The Implosion of Aggie Winchester (11 page)

Mrs. Miller straightened a cuff on her shirt. “No. In fact, I wanted to make sure you heard this from someone who
wasn’t
your mom. I wanted you to know someone at this school believes in you.”

A few seconds of silence passed. I heard the clock ticking, heard a student run past in the hallway outside. “Thanks, Mrs. Miller,” I said finally. “I know I haven’t been the greatest student ever in your class. What you said—it was nice.”

Mrs. Miller smiled. “You’re welcome, Aggie,” she said. “Thanks for listening.”

The hallways were quiet as I made my way to chemistry, which is why I heard the shouting so clearly when I passed the administration offices.

“She can’t be eligible. That’s what I’m saying. She should be disqualified.” I froze.

“Amy, I understand where you’re coming from,” a male voice replied. I figured it for Mr. Monroe, our vice principal. “But there are no rules for this. Next year, if you want to petition to put them in place, that’s fine. But this year, if she gets enough votes, she gets the crown.”

Amy. I was nearly certain that was Mrs. Wagner’s first name.

“Her pregnancy sends the wrong message,” Mrs. Wagner said, her volume rising. Pregnancy. She had to be talking about Sylvia. And from the sounds of it, Mrs. Wagner was trying to block Sylvia from being queen.

I crept closer to try and hear more. “I’m telling you, this is a mistake,” she said. “A very dreadful mistake.”

My mind spun. By now, Mrs. Wagner should know that the ballots had been tampered with. Jefferson should have told her about my run-in with Sylvia—that is, if he had been telling me the truth. The bogus ballots, if she was aware of them, should have been her biggest concern, I thought, not the fact that Sylvia was knocked up.

“Just go firm up your counts,” Mr. Monroe said. “Stop stalling. The school needs to know one way or the other.”

Hearing Mrs. Wagner’s heels click toward the door, I pulled a 180 and started speed walking in the other direction. I took the long way to get to class and, when I finally did, I was out of breath.

I handed my late note to Mr. Plower, my chem teacher, and took my seat. With my book spread out before me, I tried to follow along on a problem about molar mass, but all I could think about was what I’d just overheard.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker came to life. The whole class quieted down immediately. You could have heard an electron vibrating.

“Thanks for your patience while we counted this year’s vote!” Mrs. Wagner said. “I’m happy to announce Marissa Mendez is this year’s prom queen . . . and Ryan Rollings is the king. Congratulations to both our winners, and we’ll see you all at the Hofbräu Haus!”

I shook my head, trying to make sense of all my jumbled thoughts and emotions. I couldn’t tell if I was happy or disappointed, or if anything I’d seen and heard today still mattered.

I was trying to get a grip when Alex Hansen, one of the better students in the class, pushed his thick chem book off his desk. It landed on the floor with a sound like a gunshot. “No way!” he said. “I don’t believe this for a second.”

Mr. Plower stood up immediately. “That’s not appropriate,” he said sharply. “Pick your textbook back up now.”

Alex glowered and was reaching toward the floor when Andy Lowry pushed his chem book off his desk, too. “Alex is right. This is crap. Sylvia should be queen.”

Next was Zach Gullickson. Then Theresa Illam. Then Katie McFinn. The sound of their books landing was like cannon fire.

“Enough!” yelled Mr. Plower. “The next person who drops a book will get detention.”

The class quieted, but the point was made. There were students who thought the outcome of the election was bogus and that Sylvia should be queen.

And they weren’t all in my chemistry class, either. When the bell rang and I stepped into the hallway, I spotted clusters of students gathered around lockers wondering why the vote had taken so long and if the outcome was real.

It didn’t take long for them to organize. When I finally left school for the day, I was almost run down by a freckled kid who shoved a mass of papers in my face.

“Sign the petition,” he said, shaking the pages for emphasis. I looked at him but didn’t recognize him. Must have been a freshman or sophomore. “To make the administration recount the prom ballots,” he said.

I swallowed. A petition? “Get out of my face,” I said, brushing past him. My head hurt, and I just wanted to go home. I’d had enough for one day.

Chapter Twenty

MONDAY, APRIL 20 / 3:20 P.M.

I was in my car,
about a half mile from my house, when my cell phone rang.

