Authors: Meg Cabot
I quickly jotted the numbers down. "Yeah," I said, looking at them with a funny expression on my face. "Wow. Of course. How weird that I’d forget."
"Well," Mrs. Templeton said sympathetically, "you've been through a lot, hon. I mean, that Luke Striker . . . why, if I’d been hanging around with him as much as you have, I’d forget everything I used to know, too . . . especially the fact that I’m married!"
I laughed very hard at Mrs. Templeton’s little joke.
"Good one," I said. "Well, I’m just going to go get my books now. So I can get to class."
"Sure thing, hon," Mrs. Templeton said. "Oh, here, let me write you a pass so you don’t get into trouble. . . ."
It was that easy.
I hurried down the empty hall, listening to the drone of teachers’ voices behind each door I passed. "
Alyx mis du sel dans le bol du Michel. .
. ." "
If x goes into
y
five times, then
y
must be . . ." "And Congress said, 'Well, each time we have an election, we can’t have a murder,' so Alexander Hamilton . .
."
Finally, I reached locker number three forty-five. I gave the combination lock a whirl, then went to work.
Left, twenty-one.
Right all the way around, thirty-five.
Look up and down the hallway, make sure no one’s coming. Especially Kurt Schraeder.
Then a few notches back to the left, twenty-eight. . . .
The locker door popped open.
Nothing.
Oh, plenty of raunchy magazines, textbooks, stickers that said
GO roosters
! and
blink 182 sux
. A letter jacket. A box of Trojans (nice). And an extremely pungent and not very appealing odor.
But no Betty Ann. No Betty Ann at all.
Crushed—but not defeated—I closed the locker and slunk down to the library, where I hid until the bell rang for lunch. I never even had to show the librarian my pass. She didn’t even ask what I was doing in there instead of in class. Because, you know. I’m nice little Jenny Greenley.
I tell you, I’m starting to think there might actually be advantages to this girl-next-door thing.
When the bell finally rang, I was one of the first people in the caf.
And when Kurt and his friends sauntered in, I made a beeline for him.
"Jen?" Cara called after me, as I tore from the table where we’d been sitting. "Where are you going?"
"I’ll be right back," I said. I hurried down the catwalk to where Kurt was standing in the lunch line, trying to decide between sausage and peppers or a turkey burger.
"Kurt," I said to him. "Where’s Betty Ann?"
Kurt looked down at me. "What? Oh, it’s you again. What is with you and that stupid doll?"
"Where is she, Kurt?"
"Relax," Kurt said. "She’s in a safe place."
"Where is she, Kurt?"
Kurt looked from me to his buddies, then gave one of his asinine little laughs. "What is with you?" he asked me again.
"Why are you always raggin’ on me? First the Cara Cow thing, now this. Jesus, we’re just trying to have a little fun."
"Just tell me if the doll’s all right, will you?" I asked.
"She’s fine," Kurt said. "She’s in my room somewhere, okay? Now will you stop worrying about stuff that doesn’t concern you, and let me order my lunch? Or are you just gonna stand there?"
I got out of his way and went back down the catwalk to my seat.
"What was
that
all about?" Geri Lynn wanted to know as I sat down.
"Nothing," I said. I dug into my tuna salad sandwich, only to see Scott’s gaze on me. When my glance met his, however, he looked away.
Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.
I was sitting there peacefully, wondering at my sudden lack of appetite—I’d been totally ravenous before—while Cara and Kwang took part in a spirited debate about the merit of the Rose McGowan episodes versus the Shannon Doherty years of
Charmed
when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see Karen Sue Walters standing there, with about half of the sopranos—though not Trina, I noticed—from Troubadours behind her.
What on earth were they doing out of the choir room?
"We just want to say thanks," Karen Sue said in a very high-pitched, sarcastic voice, "for letting down the choir. We’ll be thinking about you tomorrow when we place first at Luers."
I looked over at Steve to see if he’d known anything in advance about this little noontime ambush of me. But he looked as bewildered as I felt.
I turned back toward Karen Sue to say,
You’re welcome
, the only conceivable response to such a statement, but I didn’t get a chance to.
That’s because Cara Schlosburg suddenly pushed back her chair and stood up.
