Rival (6 page)

And I did go. And I did plan on practicing. But then Bud Dawes called, inviting me and the twins, who were home yet again, to a party at his house. I told him no. I couldn't. I had work I needed to do. And he told me Miles Monaghan would be there.

Twenty minutes later I was in my bathroom, trying to follow the directions from
InStyle
magazine on how to apply blush so as to “minimize unflattering features”—namely, my nose.

“Dempsey cab service!” Bill hollered from down the hall. “Leaving in five minutes!”

I gave up on the blush and fluffed out my hair the best I could. Then I put on the outfit I'd picked out: a gold draped sweater, jeans, and heels.

“Hey.” Brice poked his head in. He looked me up and down. “You ready, Brookehilde?”

I took off the heels and put on flats instead.

“Ready.”

When we got to Boodawg's house it wasn't packed, which surprised me because usually his parties are huge. This was a small group. Mostly basketball players and a
few other A-listers. Looking around, I felt better—like I hadn't skipped out on practicing to go to a big bash or anything, so that made it okay.

What made it even better was Miles, in the kitchen, pumping drinks from a keg under the gourmet island.

“Brooke! Excellent!” He smiled his adorable crooked smile at me. “I told the Big Bs not to bother coming unless they brought you along.”

His bangs kept falling into his eyes, which were this amazing shade of blue. He had on a navy sweater that made them look even bluer. Miles was a senior. A good friend of Bill's and Brice's. But he was different from the other guys who hung out at our house. Whenever the twins started calling me Amazon or Brookehilde, he would tell them to shut up. And he never called me Baby B. I could tell Miles didn't go for girls who were just pretty. Miles wanted something different. Someone special.

Miles Monaghan, I had decided, would be my first real boyfriend.

I hadn't told anybody about it. Not even Kathryn, which was kind of dumb, because if I was going to tell anybody, it would have been her. Maybe I felt weird because I'd never had a boyfriend before. Mostly, though, I think it was just because I wanted to wait until I actually had something to talk about.

“Want a beer?” Miles asked me.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don't drink.”

“As of when?”

“As of now.” I prayed he wouldn't bring up the scene with Dan Hummel and the Mardi Gras beads. Or all the other times he'd seen me doing stupid stuff while trashed on crappy keg beer.

“Then soda it is,” he said. “Care to join me in the living room?”

Boodawg had a fire in his parents' fireplace, and I sat in a big leather chair while Miles took the ottoman. We talked about swimming. About whether I should run for student council. About people who were at the party and people who weren't. He drank his beer, getting looser as he reached the bottom. His eyelids were starting to droop. He leaned in closer. His bangs were in his eyes, and I kept wanting to reach up and brush them away.

All of a sudden, cold air went across the back of my neck. Somebody had walked in the front door. Miles looked over my shoulder.

“Chloe's here,” he said. “Who's that with her?”

I turned around, and there was Kathryn.

She had on a sixties-looking wrap dress that probably really was from the sixties. Her hair was down around her shoulders, which I had never seen before. She always
wore it in a ponytail when we hung out. On her feet were the boots I had given her for her birthday. Chloe and Dina each had an arm, and they were showing her off, introducing her to everybody they ran into. Kathryn looked a little overwhelmed, but she smiled and went along with it. If you didn't know her, you'd never know just how shy she could be.

I got up. “Wait here,” I told Miles. Then I went over to where the three of them were giving Boodawg their coats.

“Hey!” Kathryn looked surprised to see me. “I thought you were going home to practice.”

“I thought
you
were ordering pizza with Matt.”

She took off her scarf and handed it to Bud. “I was getting ready to call him, but then Chloe called and asked if I wanted to come out.”

“She did?” I shot a look at Chloe, who waved a little wave.

And then there was Miles, suddenly standing next to me. He stuck his hand out for Kathryn to shake.

“I think I've seen you around school,” he said. He nudged in closer, getting between Kathryn and me. “You're taking Trig or something like that, right?”

“Yes!” The gold in Kathryn's eyes flashed. “Your locker must be on the math wing. You're always there when I get out of class.”

“Fascinating,” said Miles. “Now why didn't I notice you sooner?”

I stood there, staring at Miles's back, feeling the warm, happy feeling from just a few minutes ago drain away. I broke off and grabbed Chloe's arm.

“Well, hey there, Brooke,” she chattered as I pulled her over to the fireplace. “Long time no see!”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Her shoulders went up in a clueless shrug.

