by Lara Zielin
It was past ten, but still my parents weren’t home. I had my cell phone out but they hadn’t called, and the landline remained quiet.
In the dark, in my pajamas, I’d walked outside to the front of the driveway and pulled the Monday edition of the St. Davis Letter from its plastic bin next to our mailbox. When I was back in my bedroom, I spread the newspaper out on my bed, took a deep breath, and looked at the first headline.
INVESTIGATION INTO PROM SCANDAL: PRINCIPAL ON THE OUTS?
I closed my eyes and suddenly didn’t want to read any more. I pushed the paper aside and grabbed the remote, clicking on the small television in the corner of my room. Technically I was violating the terms of my grounding, but my parents weren’t around to bust me for it.
Where could they be?
Evan Evans, a late-night talk show, was on, and I turned up the volume. I was only half listening to his monologue when my blood turned to ice.
“So, did you hear about Minnesota’s pregnant prom queen?” Evan asked his audience, chuckling. “She got the popular vote but not the electoral vote, so they’re making her go to the dance with Al Gore. The town is calling the whole thing An Inconvenient Youth.”
The audience laughed and they flashed to a Photoshopped picture of Al Gore dancing with a pregnant girl wearing a crown on her head. I shut off the TV and leaned back against my pillow. We’d made it onto a national late-night talk show. Fabulous.
Only one thought made its way into my head after that, and it was a question I didn’t want to know the answer to. What next?
Chapter Thirty-four
TUESDAY, APRIL 28 / 6:49 A.M.
“Aggie, wake up.”
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. My mom was standing in my doorway. She was showered and dressed and looked ready for work—except now she had no job to go to. Sunlight streamed in through my windows and flashed off the small metal bits on the toes of her shoes—the ones she’d bought during a shopping splurge in Chicago last year.
“What time is it?” I asked. I almost asked what day it was until I remembered: Tuesday.
“Time for you to get up. Your father and I need to speak with you in the kitchen.”
I was still in trouble. The thought made me fully awake. “Where were you guys last night?” I asked my mom’s retreating back.
“The lawyer’s office,” she said, her voice fading down the hallway.
Why? Are you going to sue the school? I wanted to ask, but she was already gone.
I climbed out of bed and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, noticing my cell was still on my bedside table. I grabbed it and tucked it into my pocket, hoping my mom wouldn’t find out I’d stolen it back. Then I headed to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. After a few minutes of quick prep, I went downstairs to the kitchen. My dad was already there, sitting at the table with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He was wearing one of his best suits, but it looked like he hadn’t shaved. His eyes were still bloodshot.
“Aggie,” my dad said, his lips hardly moving, “sit.” My mom was over near the sink, making tea. I paused, wondering if she was going to sit too, or if she was just going to stand as far away from me as she could. I wasn’t sure which would be worse.
I sat and looked at my dad. The kitchen table was where I’d first heard that my mom had breast cancer.
“Your mom tells me you went to the superintendent’s office yesterday,” my dad started. “She also said you addressed the superintendent directly, after she’d asked you to leave, and that you told him about how you believe the ballot boxes had been stuffed.”
I looked up. “The ballot boxes were stuffed,” I said. I looked over at my mom, who was still standing next to the sink, staring at her tea. “I saw Sylvia on two separate occa—”
My dad held up a hand. “Aggie, please. Just stop.” I snapped my mouth closed. The quiet, tired way my dad had spoken to me was worse than if he’d stood up and yelled at me.
“We were at our lawyer’s office until very late last night, trying to figure out where to go from here,” my dad continued. “There are some legal issues we still have to work out with the school board, and we’re preparing ourselves against potential lawsuits.”
Lawsuits? I suddenly felt shaky.
“Our lawyer,” my dad continued, “asked us to speak with you candidly about the prom situation in hopes that we could diminish your irrational behavior and reduce the potential that your actions would hurt us.”
