by Lara Zielin
She shut her locker, and we headed toward mine. “Dude,” Sylvia said, “I forgot to ask. Did your mom get off to the hospital okay? For her lumber section or whatever?” My brain raced to catch up with her abrupt change of subject.
I nodded. “Lumpectomy. And yeah, she’s fine. My dad took her in just as I was getting up.”
Still half asleep, I had given my mom a hug before she’d headed out the door. “I’ll be back by the time you get home from school,” she said. I noticed she’d been wearing lipstick, like she was going out for drinks.
“So, when you were fishing on Saturday, I went to Tickywinn’s,” Sylvia said, switching subjects again, like her brain was ping-ponging around just so it didn’t land on how everyone knew about her pregnancy, “and I met this new girl there. Beth. She moved from New York, like, last week.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is she cool?”
“Totally,” Sylvia said as I opened my locker. “And she’s Goth, if you can believe it. She says in New York, everyone looks like us.”
I yanked off my coat and grabbed my chemistry book, thinking that there were millions of people in New York and they couldn’t all be Goth. I was so lost in Beth’s illogic that I didn’t notice Sylvia’s face right away.
I turned to see her glaring at me. “What the hell are you wearing?” she asked.
I blinked, then remembered. “It’s just a sweater,” I said. “My clothes were all dirty.” Which was the truth. I’d been so desperate for something to throw on that I’d delved into the stash of mom-approved clothes in my closet. I thought I’d picked the least offensive thing.
Sylvia looked me up and down. “It’s turquoise.”
“Like hell it is,” I said. “It’s just blue. Normal, everyday blue.” I was wearing the sweater with jeans and my black boots. A leather bracelet with studs was clamped around my right wrist. A heavy beaded black necklace was draped around my neck. My makeup was dark and heavy. Everything was the same except for the sweater.
“That is not normal blue,” Sylvia argued.
I slammed my locker shut. “So what do you want me to do? Go around in my bra all day? It’s just a stupid sweater.”
“Your coat is at least black. Wear that.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you look ridiculous.”
Anger flared inside me. “And you sound ridiculous. You always say you don’t care what people think.”
“I don’t care what people think. I care what I think. And I think you look stupid.”
“Well, it’s my wardrobe, and I think I look fine.”
“Suit yourself,” Sylvia replied, sounding pissed.
“Are we seriously going to fight about my sweater? Can’t we just talk about something else?”
“Okay. Here’s some news. Beth is coming to lunch with us today.”
I thought about how it wasn’t a question. “Whatever,” I said.
Sylvia grunted. “All right, look. Forget I said anything about the sweater. And Beth is legit. So be cool about her eating with us. Okay?”
“Fine,” I said, glad she was letting the sweater issue go. “If you say so.”
“Later,” she said, and we headed to our separate classes.
I slipped into study hall with time to spare before the bell rang. “A new record,” Fitz said as I took my seat. “Not just on time but early.”
I smiled. “Yeah, well. I’m trying to tone down my dangerous side.”
“So where’d you wind up fishing on Saturday?” he asked, leaning in. The warm blanket smell was back. I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could speak, Allie Hoffman dropped herself into an open desk in front of us.
“Can I ask you something without you beating me up?” she asked, playing with the ends of her long blond hair.
I looked at her. “What?”
“Sylvia Ness. Is she really pregnant?”
Fitz leaned back in his chair. “Plead the Fifth,” he said.
“I have history class with Sylvia,” Allie said, ignoring Fitz. “I thought she had a little bump. But then Erika Lloyd said this morning that her mom heard it at a PTA fund-raiser over the weekend. So, is she for real preggers? And do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
Fitz cleared his throat, interrupting her. “Excuse me, but my client can neither confirm nor deny these allegations. If you have further questions, I ask that you present them in writing.”
Allie turned around. “What are you talking about, Fitz?”
“You’re badgering my witness,” Fitz said.
“Huh? I don’t have any badgers. Oh, and Becky says you should call her. She says she thinks she left her bikini over at your house from when you were in the hot tub together.”
