All's Fair in Love, War, and High School

by Janette Rallison

  Doug raised an eyebrow, but before he could comment about Logan's organizational skills, or anything else, I saw my chance for escape. The girls' bathroom was off to my left.

  I veered sharply in that direction and gave Doug a wave as I did. "See you later."

  Once inside the bathroom, I leaned up against the wall and stared at myself in the mirror. I didn't want to have to keep worrying about this type of thing. I didn't want to have to dart through the hallways avoiding Doug. I needed a date for the prom. Soon.

  I couldn't think about anything else for the rest of the day, which is why, when school ended and I headed down the school steps, I almost thought I was imagining things. There, standing on the school steps, looking like the angel-of-teenage-girls'-daydreams had just dropped him off, was Josh.

  I nearly stumbled at the sight of him. I caught myself before I did—which was a good thing, since I'm sure the very last way to impress a guy is to pitch yourself down a flight of stairs, arms waving and books flying in all directions. Josh was turned sideways talking to someone, so he didn't see my hesitancy. Another good thing. I had a moment to compose myself before I walked up to him.

  And I was going to walk up to him. I was going to walk up and say something charming and witty. I wasn't sure what, but I had a dozen steps to figure it out.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Okay, I couldn't come up with anything charming or witty, but I was still going to stop, say hi, and welcome him back to Pullman.

  Then I saw who Josh was talking to—Logan. I was half tempted to keep on walking, but instead I called out, "Hey Josh, what brings you back to high school?"

  He glanced up and gave me a grin that nearly toppled me down the rest of the stairs anyway. "I'm meeting Elise here to give her a ride to our store. She's helping me do inventory today."

  Great. If I stayed here talking to Josh, I'd have to endure not only Logan but also Elise.

  Still, I smiled back at Josh and stayed. That's how good he looked.

  Logan ignored me and continued the conversation he'd been having with Josh. "So who else did you see from Pullman at college?"

  "Bob and I had chemistry together, and I wouldn't have survived it without his help. He aced all his classes. He was one of the few freshmen I knew who actually had time for socializing."

  I leaned a bit closer to Josh. "Somehow I can't imagine you sat home every night."

  "No, of course not," he said. "I spent every night at the library."

  I laughed lightly, and Logan raised an eyebrow at me. He was wondering why I was here, and I was wishing he would leave. I wanted him to go away so Josh could look at me softly and tell me he'd been a fool last year not to sweep me off my feet. Both of us stayed put. I ignored Logan and watched Josh talk, watched the way his blue eyes reflected the sunlight like they were two pieces of the sky.

  Not only would we honeymoon in Spain, we'd buy a small villa there and spend our evenings listening to Castanet music and dancing underneath the stars.

  Logan said, "But then you've always hated biology class, haven't you, Samantha?"

  I had no idea what the conversation currently was about, and I struggled to think of a reply that wouldn't expose this. "I have other classes I like more."

  Logan snapped his fingers. "What was that limerick you made up about Mr. Jones? Something about him being a missing link?"

  Actually the limerick said Mr. Jones was missing all of his links, but I didn't correct Logan. "That was so long ago. I really don't remember." Then with a smile I added, "Mr. Jones is really a very good teacher and a nice man."

  Josh nodded. "Sometimes the harder they are, the more you learn."

  "Uh-huh." Logan's eyes narrowed. "And what about that lab partner you got stuck with last semester. Remember when he set your biology book on fire? What was that name you always called him at work?"

  "Adam," I said. "His name was Adam."

  "Uh-huh," Logan said again.

  I smiled over at Josh. "So are you glad to be home?"

  He turned his sky-blue eyes on me. "Sure, and getting gladder all the time."

  Was he flirting or just glad to be out of biology class? I leaned even closer to him. "Maybe now you'll be able to catch up on your social life."

  "More likely, I'll get my dad caught up on every backyard-landscaping project he's had since last September."

  Did Josh not get my hint, or was he just choosing to ignore it?

