Rival (11 page)

“The Blackmore,” I remind her. “It's next month.”

She rolls onto her back and looks at me, very serious. “Why is this contest thing so important anyway? You've always been weird about singing, but you're really freaking out this year.”

“I'm not freaking out.”

“Oh my God, you are
so
freaking out. Why? You're going to get the big first-place star part or whatever it is
you want. You always do.”

I lie down, grab one of her magazines, and start flipping. But it's just something to do with my hands while I come out and say what's really bothering me. “Maybe not always,” I say.

Chloe snorts. “What? Who else is going to get it?”

“This contest has some of the best singers in the country,” I explain. “You can't assume anything at the Blackmore. The competition is really fierce.”

She waves her hand like she's swatting pesky flies, and any hope I might have had of her understanding starts to fade. I guess I've known all along that she's not the person to talk to about stuff like this. But I can't just drop the subject. I need to talk with somebody. “And then,” I say, “there's Kathryn.”

“Don't worry about Kathryn.”

She says it like it's simple. Like I can just snap my fingers and make Kathryn disappear.

“It's not that easy,” I tell her.

Chloe wrinkles her nose. “Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, I see her every day in choir.”

“So? Ignore her.”

“I try to. But…”

“But what?” Chloe's eyes are mean little slits now. “You're you and she's nobody.”

“She's getting solos and I'm not.”

“So let her have them. Is she up for Homecoming Queen? Is she even going to Homecoming?”

“I don't think she cares about stuff like that.”

“Of course she cares. Believe me, Brooke. Homecoming is way more interesting than some singing contest.”

That finally shuts me up. Because Chloe doesn't get it, and she never will. It's best to just let her deal with the things she does get, so I flip another page and point at the first dress I see.

“Too old lady-ish,” she says. “How about this one?” She points to a pink, floor-length gown with sparkles all over it.

“What am I, Glinda the Good Witch? It's going to be, like, ten below out. And we'll be on a muddy football field.”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “Right. What about vintage?”

I perk up, picturing movie stars on a red carpet. “But vintage always runs small. I'll never find something that fits.”

I flip some more and finally find a black sheath dress that has a little bow just underneath the breastline. It comes with a deep red cashmere shrug, so it's got long sleeves if you need them. Best of all, it won't look too bad if it gets wet or muddy. “What about this?” I say.

Chloe moves my finger away from the picture so she can see it better. “John Moorehouse will love it.”

My heart
ka-thump
s in my chest. I shove her almost all the way off the bed.

“Shut up!”

“Why?” She giggles. “It's obvious you like him.”

“Obvious to who?” Now I've got visions of the whole school talking about me and my huge, stupid crush. And what if
John
knows? I will die. Unless he's happy because he likes me, too. In which case I will really die. But in a good way.

“I'm the only one who's noticed,” Chloe says. “And that's just because nothing gets past the amazing, all-seeing Chloe. Now relax!”

I can't, though. Because John Moorehouse is pretty much the only thing I've been able to think about lately. Well, besides the Blackmore. And Kathryn. And my dad.

“Keep it to yourself,” I warn her.

“That won't be easy when the whole school sees you together at Homecoming.”

And now we're there, where I secretly wanted to go but have been too afraid to admit. I can't talk to Chloe about music, but I can talk to her about this. So I say what's been on my mind for days now.

“He hasn't asked me.”

“He will.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me,” she says. “He's busy with football right
now. He'll ask you.”

I put my chin in my hand, trying to imagine what that will be like. Will he call? Or will he grab me in the hallway at school? Will he come right out and ask? Or will he do something romantic, like bring roses?

“Whatever he's planning, he'd better do it soon,” I say.

“Don't worry.” Chloe finds the black dress online and pulls up a form for a shop in Minneapolis that carries it. “You guys are the two most popular people in school. It's perfect. Exactly the way I would have done it.”

“
ANYBODY CAN WRITE
.”

Ms. Amos, my AP English teacher, is stalking back and forth in front of the classroom, her stiletto heels clicking on the old tile floor. Our last few papers have not been up to par, and she is laying out her expectations while my classmates and I scribble furiously in our notebooks.

“English is about more than just words,” she tells us. “It's about finding new ways to illuminate and make sense of the mysteries and minutiae of daily existence. Yes, I want you to write flawlessly, but I also want you to be original; otherwise, why bother?”

I write down the word “flawless” and underline it twice; I write the word “original” and highlight it with a star. Then I look down into my backpack, at the folder where I keep the music for my voice lessons; tucked inside it are six new pieces that Mr. Lieb gave me yesterday.

“Learn them all, and we'll see which ones fit best,” he'd said. “You're in good shape for the first two rounds, especially with the coloratura we've been working on, but you'll need a showstopper for the finals. I've always been partial to this one.” He pointed to the aria on top of the stack, titled “The Jewel Song” from the opera
Faust
. It's an acting piece—about a peasant girl who receives an enchanted box of diamonds and laughs at her reflection as she tries them on before a mirror.

Plus, the song is in French.

“It's…” My throat suddenly felt very dry. “It's really advanced.”

