Rival (17 page)

WHAT DID I COME HERE
for? My locker stands open, waiting for me to take from it what I came to take, only I can't remember what that was. The hallway is eerily quiet now that Brooke's voice and my voice no longer echo through it. I stand, gripping the locker door as my gaze darts from the coat hook to the books stacked on the top shelf, to the Met Opera mug that holds my pencils and pens.

Oh right. A pen.

I take one from the mug, and as I do the edges of the world start to shimmer—is it tears or adrenaline, or is everything changing now that we've broken the silence that has grown between us for so long?

I close my locker and slide to the floor with my back against the door, letting my heart rate slow, screwing my eyes shut so that when I open them the world will be solid again. I can't go back to Elise and the
Picayune
table; I can't go back to interviewing people about their Homecoming memories. Whatever was going to happen tonight, it's started.

I stand and make my way back through school, back into the night. As I walk through the parking lot I think about Matt at home in front of his computer, typing conversations with online friends who are more real to him than real life these days. Without Matt, I am untethered—floating free without anything to anchor me.

A sharp buzz sounds; it's the scoreboard, announcing the end of the first half. From inside the stadium I can hear the crowd cheering, hear the school fight song, hear the announcer boom out the halftime score. I pick up my pace, hurrying because if John is going to wear the crown and the cape, then I at least owe it to him to be there to see it.

Emerging from the concourse and into the bleachers, I see football players running toward the field house. The stadium lights dim and search lights come on, arcing through the sky like enormous magic wands. The marching band begins to file onto the field as a new voice comes over the PA system: “Welcome, students, parents, teachers, and alumni to the William O. Douglas High School seventy-fifth annual Homecoming celebration!”

Convertibles are lined up along the sidelines, each carrying a member of the Homecoming court. I can see
Brooke in the second car, elegant in a black-and-red dress, and John in the fifth, still wearing his football uniform.

The convertibles make their way toward a stage that has been set up in the middle of the field with a platform on top, where the King and Queen will get their crowns. The convertibles drop off the candidates, who line up on the lower level with Chloe orchestrating the spectacle as only Chloe can.

Here in the stands, people seem to know the winners before Ms. Van Whye can announce them. “Moorehouse, Moorehouse!” they start to chant. Tim McNamara sneaks behind me and picks up my arms, making me clap like a big, overgrown seal. “What's wrong?” he says when I jump away. “Don't you want to stand by your man?”

“He's not…” I begin, only to be drowned out by cheers as John's name is, in fact, called. I shake Tim off so that I can clap on my own, while John shuffles up to the platform and Ms. Van Whye places an oversized crown on his head.

They're chanting for Brooke now, and Tim approaches as if he's going to make me clap again. I step away, with a glare that stops him cold.

“Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!” everybody shouts.

And they're right about that, too, as if there was ever any doubt.

Brooke steps forward, Chloe by her side, like a monarch with her lady-in-waiting. Chloe straightens Brooke's
sweater, making sure she is ready to receive her crown, then they start up the stairs to the platform.

Brooke has always been the Queen B; only this time, it's official.

IT'S FREEZING ON THE STAGE
. Way colder than it was on the field. But Chloe had a hissy fit about people wearing coats over their gowns, so we left them under the concourse with the rest of our stuff.

Hold on….

The water gun in Dina's bag.

The giggles when Chloe talked about getting me and John together.

The junk in Kathryn's locker.

Whatever happens tonight, she asked for it.

Oh my God.

Chloe stands next to me, applauding as Ms. Van Whye pins a red cape to John's shoulder pads. “Chloe,” I say. “What are you going to do?” She doesn't answer. I reach behind and pinch the back of her arm. “Chloe! At the dance. What are you going to do to Kathryn?”

Chloe squeals, but not because of me. In fact, I barely
got any flesh in my fingers because Ms. Van Whye just announced Queen and Chloe's hands flew up to her mouth, like a beauty pageant winner.

“Oh my God!” she screams. “Did you hear that, Brooke? They just called your name!”

She bolts for the podium. When I don't automatically follow she turns back, clapping her hands together. “This is it. Aren't you excited? We won!” Then she starts up the steps like it's her who's getting the crown. I step forward and yank her back.

“I mean it, Chloe. Leave Kathryn alone.”

The other people onstage are laughing. To them it looks like we've gotten tangled up—like Chloe's tripped or I've goosed her, just for fun. Chloe balances herself. Then she reaches out to straighten my sweater. “Don't worry about Kathryn,” she says. “Everybody will have fun tonight, I promise. Even her, if she takes it the right way.”

She tries for the steps again, but I hang on and say the one thing that has any chance of getting through.

