The Implosion of Aggie Winchester (6 page)

Chapter Eight

FRIDAY, APRIL 10 / 6:45 P.M.

Later that night, my dad
found me sorting out my tackle in the garage. Our opener was slated to start the next day at eight A.M., and we had to get to the lake at least an hour and a half early. I wanted to get my gear organized the night before so I could spend as much time as possible in bed the next morning.

“I need new line, and Al says he’s got some down at the hardware store,” my dad said, eyeing the lures and hooks spilling out of my tackle box. “You want to come with me?”

I ran my tongue over my teeth. There was a good chance he didn’t actually need line from Al. Probably he wanted to get me in the car so we could talk. Maybe he was going to bring up what had happened in my mom’s office.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I have what I need.”

“Al said he just got new jigs,” my dad said, leaning against the garage wall. “Really good for the weeds, apparently. Won’t get snagged.”

Jigs were the kind of bait we’d need to fish with tomorrow. It sounded like bribery to me. “So?” I asked.

“So, I’m buying, if they look good to you.”

I took the bait, no pun intended. I did need new jigs. But probably my dad knew that before he ever came into the garage.

The sun was just beginning to fade as we pulled out of our neighborhood cul-de-sac. “I love it when the days start to get longer,” my dad said, turning left toward downtown. “It means spring is really here.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I studied the houses that got smaller and older the closer we got to the hardware store.

“Do you have any idea where the fish will be biting tomorrow?” my dad asked.

For me, it usually depended on a lot of factors—weather, wind, time of year. Somehow, I usually had a pretty good idea but not until we got out on the water.

“I’ll probably know once I’m in the boat,” I said.

“Either way, I’ll be glad to have you out there.” Already my dad was acting like tomorrow’s opener was an actual tournament, which it wasn’t. It was just the Bass Masters and some other clubs in our division getting together to fish. It was competitive, sure, but it was also catch and release, meaning we had to throw back anything we snagged. Plus, we could only count smallmouth bass tomorrow, not largemouth, so everything would be on a smaller scale. Still, my dad acted like there was $50,000 on the line at every fishing event.

“You’re really exceptional at fishing, Ag,” my dad said after a second. “I don’t know if you realize that.”

I kept my eyes on the window. We were driving on Main Street in the heart of St. Davis’s downtown. We passed Lucy’s Food Mart and then the Loon Tavern. A sign in the window advertised pitchers of Leinenkugel’s beer for three dollars.

My dad turned his head. “I’m not just flattering you. I don’t think any of the Bass Masters had a clue you’d turn out to be such a natural on the water. A lot of them are really impressed.”

Now there was a word I never thought the Bass Masters would use about me:
impressed
. I figured they all pretty much disliked me on account of how a) I was a girl and girls had never joined their club before, and b) black clothes and dark lipstick weren’t exactly the norm around St. Davis.

“They said that?”

“Edgar Chilson absolutely did. He said you have what it takes to turn pro.”

Bass fishing for a living.
That might be kind of awesome, actually.

I’d never say it out loud, but sometimes I had fantasies about living underwater in the cold silence, just like the bass—silt for a carpet, weeds for wallpaper. There were moments when I could see the bass so clearly, even if the water was cloudy, that it was almost like I was one of them. If I caught a fish, I could look at its pulsing gills, its sucking mouth, and think for a second I’d willed it into biting the hook. It had heard my call in the cold fathoms of the lake.

“You do well on the water this year, it could open up some doors to other tournaments,” my dad said, pulling up to Al’s Hardware. “Maybe even the kind that lead to the pros. I’ll look into it with you, if you want.”

“Cool,” I said. My voice disguised the way my heart was pounding. I couldn’t think of anything I’d ever had a natural talent at before. The sensation of actually being good at something was totally new—and I didn’t hate it. Not one bit.

We stepped across the damp parking lot to Al’s. The breeze had cooled now that the sun had almost set. I shivered, thinking how cold it would be on the water the next morning.

“Hold up a sec,” my dad said. He pointed across the parking lot, past the First Trust Bank, to a big, empty field. “That over there will be Dr. Richardson’s new clinic. I’m helping design it. And at least twenty percent of it will be made out of recycled materials.”

I couldn’t really hate on the way my dad was trying to make new buildings around town green and Earth-friendly. “That’s awesome,” I said. I squinted into the distance. Beyond the field was Lake St. Davis and then it was pretty much rolling hills and more fields until you hit the next town, where we’d heard they just built a Home Depot. My dad said it wouldn’t be long before St. Davis would be getting a Home Depot, too, which he figured would put Al’s Hardware out of business.

Al nodded to us when we walked in, the end of his long white beard resting against his chest. “Aisle six is the new stuff,” he said.

“Thanks, Al,” my dad replied. Before we walked away, I noticed Al had a plastic bucket on his counter with a paper sign that said PROM DONATIONS. I couldn’t remember seeing those buckets in stores in the past, which meant that either prom was spiraling out of control and they needed more money to cover it, or that no one was buying the fifty-dollar tickets. Based on the fact that I’d seen plenty of students pulling out their wallets this week, I was going with the “prom is out of control” option.

