Front Page Face-Off

by Jo Whittemore

  “Unless I have to spend the whole time keeping him and Ben from pummeling each other,” I said, sniffing the air. “And Paige, I can smell you from here. What do you want?”

  Paige strolled around the corner, filing her nails. “Oh, were the two of you having a private conversation? I didn’t hear any of it.” She pointed the file at me. “But nice that there are two guys willing to fight over you! Have you been wearing the new blush?”

  “It’s not that kind of fighting,” I told her. “And again, I ask, what do you want?”

  She drew herself up a little taller and transitioned to Presidential Paige. “Two things. First, how are you coming on your pledge task?”

  “Aaaand I’m out.” Jenner smiled apologetically. “Beach on Sunday?”

  “I’ll give you every grisly detail about the social,” I assured her.

  Exasperated, Paige sighed loudly to remind me that I was sharing airspace with her.

  “Later.” Jenner winked at me and scurried away.

  I turned to Paige, feigning confusion. “Paige, when did you get here?”

  “Ha-ha. Progress report. Now.”

  “The pledge task is going fine,” I said. “I think something strange—something big—happened at Katie’s old school. I’m going to visit next Monday and ask questions—maybe see if I can bump into Katie’s old friends.”

  Paige allowed the corners of her mouth to slip into a smile. “Clever, but the teachers here are going to notice you’re missing.”

  “I have a free period after lunch, and Jenner said she’d cover for me if I was late to class after that.”

  “And how do you plan to get across town without a car?”

  I shrugged. “Same as I always do. I’ll take the bus.”

  “Um … ew.” Paige shuddered and winced. “You actually take … the bus?”

  “Ever since my chauffeur quit, I don’t have a choice.”

  “Funny.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Your plan is good. But I need more. I need proof that you’re onto something.”

  “You want proof?” Making sure the coast was clear, I walked to a locker across from mine and pulled out a piece of paper I’d folded into my pocket. “It’s amazing what you can find on the Internet, you know?”

  Paige took the paper and read the title. “Cracking combination locks.” She gasped and thrust the page back at me. “You’re breaking and entering … and I’m an accomplice!”

  “It’s not breaking and entering unless Katie lives in here.” I rapped on the metallic door, then pressed my ear to it and looked at the paper. “Besides, I’m not taking anything. I’m just browsing.”

  Paige cracked her gum, each snap emphasizing her disbelief. “Does Jennifer know you do this?”

  “Her name’s Jenner,” I said, “and if she knew all the things I do for investigative reporting, we probably wouldn’t be best friends.” I turned the locker dial and listened for a click. “She has a problem with things that are slightly illegal.”

  “So do I! Especially when ‘slightly illegal’ sends you to the same jail as ‘regular illegal.’” Paige smoothed her hair. “And I’m too pretty to wear orange.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We aren’t going to jail. The worst that would happen is we’d get detention, but I’d take all the heat for it, anyway, so don’t worry about it.” The locker finally rewarded me with a click, and I looked up at the dial. “Remember the number forty-two.”

  “Forty-two, forty-two, forty-two.” She paced back and forth. “The answer to life, the universe, and everything.”

  “Huh?” I spun the dial again and listened for a second click.

  She waved me away. “My dad has it on one of his geeky T-shirts. Forty-two, forty-two, forty-two.”

  Paige’s words shattered my concentration. “Your dad wears T-shirts and he’s a geek?” I’d assumed he spent his time on a yacht sipping champagne, not playing video games. “How did you turn out so different?”

  She glared at me. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m smart. I got a perfect score on the Seventeen personality test.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I mean geekdom is almost as genetic as freckles. I’m just surprised your dad doesn’t rub off on you.”

  Paige shrugged. “He probably doesn’t have enough time to rub off. I only get to see him once a month.”