Fitz paled. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Allie whipped back around. “Tell Sylvia that my mom is a doula, and that if she wants to have a natural birth, my mom would totally help.”
“A doula?”
Allie nodded. “Yeah. It’s like a midwife.”
I didn’t say anything. The final bell rang. “Nice sweater,” Allie said before standing and leaving. “That color totally works on you.”
As Mr. Otts took attendance, I pulled out my chemistry book, rattled to my core. Not only did the entire junior class know about Sylvia, but it also appeared that Fitz had a girlfriend. The Becky that Allie had mentioned had to be Becky Quinn—a junior on the debate team. I’d seen them talking in the halls a few times, but I never figured them for a couple. Which, if I’d been wrong, had meant that Fitz had asked me to hang out in his dad’s stupid new boat even though he was probably sticking his tongue down Becky’s throat.
Not that I cared. I tamped down what felt like disappointment. Fitz and his huge mouth could do whatever they liked. It was no sweat off my back.
Suddenly, Mr. Otts was standing over me. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. My stomach knotted, fearing it was something more to do with my mom.
Instead, I saw it was a prom ballot. Mr. Otts moved along, handing one ballot out to each kid from a wad in his hand.
The prom. It stopped for no one. The paper was so we could determine the court nominees today.
“There are six lines on your paper,” Mr. Otts said. “You are to nominate six of your classmates to the junior prom court. You’ll turn in the ballots to me, and I’ll hand them over to be counted. The finalists for the court will be named at the start of third period, after the votes are tabulated. Then, first thing next week, you’ll vote from among the six court finalists for king and queen. Everybody got it?”
The class mumbled yes. I stared at the six lines, my brain buzzing. Fitz had a girlfriend. Everyone knew about Sylvia. My mom was getting a lumpectomy. Prom was here.
Just think of six people, I told myself, struggling to focus. It doesn’t matter who they are. Three guys, three girls. Easy, right?
LINE ONE: Sylvia Ness
I tapped my pen against my temple. Who else? Girls like Allie and Tiffany Holland would all be putting each other’s names on the ballots. Who could I nominate who was the anti them?
LINE TWO: Jess Kline
I had no idea what to write in for line three. So I made up a name. Yoleesha Squakshot. I said it in my head a couple times and had to swallow back a giggle.
I took a breath. Now for the boys. I could bet right now Sylvia was putting Ryan’s name down on her slip of paper. She could defend him all she wanted, but the idea of penciling his name onto a ballot made my brain shiver a little. I mean, Ryan was blond and athletic and rich and all the things the St. Davis High prom king always was but, well, if he was the father of Sylvia’s kid, he wasn’t handling it very honorably. And shouldn’t a king—even a stupid prom king—have a little honor in him somewhere? Shouldn’t a king come forward and take responsibility for his kid? Or at least, for starters, acknowledge Sylvia publicly?
They should make it against the rules for jackasses like Ryan Rollings to even be king, I thought. But that’s no
t how it was at St. Davis High. When it came down to it, there were only a few people who were truly “royal” around here. And Ryan, no matter how I might feel about it, was one of them.
LINE FOUR: Fitz Peterson
What the hell, I figured. At least he was in the Bass Masters.
LINE FIVE: Jefferson Talbot
He was an asshole, but at least he threw good parties.
I liked making up names, so I did it again. Just to mess with the system. Greystone McBuffatude. I put my hand over my mouth so I didn’t giggle again. I wondered for a second if I was losing it.
Mr. Otts came around and collected the nomination slips, putting them into a bag with glitter and faux fur and JUNIOR PROM written all over it. Every year, the school cheerleaders made these kinds of bags to collect the votes.
A few minutes later, a student council member showed up at the door. Mr. Otts handed over the bag. I knew the council member would take the bag to Mrs. Wagner, the cheerleading coach who, rumor had it, went all the way to Minneapolis for Botox injections. She and her minions would sort through the nominees on the slips of paper, then announce the results as soon as possible. Because God forbid anyone at the school should have to wait to know who was on the court.
