by Meg Cabot
"Why'd you ever join that stupid choir in the first place?" Scott asked me in the car on our way home from that day's Register meeting. I hadn't been too surprised when he'd offered me another ride.
Scared. But not surprised.
But I wasn't scared for the reasons you might think. I mean, it wasn't like I thought Scott was going to make any huge declaration of love for me in his Audi or anything. What had happened at lunch that day had been great in one way but not so great in another. And the not so great way was Scott's standing up for me—or, really, Cara—like that.
It meant he really and truly did consider me his friend.
And the problem with Scott considering me his friend?
He probably didn't consider me much more than that.
I mean, think about it. I consider Luke my friend. In no way would I ever want to date him. Luke, I mean.
So Scott thinking of me as a friend? Not such a good thing.
Because I was sort of getting the feeling—from the losing my appetite at lunch thing and the sweaty palms I'd experienced in his car the day before—that maybe I kind of liked him as more than just a friend.
I blamed Trina for this, just like I blamed her for the whole Troubadours thing. Because if she hadn't put the idea in my head all those months ago, it might never have occurred to me, now that Scott and Geri Lynn had broken up and he was available, that I might . . . that he might . . . that we might . . .
Oh, God. Just forget it. Because it wasn't going to happen. So why bother thinking about it? Because even if I were starting to think of him as more than just a friend, he obviously still thought of me as nice little Jenny Greenley, Ask Annie, everybody's best friend.
Which is fine. It's good, actually. It means it's okay for me to accept rides home from school with him. So that's nice.
So what was I feeling scared about as I rode home with him?
What I knew was going to happen next.
"Hey, listen," I said, as the sign for Sycamore Hills, the street where Kurt Schraeder lived—at least according to the phone book, which listed only one Schraeder residence, Kurt Schraeder, Sr. "Can we make a little detour?"
"Sure," Scott said. "Where to?"
"Turn here," I said. "At the sign."
Scott turned, and soon we were cruising down a nice street—not far from where Cara lived, actually—dotted by largish, slightly-on-the-new-side houses.
"Are you going to fill me in on what we're doing here?" Scott asked above the dulcet tones of Aimee Mann on his car stereo.
"We're about to stage a rescue," I said mysteriously.
"A rescue? Of what? A dentist?" He was referring to the suburbany architecture, which I'm proud to say my dad had had nothing to do with.
"No," I said. "Of Betty Ann Mulvaney."
"Whoa," Scott said, looking impressed. "What are you going to do? Break in and take her? Shouldn't we wait until dark? Hey, I think Kwang's got some night-vision goggles. . . ."
"Very funny. But we don't need night-vision goggles," I told him. "Or the cover of darkness."
Kurt's house—which was number 1532 Sycamore Hills—came up on our right. It was an impressive Tudor job. Kurt's Grand Am, I was pleased to see, was not in the driveway.
"So," Scott said, as he pulled into the driveway and switched the ignition off. "What now?"
"Watch and learn, my friend," I said, undoing my seat belt. "Watch and learn."
Scott followed me up the steps to the Schraeders' front door. I rang the bell.
Look, I won't lie to you. The watch-and-learn bit? An act. A total act. I guess I'm more of a theater type than I ever imagined.
The truth was, I was totally nervous. My stomach hurt. My heart was racing a mile a minute. My hands were all sweaty—not because of Scott this time, but because I had no idea whether or not my plan was going to work.
But, hey, I knew one thing: If I didn't even try, no way was it going to.
The door was opened—as I'd hoped it would be—by Kurt's little sister. Her name, I knew from her necklace, was Vicky. I dropped my hands down to my knees (which was good, because then I could wipe the sweat off on my jeans) so that my gaze was level with hers and said, "Hi! Do you know me?"
Vicky pulled the braid tip she'd been sucking on out of her mouth and went, with a stunned expression, "Oh my Gosh! You're Jenny Greenley! You're the one going to the Spring Fling with Luke Striker! I saw you on MTV News!"
