How to Take the Ex Out of Ex-Boyfriend

by Janette Rallison

  “Right,” I added. “Plus I’ll also get to keep all of your stuff.” I expected Dante to throw some comment back at me. Or to laugh—something that would break the tension. But he didn’t. He stared at Wilson.

  “So does our class get to vote on the theme for the float?”

  Which was when I knew Dante wasn’t going to let go of the whole memorial thing. I mean, he couldn’t possibly care about the float. Dante only goes to the occasional football game, and then spends most of his time making fun of the cheerleaders. His only comment on the float our class did this year was, “Hey, let’s drop this baby in a river and see if it really floats.”

  Wilson smiled, but it didn’t look like he meant it. “The class always votes on two or three possibilities.”

  “Great. I make a motion that the theme of our next homecoming float is ‘Our student council was too cheap to do a memorial for Norman Pike, so we’re dedicating this float to him.’ ” Then Dante looked at me. “Giovanna, do you second that?”

  As he said this, everyone in the room looked over at me. I could feel the heaviness of their gazes on me and automatically shrank further into the couch. It was just like Dante to drag me into his fight with Wilson, but I couldn’t leave my brother standing there without any support. I sent him a stiff smile. “Sure. I second the motion.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “It’s too bad, then, that neither of you is on student council, and this isn’t a meeting.” She gave a tinkling little laugh and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not that I don’t agree with you that every dead guy needs his own float, but we’ve already chosen the school theme. It’s ‘Bickham Tigers rule.’ And we have three choices for our class float. The first is ‘We’ve got a tiger in our tank.’ The second is ‘Cats always land on their feet’—you know, like we’ll have one of our football players standing on a bunch of players from the other team, and . . .” She shut her eyes. “Oh, I can’t remember the third one.”

  Wilson took another sip of his drink. “It’s ‘Has the cat got your tongue?’ ”

  Bridget nodded. “Right. We thought we could have a tiger pouncing on a player from the other team and ripping his face off.”

  Luke laughed like this was somehow funny. “So there will be a dead guy on the float after all. You can call him Norman and dedicate the float in his memory.”

  I turned to Jesse to see his reaction to this. He groaned and shook his head, but I didn’t know if it was because Luke was an insensitive dolt, or whether he just didn’t like the float idea.

  Dante smiled at Luke stiffly, then turned his attention back to Wilson. “The floats won’t be built until next fall. Why is this year’s student council already making the decisions?”

  “We like to be prepared. It makes it easier to get everything ready.”

  Dante raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t next year’s student body president get a say on what the theme is?”

  Stacey, Bridget, Luke, and Wilson all glanced at each other and smirked. Wilson said, “Oh, definitely.”

  Which made Stacey and Bridget giggle.

  Jesse called over to Dante, “Elections are in three weeks, and as far as anybody knows, Wilson is the only one running.”

  Bridget nudged Wilson with her elbow as though it were an inside joke. “It wouldn’t matter if anyone else ran. Wilson would beat them.”

  “Which is why no one else is running,” Stacey said. “Ain’t no two ways about it.” And then the four of them smirked again.

  Dante smiled. “I’m running.”

  Bridget laughed, shaking her head, but Wilson’s eyes narrowed. He stared at Dante, unspeaking.

  Dante took his keys from his jacket pocket and strode to the door. “See you at the polls,” he said, and then left.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, all eyes turned to Wilson. He shrugged and smiled, evaporating the tension that filled the room. “Looks like I might have competition after all.” Wilson raised his glass as though offering a toast to Jesse’s guests. “And may the best Texan win.”

  A rumble of laughter rolled around the room, and Wilson’s gaze followed it, silently accepting their support. Then his eyes stopped on Jesse. Something flickered in his expression. Perhaps worry. Perhaps a challenge.

  The next moment, he turned back to Luke, talking and laughing so casually that I wondered if I’d imagined the look he’d sent Jesse.