“Well, you aren't going to win this with ‘Caro Mio Ben.'”

“I know,” I murmured. Though I could tell he didn't mean to hurt me, the remark still stung; I could only imagine the vocal fireworks Brooke has planned. Mr. Lieb reached up from the piano and put his hand on my music, coaxing it down so his eyes could meet mine.

“If I didn't think you could do this I wouldn't have given it to you,” he said. “You're going to be wonderful. I have nothing but faith in you.”

Faith,
I think now as I stare at the music in my backpack.
I'm going to need a lot of that
.

Especially if I don't find some time to practice. Between AP English, the
Picayune
, Human Anatomy, and
all of my other classes, I've been staying up late, spending afternoons at the library and carving out a half hour here, forty-five minutes there for singing. That's no way to prepare for a competition like the Blackmore, but I can't seem to figure out a way to get everything done. Today, for example, I should go home and spend a good couple of hours on the new pieces Mr. Lieb gave me; instead, I head to the library to do some research for Ms. Amos and use their internet connection, which is a lot faster than the one we have at home.

On my way in I bump into Laura Lindner, who stands alone by the magazine racks. I venture a “hello,” only to be answered with a glare as Laura turns and stalks off to the back corner, where a group has laid claim to the tables. The schedule at the checkout desk says the Spirit Committee is meeting today, and sure enough, there is Chloe Romelli talking to Tyrone Marshall, the new Douglas mascot. Chloe's voice, which has always been loud, gets louder as she talks about which florist she's planning to hire for bouquets. “I want everyone to look beautiful,” she says. “I don't care if Homecoming is some philanthropy thing now, I'm not going to stick my friends with tacky blue carnations.”

I duck into a computer station, log in to the online card catalog, and type in “Theater of the Absurd.” A little clock appears on the screen, its hands spinning
while the computer processes my request. The hands spin and spin; I try to get another window so I can start the search again, but nothing happens. I slide over to the next station and try again. More spinning. I glance around at the other computers and realize that I'm the only one trying to use them; they must all be down, which means I am either going to have to search the old-fashioned way or ask for help.

Leaving my things at my seat, I hurry over to the librarian's desk. Her computer has crashed, too, so I wait while she flips through the yellowed card catalog, and then make my way to the shelves where the books I want are located. I return to my computer with three, open my bag to put them in, and there, tucked between my music and my English notes, is a slip of paper that wasn't there before.

I pull it out and unfold it; it's a print of the famous painting of a drowned Ophelia with my face Photoshopped where hers should be. In the picture, my eyes stare creepily at the sky, hair billowing in the water, palms turned upward. I look around and immediately my eye goes to the Spirit Committee. They're deep into their meeting now, with Chloe recording minutes in an official-looking notebook.

The picture wasn't in my bag before, I'm sure of that, and I don't see anybody else in the library who could
have put it there. In case somebody is watching, I pretend like nothing's happened and I'm just going about my usual business.

Inside, though, I am buzzing with shock as I gather my things and hurry out to the parking lot. Nearing my car, I see something hanging off of the rear antenna—an inflated inner tube, the kind that kids use. It is bright blue with little red fish swimming across the top, and somehow the brightness makes it even more sinister, especially when I read the note taped to it:
You never know when you might need this.

I snatch the tube off and fling it into my backseat. Then, on the way home, I stop behind a Burger King and leave it in one of the Dumpsters. The nerve behind my right eye has begun to throb; if I don't take aspirin soon, the headache will take hold and last for days.

I arrive home to the smell of fried chicken and venture into the kitchen to find the table set with mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and crusty butter rolls. Dad already sits in his place, thumbing through a packet of papers that I recognize as a statement from the guy who manages his retirement fund. He sighs, folds up the papers, and tosses them onto the counter as I sit across from him. Mom starts spooning food onto my plate, so quiet that I know something is going on; I discover what it is when I reach for my napkin and find
three envelopes tucked underneath.

“I have a good feeling about these,” Mom tells me. “I was going to open them, but I thought you would want to do it yourself.”

I sit for a moment, looking at the envelopes. My hand hovers over the top one, which bears the seal of a school where I applied for a journalism scholarship.

“You don't have to open it now. Go ahead and eat first,” says Mom. But I know she and Dad have probably been counting the minutes until they can see what's inside, so I cool my throat with a sip of milk and start to open.

I open the first, then the second, then the third, looking over the contents quickly as if skimming will make it any less painful. It's more of the same: minuscule scholarships and invitations to sing for the voice faculty again once I've completed my first year. One school rejects me altogether; apparently neither my writing nor my singing meets their standards.

“I just don't understand it,” says Mom. “Your grades are excellent. You sang for the president, for goodness' sake. Who in the world is getting these scholarships if it isn't you?”

I sit miserably, picking the skin off my chicken, eating the crispies because I can't resist them but feeling nauseous at the meat underneath; after four weeks of dissecting a fetal pig, I can identify nearly every muscle
on the drumstick.

“Kathryn doesn't need a scholarship,” Dad says. “There are other forms of financial aid.”