I fished it out of my bag and looked at the caller ID. It was a local number, but not one I recognized. I decided to answer it.

“Yeah?”

“Hello, is this Margaret Winchester?”

I rolled my eyes. A telemarketer. “Yes, and I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

I was ready to snap my phone shut when I heard, “Wait! Don’t hang up! I’m not a salesman!”

I put the phone back against my ear. “What?”

“My name is Rod Barris. I’m a reporter with the
St. Davis Letter
. Are you Margaret Winchester?”

“Aggie,” I replied. “My name is Aggie. Nobody calls me Margaret except my mom.”

“Aggie, I’m calling to do a story on you. I’m not a salesman, I’m a
reporter
.”

My blood chilled. Surely if the local paper wanted to do a story on me, it had to be bad. What had I done?

“Wh—why would you want to write about me?”

“My neighbor is in your club, the Bass Masters. John Garrison? He told me you were the only girl in the group and that you were probably one of the best fisherpersons among them.”

I exhaled with relief. “It’s just fisherman,” I said. “Even for the girls, you’re a fisherman. You don’t have to say fisherperson.”

“I see,” Rod said. I could hear papers shuffling. “So would you be interested in being profiled? For the paper? John told me you have a tournament this Saturday. I take it you’re competing?”

Rod had his facts straight, I could say that much. There
was
a tournament this Saturday, and unlike the opener earlier in the month, this was an actual competition, which you had to pay to enter. There were judges who weighed your fish and everything. It was a pairs competition, meaning you had to fish in twos, and first prize for the winning team was $1,500. My dad and I had signed up months ago.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m in it. I mean, my dad and I are.”

“Well, how about this. I’m on deadline for a few other stories, but I could meet you somewhere to talk this evening. A café maybe? I know it’s last minute, but I’d love to file this piece sooner rather than later. What do you say?”

I pulled over onto a side street and let the engine idle. What did I say to that? My name would be all over the town paper as a
bass fisher
. I’d probably have to talk about how much I liked it, which would mean the game was up. People like Fitz and Sylvia would discover that, despite everything I’d told them, I really loved being on the boat and on the water. I’d be outed.

I took a deep breath. The conversation I’d had with Mrs. Miller was still fresh in my head. Maybe bass fishing was the start to something bigger in my life. Maybe it could open doors down the road. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Yeah, okay,” I said to Rod. “How about I meet you at Tickywinn’s tonight at eight?”

“Perfect,” Rod replied. “See you then.”

When my mom came home a few hours later, part of me hoped she might start talking about prom, maybe filling me in on what the administration was saying about it. Another part of me wanted to tell her what I knew. And still another part of me just wanted to see her. We hadn’t spoken much since the
Sense and Sensibility
fight.

She’d gone grocery shopping—leave it to my mom to still tick off her to-do list while the school panicked—and hauled all the bags into the kitchen by herself.

“Hey,” I said, reaching into a bag to help her unload.

“Soup on the left, Aggie,” my mom corrected when I was about to put a can of Campbell’s in the wrong spot.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Good to see you too. My day was fine, thanks for asking
.
What’s going on with prom?

When all the groceries were unloaded, I sat down at the kitchen table. I knew I should probably tell her what I’d seen with Sylvia and the ballots, but suddenly the idea of forming words seemed harder than dragging my boat to Loon Lake without a trailer.

“Aggie,” my mom said, looking over at me, “are you okay?”

I nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

My mom came over and sat next to me. “Aggie,” she said, straightening the place mat, “I think we should talk about what’s happening at school. Especially because it involves Sylvia.”

I blinked, surprised that I wasn’t going to have to bring this up on my own—my mom was going to do it for me.

“I’m still trying to piece together exactly what’s taking place, but whatever happens, just know it has nothing to do with you. If someone tries to involve you, I want you to walk away. Do you understand?”

I looked at my fingernails. My mom was being vague, probably intentionally, and she was also assuming I wasn’t already involved in the prom debacle. I thought about telling her how Rod Barris had called me, even if it was about a bass fishing story. Still, there were no guarantees he wouldn’t ask me a question about the prom. Or about Sylvia. Which meant that at this point, saying to me “this has nothing to do with you” was like saying “just ignore the hole” to someone teetering on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

“Aggie?” my mom said again. “Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “I guess I don’t totally understand what’s going on at school. Is Sylvia the prom queen?”