"Yes, that's me," I said modestly. "Is your brother Kurt home?"
Vicky shook her head, her eyes big as jawbreakers. "No. He went to the lake. With Courtney."
"Oh, no," I said, trying to look disappointed. The acting thing was getting easier and easier. "Well, did he leave something for me? A doll?"
Vicky's eyes grew even wider. "You mean Betty Ann?"
"Yes," I said, my stomach starting to hurt less. "Betty Ann. See, it's my turn to look after her. Betty Ann, I mean. I guess Kurt forgot. Could you do me a favor? Could you run to his room and get her for me?"
Back went the tip of the braid into the mouth.
"I'm not allowed to go in Kurt's room," Vicky said, as she sucked energetically. "He said if I did it again, he'd tell Mom on me."
"Oh, he won't mind this one time, Vicky," I said. "In fact, you'll be doing him a huge favor. Because, you see, if I don't get Betty Ann back—and right this very minute—someone is going to go to the school principal and tell him that Kurt's the one who took Betty Ann in the first place, and then Kurt probably won't get to graduate."
The braid dropped from Vicky's mouth. "Someone would do that?"
"Oh, yes," I said, elbowing Scott, who'd begun to chuckle. "Someone would. So, you see, you'd really be helping Kurt if you could do this one little thing for me."
"Okay," Vicky said with a shrug. "I'll be right back."
She took off. When I glanced at Scott, he was shaking his head at me.
"What happened to you?" he wanted to know.
"What do you mean?" I asked, a little alarmed.
"You never used to be like this," Scott said. "You used to . . . I don't know. Be much more interested in smoothing things over than in stirring things up."
I couldn't believe he'd noticed. I mean, that he'd been paying attention.
To me.
"I don't know," I said, looking away so he wouldn't see that I was blushing. "I guess I just decided to take a stand."
"I'll say," Scott said.
We heard running footsteps, and then Vicky reappeared, Betty Ann in her arms.
Betty Ann did not look well. Her yarn hair was a little on the bedraggled side, and there appeared to be barbecue sauce on her overalls.
But she was in one piece. Her head had not been put down any disposals. She was still recognizably Betty Ann Mulvaney.
"Here she is," Vicky said, handing the doll over. "I found her under Kurt's bed."
"Thanks, Vicky," I said, tucking Betty Ann beneath my arm. "You're the best."
"And listen," Scott said to Vicky. "When Kurt comes home, will you tell him what happened? Tell him Scott Bennett came by and said if you didn't give him the doll, someone would go to the principal and tell on him."
"No. Jenny Greenley," I said quickly, giving Scott a what-do-you-think-you're-doing? look.
"No," Scott said, giving me the look right back. "Scott Bennett."
"I'll tell him you both came over," Vicky said, "if you think you could get me Luke Striker's autograph. Could you do that, Jenny? Pleeeeease?"
"Sure thing," I said, and waved as we hurried down the steps to Scott's car.
"Why'd you do that?" I asked him, as soon as we were safely on the road again. "Tell her your name like that?"
"Because when Kurt finds out what you did," Scott said, "he's going to go ballistic. And if he's going to pound anyone's face in, I think it should at least be someone who's in a position to pound him back."
Suddenly I was blinking back tears again. I couldn't believe it. Twice in one day, he'd come galloping t
o my rescue like . . .
Well, like Lancelot.
"Oh, great," Scott said. "You aren't crying again, are you?"
"No," I said with a sniffle.
I couldn't help it, though. The fact that he was willing to sacrifice his own face in order to keep mine from getting bashed in? It was really the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. It had to mean he thought of me as more than just a friend, didn't it?
I mean, didn't it?
We'd pulled up to a stop sign. Suddenly, Scott's hand left the gearshift, and he leaned toward me . . .
I'll admit it. My heart leaped. My pulse staggered. I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought he was going to lean in close, cup my tearstained cheeks in his hands, and whisper, Please don't cry, Jenny, and kiss me.
I know! I don't know where it came from! But, suddenly, it was there, in my head.
