Authors: Mandy Hubbard
He smiles at me. The discomfort he showed outside is gone, replaced by his usual easy confidence. “For?”
I grin back, feeling oddly bashful. “Being an awesome boyfriend.”
Boyfriend.
It’s the first time I’ve said that aloud. I like the way it sounds.
He beams. “Of course.”
I look up in time to see Madison Vaughn waltzing through the door, then quickly dart my eyes away. For some stupid reason, I always act as if she’s a Tyrannosaurus rex, and as long as I don’t move, she won’t notice me. By some cruel twist
of fate, Logan and I ended up seated right behind her, which means I get to stare at her gleaming red hair for an hour every morning, thinking of what she did to Bick.
She plunks down in her seat and twists around, leaning an elbow on my desk and smiling coyly at Logan, her green eyes bright and pretty, framed by thick lashes. Madison’s the kind of girl who could model Halloween costumes like “Sexy Firefighter” and “Sexy Nurse” without breaking a sweat. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, she’s always alluring, the kind of attractiveness that makes me wonder how Logan could see anything in me when girls like her exist. “So, how was your weekend?” she asks Logan.
“Not bad,” Logan says. “Yours?”
“Kinda lonely,” she says, pouting as she stares at my boyfriend. Her lips are so perfectly glossed she belongs on a Covergirl spread. I wonder if she reapplied her makeup for this exact moment.
I sit back and cross my arms, acting as if she doesn’t intimidate me. “Seriously, Madison? I’m right here.” I tap on my desk, trying not to cringe at the dirt under my nails.
She turns as if just now noticing me. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she says.
Her
nails are polished a pretty, pale pink.
I grind my teeth.
Fortunately, our teacher, Mr. Patricks, interrupts before I have to choose between defending the honor of my relationship and risking detention. “All right, guys, let’s settle down and talk elections,” he says, stepping to the right of the dry-erase board.
Madison, to my relief, twists back around and turns her attention to the teacher instead of
my boyfriend.
“To tie in with our unit on elections, we’re going to launch a very exciting new project!” He waits for a collective expression of awe, but no one speaks. “For the next few weeks, we’ll be running political campaigns within the class. You’ll be divided into two groups, one Democratic and one Republican. Each group will choose one student from their members to represent them as their candidate, and the rest of you will act as campaign managers or workers. Candidates must conform to the ideals of their respective, real-life parties. Members of the winning party will receive twenty bonus points on their midterms.” He pauses again, smiling smugly as he finally gets the reaction he wanted. Cheers echo out throughout the class. “So choose your candidates wisely.”
I lean in closer. The assignment actually sounds kind of interesting. Mr. Patricks is impossibly boring when he lectures, always pausing dramatically as if we’re all dying of suspense to find out how many hours it took to sign the Declaration of Independence. I’d much rather work on a project.
Mr. Patricks continues, his self-satisfied smile never leaving his face. “Each group will run a full campaign, including advertising and a speech, and secondary classes will be the ones to vote.”
I feel someone poke me, and look to my left. Logan immediately catches my eye. He also seems to be on the edge of his seat.
Mr. Patricks walks to the front of the room, picks up a
bowl from his desk, and marches over to the first row. “These scraps of paper,” he says, waiting as a girl in the front pulls a torn slip out, “will say whether you are with the Democratic or Republican party.”
He continues throughout the room, pausing at each student long enough for them to grab a scrap of paper. “I expect you to fully research and understand your party, and develop a strategy that mirrors its real life campaigns.”
Logan grabs a piece of paper and moves to uncrumple it before suddenly hesitating. “What if we want to run an independent campaign?”
Mr. Patricks stops. “What are you proposing?”
Logan shrugs. “If you want to accurately reflect real-life elections, shouldn’t you include at least one independent candidate? He or she could have a much smaller campaign crew.”
Mr. Patricks studies Logan. “And are you volunteering to be that candidate, Mr. Townsend?”
“Actually,” Logan says, his eyes flickering over to me. “I was thinking I could manage the campaign. Harper here would be the stronger candidate.”
My jaw drops. How am
I
the stronger candidate? I can’t talk in front of more than three people without freaking out. There’s no way I can campaign.
Mr. Patricks’s lips sorta screw to the side as he considers Logan’s idea. He glances between me and Logan, his eyebrows narrowed. He so did not see this coming.
“Very well. There are twenty-six students in this class, and
twenty-four gives us an even number for each of the two primary parties. You two can run an independent campaign,” Mr. Patricks says, waving his hand over our corner of the room. He then turns and strides back to the front, depositing the bowl on his desk along the way.
Logan winks at me as soon as Mr. Patricks turns back to the dry-erase board, scribbling down our first deadlines.
My pulse races. Did Logan come up with this whole thing just so that he and I could spend more time by ourselves? That’s so conniving…
and so perfect.
“You guys have this period to determine which student from each group will be the candidate, and then develop the basic platform around that student. I expect to have the candidates’ names by the end of class. Please have one representative from each party pick up this flier, which outlines your campaign responsibilities.” He pauses, glancing our way. “And you two—independent candidates don’t have the same resources as the major parties. You’re restricted by half on each of the bullet points on this flier. That means fewer campaign posters, fewer giveaways.” He turns back to the class. “Go ahead and rearrange your desks and get to work.”
The screeching sounds of chairs on tile fill the room as everyone shuffles around, matching up with those in their group.
I stare pointedly at Logan.
He just grins back, his eyes glimmering. “So how do you like me now? Snagging us some alone time, just you, me, and a little campaign action. Not too bad, huh?”
I don’t let myself give in to his adorableness, because he’s missing a major point: I am not a good candidate.
