by Meg Cabot
Or maybe they just want to see the president’s expression when he takes a bite of the café’s (in) famous potatoes au gratin.
Tom sidles up to me, looking grim-faced. A second later, I notice why. Gillian Kilgore is following him, looking unnaturally perky.
“See, wasn’t this a good idea?” she asks, looking at everyone milling around the tray cart, trying to grab forks and knives. “This shows that you all have some real bonding in the workplace. Now the healing can begin.”
“Apparently nobody told her attendance is mandatory,” Tom whispers to me as he slips into line behind me.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper back. “This had to have been all her idea. You think the president came up with this one on his own?”
Tom glances over his shoulder back at Dr. Kilgore. She’s at the salad bar, checking out her lettuce options (iceberg and… iceberg). “Evil,” Tom says, with a shudder.
We’re joined, a second later, by a panting Sarah. “Thanks for telling me,” she says sarcastically to Tom, as she slides her empty tray next to his.
“Sarah,” Tom says, “this is just for full-time staff, not students.”
“Oh, right,” Sarah says. “Because we’re second-class citizens? We don’t get to share in the therapeutic benefits of bonding together over shared pain? Was that Kilgore’s idea? Excluding the student workers? God, that is so typical of a Freudian—”
“Shut up,” Tom says, “and eat.”
We find a table at what we consider a safe distance from the president’s and start to sit down, but President Allington catches us.
“Over here,” he says, waving to Tom. “Come sit over here by us, Scott.”
“Tom,” Tom corrects him nervously. “It’s, um, Tom Snelling, sir.”
“Right, right,” the president says, and beside him, Dr. Jessup—who clearly felt it important to show support for Dr. Allington’s plan and was attending both the dinner and game with the Fischer Hall staff—points out, “Tom’s the director of Fischer Hall, Phillip.”
But it’s futile. President Allington isn’t listening.
“And you’re Mary, right?” he says to me.
“Heather,” I say, wishing there was a hole nearby I could crawl into. “Remember me? From that time in the penthouse, when you used to live here in Fischer Hall?”
His eyes glaze over. President Allington doesn’t like being reminded of that day, nor does his wife, who rarely, if ever, comes into the city from their summer home in the Hamptons anymore because of it.
“Right, right,” President Allington says, as Dr. Kilgore joins us with her tray, apparently not noticing she is being followed by an angry-faced Sarah. “Well, I think we all know each other—”
“Excuse us, President Allington?”
Five cheerleaders are lined up in front of our table, all staring at the president.
“Uh,” he says, looking anxiously at Dr. Kilgore, as if for assistance. Then, remembering he’s supposed to have a reputation for being accessible to the students, Dr. Allington attempts a smile and says, “Hello, girls. What can I do for you?”
Beside the president, Coach Andrews heaves a sigh and lays down his fork.
“Look, girls,” he says to them slowly, clearly continuing a conversation that had started elsewhere, “we already discussed this. And the answer is—”
“We aren’t talking to you,” Cheryl Haebig says, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. Still, she holds her ground. “We’re talking to President Allington.”
The president glances from the girls to the coach and back again.
“What’s this all about, Steve?” he wants to know.
“They want to retire Lindsay’s cheerleading sweater,” Coach Andrews says, beneath his breath.
“They want to what?” President Allington looks confused.
“Let me handle this,” Coach Andrews says. To the girls in front of the table, he says, “Ladies, I feel as bad as all of you do about Lindsay. Really, I do. But the thing is, I think a formal memorial service, with input from Lindsay’s family—”
“Her family’s all here tonight,” Megan McGarretty—Room 1410—informs him tersely. For such a tiny thing, she looks pretty intimidating, with her arms folded across the big letter P on her chest, and one hip jutting out like a warning. “And they don’t want a memorial service. They’re expecting somebody to say something tonight at the game.”
“Oh.” President Allington’s eyes widen. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”
“You can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen,” Hailey Nichols—Room 1714—declares.