Diminish my irrational behavior? Reduce the potential? My dad never spoke this way. Now he sounded like a lawyer. What were they talking about?
My mom finally joined us at the table. Her mouth was set when she looked at me, but something in her eyes had softened. “What your dad is saying,” she said, “is that you need to know the role I played in the prom situation. You need to know how things happened. Our hope is that if you know the truth, you’ll stop . . .”
“. . . meddling,” my dad finished for her.
I felt my face flush. Meddling. Wasn’t that the word they used on Scooby-Doo? Meddling. I was suddenly in the same league as a bumbling cartoon dog.
My mom cleared her throat. “What you need to know,” my mom said, sitting up a bit, “is that Mrs. Wagner brought the prom ballots to me right away after she counted them. She came into my office and told me Sylvia had enough votes to be queen. And when she did that, I acknowledged her information.”
I waited for more, my hands in a knot in my lap.
“So then what happened?” I asked.
“Mrs. Wagner asked what she should do. And I gave her my response. Which was to take care of it.”
My stomach lurched so hard I thought I might be sick again. “Take care of it? What does that mean?”
My dad looked at my face and let go of his coffee mug. “Your mom never told Mrs. Wagner to burn those ballots, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “Mrs. Wagner did that of her own accord.”
“But she never told her not to burn them,” I said. “I mean, take care of it? What was Mrs. Wagner supposed to think?”
My mom rubbed her forehead with her left hand. “We’re not telling you this so we can be judged by you, Margaret. We’re telling you this so you know there’s nothing left to do. So you know what happened. My mistake was that I wasn’t clear enough with Mrs. Wagner when she brought the ballots to me. I had no problem with Sylvia being queen, quite honestly, but I never said it directly. When I heard that Amy had made Marissa the queen, I figured we’d ensure nothing like this happened again by creating guidelines for next year’s vote. But, as you know, things spiraled out of control quickly. Too quickly for me to process. I faltered, and now I’m out of a job.
“Our lawyers thought that your understanding of this would allow you to let the topic go and stop talking about it. Even if the ballot boxes were stuffed, Mrs. Wagner burned them, so we can never prove it. What the ballots had on them is a moot point. We’re beyond that now. Do you understand?”
I shook my head. I definitely did not understand. “What the ballots had on them is the whole point!” I said. “Sylvia is going to get crowned, but she’s not the real queen. So how can what the ballots said be irrelevant?”
“Because I’ve resigned,” my mom said. “That’s why. It’s over for this family. Over. Period. I need to know you understand that.”
Rage and fury blinded me. It’s not over! I wanted to scream. And then suddenly I realized Rod Barris had been right. My mom had been involved in a prom cover-up. So what if my mom hadn’t told Mrs. Wagner to burn the ballots; she hadn’t told Mrs. Wagner not to, either. What was worse—pressing the button or just pretending the button didn’t exist?
I thought about my mom’s anger toward me when I screwed up—from sneaking out to talking to Rod Barris. I wanted to kick the table over. My mom had been pissed at me like I had spread lies and was the one who’d been wrong, but she was the one who was wrong—she had been at fault the whole time! She was t
he leader of the school, and when the school brought a major problem to her, she hadn’t acted. She’d frozen. And now that she’d resigned, she wanted to wash her hands of it like it was over. At least when I got in trouble, I stepped up to the counter for a plate of fuckup pie.
I stood up. It might be over for her, but it wasn’t over for me.
“Margaret, sit down,” my mom said. But I didn’t move. My mom, who hated messes, had made the biggest mess ever. It was all her. Her fault. Her school. Her disaster.
“You might be washing your hands of this,” I said, my voice thick with fury, “but I’m not. I don’t care what your stupid lawyers say. Everything is as wrong as it ever was.” I glared at my mom. “More wrong, in fact.”
My mom’s face paled, and she looked like she’d just been slapped. It was like all her anger from before had seeped out and had been transferred over to me.