  Jesse stayed with me for most of the rest of the party, but we didn’t talk about the election again until everyone left. Then while he put on his jacket so he could take me home, I looked out the window and thought about my brother. “You don’t think Dante will really run for school president, do you?”

  Jesse zipped up his jacket. “I doubt it. Most likely he was blowing off steam on account of the memorial for Norman.”

  Maybe, or maybe Dante just wanted to pick a fight with Wilson. Over the years we’d lived in Bickham, Wilson had said some things about Dante, specifically that he looked like he shopped at only the best yard sales. And Dante had said some things back to Wilson, most of which were unrepeatable in polite company. So maybe Dante just wanted to fight.

  “He might be upset about the memorial,” I said, “but I don’t know. It’s not like he and Norman were close friends.”

  Jesse took my hand, and we walked toward his garage. “Remember how, not too long before he died, Norman tried to convince Dante to join the math team?”

  I grunted, and Jesse held up a hand to stop my protest.

  “I know—Dante’s favorite thing to do in calculus class is to pretend like he’s sleeping, but Norman told him he was smart enough to help out the math team. You don’t forget that kind of thing.”

  We walked into the garage, and Jesse hit the button on the wall to open the door. It gave a protesting grind as it lifted to let the night air in.

  I crawled onto the back of Jesse’s bike and snapped on my helmet. “So is Wilson mad at Dante for saying he’d run?”

  “Nah, and all that stuff Wilson said at the party about crushing Dante like a brittle walnut was just guy talk.”

  “What? Did he really say that?”

  Jesse laughed and sat down in front of me. “It will all blow over by tomorrow. By Monday neither one of them will even remember that Dante said he’d run.”

  I held on tightly to Jesse’s waist and hoped so.

  Chapter 2

  Twins are supposed to have a psychic connection. You know, feel each other’s pain, recognize what the other is thinking, wake up in the middle of the night with premonitions if one is stuck down a well or something. Let me say right off this has never happened between Dante and me. When we were younger, I hoped it would. Occasionally I would try to use ESP to get him to share his dessert with me.

  Maybe it’s because Dante and I aren’t identical twins. But it’s more likely because Dante isn’t trying hard enough.

  This is what Dante’s probable reaction would be if ever awakened in the middle of the night by a premonition:

  Mystic Inner Voice: Dante, wake up, Giovanna needs you.

  Dante (grumbling): What? (He rolls over and tries to get back to dreaming about motorcycle engines or whatever it is that occupies the empty spaces in his brain.)

  Mystic Inner Voice: Get out of bed. Your sister is in trouble.

  Dante: Yeah, she’s always in trouble. Don’t wake me up again unless you’ve got interesting news.

  Mystic Inner Voice ( fading): She needs your help . . .

  Dante (pulling the covers over his head): It’s probably some girl-trouble stuff, and I refuse to talk about clothes, guys, or anything that’s found in the feminine hygiene aisle. Let Gabby deal with it.

  Gabby is our stepmother, but she’s so annoying I’m sure her inner voice has stopped speaking to her. Besides, if I were stuck down a well, Gabby would probably make me clean it before she pulled me to safety.

  The only one in the family who would worry enough about me to get up in the middle of the night to check on me is the cat.
Which might be the reason he occasionally jumps onto my bed and steps on my face. He’s making sure I’m still breathing.

  Anyway, Dante and I aren’t psychic-bond close, but we’re still there for each other. So when Dante brought up the election over breakfast the next morning, I very lovingly said, “Are you crazy?”

  He sat back in his chair, leaving his bagel untouched. “You don’t think I could win?”

  “I don’t know why you’d want to. Since when do you care what goes on in student council?”

  Dante leaned forward again. “It’s time we stopped letting Wilson and the rest of those . . . Aztecs run the school.”

  Aztecs is code for another A word which we are not allowed to say in the house because Skipper, our five-year-old half sister, repeats everything we say. And yes, her name really is Skipper, like the Barbie doll and that fat guy on Gilligan’s Island. I have no idea what Gabby was thinking of when she gave her daughter this name, and I just count my blessings Gabby didn’t marry my dad until long after I came along. Otherwise I’d be walking around saddled with a name like Gidget or Buffy.

