Rival (15 page)

“
YOU'RE GOING TO HOMECOMING WITH
John Moorehouse.” The voice comes from behind as I crouch at my locker pulling books into my backpack during morning break. I turn to see Chloe Romelli standing over me.

I should have known this was coming. Ever since John asked me two days ago, questions have been ricocheting around in my head like little boomerangs:
Why
did he ask me? Why did I say yes? And what if John is part of Brooke's new campaign, the bait in some scheme to lure me out so that she and her friends can have a last laugh at my expense? That must be the plan, or Chloe wouldn't be standing here while Laura Lindner, her newest acolyte, glances territorially around the hallway, practically daring somebody to interrupt us.

“He asked me,” I say.

“I know he did,” Chloe replies. “You going?”

I pause.
Am
I going? I haven't told Matt yet because the whole thing happened so fast, and I wasn't thinking straight thanks to the migraine, which still buzzes faintly behind my eyes. Besides, if this
is
a plot, then I would be an idiot to go walking right into it. John doesn't seem like the type of guy who would participate in one of Brooke's vendettas, but then I don't really know him all that well, now do I?

Still, I hate the tone of voice Chloe is taking with me. Considering that she hasn't given me the time of day in months, I'd say the signs all point to a new plot in the making.

“Well?” she presses. “Are you going or not?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Look.” Her voice descends to a concerned-sounding murmur—the same one that used to make me feel like I was being let in on some valuable piece of advice. “Brooke would probably kill me if she knew I was talking to you about this. But I really think you ought to know. She likes John.”

She pauses and looks intently at me.

I stare back.

“So?”

Impatience flashes in her eyes; she fixes me with an even weightier stare.

“So maybe you could think about her feelings a little
bit? I don't think she knows about the two of you yet, and that's a good thing, believe me. It's really going to tear her up when she finds out.”

This is an interesting twist. After everything that's happened,
I'm
supposed to consider
Brooke's
feelings? I'm so shocked that all I can do is blink.

“Okay?” Chloe says it like we've concluded a nasty bit of business that we can now put behind us. I'm not sure what she thinks we've agreed to, but I am mulling over the information I've just been given:
Brooke likes John
. And John has asked me, the person she hates most in the world, to Homecoming.

“Okay?” Chloe repeats.

“I'll think about it,” I say.

“I know you'll make the right decision.”

She walks away and Laura scurries after her, past a new Homecoming poster near the language lab door; it's shaped like a dress on a hanger, with “Brooke” written on it in stylish cursive. Her posters are everywhere these days, with their terrible puns—“Dress up your vote: Brooke for Queen!”—and their blurbs about how unfair it is that people with limited funds may be prevented from participating in activities like choir because they can't afford the required uniform.

At lunchtime, I keep one eye over my shoulder while I walk through the music wing to a practice room; if Chloe
already knows about John asking me to Homecoming then it's only a matter of time before everybody else at school does, too, and then who knows what will happen? I lock myself in, put my music on the piano stand, and close my eyes, trying to focus. I've been spending lunch hours lately, plus any time that I can steal in the afternoons, in the practice rooms working on my music for the Blackmore. Then I'm back at school from seven to nine most evenings for choir, and by the time I've finished all of my homework I'm barely getting three hours of sleep. Add in the headaches, and I'm starting to get nervous that I might do something stupid—or that I might already have done it by telling John Moorehouse I'll be his date to Homecoming when I know Matt is expecting me to go with him.

Up until now I'd pretty much decided to tell John I changed my mind; somebody like him could easily find someone else to take, and the last thing I want to do is provide entertainment for Brooke and her friends. But something in the way Chloe spoke this morning has been nagging at me. The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to think I've gotten it wrong; maybe John doesn't have an ulterior motive and maybe Brooke
was
hoping he'd ask her instead.

This must have been a twist Chloe didn't anticipate.