I walked out of the kitchen to where my backpack was lying in the hallway.
“Aggie!” my dad said. I heard the scrape as he pushed his chair back from the table. “We’re not done here.”
Oh yes, we are, I thought. I grabbed my bag and stepped outside. I was headed to school. Enough was enough. I slammed the door behind me and started walking.
A mile away from my house I called Jess on my cell. “I’m at the corner of Pixley and Grant,” I said. “Can you pick me up and take me to school?”
“What are you doing there?” Jess asked.
“It’s a long story. Just come pick me up, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Hold tight, I’ll be there in a few.”
While I waited, I scrolled through a pile of e-mails and texts on my phone. One was from Tiffany Holland. U see this? was the subject. It was a link, and when I clicked on it, it took me to a photo album Sylvia had posted to Flickr. The pictures were of Sylvia in New York, smiling on the set of the Martin Pollock Show. In all of them, her pregnant belly—covered by a tight black T-shirt with an anarchy symbol on it—was round enough to make me wonder if she’d started wearing maternity pants. I’d already closed my phone by the time I realized I didn’t even know if she was having a boy or a girl.
Ten minutes later, I was safely buckled into Jess’s car and we were headed toward school. As she drove, I explained to her what my mom had said about telling Mrs. Wagner to take care of the ballots, and how she was washing her hands of the whole situation now that she’d resigned.
“Jesus,” said Jess. “That’s completely crazy. Not to mention irresponsible.”
“I know,” I said, looking out the window. I tilted my head and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I can’t believe she was pissed at me this whole time, when she was the one who had screwed everything up.”
Jess didn’t say anything until we got to the school parking lot. “So now what?” she asked, pulling into a space and cutting off her engine. I lifted my head and watched the kids streaming into the school.
That’s a great question, I thought. I looked at Jess, whose eyes were large with worry.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” I said, “so I guess the only thing to do is go in and find out.”
Jess fiddled with the sleeves of her shirt. “Yeah, okay,” she said, but didn’t move.
“What?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
“Uh, Ag, I gotta tell you something.” There was a note in her voice that didn’t sound right.
“What is it?”
“So I guess Sylvia got back from the Martin Pollock Show last night, and someone showed her that article in the Letter where ‘a source close to Gail Winchester’ says she’s carrying Ryan’s baby. She heard about how everyone was making fun of Ryan yesterday for it, and I hear she’s on the warpath. She’s figured the source in the story is you, and she wants revenge. I’m just saying—watch out.”
I wanted to be defensive, but I knew I’d broken my promise to Sylvia. It wasn’t right for me to have told Rod Barris anything. Sylvia had been awful, yes, but I’d officially iced the friendship by betraying her secret.
Jess pulled out her cell phone. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be there in a second, and I might look small, but I can kick some ass.”
I nodded, but I knew that Jess, as tough as she was, wouldn’t really be able to help me when things got messy. This was something I’d have to face alone.
Chapter Thirty-five
TUESDAY, APRIL 28 / 8:12 A.M.
I went to study hall and said hello to Fitz, but after only a few minutes at my desk, I was called down to Mrs. Mayteg’s office. She was a counselor who smelled like cinnamon sticks, and she wanted to know how I was “holding up.”
“I heard you’ve had some difficulty recently,” Mrs. Mayteg said from her office chair, which was positioned underneath a poster that said HEAR THE POPS—THE POWER OF POSITIVE STUDENTS.
“What do you mean?”
“Some communication with local reporters, a few run-ins with Mrs. Wagner’s cheerleaders.”
Mrs. Mayteg didn’t know the half of it.
“Yeah. Well.”
“Aggie, this situation must be very hard on you. Not to mention on your family. Your mom’s job . . .”
Mrs. Mayteg trailed off, and I think she was waiting for me to complete the sentence with something like, “I know, it’s horrible,” or “Can you believe this is happening?” Mrs. Mayteg looked like she felt sorry for me, pitied me, even, but I didn’t feel like I needed her droopy emotions hanging over me.
