Severed Heads, Broken Hearts

by Robyn Schneider

  “It’s this way,” Cassidy said. “I’ll show you.”

  She hustled me around the corner, and sure enough, the little letters next to the room numbers changed from “East” to “North.”

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.” Cassidy shrugged. “Actually, I’m glad you showed up. This coach I’ve never seen before randomly pulled me aside. She kept calling me Elizabeth and acting like my mom had cancer.”

  “Weird,” I said.

  “There must be some school that actually has Gryffindor uniforms.” Cassidy grinned, pulling at her sweater-vest. “Well, ‘West’ should be just around the corner. I have to head back.”

  “See you later, Elizabeth!” I called after her.

  “Hate you,” she yelled back.

  WHEN I GOT back to the table after my round, Toby, Austin, and Phoebe were already there. Phoebe had unearthed a box of Fruit Gushers, and she offered me a pack.

  “Thanks,” I said, tearing it open. “Haven’t had these since I was a kid.”

  “That’s the point,” Phoebe said, grinning. “They taste like childhood.”

  “So how’d it go?” Toby asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “I guess. It’s weird; I can’t tell if I won or lost.”

  “That happens sometimes.” Austin looked up from his game console. “Although I definitely lost. I matched with one of those assholes from Rancho—they wear National Forensics League pins in their lapels—anyway, it was a disaster.”

  “Sucks,” I offered.

  Austin shrugged and ate a handful of Fruit Gushers.

  “It’s okay,” he said, waving his game console. “I got like three street passes from walking there, plus a new unlock code, so Rancho can suck it.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes.

  “Austin believes that winning or losing in binary is meaningless when there’s a high score to beat.”

  “True that,” Austin said, saluting her with his stylus.

  “So Austin,” Toby asked, “do you beat your own high score every day?”

  It sounded so dirty that we all cracked up.

  “Are you asking if I’m a master debater, Ellicott?” Austin returned.

  By that point we were all nearly in hysterics. That was how Cassidy found us—cracking up so hard that it was actually taking an effort not to choke on our food.

  Luke and Sam drifted back from their round ten minutes later, since team debates always take slightly longer. By the time they reached the table, we were clustered around Austin’s iPad watching ridiculous YouTube videos and taking turns showing our favorites.

  The second round posted, and once again, Cassidy darted off to retrieve my room number. I guessed that she was trying to be helpful, but it was a little much. I didn’t have the heart to tell her, though. So I dutifully accepted my Post-it and trotted off to debate one of the Rancho guys, this scrawny freshman with a Blackberry clipped to his belt, as though he was already running a company. The enemy, I thought, realizing that I was starting to develop a sense of team loyalty.

  We wound up debating the merits of free market economics, which definitely wasn’t my strong suit, and I argued pro again. I thought I’d managed to present the argument okay, but the moment that freshman adjusted his belt, straightened his tie, and shot me a look like he expected me to suck it, I knew I was done for. He filleted me.

  It was so frustrating, knowing that, if we were on a tennis court, I could’ve killed him with my backhand, slicing it to land short and watching him run like hell. But this was debate, and my superpowers were nonexistent. I almost wished he’d debated Cassidy in her ridiculous Harry Potter costume, so she could’ve wiped the smirk off his muggle face.

  16

  “BEFORE I GIVE you kids the room keys, here are the rules,” Ms. Weng said, hell-bent on humiliating us in the bustling hotel lobby. “Rooms are single sex. If I find out otherwise, you’re off the team. You can eat dinner in the hotel restaurant or the shopping center across the street. If you go to the shopping center, you’re back here by eight. No leaving the hotel at night, and no smoking, I don’t care if you’re old enough to buy cigarettes. We’ll meet back here at seven forty-five tomorrow morning to check out. Any room charges are your responsibility. Everyone got it?”

  We muttered that we did, and she made us all take her phone number before she handed Toby the envelopes with our keys.

  “I’m in Room Two thirty-nine,” she called as we all headed toward the elevator. “If there’s an emergency.”