My mom rubbed her temples and rolled her head from left to right. “The situation is really complicated, Aggie,” she said. “It’s really a mess.”

I thought about the kid shoving the petition in my face after school. “A mess how?” I asked.

My mom took a breath. “Well, I’ve been told there were many, many ballots turned in for Sylvia,” she said, “but I never saw them. The cheerleading coach, Mrs. Wagner, was the one who counted them. In the end, she told me that Marissa won, and I believed her.”

I thought my mom would keep going, but she didn’t.

“But did Marissa
really
win?” I asked finally.

My mom began tapping her shoe against the kitchen tile. “Well, as I said, it’s complicated.”

She was starting to sound detached and professional. I looked at her hard. “What happened with the election?” I asked.

My mom sighed. “After the announcement about Marissa was made, there was a claim by a student—Tiffany Holland, actually—that there were many ballots for Sylvia.”

“Wait, Tiffany helped Mrs. Wagner count votes? How is that even legit? She was one of the nominees.”

“It’s not ideal, I know. It’s brought to our attention how there aren’t really any rules about prom at all at the school—about who can be nominated, who can count the ballots, anything.”

Next year
, I thought,
there’s going to be a rule book the size of the dictionary for this stupid dance.

My mom pressed on. “After I heard about Tiffany, I asked Mrs. Wagner to recount the ballots, just to make sure. But Mrs. Wagner said she couldn’t because . . .”

My mom trailed off, looking at the wall, at the table, but still not at me.

“Because
what
?”

“Mrs. Wagner burned the ballots,” my mom said finally. “She threw them into a trash can in the loading dock at school, and she just burned them.”

My hand flew to my mouth.
No way
.

“Why?” I whispered through my fingers. “Why would she do that?”

My mom looked at her hands but didn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Wagner wanted Marissa Mendez on the throne, didn’t she?”

“I can’t confirm that, no.”

“Fine, then just have a revote,” I said, thinking about Sylvia’s fake ballots. “Enough has gone down to warrant that. Just tell everyone that things got screwed up and make people vote again.”

“We’re considering it. But Mrs. Wagner’s not totally in favor of that option.”

I scoffed. “I’m sorry, last time I checked you were the principal, not the cheerleading coach.”

My mom shot me a warning look. “The administration is trying to handle it
internally
, Aggie. We just haven’t reached a consensus yet.”

My temples pounded.
Sylvia tampered with the ballots!
I wanted to yell.
Do the election over!
But if I told my mom that, then I’d be exactly the person Sylvia
thought
I was. She’d dumped me because she’d thought I’d blab to my mom if I found anything out, and here I was. Ready to do it.

“You need some water?” my mom asked.

“No,” I said, my voice tight. “I’m fine.”

My mom folded her hands. “Honey, I don’t mean to change the subject, but are you in a fight with Sylvia?”

I started. “What?”

“I heard from one of the teachers that Sylvia’s trying to get transferred out of the fencing class you share. One of her claims is that you’re harassing her. That’s not the case, is it?”

I pushed my chair back. “No. Of course not. She’s the one being the bitch.”

“Please calm down and don’t use foul language in front of me. I just want to ensure that if you haven’t been steering clear of Sylvia, you will do so now. Just so she has no basis for any more allegations.”

My blood pressure was about to go off the charts. First, I couldn’t believe that Sylvia had the nerve to accuse me of harassing her, and second, I couldn’t believe my mom was telling me to avoid her. Like her wanting to leave fencing class had been
my
fault.

“I
am
steering clear of Sylvia,” I said. “Why are you assuming I’m not?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Yes, you are,” I said. “You just totally assumed that I’m the fuckup here.”

“Enough!” my mom said. “You will
absolutely not
use those words in front of me, young lady, and you will watch your tone. If we can’t keep this conversation civil, we won’t have it.”

“Fine!” I shouted. “What do I care? You don’t listen to me. Ever. Why would I think you’d start now? Forget it.”

I pushed my chair against the table and grabbed my keys. “I want you home by ten,” my mom said, watching me the whole time.

I didn’t answer. I just got in my car and peeled away, mad enough to scream.