  “Oh.” That hadn’t been the answer I expected. “Sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal.” She smirked, as if an apology were so out of fashion. “Can you imagine all the lame things he’d make me do if he were around? He’d probably take me to dorky movies and have me help him shop for better clothes.” She laughed, but it sounded halfhearted and fake.

  “Yeah.” I forced a laugh too and got back to work, searching for the next number in the combination and the end to the awkwardness.

  Paige leaned against the locker next to Katie’s. “He’s not in prison.” The snotty tone had returned to her voice. “I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I shook my head. “Prisoners can have visitors every week, so I never thought that. Remember the number fifteen.” It wasn’t the next number in the combination, but I could tell she needed a distraction.

  Paige started chanting. “Forty-two, fifteen. Forty-two, fifteen. Forty-two … fine!” She stopped and turned to me, sighing deeply. “If you’re going to make such a big deal of it, I’ll tell you.”

  For once, I actually wasn’t curious for dirt on someone’s private life. “Um … okay.”

  “My dad left us, and my mom had a better lawyer, so she got full custody. She promised nothing would change, but she’s so controlling.” Her nostrils flared with emotion. “The only time I get to see him is when I sneak out during her monthly garden club meeting.”

  I’d found the last number to Katie’s combination, but I didn’t open the locker. I wasn’t sure if it was worse to lose someone entirely, like I had, or to lose someone just enough to make it painful to see them again.

  “Why don’t you ask your mom to let you visit him?”

  She rolled her eyes and snapped her gum. “Didn’t you hear? I have absolutely no power over her.”

  This from the girl who controlled one of the most influential groups of students at Brighton. Or maybe that was why she controlled them … because the rest of her life wasn’t up to her.

  Paige frowned and pointed at the locker. “Have you figured this out or do we need to call a locksmith?”

  “Oh. Right.” I jerked on the lever and pulled the door open.

  Katie’s locker was surprisingly neat. The space had been sectioned off with colorful plastic shelves so that her textbooks rested on the bottom and her binders and personal effects lay across the middle. The top shelf, however, was a mystery.

  “What is that?” Paige prodded at a red metallic ball, the only thing occupying the space. It was the size and shape of a grapefruit and had a nozzle mounted on top.

  “Hair spray?” I suggested.

  Paige shook her head. “Katie’s hair doesn’t look crunchy enough.”

  “Perfume?”

  “In a container like that?” She sniffed at me. “It’s not like you’d know, anyway.”

  I ignored her and chewed on my lip. “This might sound weird, but it kind of looks like a fire extinguisher. I’ll search for it on the Internet when I get a chance.”

  I took my cell phone out and snapped a picture of the container, then moved on to the middle shelf, leafing through the contents. “Her date book! What—” I looked back at Paige just as she raised a glass bottle and squirted me with the contents, most of which found their way into my open mouth. “Ack!” I sputtered and gagged as the heady smell of perfume overwhelmed me. “You Chanel-ed me!”

  “You weren’t supposed to turn around,” said Paige, “and I would never waste Chanel. This is Pink Sugar. I use it on my gym sneakers.”

  “I’m not allowed to wear perfume … or drink it!” I smacked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, making a face.
<
br />   “Just tell your stepdad someone accidentally got you with it.” She took the date book from me and flipped to October. “Ha! She doesn’t have the Woodcliff Pumpkin Romp in here or any Halloween parties planned. But … she does have this whole week marked off.”

  Paige pointed at the first week of the month and frowned. Katie had drawn a line across the entire week, with the letters NFP written above it. “NFP … and on that Friday night there’s a banquet.” Paige gasped. “NF. Do you know what that is?”

  “Some sort of awareness group.” I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt.

  “No. Nouveau Fashion!” When I didn’t cheer and wave pom-poms, Paige gave me a pained look. “They’re one of the top designers on your fashion card. When was the last time you looked at it?”

  “When I used it to scrape gum off my shoe. Listen, Katie said NFP was an awareness thing.”

  “An awareness of fashion, maybe.” She tapped her fingernails on her chin. “It must be their premiere week.”