My heart started thrumming in my chest way louder than the kettledrum back at Troubadour rehearsals had ever sounded, and my breath caught in my throat. . . .
But instead of reaching over to cup my face in his hands, Scott leaned over to pop open the glove box. He reached inside, took something out, and handed it to me.
And, no, it was not his class ring or anything like that.
It was a wad of Dairy Queen napkins.
"You're gonna get the doll wet," was all he said.
Ask Annie
Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.
Go on, we dare you!
All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School Register.
Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.
Dear Annie,
It’s almost the end of school, and I want to spend the summer like the rest of the kids I know – going to the lake, hanging out at the mall, and, you know, just chilling. I figure after nine months of studying my butt off, I deserve a little R&R.
The problem is my parents. They insist that I get a job. They say I have to start earning money for college. But isn’t it their job to pay for college? Can you please print this letter, because I know my parents will do whatever you say, because they think, like I do, that you’re the bomb.
Catching Rays
Dear Rays,
I may not be the bomb, but I’m definitely going to drop one. Your parents are right. Nobody "three months off." Do your parents, who probably work as hard all year long as you’ve studied, get three months off? No.
Take two weeks. Then get a job. And go the lake and hang out at the mall on weekends. The money will come in handy someday. And so will the references.
Annie
FIFTEEN
Betty Ann Mulvaney was back in her place of honor on Mrs. Mulvaney's desk the next morning.
My mom had done what she could to clean her up. She'd managed to get the barbecue sauce out of Betty Ann's overalls, and we both spent an hour trying to straighten out the mess her yarn hair had gotten into. We'd finally ended up twisting it into two braids, and fastening them with some ribbon my mom had left over from a country-style kitchen she'd done.
The result was that although Betty Ann did not look exactly like she had before her ordeal, she at least looked . . . okay.
And when Mrs. Mulvaney walked in and saw her . . .
Well, you could tell she didn't think there was anything wrong with Betty Ann at all.
"Betty Ann!" Mrs. Mulvaney said with a gasp. I don't think Mrs. M even noticed that I'd been standing beside the doll, keeping watch over her. After all the trouble I'd gone to to get her back, no way was I going to let Kurt steal her again.
Scott's assumption—that the two of us were going to get our faces pounded in for what we'd done—turned out to be erroneous. It looked as if Vicky had managed to convey the most important part of my message to Kurt—the part about not getting his diploma if "someone" happened to spill the truth behind Betty Ann's kidnapping to Dr Lewis.
Consequently, Kurt didn't utter a word as he came into the Latin room that morning and sank into his desk. He glared at me, all right, standing up by Mrs. M's desk, one eye on the door and the other on Betty Ann.
But that's all he did.
By the end of the class period, when Kurt merely strolled past me and out of the room without so much as a glance, I was convinced that Luke had been 100 percent right: I do have more power than I'd ever known.
Way more power, as I found out when fourth period rolled around.
But back to Mrs. M. Was there an immediate and sustained change in her demeanor upon finding Betty Ann returned to her safe and—except for the braids—mostly sound?
You bet there was The woman was practically giddy with relief I know it sounds dumb—that someone could love a doll so much—but Mrs. Mulvaney was like a changed person. She didn't ask where Betty Ann had been. She didn't thank us for her return.
Instead, she just started having fun with us again, teaching us phrases that would be way more useful for a frat party—if you could find one where everyone spoke Latin—than the SATs Phrases like:
Bibat tile, bibat ilia, bibat servus et ancilla, bibat hera, bibat herus, ad bibendum nemo serus!
Which means, basically, everybody get drunk now.
I know! Shocking!
But not as shocking as what happened a few periods later.
It was Friday. The bus the school had hired to take the Troubadours to Luers had left at six in the morning, and wasn't due to return until after dark, if the Troubadours made the finals. Was I relieved to know I'd have one day, anyway, safe from worrying about bumping into Mr. Hall or Karen Sue? Yes.
Was I worried that my time was running out and that, sooner or later, I was going to get busted for having skipped my fourth period class three days in a row?