“Loans you mean.” Mom's knuckles are white as she grips the serving spoon, plopping mashed potatoes onto her plate in big, angry dollops. “I'm not letting our daughter start out with the kind of debt we had. We said we'd do better than that.”

“Mom…” I hate it when they talk like this. “Something will come through.” Smiling weakly, they go back to their food and a vague notion I've had for the past few weeks comes suddenly into focus: Neither of them has mentioned the Blackmore to me. At first, when I didn't want them to know I'd entered, their silence was a relief; but all this time has gone by, and they still haven't said anything. Surely they know by now that it's still on. It's only the biggest thing to happen to this town every year, and now it's an even bigger deal because of all the drama surrounding the new recital hall. If they know it's coming up, then they have to know it's something I'd participate in. There has to be a reason they aren't talking about it with me.

Maybe they don't think I can win. Maybe they're trying to save me even more disappointment.

The possibility of this is worse than the great expectations I'd originally feared; it's like they've given up
before I've even had the chance to try.

“May I be excused?”

Mom looks at my plate, worried.

“You've barely eaten anything. Don't you want dessert?”

“No,” I tell her. “I have a headache.” I take a bottle of aspirin from the cupboard above the sink, shake out three, and wash them down with the rest of my milk. “I'm going up to do homework.”

On my way through the living room I pass our old piano, which crouches in the corner like it expects something from me. I desperately need to practice but the piano is out in the open where everybody can hear, and the atmosphere is so tense that there's no way I'll be able to concentrate.

I go upstairs, take the cordless into my bedroom, and dial.

“Hold everything,” Matt says when he hears my voice. “I'll be right over.”

 

“Guacamole. Good for whatever ails you.”

Matt smiles with satisfaction as a waitress puts a bowl of green dip on the table between us. He's brought me to our favorite Mexican restaurant, the one with the tinted windows that tempt passersby to stop and admire themselves, not realizing until it's too late that
they're putting on a show for a dining room filled with people. We started coming here when we were finally old enough to go places by ourselves, and over time it became
our
place.

Matt scoops some guacamole with a tortilla chip and tries to hand it to me. I wave it away, pointing instead to the picture of Ophelia on the table between us.

“It's like she's stalking me. Like she actually wants me dead.”

Matt studies the picture. “You didn't see her in the library? Are you sure she wasn't there?”

“She didn't need to be there. Brooke Dempsey has people who wait in line to do her bidding.”

Matt scrunches up his forehead, then he flips the paper over, blank side up, and pushes it back across the table. “You're right,” he says. “It sucks. But who wants to talk about sucky things when you've got avocados, sour cream, and a little bit of jalapeño pepper, hmmm?” His frown morphs into a smile as he dips another chip and waves it in front of my face. The smell from the onions almost makes me gag.

“I can't,” I tell him. “Not hungry.”

“You have to eat something. You'll make yourself sick.”

“I already am sick. I've got a headache and way too much to think about.”

“Then think about something trivial.”

“Something like…?”

“Like…” He whistles as he thinks. “Like Homecoming! What?” he says when I roll my eyes. “I thought girls loved that kind of thing.”

“Some girls.”

“You're not a ‘some girl'?”

“I'm a ‘no girl' as far as Homecoming is concerned.” Just to make him happy, I grab a chip and nibble at the corners. “You and I will go together because neither of us has anything better going on. We'll get a pizza, head over to the game for the last quarter, and then hang out at the dance until we're bored. Then we'll go back to my house and fall asleep in front of the TV.”

He takes the half-eaten chip out of my hand, dips it, and hands it back. “So what's wrong with that?”

“Absolutely nothing. It is what it is.” I stick my tongue into the creamy guacamole, letting the flavor spread across my tongue; the guacamole
is
good, and now that I've tried it I realize that I really am hungry. I gobble the dip and the chip together, then reach for another.

“What if I did something special this year?” Matt says. “Buy you flowers, say. Or maybe wear a suit?”

A piece of chip goes down the wrong way, setting off a hacking fit.

Is Matt your boyfriend?

No. I can't go there, at least not tonight; tonight I
need him to just be my friend. I grab my water and take a sip.

“Don't you dare!” I croak. “The last thing I need is a reminder of the complete and utter lack of romance in my life.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “It was just a thought.”

“Well, save your thoughts for my AP English paper. I have to come up with something flawless and original. And I haven't even started on the ridiculously hard piece Mr. Lieb gave me for the Blackmore. Then there's State choir regionals…”

“You know, Kath, it's okay to let a few things slide every once in a while. You don't have to do it all.”

Once again, my appetite vanishes. For someone who knows me so well, sometimes I am amazed at how much Matt doesn't understand.

“What am I supposed to let slide?” I ask. “My grades, which I need to get money for college? Regionals, where the entire Honors Choir is relying on me to not foul everything up? The Blackmore, which is starting to look like my last chance to keep my parents out of massive debt? And oh look! Now we're back to money for college again.”

I put my head in my hands. My right eye throbs, and I press the tip of my tongue between my teeth so I'll have a different kind of pain to think about.

“What can I say, Kath?” Matt says. “It's high school. It won't last forever.”