And if that's the case, then it may also be my chance
to escape: If I do what Chloe is asking, give up my date with John and let Brooke have him instead, then maybe she'll persuade Brooke to stop with the posters and the water toys. Maybe I can bow out of the Blackmore, too—cobble together the money I need out of an academic honor here, a tiny grant there; Brooke can win the contest and I won't have to worry about her anymore. I feel lighter just thinking about it. I start to retrieve my music from the piano stand, because if I don't compete, then I don't have to practice. But when I pick up my aria book, something falls from between the pages and flutters to the floor. It is a pink slip of paper—an invitation to a slumber party.

I stare at the paper, startled by its sudden reappearance. It lies on the practice room rug, still pristine after sitting a year in my music book. A year ago that invitation was a promise of new friendship; now it's like a glove that a knight would throw down before the final battle in one of Matt's fantasy films. I pick up the invitation and put it into my backpack, then take an apple out of my bag and start to devour it while I head back toward my locker. The commons is filled with people returning from lunch, and just as I pass the big front doors I hear a familiar voice.

“Horndawg, Boodawg,” it says. “Potayto, Potahto.”

John is making his way up the commons steps with
what appears to be the entire A-list in tow. Chloe, Dina, Bud Dawes, Tim McNamara, even Laura Lindner—they're all together, laughing and sipping soda out of cups from the Chinese restaurant up the street. I pick up my pace, hoping to get past before they can see me, but it's as if John and I are destined to connect; he turns his head just as I duck mine, and our eyes meet.

“Hey, Kathryn, hold up!” The group around him stops, watching with naked interest as John travels the six short steps over to where I'm standing.

“So,” he says, a scolding smile on his lips. “I've been hearing some rumors.”

I glance over at Chloe, who raises an eyebrow.

“Couldn't this wait until Anatomy?” I whisper.

“What?” he says. “Why are you whispering, and what's with the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Don't tell me those guys were right. You're really backing out of Homecoming?”

He looks genuinely disappointed, and I—I am now genuinely angry. Just what, exactly, does Chloe think I agreed to this morning, and how dare she try to speak for me?

“No,” I say. “I mean, I don't want to back out. It's just…”

“What? What's it just?”

I am tired and hungry; the apple in my hand wouldn't
have been enough of a meal even if I had been able to finish it before this conversation. I try to stammer out an explanation over the buzzing in my ears, but John is nodding as if he doesn't get or buy any of it, and I know that I haven't managed to utter one coherent sentence because he stops me by waving his hands in front of his face.

“Hold up, hold up!” he says. “This is
way
too complicated. I don't need the history of the world here. All I want to know is are we on or are we off?”

Over his shoulder I can see Chloe staring at me. They are all staring, and I flash back to the night when these same people watched as Brooke's fist slammed me into social oblivion. Suddenly everything comes rushing at me: The Blackmore. My parents and my empty college savings account. The pink invitation.

Brooke.

She likes John.

“We're on,” I say loudly, so Chloe will be sure to hear. And as soon as I say it, a manic energy fills my body. There's an odd tingling—an electricity powering me forward as if the answer to all of my problems can be boiled down to this one thing—me going to a dance with the one person nobody would ever expect.

John smiles and says, “Good. See you in class.” Then he ambles off to join his friends. I lock eyes with Chloe
and then turn to walk back to the practice room to start working on my Blackmore music again.

The rest of the day I can barely sit still. In choir, Brooke's radar is stronger than ever but now, instead of letting it batter me, I stand up straighter, sing louder, and send back my own signal: that I am through being meek little Kathryn, running away from punishments that have gone on for far too long. I am going to stand up and face Brooke.

And I deserve to look good doing it.