  “Neat.” I started fiddling around in Katie’s locker again.

  “Although why she got invited to the banquet and I

  didn’t … Delilah, now you really have to take her down. She’s stealing the exclusive invitations I should be getting.”

  “The nerve of that girl.” I studied the inside of Katie’s locker door. She definitely had an obsession with sea turtles. There were pictures of sea turtles swimming, pictures of her petting sea turtles, pictures of her in sea turtle T-shirts …

  “Paige!”

  “Hmm?” She continued to read the date book until I snatched it from her. “Hey!”

  “When I talked to Katie on the beach, she said she never wore T-shirts, but look!” I stabbed the locker door so hard, it swung back into the one behind it.

  “She’s wearing T-shirts.” Paige looked at the pictures, then at me. “You think that’s her big secret? That she bares her elbows in private?”

  I squeezed my fists into frustrated balls. “No! But why would she lie about that? And what’s with this thing?” I grabbed the red metal globe. “There’s something tying it all together, but …” I sighed. “I have to talk to her friends.”

  “Monday,” Paige agreed. “But before then you have the Debutante social … which brings me to my second question.” She closed Katie’s locker door and spun me to face her. “What are you wearing tomorrow night?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled, jotting myself a note about Katie’s old schoolmates. “I don’t own a single thing appropriate for a social. My options are a flower girl dress from when I was eight or a bath towel with sequins stapled to it. Take your pick.”

  For a moment, I was afraid she might take the bath towel option, just to punish me for making her life difficult, but she smiled and reached into her designer book bag.

  “I had a feeling you might say that, so I brought you this.” She withdrew a green bundle and let one end tumble from her fingers until it unfurled into a dress.

  “Wow.” I held up the dress to study it. “I didn’t think rich people did the whole hand-me-down thing.”

  “Please.” Paige laughed. “I got this for Christmas but never wore it, so I put it aside to give to the less fortunate.” She gestured grandly at me. “And here you are!”

  “Thanks.” I was starting to miss the emotionally fragile Paige already.

  “Anyway, green makes me look on the verge of ill, and even though you never dress to show your figure, I thought we might be about the same size.”

  The fabric was simple cotton, but the hem and waist were accented with silver beads. I had to admit it wasn’t that bad … until I saw the neckline. Instead of a zippered collar, it was two lengths of ribbon tied together.

  I was going to be a reporter in a halter top.

  Paige watched me the entire time, and when I didn’t squeal with girlish glee, she grunted in frustration. “You’re not oohing and aahing!”

  “I can’t wear something so revealing. My stepdad would kill me.”

  “Which is why you hide it under this.” She pulled a silver scarf out of the bag with a flourish and draped it around the dress. “Now what do you think?”

  It was better than a towel and might actually get an admiring glance from Ben, but I was baffled that Paige had put so much effort into making sure I looked good. I wanted to ask, but I just took the dress.

  “Thanks. I’ll find a way to pay you for this.”

  “Just come up with a better clique story than Ava does,” said Paige, “and don’t embarrass me tomorrow night.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Who is this guy again?” Major stopped the car in front of the

  Brighton Country

  Club and reached into his coat pocket.

  “Major”—I buried my face in my hands—“tell me you didn’t bring a miniature version of the banned boy book.”

  “Of course not. … The print would be too small. These are just the names of the most serious offenders.” He withdrew an index card and held it up.

  Marcus was at the very top of the list.

  “Gordon Elliott,” I said automatically. “I’m meeting a guy named Gordon Elliott. I doubt he’s on there.”

  I knew he wasn’t. Earlier I’d peeked at Major’s book and chosen the most harmless-looking guy in green marker, a seventh grader who snorkeled at the school pool during lunch hour.

  Major scanned the index card and nodded. “All right, then. But I want you to take this to be safe.” He handed me a tiny spray canister.

  “Uh … no. I’m not going to Mace any of my classmates.”

