The Karma Club

by Jessica Brody

  Impatiently, I wait until they finally leave. Then I stand up, stretch my legs, because I have been sitting there for quite a while, and flush the toilet. I’m at least ten minutes late to my next class, but I hardly care. I take out my phone and text Jade and Angie, asking them if they think the jewelry store sells any charms in the shape of a big fat zit.

  DR. JEKYLL AND MR. COOPER

  Heather’s unsightly blemishes only get worse through the week. And people are starting to take notice. Because when the most popular girl in school, famous for her glistening amber hair and flawless skin, starts turning into a walking zit factory, it’s kind of hard to miss. On Wednesday, I even spot her wearing a baseball cap to cover up the breakouts on her forehead until a teacher makes her take it off because we’re not allowed to wear hats in school. Then, on Thursday, as she’s walking down the hallway, some guy yells out, “Hey, Heather, how about laying off the chocolate?”

  And although she hides it pretty well by making a disparaging remark back to him, I can tell that it crushes her. By Friday, she’s called in sick. And she continues to call in sick the following Monday and Tuesday.

  My friends and I take this as an obvious sign that we have reached yet another milestone in our campaign, and on Saturday we set off to decide on the most appropriate victory charm to add to our bracelets.

  The first thing Angie suggests is a mortar and pestle, and I have absolutely no idea what that even is. But apparently, it’s some official symbol for the pharmaceutical industry. It looks like an old-fashioned bowl or large cup (that’s the mortar part) with a rounded sticklike mixing device (the pestle). Then on the side of the bowl are the letters Rx. Angie says she’s forced to stare at the one hanging over the pharmacy section of Mr. Miller’s drugstore all day.

  I guess it makes sense after our night playing pharmacist in Heather’s bathroom. And surprisingly we are able to find a charm in the shape of this very symbol online. I guess there are a lot of pharmacists out there with charm bracelets. From the minute I clasp it on, I have a feeling it might draw attention, because it’s sort of a random thing for a teen to have on her bracelet.

  And this is exactly what happens the Tuesday after next, when I’m tutoring Spencer again, this time in the dining room of his house as opposed to the school library. “Why do you have a pharmacy symbol on your charm bracelet?” he asks.

  I decide to play dumb. “Huh?”

  Spencer reaches over and touches the dangling silver charm on my bracelet. “Isn’t that the symbol for a pharmacist?”

  I look down at what he’s touching, and for a second the only thing I can focus on is how close his fingertips are to the back side of my wrist. Which is ridiculous because I’m not interested in Spencer Cooper whatsoever, especially after what he did to Jenna last week. Not that I’m a big fan of Jenna or anything, but still, not a cool thing to do. And second of all . . . well, I’m just not interested in him period. So I really shouldn’t care if his skin is now mere millimeters away from mine.

  I subtly pull my wrist away and execute a very dramatic pen-reaching move to cover the fact that I just purposely avoided his touch. Then I say, “Oh, that? Um, yeah. I’m not sure why I have it.”

  Smooth. Real smooth, Madison.

  And then Spencer looks at me funny and says, “What do you mean you’re not sure? Didn’t you put it on there? Or were you attacked by the evil charm fairy?”

  Okay, I don’t really appreciate his sarcasm right now. Especially when I’m struggling to get myself out of this mess without doing any permanent damage.

  I reach back and scratch my head even though it doesn’t really itch, but for some reason this seems to be the thing people do when they’re trying to come up with believable stories on the fly. I’ll be the first to document in writing that it doesn’t work.

  “Yes,” I say, somewhat rudely. “Of course I put it there. I just don’t know what it means.”

  Spencer nods warily. He either thinks I’m lying or has decided I’m totally crazy. At this point, I’m not really sure which scenario I would prefer. I’m hoping that he’ll just drop the whole thing and forget about me and my stupid charms. In order to facilitate that outcome, I point down at the textbook in front of us and say, “So, is this whole pronoun replacement thing starting to make sense to you yet?”