“Yeah,” Cheryl Haebig says, her luminous brown eyes swimming with tears. “’Cause we won’t let Lindsay be forgotten. She was as much a part of your team as any of the boys.”
“I believe we all recognize that,” Dr. Kilgore says, trying to come to the president’s rescue. “But—”
“If any of the boys on the team died,” Tiffany Parmenter—Megan’s roommate—interrupts, “you’d retire his number. You’d hang his jersey from the rafters, along with the championship banners.”
“Er.” Dr. Kilgore appears flummoxed by this. “That is certainly true, girls. But basketball players are athletes, and—”
“Are you saying cheerleaders aren’t athletes, Dr. Kilgore?” Sarah’s voice is icy.
“C-certainly not,” Dr. Kilgore stutters. “Only that—”
“So why can’t you retire Lindsay’s sweater?” Hailey wants to know, her blond ponytail swinging in emphasis of her words. “Why can’t you?”
I glance at Kimberly Watkins to see if she’s going to chime in, but she remains uncharacteristically silent. All five girls are in their cheerleading uniforms, white sweaters with gold letter P ’s on the fronts, and very short, pleated gold and white skirts. They have on flesh-colored hose beneath their skirts, and white footies with fuzzy gold balls on the back of them. Their white sneakers are by Reebok and their hair color almost unanimously by Sun-In. Except Kimberly’s, which is dark as midnight.
“Look.” Coach Andrews looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. “It’s not the jerseys themselves we retire when a player dies. It’s the player’s number. And Lindsay didn’t have a number. We can’t retire an article of clothing.”
“Why not?”
All eyes turn toward Manuel, who, from the table he’s sharing with his uncle and various other members of the custodial staff, blinks back.
“Why not?” he asks again, as his uncle Julio, beside him, looks mortified with embarrassment.
I glance around the table and happen to see Magda at the far end of it, watching the cheerleaders with a troubled gaze. I know what she’s thinking without even having to ask. Because I’m thinking the same thing.
“I agree with Manuel,” I hear myself say.
Of course, everyone turns to look at me. Which must be a relief to Manuel. But which causes me a certain amount of discomfort.
But I hold my ground.
“I think it could be a lovely gesture,” I say. “If done tastefully.”
“Oh, it will be,” Cheryl assures us. “We already asked if the band can play the school song real slow. And we all chipped in and bought a wreath made out of gold and white roses. And I’ve got Lindsay’s sweater, all nice and pressed.”
I notice that everyone—including Dr. Jessup, the head of Housing—is staring at me.
But what’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid basketball game. Who cares if they—what is it again? Oh, yeah—retire a girl’s sweater during it?
“I think it would be a touching tribute to a girl who had more Pansy spirit than just about anybody else in this school,” I say to President Allington, who is still looking confused.
“But”—he looks worried—“the game is going to be televised. Live. The entire tri-state area will see Lindsay Combs’s cheerleading sweater being retired.”
“We’ll be the laughingstock of college basketball,” Coach Andrews mutters
.
“And you’re not already,” I say, genuinely curious, “with a name like the Pansies?”
Coach Andrews looks sad. “True,” he says. I’m sure when he was applying for coaching positions, he never dreamed he’d end up at a Division III school with a flower for a mascot.
He sighs, looking heavenward, and says, “It’s all right with me if it’s all right with President Allington.”
The president looks startled—mostly because he’s just taken a big bite of potatoes au gratin, and, from his expression, it’s clear the bite included a big clump of flour.
After chugging half a glass of water, the president says, “Whatever. Do whatever you want.” He’s been beaten, by five cheerleaders and a lump of flour.
Cheryl Haebig immediately stops crying. “Rilly?” she asks brightly. “Rilly, Mr. President? You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
Then, as Cheryl and her friends scream—shrilly enough to cause Dr. Kilgore to put her hands over her ears reflexively—Coach Andrews, raising his voice to be heard above the ruckus, says, “They won’t broadcast the halftime show, anyway.”