  “This is cinnamon extract. It stings just as much when sprayed in the eyes, but the effects don’t last as long.” He forced it into my palm. “Also, the smell triggers memory functions, so your date will remember not to attack you in the future.”

  “He’s not my date.” I dropped the cinnamon spray into the silver purse left over from my flower girl days. “I’m just showing up with him because I can’t go alone.”

  I looked out the car window and almost jumped when I saw Marcus standing by the entrance to the country club. I ducked my head so my hair hung over my face, but I quickly realized it was a terrible disguise since I was the only redhead pledging the Little Debbies. Still, I peeked at him through my dangling strands.

  Marcus had actually skipped his usual sports ensemble and worn a button-up shirt and tucked it into his jeans. If he’d bothered to brush his hair, which stood up in odd, spiky tufts, he could have passed for someone fairly gorgeous.

  “I should get going,” I told Major. “Gordon’s probably waiting inside.”

  Major peered around me. “He should have waited for you out here, like that young gentleman is doing for his date.” He pointed at Marcus, who chose that moment to glance in my direction. “You know, he looks vaguely familiar.”

  Up until that point, I’d never believed in mental telepathy, but I focused all my concentration on melding my mind with his.

  Don’t come over here, I thought. Do something gross so Major stops staring.

  Marcus missed the second half of my message, but he seemed to catch the first bit and turned away, gazing across the parking lot.

  “Gotta go,” I blurted at Major, fumbling for the door handle. “Pick me up at nine. Thanks!”

  I closed the car door behind me, and then Major pulled a parental maneuver straight from the How to Embarrass Your Teen manual. He rolled down the passenger-side window and called across the car, “He won’t be afraid to make a move, so don’t be afraid to spray him!”

  Luckily, nobody was close enough to hear this gem of wisdom but me. “Okay. Bye!” I smiled and waved until he pulled away from the curb. As soon as the car was out of sight, Marcus strolled over, smirking.

  “Spray him, huh? Did you pack a garden hose in there?” He nudged my purse. “And don’t worry. This is as close as I ever plan to get to you.”

  Even though Marcus was a known jerk, I couldn’t help feeling a little
offended. I’d checked my reflection just before leaving the house and thought I looked pretty. And I’d been nice enough to notice his improved appearance—I just hadn’t mentioned it out loud.

  I gave him my biggest, fakest smile. “You really know how to make a girl feel special. Thank you.”

  Marcus looked a trifle less smug. “I told you this wasn’t a date. … And it’s not like I said you looked bad or anything.”

  “Let’s just get this over …” I jerked the door open and stepped into the foyer but didn’t move any farther. “Yikes.”

  My parents had never been country club people, so my knowledge of that world was limited to what I saw on television. Usually everything was white wicker and windows, with sunlight bathing young tennis couples as they laughed and sipped iced tea, served by a cheerful waiter in a starched uniform.

  The Brighton Country Club was not like that.

  Everything was cold and dark. The walls were paneled in ebony wood, and the carpet was a deep wine color that spilled into two wings branching off the main room. Sconces lit the way, each just bright enough to reveal the next one down the hall. Massive leather chairs had replaced (or possibly eaten) the wicker furniture, along with the laughing tennis couple. The only person in sight was a thousand-year-old woman who was watching us with a critical eye and pointing down one of the hallways.

  “Jenner would love it here,” I said. “It’s like …”

  “A funeral home?” Marcus ran his fingers along the wood paneling. “Or a haunted house?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “A little of both. You ready?”

  Marcus tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “Listen. Earlier, I really didn’t say you looked bad.”

  “Yeah, but …” I wanted to argue that he hadn’t said I looked good, either, but I realized this was the closest he would ever come to paying me a compliment. “Thanks.” I returned to all business before things could get awkward. “Now are you ready?”

  He let out a deep breath. “Not really, but I don’t think she plans to leave until we do.” He nodded to the old woman, still standing with her arm outstretched. “Come on.”