by Lara Zielin
I stared at Rod. “Yes. But what does that have to do with anything?”
Rod looked up from his notebook. “Nothing. I’m just trying to make sure I have all my facts straight.”
“She had a lumpectomy, but it was outpatient. She’s fine. They say she has ‘clean margins,’ and I guess that’s good.”
“Undergoing radiation?”
“No. Not yet. She needs a couple more weeks to heal before they do that. Or at least that’s what my dad said.”
I took another drink of coffee. Rod did the same.
“So, the part about Sylvia tampering with the ballots,” I said. “Are you going to print that?”
Rod looked at the bottom of his mug, then at me. “Out of everything we’ve talked about, I’m not quite sure that’s the most interesting.”
I blinked. “Then what is?”
“Well, essentially you’ve confirmed that your mom has known about the ballots being burned since Monday, and she’s done nothing. Not one thing. And today is Friday. Why do you think that is?”
I struggled to keep my thoughts ordered. “Well, not because she’s guilty, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I have Mrs. Wagner on record saying she was told by your mom to burn the ballots and crown Marissa queen.”
“Wait, you talked to Mrs. Wagner already?”
“Yes. She called my office this afternoon. She explained her side of the story and said that the school was going to make it look like she’d acted independently to try and keep Sylvia off the throne.”
“She did act independently!”
Rod set down his pen. “Except you just confirmed your mom knew about the ballot burning.”
“Knowing and condoning are two different things,” I said.
“That still doesn’t explain why your mom hasn’t done anything yet, Aggie. No disciplinary action, no revote, no nothing.”
“Maybe she and the other administrators are just—I don’t know, trying to figure it out or something.”
“Trying to figure it out or trying to cover it up?”
“Even if that were the case, which it’s not,” I argued, “you still have bogus ballots in play. I saw Sylvia with the fakes.”
Rod tucked his notebook back into his shirt pocket. “It’s a tough sell. Much like Tiffany Holland, you have personal motives in this. Unlike Tiffany, you won’t go on record.”
“What? You didn’t tell me that was going to be an issue.”
“It’s just harder to quote an anonymous source with no proof.”
“You’re not going to have a hard time quoting me confirming the ballot burning, though, are you?”
“In the case of the burned ballots, you’re both a source close to the person in question—i.e., your mom—and you’re confirming something Mrs. Wagner already said. But accusing Sylvia of tampering with the prom ballots is a whole different ball of wax. Do you know of anyone who can confirm what you’ve told me? Anyone else who might have seen her?”
I thought about Beth and Jefferson—but they’d never come forward. “No.”
“Then I’m not going to print it.”
My head was starting to throb. “You’re piecing together what works for you!” I cried. “You’re not being fair!” From across the café, people turned to stare. I lowered my voice. “Look, run your story, but don’t throw my mom under the bus. Okay?”
Rod shrugged. “I’m sorry, Aggie. But I’m thirty-two years old, and I don’t want to write for the St. Davis Letter forever. I need a story that’s going to get my name out there. I want to make it good, but make no mistake, I’m not so desperate that I’ll print misinformation. I’ll lay the facts out, and then readers can draw their own conclusions about your mom’s guilt or innocence. But I can’t—I won’t—get lost in a lot of conjecture about stolen ballots.”
“What, suddenly you now have journalistic integrity? That’s funny because I didn’t see any of that when you were tricking me into believing you were writing a bass-fishing story a couple days ago.”
Rod stood. “I should go.”
He pushed his chair back, but I reached for his arm. “Wait.”
“What?”
“There’s—there’s something more. If I tell you this next thing, which is huge, will you please put in the part about how Sylvia stole the ballots?”
Rod frowned. “Aggie, as I told you, I’m going to write the facts as they stand. I can’t print speculation.”
“Okay, but even if this thing is really, really good?”
Rod didn’t say anything for a second. “How good are we talking?”
I looked down at the table, then back at Rod. “It’s the thing that explains Sylvia’s reasons. For stealing the ballots and wanting to be queen, I mean. She’s—”
I stopped. I was on the cusp of telling a slime-bag reporter that Sylvia was pregnant with Ryan’s Rollings’s baby. No matter what Sylvia had done to me, I couldn’t betray her like this. It wouldn’t make any difference to the story now anyway. Rod had his so-called facts, and he wasn’t changing them.
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.”
Rod sat back down at the table. “I have to say, I would be interested in hearing Sylvia’s purpose for stuffing the ballot boxes. If there is one.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up. I’m not going to tell you. I can’t.”
Rod clicked and unclicked his pen. “Perhaps, if you did, I could try to work the missing ballots into the story. Maybe there is an angle there.”
My uneasiness was back. Trusting Rod didn’t feel right. “How do I know you’re not just blowing smoke up my ass?”
“You don’t. But if you don’t tell me, then the story is going to run as I explained it to you, without even a hint of Sylvia’s role in it.”