“You know what I mean. Calling Kathryn. Bringing her here.”

“You're kidding, right?” Chloe put her hands on her hips. “The whole point of the rush party was making new friends. But we were supposed to share them, not go off and treat everybody else like they're lepers.”

“I didn't treat you like you're a leper,” I said, reaching for an excuse that was true enough to sound convincing. “We've been busy with music. You hate that kind of thing.”

But Chloe isn't stupid. There was no way to pretend I hadn't been avoiding her for three weeks straight.

“So what are you saying, Brooke?” she said. “That Kathryn can only be your friend?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Then what
did
you mean?”

I looked over her shoulder to see Boodawg handing Kathryn a glass that looked like it had wine in it. To Chloe, Kathryn was just somebody new to talk about. A pledge for her little junior class sorority. I thought about trying to explain what Kathryn was to me, but I knew she would never understand.

“Just because I like her doesn't mean you have to make her into a project,” I said.

“Kathryn isn't a
project
, Brooke. I'm trying to be nice.” Chloe squinted at me. “What were
you
planning to do with her, hide her someplace and only let her come out when you say it's okay?”

“No…,” I said. Putting it like that made the whole thing seem shallow and stupid.

“I like her,” Chloe went on. “Dina likes her. You obviously like her. There's no reason why we can't all hang out, right, Brooke?”

Okay. On the surface, she
was
right. Perfectly reasonable. And I had to agree, because keeping up the argument would only make me look stupid. But watching from across the room while Kathryn talked to Miles and Dina in that dress and those boots, I didn't feel reasonable at all. What I really felt was scared.

IT'S MONDAY. THE MONDAY AFTER
the pool party, and everybody's wondering when Kathryn will come back to school. She stayed home Friday, which got the rumor mill going good. In just a couple days, the story has gone from a bloody lip and a bump on the head to a weekend at the hospital on life support. That one scared me when I first heard it. What if she really did get hurt? What if she got water in her lungs or went too long without air and had brain damage? I tell myself it can't be that bad. Anderson would have said something, and he hasn't mentioned Kathryn at all. What he did say, Friday at the end of choir, was that we'd be getting the repertoire for fall contests today.

Sure enough, when we walk in at the start of class there are black folders stacked on top of the piano. For a few minutes, they're what everybody's talking about. Until Kathryn walks in. People start whispering, looking
for signs of a near-death experience. She doesn't look like she's had any major injuries, though. She keeps her eyes down and stays quiet. She doesn't look at me at all.

The folders are stacked by section. I take mine back to my seat and flip through it. Brahms, Bach, a couple of contemporary pieces. Anderson waits until everybody's got one, then he steps up to his music stand.

“Let's begin with the Vivaldi.”

We sight-read the first couple of pages. When a new movement starts, my eyes go down to the second staff, looking for the alto part. There's nothing there. I look at the soprano staff. The notes go on all by themselves across the top of the page. Right above the time signature is the word “solo.”

“Kathryn,” says Anderson. “Go ahead and take this.”

I flip ahead in the music. Nothing there, so I search through the rest of my folder, looking for my piece. If Kathryn gets a solo, Anderson always evens it out by giving me one, too. It's like this unspoken balance he's set up. Like he knows about this thing between us and wants everything to be fair.

But this time it isn't.

Maybe he feels bad about what happened at the pool. Maybe Kathryn got to him somehow—told him she wanted a solo and got him to agree. Or maybe he thinks Kathryn is better than me.

It can't be that. It better not be. Kathryn starts to sing and the sound of her voice is terrifying. She obviously spent all summer practicing. A few chairs over, Laura Lindner rolls her eyes at me. Normally I'd be all over anything that knocks Kathryn off her precious little pedestal, but today she sounds way too good.

Kathryn's always been a threat but now, with the Blackmore coming up, she just might be my biggest competition.

Two hours later when school lets out, I'm still obsessing about it. I want to go home and practice, but Chloe's waiting by my locker. Her normally perfect makeup looks faded, and her eyes are bloodshot.

“Have you been crying?” I ask.

“No.” She presses her cheeks with her fingertips. “It's just allergies. You're the one who looks like crap.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, and start on my locker combination.

“So,” she says through a stopped-up nose. “What's the matter?”

I take a breath. Maybe if I say it, then I'll feel better.

“Kathryn.”

Chloe scrunches up her face. “Kathryn who? Kathryn Pease?”