  But of course, he doesn’t let it go. He doesn’t care about pronoun replacements or anything else in that textbook. All he cares about is solving the mystery of the unaccounted-for charm. Like he’s freaking Sherlock Holmes or something and figuring out the stories behind strange, out-of-place charms is his life’s passion.

  What a loser.

  “I’m just wondering because it seems like every time you tutor me, you have a new charm on your bracelet. Did someone give you the pharmacist charm?”

  I nod slowly and say, “Yes.” Because that seems like the right answer even though I’m not quite sure why.

  Spencer shoots me another strange look. “And the person who gave it to you didn’t tell you why?”

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and stare down at the page. “Uh-huh. That’s about the gist of it.”

  Spencer begins to tap his notebook rapidly with the tip of his pen. “Okay. That’s kind of weird, but whatever.”

  I nearly breathe a heavy sigh of relief when he turns his attention to the open textbook on the table. Except it doesn’t stay there. A few seconds later, he looks at me again. Oh my God, he’s not going to let this stupid thing go, I think. But instead he simply asks, “Do you want a soda?”

  Even though I don’t really want one, I say yes. Spencer gets up and heads to the kitchen. He returns a minute later carrying two cans of soda. I take one, pop the top, and sip it slowly. I’m not thirsty, but I don’t want to be rude. My dad always taught me that when you’re a guest in someone’s home you eat what they put on your plate and you drink what they offer you. Although I’m guessing that, when he said that, he wasn’t talking about those parent-free house parties where someone puts a beer in your hand the minute you walk through the door.

  For a brief moment, Spencer and I sip our sodas in silence. It’s kind of awkward, but honestly, I’m not sure why. I mean, I know I should just continue on with what I came here to do, help him with his French homework. But for some reason all I want to do is ask him about Jenna. Ask him why he would write something so terrible across her locker in red spray paint.

  I saw it for myself yesterday before the school janitors sandblasted it off, and let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. You really have to detest someone to write something like that for the whole world to see. And the more I sit there thinking about it, pretending to be all into my can of soda, the more I dislike him for it. It’s just kind of tacky and classless.

  “So, should we get back to it?” Spencer says after downing the last of his drink.

  I force myself to smile and set my soda off to the side. “Yep, let’s get cracking. Your parents are paying me by the hour.”

  He laughs, and I immediately regret saying it. I feel my face flush, and I look away. Did that sound dirty? I didn’t mean it to sound dirty. His parents really are paying me by the hour . . . to help him with his homework. But when I look back at Spencer again, I notice that he’s watching me. Like he’s expecting me to do something or say something very important. And not this-pronoun-replaces-this-noun type of important.

  I’m about to open my mouth to ask him why the heck he’s looking at me like that when he says, “I should probably tell you something before we continue.”

  My first thought is that he’s going to come clean. He’s going to tell me the whole story about what happened with Jenna and her locker and the spray paint. And it’s all going to make sense. And he’s going to be pardoned in my mind. Because for some reason, unbeknownst to me at this moment, I really need him to be.

  “What’s that?” I say, trying to act casual and unassuming.

  He clears his throat in the way that people do when they�
��re about to confess something. “When I came to the counseling office to sign up for tutoring,” he begins, “I kind of . . . um, requested you.”

  Huh?

  What does he mean he requested me? He didn’t even know me. Did he?

  “Why?” I ask.

  He shrugs and refuses to make eye contact with me. For the first time, I realize that he looks nervous. But why on earth would he feel nervous around me? I’m just plain old Maddy Kasparkova. The smart girl who got dumped at the Loft. Trust me, I’m not anyone to be nervous about.

  “I don’t know,” he replies. “When I saw you in the office that day—you know, when you confused me for Mr. Wilson?—I thought you were kind of cute, and . . . well, I know you’re not supposed to pick out tutors because they’re cute, but hey, it can’t hurt, right?”

  Cute? Spencer Cooper thinks I’m cute? As in little-girl cute? Like “Oh, look at her in her cute ballerina costume.” That kind of cute? Clearly, that’s what he means. Right?

  “I asked Mr. Wilson if you tutored French, and so here we are.”