Totally. I couldn't believe I hadn't been called in to see Ms. Kellogg about it yet. Mr. Hall had to have marked me as absent from his class yesterday. Did Ms. K. think it was a mistake or something? I mean, nice little Jenny Greenley would never skip a class.
Well, she'd find out it hadn't been a mistake soon enough, I supposed.
Anyway, when fourth period rolled around that day, I was in the library—where else did I have to go?—quietly going over my trig homework, when someone suddenly sank down into the study carrel next to mine and said, "Hey."
I turned my head, and there was Trina.
"What . . .?" I must have blinked a thousand times, but the image before my eyes never changed. It was still Trina.
Only she wasn't at Luers.
And she wasn't not speaking to me.
"What are you doing here?" I finally managed to choke. "Did you miss the bus?"
"No," Trina said, taking out her own trig homework. "I quit, too."
"You quit...." I could only gape at her. "Wait a minute. You quit Troubadours?"
Trina looked at me pityingly, like I was a little bit slow.
"Yeah," she said. "I quit Troubadours. What'd you get for number seven, anyway?"
"Wait a minute." I was having some real problems wrapping my mind around this one. I mean, Trina, the one person who I thought I'd be able to count on to back me up against Mr. Hall, hadn't done so. She hadn't uttered a word that day I'd thrown her hat into Jake Mancini's tuba.
And she hadn't said anything yesterday, either, when the sopranos had tried to rough me up in the caf.
But now she was sitting next to me at a time when surely she was supposed to be onstage at Bishop Luers, singing about slicking her hair and wearing her buckle shoes?
"You QUIT Troubadours?" I demanded, loudly enough that the librarian—who still hadn't thought to ask me why I was in the school library every day during fourth period and not in class—looked up from the checkout desk. So I lowered my voice. "Trina, what about your solo?"
"Karen Sue can do it," Trina said, turning back to her trig homework with a shrug.
"But . . ." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You love Troubadours, Trina."
"No
t anymore," Trina said. Then, seeing my expression, she laid down her pencil and went, "Okay. Look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I acted like such a spaz that day on your front porch. And I'm sorry I didn't come to your defense about the hat thing. Mr. Hall—he never should have said the things he said to you. I should have walked out with you, but . . . well, I was still too mad at you. But the more I thought about it, the madder I got . . . at myself, not you. I mean, it was my fault, not yours, that that hat went into the tuba. And that's not all." Trina took a deep breath. "You were right about Steve, too."
I blinked at her. "I was?" Now I really couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Really?"
"Yeah," Trina said. "He's a great guy, but I just never realized it until he . . . well, until he dumped me. Can you believe it?" She let out a little laugh. "He dumped me. And I miss him! Almost as much," she added, "as I miss you. You're a way better friend to me than I've ever been to you, Jen. I mean, I'm the one who made you sign up for choir in the first place. I should have warned you about the dancing. Or at least coached you more. Something."
"That's okay, Trina," I said, still playing it cool. Inside, though, I was doing cartwheels. I had my best friend back. I had my best friend back! "No amount of coaching would have helped."
"Well, probably not," Trina admitted. "But I still should have offered. I was just . . . jealous. You know? Over the Luke Striker thing. I know you guys are just friends. Believe me, I've heard you say it on the news enough times. But I couldn't help wondering . . . why didn't he want to be friends with me?"
I shrugged. I didn't feel like I could tell her the truth . . . that Luke hadn't wanted to be friends with her because he'd known she had a huge crush on him. And that he'd wanted to be friends with me because . . . well, I was starting to think it was because he thought of me as an interesting social experiment, and he was the mad scientist conducting it.
Instead I said, "I don't know. Guys are just weird, I guess."
"That's not it," Trina said, shaking her head. "I mean, that's not just it. The fact is, you're, like, a good person."
"Trina," I said, shaking my head with a laugh. "I'm so not. Were you there when I talked back to Mr. Hall? Have you seen what I've been up to lately?"