Can I just say that, busty as Karen Sue might have been, she could not hold a candle to Cara?
"Why don’t you guys just leave her alone?" Cara demanded of Karen Sue and her friends. "Don’t you think she’s been through enough without you guys trying to make her feel worse?"
Karen Sue was so flabbergasted that for a few seconds she could only blink up at Cara, completely taken aback. Then she seemed to recover herself, since she tittered and said, "Oh, right! Like I really care what
you
think, Cara Cow."
If she’d said,
Hey! I found a winning lottery ticket
! the silence that roared through the caf following this statement could not have been more profound. Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing and look over at our table. Our table, which for years had been an oasis of peace in a sea of unrest and intimidation.
I don’t know what they were expecting. I mean, for me to do. Launch myself at Karen Sue, fingernails first? A little catfight in the caf for their lunchtime entertainment?
Well, they were destined for disappointment.
I couldn’t help sighing a little. Really, had Luke had any idea—when he’d given me his little speech about how it was up to people like me to effect social change—how very, very hard accomplishing such tasks could be? It was a project with absolutely no conceivable end in sight.
I was about to tell Karen Sue exactly what I thought of her of stooping to the level of the Kurts of the world, when again I was interrupted.
But this time, it was by Scott Bennett.
"You know what," he said, putting down his napkin and speaking in a world-weary voice, "this is really starting to piss me off. We were just sitting here, enjoying a nice meal, and you girls had to come ruin it."
"It’s a free country," Karen Sue started to insist shrilly.
But Kwang—all two hundred fifty pounds of him—scooted his chair back and stood up.
"You heard the man," he said. "Get out of here."
The sopranos, their eyes going as wide as snickerdoodles, scattered like rabbits, running off in all different directions.
And everyone in the room went back to what they’d been doing before the girls had tried their stupid stunt.
Well, everyone except for me. Because my heart was too full of appreciation for what my friends—my
real
friends—had done for me.
"You guys," I said, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes. "You guys, that was so sweet—"
"Oh my God," Kwang said, looking at me in horror. "You aren’t going to cry, are you?"
"Of course she isn't," Geri Lynn said, passing me a tissue. "Don’t you start crying, Jen. You’ll make
me
start crying. And I’m not wearing waterproof mascara today."
That made me laugh. My eyes were so filled with tears, I couldn’t see my tuna fish sandwich. But I was still laughing.
"Why’d you ever join that stupid choir in the first place?" Scott asked me in the car on our way home from that day’s
Register
meeting. I hadn’t been too surprised when he’d offered me another ride.
Scared. But not surprised.
But I wasn’t scared for the reasons you might think. I mean, it wasn’t like I thought Scott was going to make any huge declaration of love for me in his Audi or anything. What had happened at lunch that day had been great in one way but not so great in another. And the not so great way was Scott’s standing up for me—or, really, Cara—like that.
It meant he really and truly did consider me his friend.
And the problem with Scott considering me his friend?
He probably didn’t consider me much more than that.
I mean, think about it. I consider Luke my friend. In no way would I ever want to date him. Luke, I mean.
So Scott thinking of me as a friend? Not such a good thing.
Because I was sort of getting the feeling—from the losing my appetite at lunch thing and the sweaty palms I’d experienced in his car the day before—that maybe I kind of liked him as more than just a friend.
I blamed Trina for this, just like I blamed her for the whole Troubadours thing. Because if she hadn’t put the idea in my head all those months ago, it might never have occurred to me, now that Scott and Geri Lynn had broken up and he was available, that I might . . . that he might . . . that
we
might . . .
Oh, God. Just forget it. Because it wasn’t going to happen. So why bother thinking about it? Because even if I
were
starting to think of him as more than just a friend, he obviously still thought of me as nice little Jenny Greenley, Ask Annie, everybody’s best friend.
Which is fine. It’s good, actually. It means it’s okay for me to accept rides home from school with him. So that’s nice.
So what was I feeling scared about as I rode home with him?
What I knew was going to happen next.
"Hey, listen," I said, as the sign for Sycamore Hills, the street where Kurt Schraeder lived—at least according to the phone book, which listed only one Schraeder residence, Kurt Schraeder, Sr. "Can we make a little detour?"