  Anyway, Skipper sat at the kitchen table beside us, humming and shoveling Cheerios into her mouth.

  With a glance in Skipper’s direction, I said, “Yeah, but even if Wilson and the other Aztecs didn’t win the election, they’d still run the school.”

  Dante ripped off a piece of his bagel and tossed it in his mouth. “Maybe not. A lot of people at school are tired of all Wilson and his friends’ . . .” His gaze slid over to Skipper. “Shellac. The students are ready for a change.”

  Well, I was certainly tired of the shellac thrown in my direction, but I hadn’t noticed that my opinion had a lot of company. I took a couple of bites of cereal, feeling the intensity of Dante’s stare on me the entire time.

  “You know you’d like to see Wilson and his pals eat some humble pie,” he told me. “So will you help me campaign?”

  I shook my head. “Dante, don’t do this. You’ll just make everyone mad at you and me, and then you’ll flake out halfway through the election and decide you don’t want to run after all.”

  He sat up straighter in his chair. “When have I ever flaked out about anything?”

  “You flaked out about tennis. Remember how you were all fired up about learning how to play, so Gabby enrolled us both in lessons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “After two weeks you sneaked off with Lisa Jones during every lesson instead of playing. Meanwhile I got stuck playing Julie I’ll-serve-it-down-your-throat Segner. I came home every afternoon covered in welts.”

  Dante grinned, and his voice took on a reminiscing tone. “I didn’t flake out. The reason I wanted to take tennis lessons was so I could sneak off with Lisa.”

  I pointed my spoon at him. “How about swim team, then?”

  “Cute lifeguards,” he said.

  “I got up every morning at six and swam laps in a cold pool so you could flirt with the lifeguards?”

  Dante shrugged.

  “So why are you running for president? Have you decided girls like politicians?”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “I don’t need to find ways to meet girls.” True. Dante is six feet tall and has wavy brown hair and dark brooding eyes. Even some of the popular girls check him out when he walks by. Not that any of them would ever admit it. Jesse’s friendship isn’t enough to grant Dante full entrance into the world of the in crowd.

  “You know why I want to run,” he said. “Wilson is a jerk, and Norman needs a memorial. Simple as that. Are you going to help me, or will I have to explain to everyone why I don’t have the support of my twin sister?”

  I took a bite, glaring at Dante over my cereal bowl. “Sure, I’ll help you. Even though it will make all of the popular kids hate me forever, and I know I’ll regret it before the election is over, I’ll help you.”

  He smiled at me. “Great. I’m going to ask Jesse to be my campaign manager today. If you see him before I do, hint that you’ll only keep dating him if he agrees, okay?”

  “Oh, see—I regret it already.”

  Dante held up a hand and laughed at me. “All right, I’m just kidding, you can date whoever you want.”

  I looked at Dante, pleading. “Don’t drag Jesse into this. You know he’s one of Wilson’s friends.”

  “Yeah, but everybody at school likes Jesse. He’s not stuck-up like the rest of the popularity posse. If he’s on my side, I can win this thing.”

  Dante was right. If Jesse helped him, he might have a shot. I still didn’t like the idea, but I knew I’d have to try and persuade Jesse to help Dante. And I already had a date set up with him. We were meeting for lunch at Country Burger that day.

  All that morning while I mopped floors and cleaned toilets, I worried about how to convince Jesse to be Dante’s campaign manager.

  I had a lot of time to worry about it, because on this Saturday morning, like most Saturdays for the last three months, I cleaned Bickham’s Parks and Rec Center—chipping away at sixty hours of a community service sentence. It was a verdict Judge Rossmar had given me without really listening to my side of story.

  You know that saying “Innocent until proven guilty”? Well, it turns out they don’t need a lot of evidence to prove you guilty, especially if you do stupid things to incriminate yourself along the way.