  Logan, however, understood. He looked at me and then rolled his eyes like he couldn't believe I was hitting on Josh on the school steps.

  Josh didn't notice the exchange between Logan and me. He lifted a hand and waved to someone up the stairs, then called out, "Elise, over here."

  Not only Elise but Cassidy walked down to where we stood. And Cassidy shot me a sharp glare.

  Cassidy, who always wore a saintly expression of kindness, looked like she wanted to burn down my villa in Spain.

  So, it wasn't as over for her as she'd professed.

  Elise said, "Josh, what are you doing here?" and then added, "Oh, that's right. I forgot you were coming to pick me up."

  Elise would have failed a drama class. She couldn't even pull off acting surprised. She had obviously not told Cassidy that Josh was coming to the school, and she was feigning forgetfulness as an excuse for putting her friend in an uncomfortable situation. She smiled over at Cassidy and added, "Do you want us to drop you off at your house? It'll be just like old times."

  Cassidy held her books closer against her chest. "No, that's all right. It's out of your way."

  "It's no problem," Josh said.

  "No, really," Cassidy said. "See you guys tomorrow." Then she walked down the rest of the steps.

  Josh watched her go, and I watched Josh watch her go. Logan must have watched me watching Josh watch her, because when I turned back to the group, Logan rolled his eyes at me again.

  Josh reached into his pocket and took out his car keys. "Well, I guess we'd better not keep Dad waiting."

  Elise just sighed and said, "Okay, let's go."

  As they went down the rest of the stairs Josh turned and said, "Nice seeing you guys again," but he looked at me as he said it, and he smiled. Which was a good sign, wasn't it?

  I stood on the stairs, not wanting to follow right after him—that would be awkward since he'd just said good-bye to me—and yet not really having any reason to stay on the stairs.

  Logan folded his arms and shook his head slowly at me. "So tell me, do you just naturally flirt with every guy in the vicinity? Is it some sort of compulsion that you can't help?"

  "I don't flirt with you."

  "Then you're saying you think about it beforehand. You lay out your web like a spider waiting for its prey."

  I bit my lip before I could tell him what species in the animal kingdom he was most like.

  Compliments . . . compliments . . . one quick shove and he'll go flying down the stairs . . .

  I marshaled all my self-control. "How come I can't insult you, but you have no qualms about insulting me?"

  "Well, I guess that's because we didn't make a bet that I couldn't go two weeks without insulting people." He smiled, showing a set of perfectly white teeth. "You still have ten days left." He started down the steps himself. "You know, it's gonna be a fun ten days."

  Chapter 8

  I thought about Josh off and on at school the next day. I especially thought about him in between classes while I was avoiding Doug in the hallways.

  I would have preferred to run into Josh here and there around town and wait for something to happen between us. That's how romances ideally develop, but the prom was coming up. I needed to be bold.

  Only I wasn't quite sure how to go about being bold. Did I call him to chat, and then see how he acted? Ask him outright? Maybe drop by the office-supply store Josh worked at and casually buy thousands of Post-it notes while I worked up my courage? What did one say to a guy w
ho had rejected you the year before?

  The confident approach: "So, are you any smarter about women this year?"

  The witty approach: "So, I see you've changed a lot of things about yourself. Did you change your mind too?"

  Or perhaps I could just go with the desperate approach: "Please tell me I'm not second-best anymore."

  When the last bell rang, I followed the throng of students out the door, still contemplating it all. I never made it to the parking lot. Rachel and Aubrie intercepted me halfway down the school steps.

  "There you are," Aubrie said.

  "We have to talk." Rachel looked around as if trying to assess the best place. "Let's go back inside."

  "What is it?"

  Neither of them answered until we went back up the school steps and stood by the gym, away from the main flow of students. Then Rachel unfolded a piece of yellow paper for me to see. "Someone put flyers on all the car windshields."

  In large handwriting it said:

  Vote for Sanaatha Taylor?

