by Lara Zielin
I thought my mom would keep going, but she didn’t.
“But did Marissa really win?” I asked finally.
My mom began tapping her shoe against the kitchen tile. “Well, as I said, it’s complicated.”
She was starting to sound detached and professional. I looked at her hard. “What happened with the election?” I asked.
My mom sighed. “After the announcement about Marissa was made, there was a claim by a student—Tiffany Holland, actually—that there were many ballots for Sylvia.”
“Wait, Tiffany helped Mrs. Wagner count votes? How is that even legit? She was one of the nominees.”
“It’s not ideal, I know. It’s brought to our attention how there aren’t really any rules about prom at all at the school—about who can be nominated, who can count the ballots, anything.”
Next year, I thought, there’s going to be a rule book the size of the dictionary for this stupid dance.
My mom pressed on. “After I heard about Tiffany, I asked Mrs. Wagner to recount the ballots, just to make sure. But Mrs. Wagner said she couldn’t because . . .”
My mom trailed off, looking at the wall, at the table, but still not at me.
“Because what?”
“Mrs. Wagner burned the ballots,” my mom said finally. “She threw them into a trash can in the loading dock at school, and she just burned them.”
My hand flew to my mouth. No way.
“Why?” I whispered through my fingers. “Why would she do that?”
My mom looked at her hands but didn’t say anything.
“Mrs. Wagner wanted Marissa Mendez on the throne, didn’t she?”
“I can’t confirm that, no.”
“Fine, then just have a revote,” I said, thinking about Sylvia’s fake ballots. “Enough has gone down to warrant that. Just tell everyone that things got screwed up and make people vote again.”
“We’re considering it. But Mrs. Wagner’s not totally in favor of that option.”
I scoffed. “I’m sorry, last time I checked you were the principal, not the cheerleading coach.”
My mom shot me a warning look. “The administration is trying to handle it internally, Aggie. We just haven’t reached a consensus yet.”
My temples pounded. Sylvia tampered with the ballots! I wanted to yell. Do the election over! But if I told my mom that, then I’d be exactly the person Sylvia thought I was. She’d dumped me because she’d thought I’d blab to my mom if I found anything out, and here I was. Ready to do it.
“You need some water?” my mom asked.
“No,” I said, my voice tight. “I’m fine.”
My mom folded her hands. “Honey, I don’t mean to change the subject, but are you in a fight with Sylvia?”
I started. “What?”
“I heard from one of the teachers that Sylvia’s trying to get transferred out of the fencing class you share. One of her claims is that you’re harassing her. That’s not the case, is it?”
I pushed my chair back. “No. Of course not. She’s the one being the bitch.”
“Please calm down and don’t use foul language in front of me. I just want to ensure that if you haven’t been steering clear of Sylvia, you will do so now. Just so she has no basis for any more allegations.”
My blood pressure was about to go off the charts. First, I couldn’t believe that Sylvia had the nerve to accuse me of harassing her, and second, I couldn’t believe my mom was telling me to avoid her. Like her wanting to leave fencing class had been my fault.
“I am steering clear of Sylvia,” I said. “Why are you assuming I’m not?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“Yes, you are,” I said. “You just totally assumed that I’m the fuckup here.”
“Enough!” my mom said. “You will absolutely not use those words in front of me, young lady, and you will watch your tone. If we can’t keep this conversation civil, we won’t have it.”
“Fine!” I shouted. “What do I care? You don’t listen to me. Ever. Why would I think you’d start now? Forget it.”
I pushed my chair against the table and grabbed my keys. “I want you home by ten,” my mom said, watching me the whole time.
I didn’t answer. I just got in my car and peeled away, mad enough to scream.
Chapter Twenty-one
MONDAY, APRIL 20 / 8:12 P.M.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Rod Barris said. He was sitting across from me at Tickywinn’s. The track lighting above us illuminated his head, which sported thinning brown hair. Despite the balding, he didn’t strike me as being a geezer—I pegged him as being somewhere in his thirties.