"Sure," Scott said. "Where to?"
"Turn here," I said. "At the sign."
Scott turned, and soon we were cruising down a nice street—not far from where Cara lived, actually—dotted by largish, slightly-on-the-new-side houses.
"Are you going to fill me in on what we’re doing here?" Scott asked above the dulcet tones of Aimee Mann on his car stereo.
"We’re about to stage a rescue," I said mysteriously.
"A rescue? Of what? A dentist?" He was referring to the suburbany architecture, which I’m proud to say my dad had had nothing to do with.
"No," I said. "Of Betty Ann Mulvaney."
"Whoa," Scott said, looking impressed. "What are you going to do? Break in and take her? Shouldn’t we wait until dark? Hey, I think Kwang’s got some night-vision goggles. . . ."
"Very funny. But we don’t need night-vision goggles," I told him. "Or the cover of darkness."
Kurt’s house—which was number 1532 Sycamore Hills—came up on our right. It was an impressive Tudor job. Kurt’s Grand Am, I was pleased to see, was not in the driveway.
"So," Scott said, as he pulled into the driveway and switched the ignition off. "What now?"
"Watch and learn, my friend," I said, undoing my seat belt. "Watch and learn."
Scott followed me up the steps to the Schraeders’ front door. I rang the bell.
Look, I won’t lie to you. The watch-and-learn bit? An act. A total act. I guess I’m more of a theater type than I ever imagined.
The truth was, I was totally nervous. My stomach hurt. My heart was racing a mile a minute. My hands were all sweaty—not because of Scott this time, but because I had no idea whether or not my plan was going to work.
But, hey, I knew one thing: If I didn’t even try, no
way
was it going to.
The door was opened—as I’d hoped it would be—by Kurt’s little sister. Her name, I knew from her necklace, was Vicky. I dropped my hands down to my knees (which was good, because then I could wipe the sweat off on my jeans) so that my gaze was level with hers and said, "Hi! Do you know me?"
Vicky pulled the braid tip she’d been sucking on out of her mouth and went, with a stunned expression, "Oh my Gosh! You’re Jenny Greenley! You’re the one going to the Spring Fling with
Luke Striker
! I saw you on
MTV News
!"
"Yes, that’s me," I said modestly. "Is your brother Kurt home?"
Vicky shook her head, her eyes big as jawbreakers. "No. He went to the lake. With Courtney."
"Oh, no," I said, trying to look disappointed. The acting thing was getting easier and easier. "Well, did he leave something for me? A doll?"
Vicky’s eyes grew even wider. "You mean Betty Ann?"
"Yes," I said, my stomach starting to hurt less. "Betty Ann. See, it’s my turn to look after her. Betty Ann, I mean. I guess Kurt forgot. Could you do me a favor? Could you run to his room and get her for me?"
Back went the tip of the braid into the mouth.
"I’m not allowed to go in Kurt’s room," Vicky said, as she sucked energetically. "He said if I did it again, he’d tell Mom on me."
"Oh, he won’t mind this one time, Vicky," I said. "In fact, you’ll be doing him a huge favor. Because, you see, if I don’t get Betty Ann back—and right this very minute—someone is going to go to the school principal and tell him that Kurt’s the one who took Betty Ann in the first place, and then Kurt probably won’t get to graduate."
The braid dropped from Vicky’s mouth. "Someone would
do
that?"
"Oh, yes," I said, elbowing Scott, who’d begun to chuckle. "
Someone
would. So, you see, you’d really be helping Kurt if you could do this one little thing for me."
"Okay," Vicky said with a shrug. "I’ll be right back."
She took off. When I glanced at Scott, he was shaking his head at me.
"What
happened
to you?" he wanted to know.
"What do you mean?" I asked, a little alarmed.
"You never used to be like this," Scott said. "You used to . . . I don’t know. Be much more interested in smoothing things over than in stirring things up."
I couldn’t believe he’d noticed. I mean, that he’d been paying attention.
To
me
.
"I don’t know," I said, looking away so he wouldn’t see that I was blushing. "I guess I just decided to take a stand."
"I’ll say," Scott said.
We heard running footsteps, and then Vicky reappeared, Betty Ann in her arms.