For the first time in a long time, I actually felt strong. Whether it was because I was teetering on the edge of a dangerous run-in with Sylvia and Beth, or because I’d learned the truth about my mom, or because I realized my sins weren’t worse than anyone else’s, or because Fitz Peterson and I had figured out how to be friends with potential, I didn’t know. But something was different, and I didn’t need the shelter of the counselor’s office to protect me from whatever storm was waiting for me in the halls.
“I’m okay,” I said, sitting up straighter. Mrs. Mayteg looked like she didn’t believe me, but after I spent a few more moments convincing her that my schoolwork hadn’t suffered from the prom affair, she finally let me go. But not without giving me a sticky note and writing her home phone number on it.
“Just in case, Aggie,” she said, and I nodded. I folded the sticky note and put it in my pocket, inhaling Mrs. Mayteg’s cinnamon smell as I left her office.
The halls were all but empty and the bell was about to ring as I headed toward second period. Just as I rounded the last corner on my way to class, Sylvia and Beth ambushed me. And by ambushed, I mean walked right up to me and shoved me into the lockers.
“Ow,” I said when the small of my back collided with the hard metal of a combination lock.
“You little bitch,” said Beth, getting right up in my face. Her breath smelled like cigarettes and Cap’n Crunch. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
I didn’t answer. I’d expected this moment, but now that it was here, I had no idea what to say.
I looked over to Sylvia. Her jaw was set and her face was contorted with anger. She glared at me with such hate, I thought I could feel the hallway heat up.
“You know what the latest news is?” Beth asked, not waiting for me to answer. “That Sylvia is carrying Ryan Rollings’s baby. Now, who do you think started that little rumor?”
I shrugged. “Your dad, maybe? After you used his janitor’s keys to steal ballots?” I looked at Sylvia. “Her dad’s the janitor, in case you didn’t hear. She’s from Walker, not New York.”
The next thing I knew, the back of my head hit the lockers and a hot light burst in front of my eyeballs. Without really knowing I was doing it, I fell to my knees.
I’d been punched.
Everything was blurry, and I tried to open my left eye but couldn’t. I reached up and felt something sticky. Blood.
Just as I was getting to my feet, Beth’s black boot collided with my gut. I was back on my knees in an instant,
my eyes bugging out as I struggled for air.
“You want to say anything else about my dad?” Beth asked. “Because I swear, if you tell anyone that I took his keys, I’ll kill you.” I looked over at Sylvia, who was now standing a good foot away. She actually half smiled as I struggled to my feet. Just when I was standing, Beth came at me again.
“I’m sick of you talking about things you think you know. You’re going to shut the fuck up if I have to bash your mouth myself.” Beth’s fist powered toward my lip. I lifted my hand in time to avoid most of the blow, but she still made contact.
I was back on my knees in a second. I flinched, expecting another blow, but just then I heard footsteps and shouting. Someone’s hands lifted me from underneath my arms and hauled me to my feet.
“You okay?” a voice asked. I squinted to try and make out who it was. It was definitely a teacher, but I couldn’t tell who. I tried to nod, but pain shot through my head and neck.
“All of you to the office now,” another voice said.
Struggling to see and breathe, I let the teachers lead me down the hall.
Vice Principal Monroe looked from Sylvia to Beth to me. His pale eyebrows were practically safety-pinned together, and his long, skinny fingers kept drumming out an anxious beat on his desk.
I held the ice pack that the nurse had given me over my left eye and tried to focus on Mr. Monroe with my one good eye. It wasn’t easy.
“Who’s going to tell me what happened?” Mr. Monroe asked, still drumming his fingers.
The whole room stayed quiet except for his tapping.
“All right, look,” Mr. Monroe said, pushing his rolling chair away from his desk. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Sylvia, I suggest you start talking. We can take away your crown for this.”