President Allington looks relieved. “Well,” he says. And brings a forkful of turkey to his mouth. Then, relief turning quickly to disgust, he says, “Well,” in a different tone of voice.
And reaches hastily for his water glass again, signifying to all that this will probably be the last meal the president will choose to enjoy in the Fischer Hall cafeteria.
13
The “cad” in “decadence”
The “ow” in “follow through”
The “ass” in “embarrass”
Together these spell “YOU.”
“Rejection Song”
Written by Heather Wells
Okay, so I’ll admit it. I’ve never been to a basketball game before. Not a professional one (although Jordan used to beg me to accompany him to Knicks games all the time. Fortunately, I was usually able to come up with a good excuse… such as needing to wash my hair), not a high school game (I dropped out of high school after my first album took off), and certainly not a college game (I have generally been able to find other ways to occupy my time).
I can’t really say what I’d been expecting, except… not what greeted me as I came through the gymnasium doors, which was hundreds of fans—because Division III games evidently do not attract thousands of fans, even if they are being held in the busiest metropolis in the world—with their faces painted the colors of their team—or, in some cases, wearing basketballs split in half, with little slits cut out for eye holes, as masks—stomping their feet against the bleachers, impatient for the game to begin.
Magda, however, a hardened veteran of the sport—all three of her brothers played in high school—takes it all in stride, steering me, followed by Tom (“Don’t leave me alone”), Sarah (“Basketball is so sexist”), and Pete (“I told you. Don’t put your brother’s hamster in there”), toward some bare spots on the bleachers that aren’t too high up, because we don’t want to have to walk too far to get to the bathroom, according to Magda, and not too low, either, because we don’t want to be hit by any balls.
The rest of the representatives from Fischer Hall—including President Allington, who goes to a section reserved just for him, Drs. Kilgore and Jessup, and the trustees, looking relieved to finally be brushing off the residue from Death Dorm—stream into the bleachers, and, since the impulse is contagious, begin stomping their feet as well, until the steel rafters a hundred feet overhead seem to reverberate.
It’s only after the band starts the first few notes of “The Star Spangled Banner” that the crowd quiets down, then sings happily along with a pretty blond musical theater major who seems to give the tune her all. Probably she thinks there’s a representative from a major record label in the audience, who’s going to sign her then and there to a contract. Or maybe a Broadway producer who is going to come up to her when she’s done singing and be all, “You were brilliant! Won’t you star in the revival of South Pacific that I’m planning?”
Yeah. Good luck with that, honey.
Then, when the last echo of “brave… brave… brave… ” dies away, the band rips into the school song, and Cheryl and her sister cheerleaders appear, flipping and cartwheeling their way across the court. They really are very impressive. I’ve never seen such flexibility—outside of a Tania Trace video, I mean.
The cheerleaders are followed by the gangly-legged Pansies team, in their gold and white jerseys. I hardly recognize Jeff and Mark and the other residents of Fischer Hall. On the court, in their uniforms, they look less like hapless sophomores and juniors, and more like… well, athletes. I guess because that’s what they are, really. They high-five each of the New Jersey East Devils, in their red and gold jerseys, as they stream by. I’m impressed by this good sportsmanship, even though I know they’ve been told they have to do it. The television cameras swirl around Coach Andrews as he and several other men—assistant coaches, no doubt—walk to their seats on the sideline, and shake hands with the opposing team’s coach before something happens that Magda explains is called the tip-off.
Despite the subzero temperatures outside, it’s overly warm in the gym, what with all the people and their winter coats and the screaming and all. Tempers are short. Sarah, in particular, seems to feel the need to complain. She expresses strong opinions on multiple subjects, including but not limited to the fact that the money spent on athletics at New York College would be better spent helping to fund the psychology labs, and that the popcorn tastes stale. Beside her, Tom placidly sips from his flask, which he informs Sarah he needs for medicinal purposes.