I stirred my coffee and didn’t say anything. Now that I was here, something about this meeting felt creepy. I told myself to just chill—it was only my imagination.
Rod pulled out a pad and a pen. “Mind if I take notes?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
He leaned back in his chair. “So, which came first, the bass fishing or the Marilyn Manson getup?”
“I don’t look like Marilyn Manson,” I said, irritated.
“All right, but, quite honestly, this isn’t the look I pictured the bass-fishing principal’s kid to have.”
“Life’s full of surprises, I guess.”
“Indeed. So tell me. Are the other bass fishers accepting of how you look?”
I blew on my coffee. “Well, they didn’t really talk to me much at first. But I guess once they found out I could fish, things loosened up. They don’t put dead minnows or rotten fruit in my tackle box, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Rod jotted a few things down. “And your mom. How does she feel about this?”
“About what? Bass fishing?”
“That and your attire.”
“Maybe you should ask her that.”
Rod set down his pen. “Well, here’s the funny thing. I tried calling your mom today, but she wouldn’t return my messages.”
I sat up. “You called her? About this story?” I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it when we’d been home together earlier.
Rod rubbed his lips together. “Well, not exactly. I’m working on two stories, you see. One about you and bass fishing, and the other about the prom. It just happens that the two stories intersect.”
The room suddenly felt cramped. “What do you mean?”
Rod flipped through his notebook. “I got a call today from someone saying there’s a scandal at the school. They say someone named Sylvia is the true prom queen, but the administration crowned someone else instead.” He checked his notes. “A Marissa Mendez.”
“Yeah? So?” I tried to keep my face neutral.
“So maybe you know something about it?”
“Why would I know anything about it?”
“Your mom’s the principal. I also hear you’re friends with Sylvia. Seems to me you might know quite a bit.”
I glared at him. “Do you always do this?”
“Do what?” Rod asked.
“Trick girls into talking to you because if you told them the truth, they wouldn’t meet you? Because now would be a good time to tell me that there’s no bass-fishing story.”
Rod blinked. “There’s no bass-fishing story.”
I wanted to kick myself. Rod had played to my vanity, and I’d bought it. Hook, line, and sinker—no pun intended.
“But listen,” he continued, “you can still play an integral part in the real story. The prom story. I’m sure you have valuable input.”
I looked at my coffee and thought about the orange ballots in Sylvia’s bag. I thought about how I’d told Jefferson what I knew, and how it didn’t seem like he’d passed it along. I thought about how I’d overheard Mrs. Wagner and Mr. Monroe talking, and then what my mom had said about the ballots being burned. For a second, I thought maybe I should spill my guts to Rod and tell him everything I knew. At least then someone would listen to me, and then maybe, if the Letter printed everything, the whole prom mess could get sorted ou
t.
Except Rod was a lying sack of crap, and I wasn’t about to help him get his byline. “Why don’t you call Sylvia?” I asked. “I’m sure she’ll comment.”
“Sylvia is more than willing to talk, but I’d like to talk to you, too. And your mom, ideally. I just can’t get her to call me back.”
“So try her again,” I said, standing up.
“Maybe you could just pass my name and number along to her,” Rod said. “And if you feel like you have anything to add to the story, please feel free to give me a call.”
“Screw you,” I said, and walked out of the café.
Chapter Twenty-two
THURSDAY, APRIL 23 / 9:12 A.M.
The middle of the week was filled with enough rumors and speculation to fill a whole season of Jerry Springer. Tiffany was helping Sylvia look for a dress, and they were now best friends; Marissa was planning to show up to the dance and throw blood—à la Carrie—on Sylvia; Mrs. Wagner had been seen taking suspicious pills to cope with the stress.
Despite all the BS, the one thing that did seem true was that the more time passed, the more it seemed people wanted to see Sylvia wrestle the crown back from Marissa.
Not that Sylvia was around much for anyone to tell her that. I barely glimpsed her until Thursday, when she finally came to fencing.