  She got an 810 on the S.A.T.

  Be smart and vote for someone else.

  As soon as I read it, I swear, my stomach jumped up and grabbed on to my throat. I didn't know what to say. I just stood there gripping the flyer and repeated "Oh, no!" about seventeen times.

  Before I made it to the eighteenth, Rachel said, "Who did you tell about your SAT score?"

  It wasn't hard to pick the culprit. "Cassidy Woodruff."

  Rachel put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at me. "And why would you have been stupid enough to do that?"

  "I trusted her. I thought I could convince her to come over to our side."

  "How? By letting her know you're an idiot?"

  I crumpled up the flyer, trying to smash the words off the paper. "You don't need to rub it in."

  I stepped over to a hall trash can and shoved the flyer in- side. As I did, Rachel took my arm and tried to stop me. "Hey, wait, we need that as evidence."

  It was too late, though. I'd already put the flyer in the trash, and I was not about to put my hand in there to try and find it.

  "Don't worry," Aubrie said glumly. "There are tons more of them outside."

  I groaned. My stomach had not only grabbed on to my throat, it was now trying to climb up. Aubrie and Rachel walked back outside, and I followed after them. We spent the next few minutes taking the flyers off the cars that were still in the parking lot. Which wasn't many. Most of the students at PHS didn't stick around long after the bell rang.

  Ripping flyers off windshields was a totally humiliating experience. Each time I saw my name on those papers, it caused a jabbing feeling in the place my stomach used to be. How many students saw this flyer? And what would they think of me now? Would I be remembered not as a leader, but just as some stupid cheerleader? I wished I had never run for president. I wished the next time Cassidy gave someone that phony smile, her face broke in half.

  After we finished with the windshields, we started on the rest of the parking lot. Flyers lay scattered from one end to the other. I assumed most people just pulled them off their windshields and left them on the ground—which, in a way, was a good sign for me. At least it meant no one took them home to keep as treasured mementos. Maybe some of the kids didn't even read them. Maybe it wouldn't be a big deal at all.

  I clutched the stack of flyers in my hand. Who was I kidding? This was war, and I'd just been dealt an ugly, ugly blow. Only I wasn't about to declare this battle over. Oh, no. I'd just begun to fight. I regretted I only had but one life to give to my cause . . . and whatever that other war saying was . . . something about torpedoes. Anyway, if Amy wanted a fight, I'd give it to her.

  After we'd collected all of the flyers, we sat down on a grassy hill by the parking lot to plan our counterattack.

  "I say we take these flyers into the office and have Amy busted," I said.

  Aubrie shook her head. "They won't do anything about it. We can't prove she was the one who did it."

  "They could match her handwriting."

  Rachel grunted. "That's not Amy's handwriting. She wouldn't have been foolish enough to write them herself." She held up one of the flyers until it was just inches away from her face. "Besides, it's a guy's handwriting."

  Now I examined one of the papers. It did look like a guy's writing. The lettering didn't flow. It just stuck up in tall, uneven lines—like whoever wrote it was in a hurry. Guys' writing always looks that way.

  So Amy must have had a friend, or a brother, or some lowlife from her criminal double existence write it for her.

  Someone untraceable. Still, I studied every single letter on the flyer in hopes I'd be able to recognize it if I ever saw it again.

  Most of it could have been anybody's writing, but the e's were distinctive. Their loops pointed up in skinny juts, almost like they were sloppy i"s. I'd watch for those e's again, probably for the rest of my life. Someday I'd be in a nursing home and notice that the old man sitting next to me wrote those kinds of e's. Then I'd reach over and smack him with my cane.

  Rachel nodded toward the school. "I say we rip down all of Amy's posters."

  I thought about it for a moment, but only for a moment. Those speeches on fairness and how I didn't want to run a mean campaign seemed very far away, their words faint. Much fainter than the handwriting in front of me. "Yeah," I said softly. "That would make me feel better."