  Cassidy laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but one of those jerks from Rancho invited me to get shit faced in their room tonight. They said to come by Room Two thirty-seven.”

  The hilarity of what was going to happen hit us all full force.

  “Poor Ms. Weng,” Toby said sadly. “However will she read her salacious romance novel in the bathtub in peace with those hooligans playing Beer Pong in the next room?”

  “Dude,” I said, wincing. “Mental picture.”

  “Naw, seriously, that’s what she does,” Austin told me. “It’s why she agreed to coach debate. Weng lives with her parents, man. She’d advise the wrestling team if it came with a free hotel room once a month.”

  “She always asks at the front desk if the room has a tub,” Toby said. “The first one of us to laugh loses fifty points.”

  “What are the points for?” I finally asked.

  I thought it was a valid question, but apparently not, since everyone stared at me, horrified.

  “Oh, Ezra,” Cassidy said sadly, “now you’ve gone and lost all of yours.”

  “Is it possible to have negative points?” I asked as the elevator doors opened, depositing us on the fourth floor.

  “I’m not permitted to explain the rules of the game,” Toby said. “Nor to acknowledge whether or not we’re playing one. Come on, team. Move out!”

  We had two rooms next to each other. The guys trooped into one, and the girls headed into the other.

  “Um,” I said, surveying the two double beds and trying not to point out the obvious, that there were five of us.

  And then Luke opened a door that I’d initially taken for a closet, but which actually opened into the girls’ room.

  “Hi,” Phoebe said as she and Cassidy trooped through and joined us.

  That was when I realized: No one intended to keep single-sex sleeping arrangements.

  “Everyone ready to get dinner?” Toby asked.

  “We’re not going to change?” I looked down at my suit.

  “Nope,” Phoebe said, grinning. “Rite of passage. Team dinner in our team uniforms. And it’s your problem if you spill.”

  “She says that,” Luke confided, “but really, she’ll iron everyone’s shirts in the morning if we ask nicely.”

  “I will not!” Phoebe picked up a pillow and threw it at him.

  The shopping center across from the Hyatt wasn’t bad, although I felt self-conscious about the seven of us in our suits. Well, six of us in suits, and one in a Hogwarts uniform. We wound up at the Cheesecake Factory, which I thought was an odd choice, when there was a Denny’s and a Burger King. It wasn’t something we talked about, but I knew Toby never had much cash.

  “Who wants appetizers?” Toby asked cheerfully, cracking open the giant menu. He caught my expression and started laughing. “Dinner’s on Faulkner.”

  “That’s not funny,” I said. “Even tennis doesn’t pull that on the new guys.”

  “Relax.” Toby flashed a credit card. “It’s coming out of our team budget. Which, technically, you approved last April. Rather generously, I might add.”

  “Oh, right,” I said sheepishly. I had approved the next year’s Team Activities budgets. “Appetizers for everyone, then. You can thank me later.”

  “Actually, the new guy buys the booze,” Luke told me.

  Phoebe shook her head. “He’s kidding.”

  We ordered a cou
ple of appetizer platters, and everyone filled me in on the rivalry with Rancho.

  “Basically, they hate us,” Austin said. “They think we don’t take debate seriously.”

  “We don’t take debate seriously,” Sam drawled.

  “Yeah, but we used to,” Austin said. “We were like, sister teams, or whatever it’s called, during freshman year. Before your time.”

  Sam and Phoebe were both juniors, but I kept forgetting.

  “Debate sucked back then,” Luke said. “Coach Kaplan would surprise us and search the hotel rooms.”

  “It sucked,” Toby agreed. “Poor Kenneth Yang.”

  “What happened to Kenneth Yang?” Cassidy asked, taking a sip of her drink.

  Everyone sighed, and I got the impression that this was a story they’d all heard a million times. But Toby was determined to tell it again. He grinned.

  “So Coach Kaplan comes by at two in the morning to make sure we’re all in bed and not still awake, because Kenneth Yang made this huge show of bringing a Monopoly board with him. So Coach is all, ‘Open up! I can hear you little shits playing Monopoly in there,’ and no one opens the door, because there’s liquor everywhere. So he wakes up everyone sleeping in the adjoining room and bursts through, and there’s Kenneth Yang with three neckties around his head, doing sake bombs while ironing his pants.”