“If you touch Kathryn…If
anybody
does
anything
tonight, I swear to God I will do to you what I did to her.”

Chloe stares at me with that Miss America grin. She either doesn't believe me or she doesn't understand.

“I'm serious,” I tell her. “Touch Kathryn, and I will spend the entire rest of this year making you a leper.”

“Like you would.” Chloe tries to shake free. “After everything I've done for you?”

I bring back all of the blackness—the horrible, awful, awesomely powerful feeling that came with punching Kathryn—and I swing right for where I know it will hurt.

“Think about it,” I tell Chloe. “You've got the whole rest of this semester and the whole semester after that. Plus the summer. That's a long time to be alone. No parties. No friends. No nothing. And Bill and Brice have contacts all over the place. College might not be that much better.”

The other candidates are motioning us to keep moving. Up in the stands, people have started stomping their feet. They're waiting for the halftime show to be over. They don't know that the real show is right here, between Chloe and me.

Doubt starts to creep across her face. But Chloe didn't get where she is by giving up easily.

“I don't need you,” she tells me.

“Then try it,” I shoot back. “Remember what I did to her? Remember how bad it got? I can do it to you, too. Easy.”

“Girls?” Ms. Van Whye gestures for us to get up there and get on with it.

“It's a power thing,” I say. “That's what you always told me. People keep track of who's on my bad side so
they don't end up there, too.”

Chloe's smile starts to lose its edge. I can see her weighing up everything I've said. Calculating her odds. She opens her mouth. Then she shuts it again. She tosses her razored hair, but she doesn't look anywhere near as confident as before.

And then, she looks away.

“If anyone does anything,” I repeat, “I don't care who, it's all coming back on you. So if I were you, I'd spread the word fast.”

I go past her, up onto the podium. Ms. Van Whye hands me a bouquet of roses. John kisses my hand. And Chloe makes her way over with a tiara.

“You don't deserve any of this,” she tells me as she reaches up to put the crown in my hair.

I reach up, too, like I'm going to help. What I really do is dig my fingernails into her wrist. She gasps, and I give a little shake. Just so she knows I haven't forgotten my promise.

“When have I ever deserved it?” I say.

“
SHALL I GET THE DOOR
for you, your highness?”

Bud Dawes races ahead of us, up to the big double doors that lead inside the school. John sighs, draping his cape over one arm and cradling his crown in the other. “Call me ‘your highness' again, 'Dawg, and I'll kick your ass.”

I take long, deep breaths as we near the entrance; my back tingles, expecting Bud to slam the door on me. “Nice dress,” he says. Is he being sarcastic? I can't tell, but I say “thank you” anyway in a voice that surprises me with its steadiness before it echoes away through the empty commons.

Though it is quiet out here, the gym is brimming over with people. I hold my head up as we enter, taking rapid inventory: Starfish dangle from the ceiling, blue lights waver on the floor, fishing nets hang from the walls, and a woman in a mermaid costume serves punch. It's an
underwater theme.

Of course it is.

Well-wishers swarm around John: guys clamoring to high-five him and girls waiting their turn to give him a hug. The guys smile, not unkindly, at me, but the girls keep their distance, which isn't much different from the way things usually are, except that now I see aggression in the tiniest of gestures:

Kiersten Coons is whispering something to Violet Alexander, no doubt debating whether to dump mud or motor oil down the front of my dress.

Angela Van Zant keeps glancing in my direction, probably making sure I'm standing in just the right spot.

Dina scratches her nose: Is that the signal?

John rests a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I jump. “Why? Should I not be?”

“Whoa.” He lifts both hands as if he's just touched something hot. “Looks like I hit a nerve.”

What am I supposed to say? I know I'm making an ass out of myself, but the truth is that I don't trust him; I don't trust anybody. The dark gym with its gyrating bodies, loud music, and seashell-laced ceiling could be one huge booby trap.

“I'm going to the restroom,” I tell him before scurrying off to the one place I know will at least have decent lighting.

This is wrong,
I think as I sit in a stall, listening to people coming and going.
I should have let Brooke have John. I should have come with Matt like we'd planned all along.
If I had come with him, then I wouldn't even be here right now; we would have taken one look at the DJ booth with its papier mâché shipwreck decorations, giggled, and then went back to my house, where a collector's edition of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
waits on my DVD player. Instead I am a walking target. I come close to pulling up my feet and crouching on the toilet for the rest of the evening, but Brooke's face has been burned into my brain. If I disappear I might be safe, but I will have given her exactly what she wants.