“She looks awful,” Jess observed through her fencing mask.
“Totally,” I agreed. Her hair was spiked, but its purple color had faded to something more gray, and her clothes were wrinkled. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Okay,” said Ms. Rhone, “with your partners, one of you try a long-distance attack lunge, and the other practice a retreat. Ready, go!”
I was just getting ready to advance when Sylvia suddenly doubled over. “Oooo!” she cried.
Instinctively, I dropped my sword and ran over to her.
“Are you okay?” I asked. It wasn’t until she looked at me that I remembered we were fighting.
Ms. Rhone came barreling toward us. “What’s going on?” she asked. “What is it?”
“I need to go down to the nurse’s office,” said Sylvia. “Something’s not right.” She clutched her cantaloupe-sized belly and grimaced.
Ms. Rhone swallowed. “All right, then.” She took out a pass from her back pocket and handed it to Sylvia. “Go.”
I was ready to walk away when Sylvia asked, “Can Aggie come with me?” She was beginning to breathe heavily. “Please?”
When Ms. Rhone nodded, I peeled off my fencing garb. Then, with Ms. Rhone and me each holding on to one of Sylvia’s elbows, we led her out of the gym. Ms. Rhone stopped when we got to the hallway.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said, giving Sylvia an uncharacteristic rub on her back. Then she turned and walked back into the gym.
The minute Ms. Rhone had gone, Sylvia straightened up and looked me full in the face. “Let’s go somewhere and talk,” she said, without a hint of pain or panic in her voice.
“Are you kidding?” I asked, staring at her belly, where I’d been convinced, just moments before, the spawn of Ryan Rollings was going to come leaking out of her. “Did you just fake all that?”
Sylvia nodded. “C’mon. This is serious. We have to talk.”
We walked quickly to the nearest girls’ bathroom and locked ourselves into the wide handicapped stall. I bent down to make sure no one else was in the bathroom. For the moment, we were alone.
“Sylvia,” I started, but she raised a hand, and I clamped my mouth shut. Underneath the bathroom lights, her spiky hair cast spiderlike shadows on the wall, and her clothes—black pants with a red T-shirt—reminded me of a black widow.
“The ballots are gone, Ag,” Sylvia said. “And I need your help. I screwed up last week. I shouldn’t have told you that I didn’t want to talk until after the prom. You’re the one person I need most right now. I’m sorry everything went down like it did. I really am.”
I should have been elated. Sylvia’s words were exactly what I wanted to hear. Except the whole time she talked, her eyes stayed hard and angry. I couldn’t help but wonder—why, after kicking me to the curb, did she suddenly need me? My heart surged, wanting us to be best friends again, but my brain was firing off warning after warning.
“How do you know the ballots are missing?” I asked, playing along for the moment.
“Tiffany Holland, that cheerleader you hate so much? She knew I’d gotten enough votes to win because she’d helped count them.”
Not Tiffany Holland again.
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “Why is everyone putting so much stock in something a cheerleader who really wants to be prom queen is saying? It’s a no-brainer that she never should have helped count those ballots. She’s a nominee with a stake in this. And isn’t it all over school that Tiffany punched Marissa last weekend? I mean, isn’t this enough to discount her story altogether? She obviously doesn’t want Marissa on the throne because she hates her.”
Sylvia surprised me by nodding. “Normally, yeah. But she swears she saw enough ballots to make me queen. She was so convinced that she was willing to confront Mrs. Wagner about it directly. So, yesterday, she grabbed me and we had a come to Jesus with Mrs. W. We demanded to see the ballots. But Mrs. Wagner said they were gone and nothing could be done.”
Because she burned them! I wanted to say, but didn’t. “And?” I asked instead.
“Mrs. Wagner admitted what she did to the ballots. She burned them.”
Uneasiness crept up my spine. “Okay, so? What does any of this have to do with me?”