In that instant, I felt like I completely understood what Catch-22 was about. It was what happened when you looked at a situation and there was no good way out. In this case, I either betrayed Sylvia or I let the paper run a story that could damage my mom. “Fine,” I said. I took a deep breath. Could I really do this? I closed my eyes and spit the words out as quickly as I could. “Sylvia’s pregnant with the prom king’s baby. She’s carrying Ryan Rollings’s kid.”
I opened my eyes. Rod Barris stared at me for a long moment. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“So she’s determined to be queen to . . . what? To prove something to the kid’s dad?”
“Yeah. That she’s good enough for him. She told me so herself.”
Rod pulled his tablet back out of his pocket and jotted something down. I took a swig of cold coffee and waited until he was done.
“I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped me, Aggie,” he said. He extended his hand, but I didn’t take it.
“So, what—that’s it? You don’t want to know more?”
“I have what I need. I appreciate your time.”
Something felt off. “Wait, how are you going to change your story?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“But you’ll put that stuff in? About the ballots, right?”
Rod stood up. “Thanks again for your time.”
My skin began to prickle. “Hey, wait. You can’t just leave.”
Rod pushed in his chair and turned his back to me. Dread curled my toes. I felt like I’d just made a deal with the devil.
To my horror, my throat thickened and tears spilled forward. I could barely see Rod through my watery eyes as he stepped out of Tickywinn’s.
“Oh God,” I whispered, “what have I done?”
Chapter Twenty-five
FRIDAY, APRIL 24 / 5:00 P.M.
When I pulled into the driveway at five, my mom’s car was already there. She hadn’t been home before six in days, and anxiety started bubbling in my stomach.
I set down my bag and walked into the kitchen. “Hello?” I called.
My mom came stomping down the hallway. Her suit coat was off, but she was still wearing her starched s
hirt and skirt.
“Margaret Winchester, where have you been?” she asked, her hands resting on her hips.
I took a step back. The prom scandal was exploding all around her, and she wanted to know where I’d been?
“At Tickywinn’s,” I answered.
“The attendance office called me,” she said. “They said you missed all your afternoon classes. Again. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
My mom threw up her hands. “Aggie,” she said, her voice rising, “what do I have to do to get you to listen to me? You know there are other issues going on right now. This is a bad time, and I don’t need you complicating things by running off and skipping school. Do I make myself clear?”
“Fine.”
My mom brushed past me and started slamming cupboards, pulling out a bottle of wine, a glass, and an opener.
“Who were you with?” she asked as I stood a couple feet away and watched her.
“No one.”
My mom turned around like a rattlesnake striking. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
She slammed the opener into the cork. “I don’t believe you. Were you with Sylvia? Did you two make up?”
“No.”
“Then who was with you?”
In less than a second, my mom had crossed the space between us and was standing right in front of me. She looked like she did the first night I’d found out she had cancer, like she was totally ready to lose it. “Who were you with?”
I took a deep breath. “Rod Barris.”
My mom’s eyes widened. “From the St. Davis Letter?” she asked, gripping me impossibly hard.
I nodded, and she released my arm in disgust. “Aggie, you didn’t. Do you know he’s been calling me for the last four days trying to get an interview? I haven’t said a word, and now here you are having coffee with him.”
“I thought—I mean, I was trying to do the right thing.” My voice was getting higher, and I struggled to keep calm. “He had questions about the prom, and I thought I could answer them.”
My mom was back in my face again. “What did you tell him?”
My heart raced. I didn’t want to confess how I’d thought that by meeting with Rod, I could set the record straight about the prom. I wasn’t convinced I’d succeeded, and in fact I was pretty sure I’d been played. Again. “He just asked me questions about Sylvia mostly,” I lied.
“Did you say anything to him related to our discussion the other night? Specifically anything about me?”
“Just that Mrs. Wagner burned the ballots without you knowing.”
“Did you confirm that she came to me after the election?”
“Sort of, yes.”
My mom’s eyes blazed. “Dammit!” she swore. “Why did you do that?”
“But—isn’t it true?”
“This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. Don’t you see? You’ve placed me smack in the middle of this controversy by confirming I knew what was going on the day of the voting. If people read that, they’re going to assume that since I knew what was happening on Monday, I should have done something about it by now.”
I shifted my weight and thought about how Rod had said the exact same thing. “But why—I mean, why haven’t you done anything? It’s Friday, Mom. What’s going on?”
My mom’s hands started to shake. She wouldn’t look at me. “I just need more time. I just need . . .” She reached out and put both hands on the counter. Her head dropped.
“Mom,” I said. I tried reaching out, but she shook me off.
“Leave me alone.”
“Mom, listen. Whatever I told Rod, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just trying to help.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “It’ll only be a matter of time before Rod Barris puts together his masterpiece for the St. Davis Letter and it’s over. And all this after I asked you to just behave, and to stay out of things.”
“But wait,” I said, grasping at options. Here’s the thing. I exchanged information with Rod so he’d write about how I saw Sylvia stealing ballots. I told him Ryan Rollings was the father of her baby. Oh God, it sounded ridiculous, even in my own head. I couldn’t say it out loud.