  We all crack up.

  “And Coach Kaplan is all, ‘What the fuck, Yang?’ Because Kenneth Yang was team captain back then, and one of the best policy debaters around. And Kenneth Yang looks at Coach with the three neckties still around his head, in his goddamn underpants, and says, ‘It’s not what you think. I got a chance card in Monopoly, Coach.’”

  Even Phoebe was choking on her soda at this point.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “A week’s suspension,” Toby said. “And he got banned from overnight competition for the rest of the year. Carly Tate took over as captain. And she’d hooked up with the Rancho captain the year before, so that was awkward.”

  “And that, Dragon Army,” Austin said, “is why Rancho is the enemy.”

  “And also why the enemy’s gate is down,” Luke added, earning a few eye rolls for reasons I didn’t understand.

  We ordered an entire chocolate cheesecake for dessert. It arrived at the table along with half of the Cheesecake Factory staff, who were clapping and singing some permutation of “Happy Birthday.”

  The cheesecake went down in front of Cassidy, a single candle poked into the blob of whipped cream in the center. She turned red when she realized what was happening, but took the joke well, blowing out the candle and claiming that she was going to keep it as a souvenir of our immaturity.

  IT TURNED OUT everyone’s suspiciously oversized duffel bags were full of party supplies. Specifically, gin and whiskey and wine—the fancy stuff my parents drank, not the cheap beer that went into Solo cups at high-school parties. There were speakers too, sleek expensive ones that plugged into Austin’s iPod, and tonic water with lime, and little wedges of gourmet cheese, and a baguette, which I found particularly hilarious as Phoebe pulled it out of her mini-suitcase. I didn’t know any sixteen-year-olds who bought baguettes as party supplies.

  Before I knew it, I was standing in the midst of a party. A bunch of people from some school called Wentworth showed up with a bottle of prosecco, which Cassidy whispered to me was poor man’s champagne. They went to a tiny K–12 school in Los Angeles and gave the impression of being older and jaded, even though some of them were just sophomores.

  Sam played bartender, rolling up his sleeves and filling plastic champagne flutes and glass cups from the bathroom. He seemed to know what he was doing, rattling off the names of cocktails and bemoaning the fact that we didn’t have a bottle of St. Germain, and that Luke had bought the wrong kind of vermouth. The Wentworth team—there were six of them—drifted onto the balcony, smoking and drinking near-champagne.

  Austin set up the speakers and docked his iPod. “Requests?” he called.

  “Make us feel young and tragic,” Cassidy said, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds. She was sipping something that looked like Sprite but probably wasn’t.

  The opening bars of some Beyonce disaster drifted through Austin’s speakers, and everyone groaned.

  “I’m joking!” he assured us, switching it to Bon Iver.

  Toby passed me a whiskey on the rocks, and I tasted it cautiously. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but there was good music playing, and a baguette on the ironing board, and Cassidy sitting cross-legged on the duvet in a schoolgirl outfit, so I tossed it back, because I was sick of being cautious.

  Sam refilled it instantly and I downed the second glass as an afterthought, not realizing what I had done until my head began to spin from the combination of pain medicine and liquor, a combination the little prescription labels had warned against. I sat down next to Cassidy, who was talking with a cute blonde girl from Wentworth.

  “But you’re here.” The girl frowned, and I got the impression that they were talking about Cassidy’s old school.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Cassidy smiled tightly. “I go to Eastwood now.”

  The girl laughed, skeptical.

  “I’m serious,” Cassidy insisted. “We have pep rallies and everything. It’s adorable.”

  “Yeah, adorable.” The girl glanced at me for a second, her lips twisting into a knowing smile.

  “Have you met my baby brother Cassius?” Cassidy asked, slinging her arm around my shoulder like we were actually related. “Hard to believe he’s only fourteen.”

  For a second the girl believed her.

  “I thought—” the girl began, frowning.