“It was your mom, Ag. Your mom told Mrs. Wagner to burn the ballots. And now I hear your mom is talking about having a revote. But that can’t happen. You can’t let her. Tell her she needs to make me queen, and if she does, I won’t tell how she forced Mrs. Wagner to burn the ballots.”
I should have told Sylvia off. But instead I laughed. Something about Sylvia dragging me into a bathroom stall to accuse my mom of telling a teacher to burn the prom ballots struck me as downright hilarious.
“What the hell?” Sylvia asked. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “You believe that shit? I mean, we should be standing here talking about the ballots I saw you with. First the blank ones at your house, then the ones that you spilled in the hallway. And also, let’s be honest. The reason you don’t want a revote is because you’re worried you won’t be able to win again without cheating.”
“That’s not true! As far as the ballots go, I was helping Jefferson with the election. Ask him. He’ll back me up.”
Jefferson. Who was supposed to tell Mrs. Wagner that I’d seen Sylvia in the hallway with the ballots, but didn’t.
“Were you helping Jefferson?” I asked. “Or was he helping you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I picked at some paint on the bathroom stall. “I don’t know. You tell me. I mean, the way I see it, you had the ballots but no way to get them to Mrs. Wagner’s office to get counted. Jefferson, though—as the president of the student council, he could have done it. He could have helped you swap out the ballots. Right?”
Sylvia laughed like I was crazy, but I noticed the skin above her lips had started to glisten. She was sweating. “Why would Jefferson do that?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. More pot? You guys have made deals before. Why not make another one, just with bigger stakes?”
“You’re pulling rabbits out of your ass,” Sylvia said. “And I don’t need this brand of crazy right now.”
“That might be. But just for the record, I’m not the one faking miscarriages so I can drag people into the bathroom.”
To my complete surprise, Sylvia pushed me against the stall, both her hands on my shoulders, and got up in my face. My laughter vanished.
“Am I a joke to you, Aggie?” she asked. “You think you’re going to have a laugh at my expense over this?”
All the air had left the bathr
oom stall. I couldn’t breathe. This isn’t happening, I thought. There is no way this is actually happening.
When I didn’t reply, Sylvia let go and stepped back. “I know your mom is behind this,” she said. “Mrs. Wagner says your mom rigged the whole thing. Mrs. Wagner went to both Mr. Monroe and your mom to tell them I was the queen, but they told her to put Marissa on the throne.”
“That’s bullshit!” I yelled. “I heard Mrs. Wagner on Monday saying you shouldn’t be allowed to win because you’re pregnant. She was jockeying for Marissa the whole time, Sylvia. She’s manipulating you now so she doesn’t get caught.”
“No way,” Sylvia growled.
“Way,” I insisted. “I swear it.”
“All right, look. Here’s the bottom line. I’m giving you one last chance to show me that you want to be my friend. Tell your mom to let the revote slide and to make me queen. If she does that, then I won’t come forward and tell everyone that your mom made Mrs. Wagner burn the ballots. You can convince her, Ag. I know you can. She just had cancer surgery, for crying out loud. She’d probably do anything to make this prom thing go away.”
My shoulders burned from where Sylvia had dug her fingers into my skin. I trembled with rage, humiliation, and shock.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You tell me you don’t want to be my friend because I’m the principal’s kid, then you come slithering back to me to give me the supposed honor of redeeming myself to you if I somehow help you bust my mom. So you can be prom queen. Is that what you’re saying to me?”
“Don’t fuck around here.”
“Or what?” I cried. “You’ll dump me? Or shove me into a wall? Oh, wait. I forgot. You’ve already done that.”
“Screw you,” Sylvia said, slamming the palm of her hand into the metal stall. “You have to help me. I know I won that election.”
“Because you cheated!” I cried. “I saw you!”
Sylvia looked like she was going to haul off and punch me this time, but I didn’t flinch. “Did you do it with Beth? Did she help you steal ballots? Did you bond over being pregnant while you wrote your name—maybe even Ryan’s—on every single fucking line?”