“I’m waiting, Aggie.”
“I don’t know. I was just trying to help.”
My mom’s nostrils flared slightly. “Here’s the bottom line. You knew better than to talk to Rod. But you did it anyway. Just like you do everything else. You have no regard for anyone but yourself.”
My thoughts were trembling. I was trying to tell the truth. I opened my mouth again, but she held up her hand. “Go to your room. You’re grounded for the next week. At least. I want you here after school and on weekends. No leaving unless you get prior permission first. And I want to know who you’re with and what you intend to do.”
“But Mom—”
She didn’t let me finish. “Go!”
Without another word, I dragged myself up the stairs to my bedroom.
When my dad came home around seven, I strained from the confines of my bedroom to listen to what my mom said to him, but all I could make out was the low murmur of voices in the kitchen. At one point my dad stomped past my room, but he didn’t stop to check on me.
I closed my eyes and squeezed back the tears, wishing I had Neil’s arms around me. I couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had reached out to touch me—not even for a hug.
I might be grounded, but I’d still sneak out and see Neil tonight. Fuck it. He felt like the only thin thread connecting me to love—or to anything really except anger and disappointment. I just prayed that my parents would be asleep by the time I lifted my window and crawled into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-six
SATURDAY, APRIL 25 / 12:02 A.M.
I passed under a stooped birch at the end of Neil’s driveway and tried not to breathe too deeply as I approached his window.
I tapped on the pane—once, twice. I counted the seconds to stop the panic climbing up my brain stem. Finally, Neil pushed aside his curtain and motioned for me to come to the back door.
I waited, shivering, until he opened it. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to his bedroom. He closed the door and held me close.
I breathed in the rich smell of him, comforting and familiar.
“Hey,” he said, pushing back my hair. “Glad you made it.” Before I knew it, he’d leaned in and kissed me. Instinctively, I reached out and touched his face, the rugged smoothness of it sending sparks shooting along my fingertips.
“I missed you,” he said. He sat on the bed and pulled me on top of him. I didn’t resist. Within moments we were rolling and groaning quietly, careful not to be too loud.
My whole body was hot with anticipation, but every time I closed my eyes, my brain started firing off questions. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you talk about where your relationship stands before you make out? What if Neil is just using you again?
The questions came to a screeching halt when I felt Neil’s throbbing penis against my thigh. I gasped, and he kissed my neck.
“Did you ever . . . ,” he whispered.
I sat up on one elbow. “What?”
“Did you ever do it with anyone?”
I steadied my breathing. “If you’re asking me if I’m still a virgin, then yes.”
After homecoming, I had wanted to have sex with Neil. I’d wanted him to be the One—my first. But we’d never gotten the chance, thanks to him dumping me.
“Me too,” Neil said.
I felt like there was more he wasn’t saying. “And?”
“I just always wanted it to be you,” he said, running a finger along my ribs. “Always.”
Is this why you wanted to get back together? I wanted to ask. My brain was humming like my computer processor.
“I have condoms,” Neil continued. “If you . . . you know.”
I sat up fully. Neil did the same. “Neil, I just—”
To my surprise, Neil cut me off
. “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to explain.”
“But I want to explain,” I insisted. “I thought that’s why I was here. So I could explain how I felt, and so could you. Wasn’t I coming over so we could work things out between us?”
“Totally,” Neil said, running a hand through his hair. “Absolutely.”
An awkward silence fell between us. Finally, I spoke. “If you want to get back together, then I need to know we’re together. That you won’t like me one minute and then pretend not to know me the next. It tears my heart out when you do that. If that’s not what we’re going to be, then—then I should go.”
Neil leaned in and touched my thigh. He began moving his hands upward. “Don’t go. That’s not how it’ll be.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “For real?”
“For real.”
My body was heating up in relation to how high his hand was going. “This time it will be different?” I asked.
“Definitely.”
He’s never said he wanted to get back together before, I told myself, trying to focus. So this must be for real.
And that’s when another thought crammed itself in my brain like a file folder into an already stuffed drawer. If you have sex with Neil, maybe that will seal the deal officially. Then you really will be back together. Maybe that’s what it will take.
I wished suddenly for a brain noose that would cut off blood flow to whichever part of my mind had thought that. No, no, no, I repeated to myself silently. That is not an option.
Neil pressed himself against me. “I love you so much. And I always wanted us to be each other’s firsts.”
I kissed him—a long, aching kiss that left me shaking. “I wanted that too,” I said. “I still do. But we’re going to have to rebuild what we had.”
Neil nodded. “I know. But I want to try. Do you?” He pressed himself against me, harder this time.
I exhaled and let myself feel him fully. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Neil was draped across me when my cell phone alarm buzzed. I pushed him off and checked the screen. Three thirty A.M. Plenty of time for me to sneak back home, throw my tackle together, and pad downstairs for breakfast with my dad before we headed to the bass tournament together.