I nod, and Chloe's expression gets darker.

“What about her?”

“Kathryn is…” This is music related, so I know I'll have to ease Chloe into it. “Kathryn is driving me crazy.”

“But I thought we took care of her last year.”

“We did,” I say, remembering. “I mean,
I
did.”

“Right. So what's the problem?”

I try again. This time with a little more detail. “You can talk all you want about ‘taking care of her.' But that didn't make her disappear. She's a good singer.”

“Exactly my point.” Chloe throws her hands up. “She's a music freak.”

“She got a solo today in choir and I didn't.”

“Devastating, Brooke. Really.”

“It sort of is.”

I slam my locker door. Harder than I need to, but Chloe doesn't seem to notice. “Forget about Kathryn,” she tells me. “Right now you've got bigger things to worry about.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

She pulls a sheet of paper out of her bag and hands it to me. It's the Spirit Committee's list of Homecoming court nominees. “Nobody's supposed to see it until tomorrow. Don't say I never do anything for you.”

I read all of the names. Mine is first on a list with four other girls. Angela Van Zant, Kiersten Coons, Celina DeGraff, Madison Verbeck…

“You're not on here,” I say.

“Of course I'm not. I'm organizing the whole thing, so it would be a total conflict of interest for me to be a candidate, too.”

I look into her eyes, which are definitely red. She coughs and rubs her nose.

“Are you sure you're okay with this?” Chloe's been dying to be in the Homecoming court ever since junior high, when Brice and Bill would take us to high school football games. Afterward, she would dress up in my mom's old cabaret gowns and practice blowing kisses to my stuffed animals.

“I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it,” she tells me. “Besides, you need me, Brooke. Without my help you'd squander an opportunity like this.”

She looks so serious that I have to laugh. “Was ‘squander' on one of your vocab tests this week?”

“Indubitably. Now give me that before anybody else sees it.” She takes the list back, but not before I check out the guys. I find John Moorehouse's name, third down.

“So,” Chloe says. “Have you thought about your campaign?”

“Please,” I groan. “You're not serious.”

“I'm dead serious. See, Brooke? This is why you need me so much.”

“But campaign? Even you said it was stupid.” A few years ago, the school board decided the Spirit Committee needed to do more than just organize parties and pep rallies. So they came up with this thing where the people nominated for Homecoming court have to pick some kind of cause they want to represent. When everybody goes to vote, they pay a dollar. However many votes you get, that's how much money goes to your cause. It sounds good in theory, but only about half the people in our school actually vote. With ten people on the court, the most anybody ever raises is a couple hundred dollars.

“It's not stupid, Brooke,” Chloe tells me. “With me as your campaign manager, you're going to make the most money of anybody.” She's actually rubbing her hands together, like a little Ivanka Trump. “So what's your cause?”

“Well.” I think a minute. “I'm for sure not doing something sappy like the stray-cat shelter.”

Then it hits me. Honors Choir. Our dresses are expensive. Nobody helps us buy them, even though the football players get their uniforms for free. Maybe I can start a fund to help buy dresses for the girls who can't afford them.

“You want to put choir dresses on your campaign posters,” Chloe says when I tell her. “Really.”

“Hey, it's my choice what I raise money for. I'm responding to a real need.” Chloe's resistance makes me even more determined. “It's choir dresses or nothing. I never asked to go up for Homecoming Queen.”

She sighs. “Fine. We'll just have to come up with a sexy slogan.” Without asking if I've got anything better to do, she grabs my hand and drags me clear across the building to the art wing. Hidden in one of the back studios are sheets of bright-colored poster board. Chloe opens up a locker and starts pulling out Magic Markers, glitter, and glue.

“When did you get all this?” I say.

“Yesterday.” Paint. Stickers. She must've cleaned out the entire crafts store. “But I'm not doing anything else unless you help me, got it? God, Brooke, if everybody loved me as much as they love you, I wouldn't be so freaking blasé about it.” She shoves a can of spray paint into my hand. I hesitate. I really do need to get home and practice. But Chloe's already made up some slogans, so I get to work, helping her paint them onto the posters. The art studio has big doors that open off the back of the building. They're standing wide-open, and a nice breeze comes through. Football practice is going on. I can hear a whistle and yelling outside.

But the open doors don't do much to get rid of the paint fumes.

“I'm about to keel over,” I tell Chloe. “I'm going for some air.”