  But really, none of it was my fault.

  Well, okay, maybe some of it was my fault.

  The school counselor, who I am still required to check in with on a monthly basis, keeps telling me I need to take responsibility for my actions. She says a bunch of other stuff I mostly ignore because I’m not really a juvenile delinquent. I’m just a person with convictions. Unfortunately I’m now a person with convictions in both senses of the word.

  See, last semester in biology class—for some reason I never fully understood—the teacher required us to dissect frogs. Mr. Clement told me it was so I could learn about internal organs. But here is my question: Don’t we already know what frog organs look like? They dissected frogs last year, and the year before. Didn’t someone already sketch out this vital information?

  Mr. Clement refused to see the logic behind my argument. He also refused to see my point that I was absolutely certain I would never in my life need to know what a frog spleen looked like. Very few people do. He gave me an F for the unit and sent me to in-school detention for the period.

  Normal parents would have called up the bio teacher and protested, or pled my case or something. After all, it was my father who gave Dante and me a tadpole habitat when we turned eight years old. So he at least should have understood that a girl who had pet frogs named Bert and Ernie was not about to slice one open.

  But he had completely forgotten the No-you-can’t-have-a-puppy-but-here’s-a-tadpole-habitat pets. Instead he told me, “Start worrying about your grades and stop worrying that the world might have to do without one more frog.” Gabby, of course, said more than that.

  I listened to her go on for a week about how I’d never get into a good college because I’d skipped out on my biology dissection unit, and what was the big deal about dead frogs anyway? Dead frogs weren’t scary. They didn’t bite. Never once had there been a case of a dead frog who’d reached out his slimy little amphibious hand and grabbed a bio student by the throat.

  The actual school detention wasn’t that bad. I met many interesting people there, including a guy named Tim Murphy that I suspected to be an escaped convict who was just hiding out in high school to throw off the police. He showed me all of his body piercings, most of his tattoos, and sent me several notes suggesting we run off to Aruba together.

  I declined on the Aruba thing, but when he offered to get back at Mr. Clements by breaking into the biology room and stealing the frog corpses, well, I laughed and told him it was a sweet gesture.

  As it turns out, you shouldn’t joke around with escaped convicts. The next day after school, a ziplock bag of dead frogs showed up in my locker.


  My first reaction, of course, was to fling them on the floor and scream. My second reaction was to find Tim, grab him by his eyebrow studs, and explain to him that, yes, women like to be surprised with flowers, but not dead frogs.

  I didn’t do either of these things, however, because I was too busy being grossed out to the point of nearly hyperventilating.

  When I could finally breathe normally again, I decided the best thing to do with the frogs was to put them someplace where everyone could see the results of the senseless frog slaughter. The trophy case in the front lobby would work, and Dante could unlock it. I knew this because he and two of his friends broke into it once. They put one of Skipper’s Barbie swimsuits on a little man that stood on one of the football trophies.

  I would take the frogs home, write an unidentifiable essay on the value of life, then put them all in the trophy case the next day.

  That was my plan, anyway.

  When I got home, Gabby yelled at me half the evening. It started out as a lecture on leaving my stuff in the living room, but quickly progressed into a treatise about how I didn’t take my responsibilities seriously. From there she slid into the You’ve-ruined-your-chances-to-get-into-a-good-college-over-frogs routine.

  So I slipped the ziplock bag into Gabby’s briefcase. I wasn’t trying to be awful. I just wanted her to understand how sickening it feels to see dead animals that have been killed for no reason.

  The next day Principal Nelson called me into the office as soon as I got to school. It turned out the frogs weren’t the only thing stolen from the biology room. Nearly two thousand dollars’ worth of computers and biology equipment was also missing.

  With hands folded firmly on his desk, Principal Nelson stared at me. “Did you break into the biology room yesterday?”

  “No,” I said, but he must have seen the panic on my face. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in on mine.

  “I’ll ask you again, young lady, and I want you to think very hard about your answer. Did you break into the biology room?”