When the voting was done, I kept my face in my chem book. I glanced to the side every now and again to see if Fitz was trying to get my attention—to flag me so he could hurriedly explain about Becky—but he never did.
Not that I would have listened anyway.
Chapter Eleven
MONDAY, APRIL 13 / 9:01 A.M.
I had changed for fencing and was talking with Sylvia when Ms. Rhone flicked the lights on and off once to get everyone’s attention. “Park your butts on the floor,” she said. “We have announcements before class.”
“Guess they have the court ballots counted,” I said.
Sylvia shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Pipe down,” Ms. Rhone barked. “Mrs. Wagner will be coming on the loudspeaker momentarily.”
I thought about how, once we all knew who was on the court, the campaigns would relaunch with more vigor. More flyers, signs, even buttons telling us who, out of the six, was most deserving to be the king and queen.
“All this work, just for a dance,” I said. “It’s so stupid.”
“Oh, shut it,” Sylvia replied, easing her body onto the ground. “I want to hear this.”
Because of Ryan, I thought, but held my tongue.
While we all waited, Jess came over to me and Sylvia, cradling something with her claw hand.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a white envelope at me. “Take this.”
I glanced at Sylvia, whose eyebrows were raised. “What the hell is it?” I asked, getting to my feet so Jess wouldn’t stand over me.
“It’s a card, dumbass.”
I set my jaw. “Don’t call me a dumbass.”
Jess’s blue eyes were blazing. “Then just take the card.” She lowered her voice. “Feryurmomerwhatevr,” she mumbled. She dropped her eyes.
“What are you, speaking French? I can’t understand you.”
Sylvia laughed and Jess’s face flashed hurt. But it was gone in a nanosecond.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were fucking hard of hearing!” Jess yelled. The whole class turned to stare at us. “The card is for your mom! Hope she feels better!”
She shoved the envelope at me, and I had no choice but to take it. The class tittered at us. I wanted to melt.
Jess leaned in, the nostrils of her perky nose flaring. “Sucks that your mom has cancer,” she whispered. “Mr. Feinstein let it slip last week in accounting. I wouldn’t have been a bitch if you weren’t.”
She stomped away and sat down. I stood there with the card, unsure what to do, until Sylvia pulled on the hem of my shorts. “Park it,” she said. “Now.”
I did as she told me, the envelope dampening in my wet palms. I could still feel the stares of the other kids in fencing class. Part of me wanted to stand up again and explain to them all that, really, the teachers shouldn’t be saying anything because my mom’s lumpectomy was no big deal. Outpatient and everything. But that was too many words, and I’d wind up rambling like Fitz. My mom had been selective about who she’d told about the surgery, but clearly it didn’t matter—word had leaked out anyway. It was St. Davis, after all.
By the time Mrs. Wagner’s voice filtered through the mesh on the loudspeaker, I’d murdered Jess Kline in my brain a thousand times. I tore the card into four neat little squares and shoved them into my shorts pocket.
The loudspeaker clicked on. “Good morning, St. Davis Pioneers!” Mrs. Wagner cried. “I hope you are all having a marvelous Monday. And I know it can only get better after I announce the members of this year’s prom court!”
A few of the bubblier, prettier girls in the class clapped their hands.
Mrs. Wagner took a deep breath. “I’m so pleased to announce our first nominee is . . . Marissa Mendez! Congratulations, Marissa.”
Each season, half the guys at school packed the pool’s bleachers during swim meets to watch Marissa breaststroke her way through the water. I’d never witnessed it firsthand, but I heard that there were audible groans when Marissa emerged from the pool with her wet swimsuit clinging to her body. I knew there were some girls who hated her for it, but not me. I’d heard once that she was screwing Tiffany Holland’s boyfriend behind her back, which pretty much endeared me to Marissa forever.
Mrs. Wagner cleared her throat. “Our second nominee is . . . Ryan Rollings! Congratulations, Ryan!”
I looked over at Sylvia, who was actually smiling. “I nominated him,” she whispered conspiratorially, as if it had been her ballot alone that had secured him a place on the court.