No. Brooke, Chloe, Dina—even John if he somehow turns out to be in on the plot: I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken again. No matter what they do, I won't shatter.

I'm not made of glass.

I stand, smooth the wrinkles from my dress, and venture out of the stall to find Laura Lindner at the sink, washing her hands. She glares at my reflection in the mirror, the first person to make eye contact all evening. Perhaps because I need to test my voice or perhaps because I actually care, I say, “I've been where you are, you know.”

“Been where?” she says, eyeing me with disdain.

“With Chloe and those guys. I know how good it feels when they like you. I also know how hard it is to fit in. As soon as you make a mistake or you aren't useful to them anymore, they'll drop you.”

“What are you, jealous or something?” she sneers.

“Not really,” I say, which, I realize, is true. I remember how good it felt to be with Chloe, Dina, and the others, but I also see now just how perilous it was. If nothing else, tonight is a chance to brush myself off and walk away—something I didn't get to do that night so many months ago.

I leave Laura in the bathroom and head back to the gym to find the Homecoming court gathered at the DJ booth. Everyone cheers as Ms. Van Whye presents Brooke and John in full royal regalia. Bud Dawes prances out wearing an Honors Choir gown, and the entire room breaks into laughter. He hands Brooke a big cardboard check; next year a new singer will get her choir dress for free with enough money left over to help three others, too, since Brooke has raised a record amount. I find myself smiling at the idea of somebody we don't know—maybe a freshman ten times more talented than Brooke or I will ever be—getting something good out of such a bitter rivalry.

The lights dim and a spotlight illuminates a circle of empty floor; it's time for the King and Queen to dance
with each other. John reaches for Brooke, but she shakes her head, turning instead to Bud, who bows and kisses her hand. When he tries to lead her out to dance, however, she sends him into the arms of one of the other King candidates, sparking another round of catcalls.

John peers into the crowd, searching for, then spotting me.
Come here,
he mouths.

I shake my head. No matter how brave I might have felt five minutes ago, right now I am positively petrified.

Come here,
John mouths again.

I take a step, every nerve ending abuzz. Nothing happens. I take two more, then another two, whispers following me the entire way, until I reach the place where John stands. Music starts and I stiffen in his arms. I can't take my eyes off of Brooke; whatever she has planned, I want to see it coming.

“I'm starting to think I've got cooties,” John says as we begin to sway. “Is hanging out with me really that horrible?”

“No,” I tell him. “It's…” As soon as I start to speak, Brooke steps off the stage and strides with purpose toward John and me. I steel myself for the blow, for the drenching spray, for the paint balls to start raining down, but Brooke keeps walking, moving past us to the exit.

She's leaving?

No; she stops. Through glimmering blue lights I see her hold out both hands to someone: a boy in jeans and an
Empire Strikes Back
sweatshirt.

“What the…,” says John. “Isn't that your friend?”

It is. It's Matt, letting Brooke lead him through the sea of gowns and suits to the spotlit circle where John and I stand. Neither of them will look at me, even though we are just a few feet away from one another. I crane my neck, searching for Chloe, Dina, the rest of them. I find Chloe in the DJ booth, looking down on us with an expression blank as stone.

This is worse than having my dress ruined, worse than being ignored, even worse than being punched in the face.

And worst of all is knowing I deserve it.

“I wouldn't have pegged Brooke for a guy like that,” John says. Matt and Brooke are dancing now, so close to us that we nearly brush up against one another. “But I guess you never know, now, do you?”

“No,” I say. We move miserably from side to side—or at least
I
am miserable; John is just quiet. Around us, the chatter about Brooke and Matt starts to die down. People have had enough of the novelty; they're getting impatient to dance.

“Can I ask you something?” I say to John.

“Sure,” he replies.

“Why did you ask me here tonight?”

He turns a little as we sway, and soon I am looking at the other end of the gym, which is a relief because I can no longer see Matt with his back to me and Brooke with her cheek on his shoulder.

“Who else would I ask?” he says.

I smile bitterly; if he's joking, it's a good act. But I have to know: Is he in on the plot or isn't he?

“Well, it's not as if we really know each other. You hang out with one group of people, I hang out with…” The only name to put in that space would be Matt's, so I let the sentence trail off, leaving a void that mirrors the one inside of me.

John shrugs. “I had fun working with you in Anatomy, and you keep to yourself so much I thought maybe you'd like to get out. Plus, I knew you'd look great tonight, and you do. Is that a shallow reason?”

“No,” I say. The rose-colored gown
is
beautiful; after all the pain I've caused, I'm glad someone is able to appreciate it.

“I guess the easy answer,” John says, “is that I asked you because I wanted to.”