  “I was kidding,” Cassidy interrupted coldly. “God.”

  “I’m Ezra,” I said, offering a handshake since it seemed to go with the suit.

  “Blair,” the girl said with a toss of her hair. She glanced up at me through her eyelashes, and I realized that she was the kind of girl who enjoyed competing for a boy’s attention. “God, you’re charming. Come on, charming, let’s dance.”

  I couldn’t dance. Not before, and certainly not then, with two tumblers of whiskey warming my veins and a decided lack of balance.

  “Honestly, I can’t,” I protested as she pulled me up.

  And then the lights went off, plunging us into darkness.

  “Hey, I’m uncorkin’ a bottle of wine here,” Sam complained, his accent even thicker after a few drinks, like a parody of itself.

  “Shh!” someone said.

  The door to the adjoining room opened, and Toby stood there holding a candle.

  “All rise for the team captains,” someone said.

  Austin cut the music, and everyone stood.

  The candlelight flickered as Toby and the other team captain, this preppy-looking guy in his grandfather’s old Rolex who’d introduced himself as Peter, made their way to the two chairs in the corner. Peter was carrying a gavel (of course he had a gavel), which he banged against the padded armrest, I suppose for the ceremony of it.

  “A toast,” he cried, raising his drink. “To the virgins, to make much of time!”

  Everyone laughed and drank, whether or not the term applied to us personally, although I rather thought it applied to the vast majority, considering we were in a room filled with high-school debaters. I could feel Cassidy standing at my side, and when I glanced at her, a bit unsteady on my feet from the liquor, I sensed an unsteadiness inside of her, a different kind.

  Luke turned the lights back on, leaving them dimmed, and Sam shut the door to the balcony. And thus began the meeting.

  It was the most bizarre meeting I’d ever been to, like some sort of sarcastic secret society. Toby and Peter took turns choosing different members of their teams to debate each other on ridiculous subjects, like whether the president of the United States should be chosen by lottery ticket, or if the Pope could defeat a bear in a fistfight. We all voted on who had won each debate, and the loser had
to take a shot of gin.

  Essentially, the whole thing was one elaborate drinking game.

  To my surprise, I won my debate, on whether Truth or Dare was an effective alternative to a criminal trial. But my victory was short-lived, since they made me drink anyway, because I was new.

  Cassidy’s debate was after mine, and when she flounced to the front of the room to face off against Blair, everyone got quiet. For a moment, I thought Cassidy was going to refuse, or be terrible on purpose, but she didn’t do either of those things.

  Instead, she stood there calmly sipping her drink while Blair argued that vampires shouldn’t have voting rights and then she straightened her tie, grinning.

  “My admirable opponent argues that vampires do not deserve suffrage, as many great yet misinformed politicians have done before her while calling for the continued marginalization of women, or other minorities,” Cassidy began. “Yet vampires were, at some point, human. At what point can a man’s voting rights be revoked, if he is proven to be of rational mind? And who here would agree to such an egregious breach of liberty? No, the real threat to our electoral system is the werewolf! Can the werewolf cast a vote in wolf form, or only when he appears to be a man? And can we ensure that he is not merely casting the vote of his pack’s alpha wolf, rather than his own?”

  It was both hilarious and intelligent. And it was completely Cassidy. I wouldn’t want to follow that, and apparently neither did Blair, because, when it was time for her rebuttal, she shook her head and drank from the gin bottle, conceding defeat.

  Cassidy took a shot as well. She wobbled over to the bed and sat back down next to me, putting her head on my shoulder.

  “Werewolf suffrage?” I asked.

  “I’m tired,” Cassidy mumbled. “I don’t even remember what I was talking about.”

  Toby and Peter shook hands, calling the debate to an end, and Austin turned the music back up.

  Someone pulled the blankets off one of the beds and turned the balcony into a fort. Couples ducked in and out for snatches of privacy, and I wondered if Cassidy would suggest we go inside, but she didn’t.

  Austin broke the baguette in half and dueled Toby, sloppy drunk and laughing, until Phoebe crawled out of the blanket fort and yelled at them.