On and on, Mrs. Wagner read the names. Jefferson Talbot. Tiffany Holland. Ty Bernske. Then I heard Mrs. Wagner’s tone flip like a switch. “And now for our last nominee,” she said flatly. “Congratulations, Sylvia Ness.”
Sylvia looked at me. “Did she just—”
“Say your name—?” I stumbled.
“The election for king and queen will be in a week,” Mrs. Wagner finished. “Don’t forget to vote and to come to the dance on May second!”
Sylvia and I scrambled to our feet, staring at each other. “Holy shit,” Sylvia said. Her dark lips were stretched in a smile that looked like it might never leave her face. “Can you even believe this?”
“No,” I replied. “I can’t.” Part of me wondered if it was a mistake. I glanced around and saw some of the other girls in the class staring at us with their hands covering their mouths, like they were trying to hold back laughter. I thought of how I’d made up Yoleesha Squakshot and Greystone McBuffatude and how amused I’d been by it. I tapped my foot against the gym floor, suddenly worried that our classmates could have done the same thing—penciled in a name for a joke—but instead of nominating a fake person, they’d nominated Sylvia.
Sylvia reached out and grabbed my hands, interrupting my thoughts. “You know what this means,” she said pointedly. There was no mistaking her message. Ryan is on the court, too. It was as clear as if she’d spoken it out loud.
“That’s awesome,” I lied, smiling even though I knew this wasn’t going to change anything. Sylvia could be the president of the United States and Ryan would still ignore her—and her kid. I was sure of it.
“I have to find a dress,” Sylvia said. “One that will fit over my belly.”
“No problem—you have time,” I said.
“Okay, enough chatter!” Ms. Rhone called out. “Get your gear!” I left Sylvia and walked over to the fencing equipment, aware that all eyes in the gym were still on Sylvia. Save one pair. I didn’t have to turn and look to know that Jess was watching me.
Chapter Twelve
MONDAY, APRIL 13 / 12:22 P.M.
Sylvia stuffed three fries into her mouth at once, then took a big drink of her milkshake. “God, I’m so freaking hungry all the time,” she said, her mouth full. �
�This baby’s like a parasite. Like, what was that movie? The one where the monster comes out of everyone’s stomachs?”
“Alien?” I offered.
“Totally. This baby is like Alien.”
I ate a bite of my chicken nugget and shifted in the hard plastic seat of the Playland table. Sylvia sat in the chair shaped like Grimace. Across from me, the new girl, Beth Daniels, picked at her plain burger (no onions, no pickles, no mustard). Her long equine face barely moved as she chewed, and she kept her sharp gray eyes trained mostly on Sylvia.
“Nice sweater,” was all she said when we’d been introduced before lunch. Sylvia had laughed like it was the most hilarious thing in the world.
“Come on, you guys,” Sylvia had said, getting into her car. “I’m starving.” Before I could move, Beth had hopped into the front seat. She didn’t even call it.
At McDonald’s, Beth studied Sylvia. “You keep eating like that, you’ll have to get a dress specially made for the prom,” she said. She swallowed a bite of burger so hard that the chunky black cross on her pale neck moved up and down. “Not even a size sixteen will fit you.”
“Um, hi, she’s pregnant, in case you hadn’t noticed,” I said. As far as I was concerned, Sylvia could eat whatever the hell she wanted.
Beth looked bored. “So? I was pregnant, and I still had to watch what I ate.”
The food in my mouth turned to sawdust.
“You were pregnant?” Sylvia asked, her eyes darting to Beth’s tiny waist and flat stomach.
“Yeah. Freshman year.”
Holy shit, was all I could think.
“Did you keep it?” Sylvia asked.
Beth popped a fry into her mouth. “No,” she said, chewing and talking, “I gave it up for adoption. The dad didn’t want jack to do with me. And I would have had to raise it at my parents’, which none of us wanted. There’s just no way I could have gotten my own place in the city. Even a rat hole is, like, a thousand dollars a month.”