I should leave it there; I should shut my mouth and just enjoy being in the arms of someone who's kind and understanding and genuinely wants to be here with me, but I just can't do it. “Chloe must have told you about
me,” I press. “Didn't she tell you about what happened last year?”

“I heard a few things, but I didn't necessarily believe them.” John pushes me backward so he can peer into my eyes. “I wasn't here last fall, so whatever happened back then means zilch to me. Why do you care what Chloe and those guys think, anyway?”

And that is the question, the one that has been dogging me:
Why?
I've been so obsessed over what happened with Brooke—so consumed by thoughts of getting even or getting something back or whatever it is I've been seeking, that I failed to appreciate the real friendship I had with Matt.

Or with Brooke, back when it was just the two of us.

The dance is nearing its end. There are no falling fishnets, no water balloons, no ambushes or flying snorkel gear; just Matt twirling Brooke, making her laugh like she used to when we would stay up late on the phone or hog the karaoke machine at the coffee shop, making fun of the singers on
American Idol
.

The music fades, the spotlight blinks off, and the space where we have been slow-dancing fills with bodies moving to a fast song I barely know. John moves with them while I bob halfheartedly along. Matt and Brooke have been swallowed up in the crowd; I can't see them anymore.

“You're not having fun, are you?” says John.

I try to smile, but I know it looks weak.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “You've been wonderful tonight. Really. I'm just not feeling well, and I don't think I'd be any fun if I stayed. You don't have to leave, though. Stay here with your friends.”

“But your car's back at my house.”

“Oh. God.” I bury my head in my hands. Since John lives closer to school than I do, we went to his place to change after the game, and my car is still sitting on the street in front of his house.

“It's okay,” he says. “I'll give you a ride.”

“Or I could do it.”

Matt's voice comes from just over my shoulder. I turn to see him beside me. The nerves that have been fraying all night finally snap; the anger—at myself, at Brooke, at Matt—and the humiliation of seeing him with her boil over. Before I can think about what I'm doing, I wrench away from John and bolt for the door.

“Kath!” Matt shouts after me. “Kath!”

He catches up with me in the parking lot, grabs my elbow, brings me around, and kisses me. It's a surprisingly gentle kiss, all things considered. I suppose I've been anticipating it ever since that first day in Sunday school so many years ago.

But it's wrong. I can't describe why, exactly—it just
isn't
us
. Not that I wouldn't have been willing to change us, if it felt right; I've thought about this, in those rare moments when I allowed myself to wonder what being more than friends would actually be like. But now that I've experienced it, I know.

Is Matt your boyfriend?
If I ever had a doubt, I know now that the answer is no. We know each other too well.

Which is why
he
should have known what coming to Homecoming with Brooke would do to me.

“What were you doing in there?” I demand.
“What were you doing?!”

“I was dancing,” he says.

I smack his chest with my open palm. “You know what I mean. Why are you here with her?
Her
of all people?”

Matt still holds my elbow, and as he moves in to kiss me again I pull back. This time I'm better able to process what I'm feeling, even if I can't quite put it into words.

“I don't…,” I stammer, “I mean, I can't…”

Disappointment, resignation, and even a bit of relief play across his features. He pulls back and lets me go.

“I know,” he says.

He looks so sweet, so sensible, so
Matt
that my anger starts to fade. It's so good having him here—having him back—that I almost forget why we were fighting. To remind myself, I picture him dancing with Brooke again.

“And besides,” I say, “what are you doing even talking to me after what you just did? Was that the plan? She's using
you
to hurt me now?”

But he just smiles that
come on
smile, with those eyes that have seen through me since we were eight years old.

“After everything you've pulled, you're giving me hell for this? You've done some stupid things, Kath, but you're not dumb. Brooke called because she thought you might need me and you know what? It kind of looks like you do.”

He unknots his coat from around his waist and holds it up. My teeth are chattering, still I hesitate one stubborn second more, hanging on to the last shred of an anger I know I've got no right to.

“But not like this,” I tell him. I gesture toward the gym door. “That back there—it was terrible!”

“Okay.” He tosses his coat over his shoulder and turns to walk away. “That dress is way too beautiful to cover up anyway.”

Shame washes from the top of my head all the way down to my toes, and I promise myself that, as soon as I get home, I am going to put the rose-colored gown into the back of my closet; I will wear my Honors Choir gown for the Blackmore—it will have to do.

I scurry to catch up with him. He stands with his
arms out until, finally, I step into the warmth of his jacket.

“It's still early,” he says. “I've got the super-duper, extraspecial extended edition director's cut
Two Towers
DVD back at my place. Wanna watch it?”