  We left the parking lot and walked back to the school. A few people still straggled down the stairs. How many students and, more importantly, how many teachers were inside?

  If my stomach hadn't already gone AWOL, it would have fled now. I wished Chelsea was here with us. Chelsea wasn't afraid of anything, and I could have used some of her courage. But she walked home every day and must not have seen the flyers. I envied her ignorance.

  I whispered to the others, "We're just getting stuff from our lockers. Act casual."

  Rachel rolled her eyes at me. "You think? I'd planned on darting suspiciously back and forth down the hallways."

  I walked faster. I didn't need her sarcasm. I wanted to tell her to forget the whole thing. I'd take care of the posters myself. But the truth was, I needed my friends' help. I couldn't risk getting caught taking the posters down myself.

  We walked into a hallway that had two Amy posters hanging on the walls. "All right," I said. "I'll stand guard and make sure the coast is clear. If anyone comes this way, I'll start coughing."

  "What if someone comes from the other end of the hallway?" Aubrie asked.

  "No one will," Rachel said, and pulled Aubrie toward the posters. I could tell Rachel just wanted to get the whole thing over with. Maybe she wanted it over so badly she wouldn't be careful. After all, it wasn't her presidency at stake. I hoped she'd at least look around before she started ripping things down.

  I glanced at them as they walked toward a poster, then turned the other way. It wouldn't do any good to have me stand guard if I didn't pay attention.

  The hallway in front of me stood silent and empty, but what if someone came? Would Rachel and Aubrie even hear my coughing? Maybe if I also pretended to have a seizure at the same time, it would cause such a commotion that no one would notice Rachel and Aubrie shoving large pieces of poster board into the garbage can.

  I scanned the hallway in front of me for a minute and listened to the quiet in the hallway behind me. Were they finished? It seemed like they should be, but I didn't want to turn around in case I missed someone approaching.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  When I was just about to turn around and check on my friends, a guy from my Spanish class turned the corner and walked down the hall toward me.

  I didn't know much about Bentley Roberts beyond the fact that he spoke Spanish well and was really annoying about it. He'd spent the last summer in South America in a student exchange program and now considered himself an expert on all things Latino. Occasionally he corrected us on our accents in class or told us our d's we
ren't soft enough. I avoided him when I could. Now he walked right toward me.

  I coughed, and then coughed again. I still didn't hear anything from behind me, so I coughed louder, this time thumping my chest for added effect.

  Bentley paused as he came to me. "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah—" I coughed again. "I just have"—I added a few more coughs—"—allergies."

  His brows furrowed, as though he expected me to collapse at any moment. "Are you going to be okay?"

  I would be if Rachel and Aubrie suddenly appeared. What were they waiting for—the paramedics? "Oh sure—" cough, cough. "It comes and goes." I patted my chest as though the coughing were about to subside.

  Bentley nodded, but didn't go past me. He still wore a look of concern. "What are you allergic to?"

  "Urn," this was an answer I should have known, but didn't. I struggled for a moment to think of something—anything— people were allergic to. "Ragweed," I said, and then because he seemed to be looking around the hallway in search of a ragweed bush, I added, "Sometimes I just get an attack out of the blue."

  "Oh."

  I tried to think of something else to stall him. "Don't you have any allergies?"

  "No, but whenever I drink milk, I get indigestion."

  "Oh. Well. Sorry to hear that." I could think of absolutely nothing else to say to that, so I just stood there staring at him for a moment. When he was about to walk past me, I blurted out, "That must be hard. I mean, how do you eat cold cereal in the morning?"

  "Usually I don't. I just have toast."

  I nodded as though I found this a fascinating fact. "I guess I'm lucky ragweed doesn't belong to one of the four food groups."

  "They make non-dairy milk you can put on cereal, but it doesn't taste the same."

  "Oh." And that was about as far as I could drag this conversation out.

  "Well, I hope you feel better," he said, and walked past me.