“Yeah,” Sarah replies sarcastically. “Right.”
“I could use some of that medicine,” Pete observes, after finally hanging up his cell phone. The hamster crisis has been averted.
“Be my guest,” Tom says, and passes the flask to Pete. Pete takes a sip, makes a face, and passes it back.
“It tastes like toothpaste,” he rasps.
“I told you it’s medicinal,” Tom says happily, and swills some more.
Meanwhile, Sarah has started paying attention to the game.
“Now, why’d that kid get a foul?” she wants to know.
“Because that boy was charging,” Magda explains patiently. “When you have the ball, you can’t knock people out of the way if they’ve established defensive position—”
“Oh!” Sarah cries, seizing Magda’s wrist with enough force to cause her to slosh some of her soda. “Look! Coach Andrews is yelling at one of the umpires! Why’s he doing that?”
“Ref,” Magda mutters. She dabs at her white pants with a napkin. “They’re referees, not umpires.”
“Oh, what’s that man saying?” Sarah bounces up and down excitedly on the bleacher bench. “Why’s he look so mad?”
“I don’t know,” Magda says, flashing her a look of annoyance. Her endless patience isn’t so endless, it turns out. “How should I know? Would you stop that bouncing? You made me spill my soda.”
“Why is that boy getting a free throw? Why does he get to do that?”
“Because Coach Andrews called the ref a blind son of a—” Magda breaks off, her eyes getting wide. “Holy Mary, mother of God.”
“What?” Sarah frantically scans the court. “What, what is it? A steal?”
“No. Heather, is that Cooper?”
I feel my insides seize up at the sound of the word. “Cooper? It can’t be. What would he be doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Magda says. “But I could swear that’s him down there, with some older man… .”
At the words some older man, my heart grows cold. Because there’s only one older man Cooper could be with—with the exception of Detective Canavan, of course.
Then I spot them both, down by the Pansies bench. Cooper is scanning the crowd, obviously looking for me, while Dad is… well, Dad seems to be enjoying the game.
“Oh, my God,” I say, drop
ping my head to my knees.
“What?” Magda lays a hand on my back. “Honey, who is it?”
“My father,” I say to my knees.
“Your what?”
“My father.” I lift up my head.
It didn’t work. He’s still there. I’d been hoping, by closing my eyes, I’d make him disappear. No such luck, apparently.
“That’s your dad?” Pete is craning his neck to see. “The jailbird?”
“Your dad was in jail?” Tom wasn’t out of the closet back when I was a household name, and so knows nothing about my past life. He wasn’t even a secret Heather Wells fan back then, which is odd, because most of my most die hard supporters were gay boys. “What for?”
“Would you guys lean back?” Sarah complains irritably. “I can’t see the game.”
“I’ll be right back,” I say, because Cooper has finally spotted me in the crowd and is making his way determinedly toward me, my dad following, but slowly, his gaze on the game. The last thing I need is my friends witnessing what I’m sure is going to be a fairly unpleasant scene.
My heart pounding, I hurry to meet Cooper before he can join us in our room. His expression is inscrutable. But I can see that he’s taken the time to shave. So maybe the news isn’t all bad… .
“Heather,” he says coolly.
Well, okay. It’s pretty much all bad.
“Look who I found ringing our doorbell a little while ago,” he goes on. And although my heart thrills at his use of the word our, I know he doesn’t mean it in the domestic bliss kind of way I’d like to hear it. “When were you going to tell me your dad was in town?”
“Oh,” I say, glancing behind me to see if anyone from my gang is eavesdropping. Not surprisingly, they all are… with the exception of Sarah, who seems to have been hypnotized by the game.
“I was just waiting for the right moment,” I say, realizing even as the words are coming out of my mouth how lame they sound. “I mean… what I meant to say was… .”