Outside, I pace around the bottom of the little hill that leads up to the stadium. A whistle blows break time and the guys start coming down to the trainer's truck for drinks. They all say hi as they walk past me.

And there's John Moorehouse, bringing up the back.

Okay. I should be used to seeing John by now. But I can't help it—every time he comes near me I get all hot and my brain goes fizzy-blank.

“Hey, Brooke.”

Oh my God. He's stopping.

“How're the twins?”

His hair is wet and sticking up all over from being inside his helmet. There are black smudges underneath his eyes. These days I'm pretty snarky when people ask about Bill and Brice, but this is John Moorehouse. He could ask me pretty much anything.

“They're okay,” I say. “They were home over the weekend. They start school tomorrow.”

“I thought they'd be at The Rocks on Saturday. I didn't see you there, either.”

“I had to practice.” I say it before I can catch myself. I wait for his eyes to glaze over, like everybody else's do when the topic of music comes up.

But instead he says, “You're doing that contest, right?
The Blackmore Festival?”

My jaw almost hits the ground. “
You
know about the Blackmore?”

“My dad's firm is a big sponsor. But all I've been hearing is how it might not happen since the new hall's so far behind schedule.”

I've heard that rumor, too. The new Buxton-Blackmore recital hall was supposed to be part of the festival's big fiftieth anniversary celebration, but it's turned into a big drama instead. Every time I go to Baldwin for my voice lessons I check on how the construction is going. It never seems much further along, even though the crews are supposedly working on it 24/7.

“The application said November fifteenth,” I tell John. “And it better be on because I'm totally doing it.”

“I bet you'll be amazing.” He punches my arm. I put my hand over the spot and try not to look embarrassed. “What's that on your face?”

“What?” I look for my reflection in one of the glass doors. There's a dark streak across my nose. I can't tell if it's red or black. “Um…,” I say, licking my finger and rubbing at it, “it's either marker or paint. We're making Homecoming posters in the art room.”

“I thought we weren't finding out the court until tomorrow.”

“Well…” I think about Chloe and the art supplies
that just happened to be all ready and waiting in her locker. “Chloe can't keep a secret.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“But now that I know…” I shouldn't be doing this, but it will keep him here longer. And I like having something he can't get anywhere else.

“Yeah?” He leans in.

“You're on the list, too.”

“Aw, really?” He looks pumped. “We could be King and Queen together!”

“We could!” Suddenly the idea of campaigning doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

The coach blows his whistle. The break is over.

“Whoops!” says John. “I forgot my drink!”

“You wasted your break!” Now I'm totally flirting. It's obnoxious, but John doesn't seem to mind.

“I wouldn't exactly call it wasted,” he says. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle under the smudgepaint. I watch him grab some Gatorade from the back of the pickup; then he runs back up the hill, his rear end looking completely distracting in those tight uniform pants.

Hot
and
knowledgeable about all-important singing contests—could one guy get any more perfect?

Chloe's shaking a new can of paint when I get back inside.

“Who were you talking to?” she asks.

“Nobody,” I say. Fortunately, she's too busy painting to nag, so I pick up a can and start spraying, too.

We spend three more hours on the posters, and it's almost seven when I finally get home. There's a frozen TV dinner melting on the kitchen counter with a note from my mom stuck on top.

 

Strategy meeting tonight. Sorry I missed you. Your father called. He's at the apartment in NYC.

 

I dig in my purse for my cell phone. Yep, he's texted me.

 

New Project: SanFran Opera. Money factor: 7. Cool factor: 10. Call soon.

 

John Moorehouse talked to me.

My dad called.

I feel much better now.

I put the dinner back in the freezer and take a banana up to my bedroom. I try calling Dad three times but can't get him on the phone, so I text him congratulations. Then I wander over to my piano. On a day with no Homecoming posters to make, I would have been done practicing by now. I try to do at least an hour every day. I have ever since I was a kid, singing
for my dad in front of all his friends.

Back when my parents were together, they used to have these great parties. Every weekend, our apartment would be filled with people—actors, artists, people from Mom's cabaret or whatever show Dad happened to be working on. At some point in the evening, somebody would always sit down at the piano and my mom would do a couple of songs.

One night, Dad got me in on the act. He'd caught me earlier in the day, singing along with my mom's CDs. That night, he grabbed me out of the crowd and stood me up next to the piano.

“Brookie does the best Ella Fitzgerald you've ever seen!” he announced. “Go on, honey. Do ‘Cottontail,' just like today.”