In the movies that Matt and I rent, the poor girl gets asked to the dance by the rich guy, and she sews her own dress out of an old gown that her mother wore years ago. But this is real life, and I am tired of being Cinderella, making the most of her rags. When the last bell rings I walk out of school, get into my car, and drive straight to the mall. I've got a paper due for Ms. Amos, a meeting with my Blackmore accompanist, a feature due for the newspaper, and a new Strauss aria to work on, but I don't care. I stride into the most expensive department store and begin filling my arms with the most beautiful dresses I can find. I don't look at price tags; I barely look at the sizes. If something catches my eye, I pull it from the rack and drape it over my arm, creating a rainbow of yellow, lavender, sage green, and blue.

When I can't hold any more, I take the dresses into a
fitting room and start trying them on, beginning with the darkest and working my way toward the whites and creams. The black and the midnight blue are too low cut, the lavender is too frilly, the sky blue and green are much too big.

A rose-colored gown is next. It is floor-length, made of washed silk with grosgrain shoulder straps and a sash that trails its streamers down the back of the skirt. I slip it over my head and let the skirt fall toward my ankles, the satin lining draping cool and graceful against my legs.

“Finding anything you like?” A saleswoman has positioned herself outside my dressing room; I can see her expensive-looking shoes under the curtain.

I gaze at myself in the mirror and see a tired girl transformed. The rose color brings a healthy glow to my skin and sets off my hair, making it look darker and shinier than it really is. I've been losing too much weight, but the dress makes me look willowy instead of emaciated. I can envision myself wearing this gown to Homecoming. I also can see myself wearing it for the Blackmore.

“Miss?” The saleswoman's voice brings me back to practicalities: I'm not onstage yet; I'm standing in a dressing room with my hair in a ponytail and a pair of old black socks on my feet.

“I'm sorry!” I say. “I think I found something. What do you think about this?”

I slide back the curtain, and she clasps her hands together.

“Oh, it's exquisite! Janet Marie, Jillian, come see how beautiful this girl is.”

Instantaneously, two other women appear in the fitting area, oohing and aahing over me and my dress. They pull me out of my room and stand me on a white box in front of a three-way mirror. Then they begin pinching and tucking, making adjustments that make the dress fit like it was made just for me, which, according to them, it was. Perhaps they say this to every girl who comes in, or maybe they're buttering me up so they can make a sale—whatever their motivation is, I don't question it because they are making me feel special. It's almost like having my mother here, except she would never come to a place like this, and if she did she'd be too busy worrying about the prices.

“Shoes?” Out of nowhere one of the women produces several pairs of bone-colored heels. There are strappy ones, closed-toed ones, shiny satin ones, and matte fabric ones; I pull off my socks and slip into a pair that have a tiny bow over each toe. Another woman has gone into the store and brought back accessories. Seeing myself in the shoes, the necklace, and the earrings and holding
a tiny clutch purse, I feel as if it would be impossible to wear the gown without them; it's only when I take the dress, the shoes, the jewelry, and the clutch to the register that I admit to myself what I've been meaning to do all along. I reach into my purse and take out Matt's credit card number, written on a yellow Post-it from the night when he gave it to me for the Blackmore.

“My dad said I could take his card, but I forgot to get it from him this morning,” I tell the clerk. “He gave me the number just now. Can I use it?”

She nods, and I am amazed at how easy it is; the workers here must be used to rich kids running up their parents' credit lines. As I enter the numbers into the electronic keypad I promise that I will tell Matt. Soon, when I've had a chance to make sense of everything.

I use the cover of dusk to sneak my new things into the house and up to my room, where I lay the dress in its garment bag across the floor of my keepsake trunk with the shoes and jewelry on top. Exhaustion bears down on me as I close the lid. The long nights of practicing and studying have finally started to tug me down. With the smell of my mother's spaghetti sauce wafting up from downstairs, I lie on my bed and fall immediately asleep.

Minutes later—it feels like minutes, or maybe it's been an hour—I hear a telephone ringing. Mom tiptoes in, hands me the cordless, then tiptoes back out again.

“Kath?” It's Matt, speaking fast and frantic. “I just got a call from my credit card company. Were you at the mall this afternoon? Somebody was shopping at Goodman's. I told them there was some kind of mistake.”