  I’m not quite sure how to respond to this. It’s not every day that one of the most popular and good-looking guys in school tells you he handpicked you. Granted, it was out of a pool of academic dorks, but still. So I just go, “Okay.”

  Spencer looks even more uncomfortable than he did a few seconds ago. “I really don’t know why I felt like I had to tell you that. I just . . . did.”

  “Okay,” I say again, feeling incredibly stupid. But honestly, it’s the only word coming to my mind right now. How’s that for academic?

  Before I can think of anything more articulate to say, Spencer is suddenly kissing me. Yes, completely out of the blue like that. And it’s totally amazing. His lips feel like silk, and he tastes like soda and vanilla cupcakes. Obviously I know where the soda came from, but the vanilla cupcakes? Anyone’s guess at this point. Not that I care in the slightest.

  I’m feeling tingles in my toes that I honestly can’t remember if I ever felt while kissing Mason. But there’s also this looming sense of trepidation. And I can hear a voice deep inside of me screaming for it to stop. That this guy clearly isn’t who he makes himself out to be. That it’s an act. Spencer the beautiful, polite, amazing kisser is really Spencer the evil spray painter who writes awful things on your locker. Maybe it’s like a Jekyll and Hyde type of thing. Or maybe it’s triggered by a full moon. Well, that’s fine. I can simply kiss him like this and then, whenever the moon is full, I’ll just steer clear of him.

  The reasons for stopping this mind-blowing kiss dead in its tracks are flying at me like fastballs, but one by one I just keep knocking them out of the park. Finally, Spencer pulls away and we look at each other for a moment and I kind of expect him to say something like “Okay, so how about those French pronouns?” and act like nothing even happened, but instead he goes, “I guess we shouldn’t tell my parents that they’re paying for that.”

  I break into a fit of nervous laughter. “Yeah, probably not.”

  “Although, I most definitely would pay for that.”

  I beam because I know it’s a compliment and not a suggestion that I should be hanging out on Hollywood Boulevard after midnight waiting for Richard Gere to show up in his borrowed Lotus.

  It’s completely unethical for me to be making out with a student while I’m on the clock, but I just can’t help myself. We try to focus on French, we really do, but after about five minutes of playing that game where you look at someone until they look up and then you look away and then it happens all over again in reverse, we just end up kissing again. This time with a bit more intensity as he reaches around behind my head and pulls me into him, which totally makes me melt.

  We continue to kiss for what feels like hours until I hear the front door open and Spencer’s mother walks into the house pulling a rollaway suitcase behind her. And that’s when we quickly break away and do our very best impressions of two people studying at the dining room table.

  “I’m back from Geneva!” his mother announces brightly.

  Spencer pretends to be very engrossed in the book in front of him, and without looking up he says, “Hi, Mom.”

  “You must be Spencer’s tutor,” she says, pulling a scarf from around her neck and hanging it on a coat rack next to the door.

  I press my swollen lips together tightly and nod. “Yes, I’m Maddy. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cooper.”

  Then with a clickity-clack of her heels on the hardwood floor, she walks into the dining room, ruffles up Spencer’s hair with an affectionate head rub, and flashes me a hurried but genuine smile. “So,” she says, pausing just long enough to tap her manicured nails against the top of the high-backed chair that Spencer is sitting in, “how’s the French homework coming along?”

  I fight with everything that I am to keep from cracking up, because if she only knew exactly what kind of French we were studying, I doubt I would be kept around much longer as a hired employee of the Cooper family.

  SECRET LOVE AFFAIR

  I decide not to tell Jade and Angie about my make-out session with Spencer. I normally tell them everything, but for some reason, I don’t want to tell them about this. Maybe it’s because I’ll feel like I have to justify making out with someone who writes nasty things on the lockers of his ex-girlfriends. Or maybe it’s because when we started the Karma Club, the three of us agreed to swear off all men until graduation.

  I think I was even the one to say something along the lines of how all high school boys are heartbreakers and not worth our time. Honestly, I’m kind of regretting that passionate speech right about now.

