “Whatever this is. It’s wrong. And I’m not doing it anymore.”
Eric’s jaw dropped. “Wait…are you breaking up with me?”
“Well,” I said. “No. Since I technically never went out with you. But I’m not going to make out with you anymore.”
Eric whipped off his sunglasses and said, “Katie. You’re just dehydrated. I can see that you’re sweating. Go inside, have a nice cool drink, and I’ll meet you back out here during your break. Okay?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. Miraculously, I didn’t feel sick anymore. I actually felt kind of good. In fact, I felt like laughing. A little. “No, Eric, don’t bother. I won’t come out. It’s over. I mean it. I really like you—but just as a friend. Okay?”
Eric’s expression was incredulous. His ocean-blue eyes were filled with confusion.
“Wait,” he said. “Is this because I never took you to dinner, or something? Because you were the one who wouldn’t go out with me, remember? You kept saying you were afraid people would see us together, and Seth would find out—”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that, Eric. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s too complicated. And it’s not fair to you.”
“I don’t mind,” Eric insisted, grabbing for my waist again. But I sidestepped him.
“I do,” I said. I knew I needed to turn this around so it was about him and not me, because the only person Eric really cares about is himself, and so that’s the only person who actually interests him. So I said, “You need a real girlfriend, one who can devote herself just to you.” The way I should have been devoting myself just to Seth. “What about Morgan Castle? She really seems to like you. You two have so much in common, with the performance thing. And you guys look really good together.”
That seemed to bring Eric up short. He stopped trying to grab and kiss me—knowing as well as I did, no doubt, that the minute the kissing started, I’d be putty in his hands—and went, “Really? Do you think so?”
Ha. I knew it would work.
“Totally,” I said. “Only, you know. You have to treat her right. Because she’s a ballerina, and all. And they’re really sensitive. Kind of like actors.”
He seemed to like this. Well, being an actor, and all, he would. Like all actors, he was convinced he was something really special, and not just a guy who stands around saying a bunch of stuff someone else wrote, who has no original thoughts of his own.
Oops. Or maybe he does. Because a second later, he threw me a suspicious look, and went, “Wait a minute. What’s this really about, anyway, Katie? Does this have something to do with Tommy Sullivan?”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Tommy? No. Why would it have something to do with Tommy?” Did Eric know something I didn’t know? Like what Tommy was up to?
“I don’t know,” Eric said, still eyeing me suspiciously. “Because it seems like everything was going along fine between us until he came back to town.”
I wanted to burst out laughing. And not in a happy way, either. In a hysterical way. Because what Eric just said had to be the understatement of the year…that everything had seemed to be going along fine until Tommy Sullivan came back to town. Had truer words ever been spoken?
“This has nothing to do with Tommy,” I said.
Except that, as usual, I was lying.
But then, I lie all the time anyway. What difference did one more make?
“Well,” Eric said, looking uncertain. No girl had ever broken up with him before in his life. Obviously, he wasn’t sure how to act.
Fortunately for me, he chose to be magnanimous about it. I hadn’t been too worried he’d go the vindictive route and blab everything about the two of us to Seth. Because Eric values his looks too much and wouldn’t want to be the recipient of a blanket party himself.
“If you’re sure,” he said to me.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sure, all right. ’Bye, Eric. I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah.” He put his sunglasses back on. “I’ll see you at the Quahog Princess pageant. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I said with a nod. “Right. And, um. Thanks.”
It seemed kind of lame to thank a guy for spending so much time kissing behind a restaurant. But what else was I supposed to say? Quahog Princesses are, above all else, polite.
And Eric didn’t seem to mind. He smiled and waved good-bye. Then he sauntered back toward his dad’s BMW.
And I dashed inside the Gull ’n Gulp, punching in with only thirty seconds to spare.
“Cutting it close enough, Ellison?” Peggy wanted to know, when she saw me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Quahog Princess rehearsal ran a little late.” It’s amazing how smoothly lies trip off the tongue once you get used to telling them all the time.
“Right,” Peggy said sarcastically. “Put your hair up and get out there.”
I scooped my hair into a ponytail and went out into the dining room—where I was greeted by the dozen or so wait staff, line cooks, busboys, and Jill, the hostess, holding a cake shaped like a quahog that had GOOD LUCK TO OUR OWN QUAHOG PRINCESS written on it in yellow frosting.
They all—including Peggy, who’d come in behind me—yelled, “SURPRISE!” at the same time.
I was surprised, all right. Especially after the way Peggy had yelled at me. Which she later laughingly confided was just to throw me off the scent of what they’d been planning.
“Ha ha,” I’d laughed weakly. “It really worked.”
Still, it was nice of them. I mean, to be so supportive. Well, I guess they’re my sponsor, so they have to be.
And since there’s always a lull between four o’clock, when my evening shift begins, and five, when the first dinner customers start arriving, it was kind of fun to sit around eating cake and looking out at the water.
At least it was fun until Shaniqua, straddling the railing over the water beside me, went, “So what’s the deal with this Tommy Sullivan guy who came in yesterday? Is he really the one who ratted out the Quahogs all those years ago?”
Jill, who was straddling the railing on my other side, sucked frosting off a finger and said, “Yeah, and how can I get his number? Because that boy is fine.”
I felt a sudden, completely irrational urge to push Jill into the water. Which is weird because I really like Jill.
Instead of pushing Jill off the railing, I answered Shaniqua’s question. “Yes. Tommy’s really the one who ratted out the Quahogs all those years ago. He was covering a game for the middle school paper, the Eagle, and he went into the men’s locker room over at the high school to interview some of the players before the game, and overheard them bragging about having chea
ted off another kid when it turned out the proctor at the place where they were all taking the SATs was a huge Quahog fan, who let them get away with it.”
Shaniqua looked disgusted. “You mean if they hadn’t been bragging about it, they never would have gotten caught?”
“Probably not,” I said. “But, you know. They never thought some little kid from a middle school paper would rat them out. But Tommy included their quotes about the exam in his article, and Mr. Gatch, from over at the Gazette, read the article and checked the guys’ scores, and…well. Coach Hayes was forced to forfeit the state championship because he lost most of his team.”
Jill flipped around some of her long, shiny blond hair. “Wow. That is, like, tragic.”
“What’s tragic about it?” Shaniqua wanted to know. “Those guys cheated and got what was coming to them. So why was Tommy the one who got his name spray-painted across the outside wall of the gym?”
“Well, you know how this town is about the Quahogs,” I said with a shrug, hoping she wouldn’t notice how my cheeks had suddenly flamed up.
“Stupid jerks,” Shaniqua said, although the actual noun she used to describe the citizens of Eastport was more colorful than jerks. And not appropriate for a potential Quahog Princess to repeat.
And then we all had to get off the railing and come inside because a busload of German tourists had just pulled up. And by seven o’clock, we were full. Things didn’t slow down again until just before eleven, which is when we close on Thursday nights. I was so beat, I had to call Seth and tell him to not meet me after work.
And okay, the truth was that the thought of making out with Seth after work in his four by four in the parking lot held about as much appeal as the thought of kissing—I don’t know. A quahog, or something. The bivalve, I mean.
But I really was tired. It had been a long day. And I needed to get a good night’s sleep, on account of the pageant tomorrow night, and all. So it wasn’t just an excuse. At least, that’s what I told myself.