“Public speaking?” he says questioningly.
I narrow my eyes.
He sits up straight in his chair, crossing his arms and meeting my gaze with a triumphant smile. “Tell me it’s not on your list.”
My lips part but I just stare for a long moment, stunned.
His grin widens. “What number is it?”
I clear my throat. “Seven. It’s fear number seven.”
My mother was an amazing public speaker. She taught noncredit art courses at the local community college and could lecture to a hundred people without breaking a sweat. I, on the other hand, not so much. I stuttered my way through a one-minute answer in the Dairy Princess competition and nearly lost the whole shebang.
He beams. “Oooh…jumping three!”
I ignore his lame attempt at a joke. “How did you know?” I ask.
He leans forward, pulling my hands onto his desk, intertwining his fingers with mine. “That one was a given. I know you better than you think I do.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Really?”
“Yup. And I’m going to break you out of your little box yet.” Logan bangs his fist against the desk, as if to say that’s the end of it.
Even though I’m still freaking out, I can’t resist teasing him. “I dunno about that. Braver men have tried.”
“Ooh, is that a challenge?”
“No. I—”
“Well, Harper Bennett, I accept,” he says, grinning.
I can’t help but smile back at him. “We’re going to lose. You would have been a
much
better candidate.”
“Nonsense! You’re going to be amazing.”
And in the glow of his smile, I almost believe it.
Two and a half hours later, I’m sitting in the commons at lunch, picking at my usual pizza pocket. I’m sandwiched on a long bench between Bick and Logan, across from Allie and Adam.
“Oh look, it’s the hick clique,” a nasal voice calls out.
Madison.
I swallow before slowly turning around to acknowledge her. As I do so, I notice that Bick has averted his eyes and that he refuses to look at her. Seeing him stiffen only angers me further.
“I thought you’d like to know that they figured out how the birds died,” Madison says. She waits, but no one takes the bait. “Turns out they heard you were coming,” she says, staring right at me, “and they preferred suicide to seeing your face.” She smirks.
I swallow, frantically searching for a snappy response, but nothing comes, and her smirk turns into a self-satisfied grin. “I’m really looking forward to the masquerade,” she says, pausing for dramatic effect, her eyes boring right into mine. “You know…so you’ll be wearing a mask and
I
don’t have to see your face either.” And then she strolls away, her heels clacking on the tiles.
“Why is she such a bitch?” I ask, turning back around. It takes everything I have not to look over and ask Bick if he’s doing okay. He’s not the sort of guy who likes to admit weakness, and I know he doesn’t want that kind of attention.
Besides, he’s Bick. Of course he’s okay. He’s made of steel or something.
“Because she’s ugly and has no soul?” Allie says, making me snort. And
that
is why she’s my closest friend.
For a long time, Adam was the closest thing I had to a best friend, and he’s my cousin, so it’s practically required. Then the three of us—me, Adam, and Allie—shared a fourth grade classroom, and we became a trio. We were inseparable, like the Three Musketeers. Bick came along in junior high. He and I live on dairies, Adam on a heifer ranch, and Allie at thoroughbred racing stables. We were pretty much fated to become joined at the hip. Between the four of us, we had hundreds of acres to explore and call our own.
I look up to smile at Allie—she always knows just what to say to ensure I forget about Madison—but her eyes are trained on Adam, and the smile falls away.
Things changed last year, when Adam and Allie got together. Then it started to become awkward. Bick’s almost always busy with his parents’ dairy, so I was kind of feeling like the third wheel until I started dating Logan.
If it wasn’t for him, I’m not sure what I’d do.
“Do you think they actually figured out how the birds died?” Bick asks.
“I saw a news van out there during second period,” Allie
says. “It seems like it’s a big deal. They’ll figure it out, right?”
Adam balls up his napkin and tosses it on his tray. “I heard they kept a few of them for autopsy, or something, but they don’t expect to determine the cause of death.”
“But why wouldn’t they figure it out?” Bick asks.
“They never did in Arkansas,” Logan says.
“Or Sweden,” Adam says.
“Sweden?” I ask, taking a bite of my pizza pocket.
“Yeah, we talked about it in my science class,” Adam says. “Mr. Yarborough has this thing for weird science. Anyway, I guess this has happened before. All over the world. The other cases were different, though.”
“Different how?” I ask, setting down my lunch. I’m suddenly not so hungry.
“In Arkansas, it was all blackbirds. In Sweden, it was all jackdaws, whatever that is,” Adam says, reaching over to tear a piece off my pizza pocket. “The point, though, is that all the birds were the same species.”
“But in our case, it was a ton of different kinds,” I say, finally getting it. “I wonder why?”
Logan leans forward. “It’s supposed to be a sign of the apocalypse,” he says. “I mean, if you’re into the Bible. Or conspiracy theories.”
“Great, well, at least we have that to look forward to,” Allie says, rolling her eyes. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen before the masquerade, will you?”
“Masquerade?” Logan asks. “The one Madison was just talking about?”
“Yep,” Allie says, bouncing around in her chair. “She’s head of the committee. Every year EHS does this totally over-the-top Halloween Masquerade. People get really into it.”
“So are we going?” Logan asks, turning to me.
Familiar heat creeps up my neck. “Um, are you asking me?”
He grins. “Miss Harper Bennett, will you please consider accompanying me to said Halloween Masquerade?”
Adam, Allie, Bick, and Logan all stare at me. “Um, sure,” I say.
Logan turns to Allie. “Count us in.”
“Awesome! Now we can go costume shopping together!” she says, setting her sandwich back down on her tray. “We only have a few weeks, so we should totally start planning.”