  It’s not like I left Spencer’s house thinking that we were an item or anything. I don’t want to get into something serious right now. In fact, I explicitly told Spencer before I left that I didn’t want anyone to know about this and he said he was fine with that. Of course this automatically made me worry. Was he fine with it because he’s embarrassed he kissed me? Or because he too doesn’t want to get into anything serious and just wants to keep me around as a fun hookup buddy/paid-by-the-hour French tutor?

  The next morning, I’m in the kitchen with my little sister, Emily, finishing off a bowl of cereal. Emily is scribbling in a notebook and rambling on about her new science fair project, but I’m hardly listening. My mind is preoccupied trying to figure out how I’m going to make it through this entire day without accidentally spilling everything about my afternoon with Spencer Cooper.

  “My hypothesis is that the plants that I expose to classical music will grow better than the ones I expose to heavy metal,” Emily is saying.

  I gnaw on a spoonful of cereal and make a “hmm” noise to imply that I’m interested in what she’s saying. But I’m really only interested in reliving in my head all the amazing things Spencer can do with his tongue.

  “Or maybe I should try hip-hop too,” she muses as she sticks the tip of her pencil in her mouth. “What do you think?”

  I’m about to give her a halfhearted “Yeah, good idea,” when my mom walks into the kitchen looking like she’s just seen a ghost. Her eyes are glazed over, and I’m seriously wondering if maybe she’s gone into shock or something. She’s holding a section from the newspaper and staring absently at it. When she reaches the kitchen table, she drops it in front of us.

  “Mom, do you think I should add hip-hop to my experiment?” Emily asks, clearly oblivious to our mother’s catatonic state.

  “Mom?” I ask. “Are you all right?” But then my eyes catch a glimpse of the paper, and suddenly I understand what this is about.

  I desperately grab hold of the paper and bring it closer to my face to get a better look. “Oh my God,” I say, stunned.

  Emily drops her pencil and attempts to peer over my shoulder. “What? What is it?” Then she sees what I see. And her surprise is just as transparent. “Is that Mason?”

  But I don’t even respond. I’m too busy scouring the page with my eyes. Once again, Mason Brooks’s picture is s
taring back at me from the pages of a familiar publication. This time, however, it’s not some girlie teen magazine; it’s the Pine Valley Tribune. And this time, the headline says nothing about him being the world’s best boyfriend.

  LOCAL TEEN IMPLICATED IN SAT CHEATING SCANDAL

  I read the article top to bottom, my eyes practically devouring the words. “Acceptance rescinded,” “SAT scores revoked,” “Amherst College admissions office disappointed.” And yet, when I reach the end, I’m still hungry for more.

  “He cheated on the SATs?” my sister cries in disbelief.

  My mom is standing there, studying me. She’s waiting for a reaction. And laughing out loud like a sadistic psych-ward patient is probably not the one she’s expecting. So I have to fake it.

  I gasp in shock and look up at her. “Is this for real?”

  She nods and takes a seat next to me. “You didn’t know anything about it? It happened while you two were dating.”

  I shake my head. “No. I had no idea. I mean, I know he got a really high score, but I just thought he studied a lot.”

  “How did he do it?” Emily asks.

  I flash her a calm, patient glance, even though my stomach is bubbling up with excitement. “The article says he hired someone to take the test for him.”

  Emily’s eyes widen. “Whoa. That’s really bad.”

  “I can’t believe it,” my mom muses. “Mason, of all people. He just doesn’t seem the type to be so dishonest.”

  I want to scoff at this and say something like “Oh you’d be surprised,” but I hold my tongue.

  “The school says it was an anonymous tip-off,” my mom remarks. “I wonder if the guy who took the test for him got a guilty conscience.”

  I nod, realizing that this is a very good explanation, and I think I’ll stick with it from here on out should anyone else question me.

  When I get to school later that morning, the hallways are buzzing with the news. It’s kind of like déjà vu. It was less than two months ago that I walked through these hallways and listened to people whisper about Mason’s face in Contempo Girl magazine. And today they’re talking about him again. Except for a very different reason. And in my opinion, it’s a much more deserved kind of attention.