The wet soles of our shoes squeaked as we made our way to the fishing supplies. We looked at lures in silence for a few minutes until my dad cleared his throat. “Your mom has her surgery Monday,” he said. I looked up from where I was studying the bobbers.

So
this
was why he’d wanted to go bait shopping.

“I know,” I replied.

“I’ll take her in, and she’ll be home the same day. Recovery isn’t too long, but she’s not supposed to lift things that are heavy. We might need your help for a few days. Around the house, that is.”

I nodded. My ears were starting to feel warm. I wished they would melt away so I didn’t have to listen to any of this. I wanted to pretend my mom was fine.

I turned back to the bobbers. I closed my eyes against the vision of the doctors lopping off my mom’s boob if the lumpectomy didn’t work.

“Your mom is putting on a brave face, but I know she’s worried. And I know you guys fought today. About Sylvia.”

My eyes snapped open. So my mom had told my dad about Sylvia, too. “I’m not taking sides here,” my dad continued. “I’m just asking you to try and get along with your mom for a bit. Just to make this go a little easier. Okay?”

The red and white of the bobbers blurred together. I’d be a total bitch if I couldn’t do that much. I told myself it wouldn’t be that hard. I’d vacuum once or twice and bring her some soup in bed. And try not to snap at her. I supposed it was doable.

“Fine,” I said. “I can try.”

My dad squeezed my shoulder. “Thanks, Ag.” His eyes were all soft-looking, his forehead creased. I shifted. I didn’t want to have a warm fuzzy family moment right there in the hardware store. Come to think of it, I didn’t want to have a warm fuzzy family moment period.

“Can we just get this stuff and go?” I asked.

My dad nodded and, much to my relief, we headed to the counter.

Chapter Nine

SATURDAY, APRIL 11 / 5:30 A.M.

The next morning, my alarm
blasted me out from under the covers at five thirty. Once I’d rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I saw my cell phone light blinking. I had a missed text message. I checked it and saw it had been sent at three o’clock in the morning, and consisted of one word.

Hey.

It was from Neil.

A single thought went through my brain when I read it:
Neil is fishing, too
. I wanted to kick myself for the way my heart sped up when I saw it, the way my skin started to warm. I
still
had to fight the urge to text him back, no matter how much he’d hurt me.

I spent the drive to the opener wondering how much more fight I had left in me. If he kept wanting me, I worried I might say okay again. And again. And then I’d
never
be over him. Ever.

I pushed the thoughts of Neil aside when Fitz Peterson headed my way. I was standing on the boat landing, waiting for my dad to check the bilge, when I spotted him.

“Hey,” I said.

“You ready to get out on the water?” Fitz asked, jamming a gray wool cap on his head that by all accounts should have looked ridiculous, but was somehow almost cute. “I’m not sure if the bass are going to be biting, but I guess we’ll see.”

This was more than Fitz had said to me for weeks. Ever since he’d driven me home from Jefferson’s party, he’d talked way less in study hall. I figured that either I’d done something stupid in his car and couldn’t remember it or he was embarrassed at having heard such a loaded conversation between Neil and me.
I
was certainly mortified he’d overheard it, that was for sure.

“My dad thinks there’s going to be bass beds,” I said, stamping my feet to keep my blood circulating in the earlymorning cold.

“This early in the season?” Fitz asked.

“I know, right? I told him he was crazy.”

Fitz took his hat back off and turned it around in his hands. Even in the watery dawn light, I could see spots where the fabric was pilling. “I heard about Sylvia,” he said after a moment. “About her being pregnant.”

First my mom, now Fitz. Sylvia had told me her secret four weeks ago, and that whole time the information had been under wraps. But now it looked like the small dribble of gossip that had started with Ms. Rhone was about to flood the school. I was suddenly dreading Monday.

“So now you know,” I said to Fitz. “Congrats.”

“Who’s the dad?”

In the distance, I heard the clicking and grinding sound of a boat being unhitched from a trailer. “You’ll have to ask Sylvia that.”

Fitz’s mouth quirked. “Not likely,” he said. “I was hoping you’d just tell me. But if not, that’s cool. I get it. You’re friends.” Fitz’s dark blue eyes looked almost black in the dim light.

“It’s just not my news to tell, you know?” I said.

“It’s okay,” Fitz said. “It must be a lot of pressure. For both of you guys. I mean, she’s going to have this kid, and you’re her best friend, so you want to support her. But that’s gotta be weird, I imagine. Because how do you do that. You know? It’s a
kid
.”

I stared at Fitz.
Exactly
, was what I wanted to say. Fitz was the only one who seemed to have half a clue about what I was feeling. And somehow, he’d been able to cut through all the babble and articulate it.

“You’re pretty smart for a guy who never shuts up,” I said.

“I choose my words when it’s important,” Fitz said. “When it matters.”

“Well, nice job just then.”

“So, you want to fish sometime?” Fitz asked, putting his cap back on his head. “You and me? My dad got one of those Tritons I was telling you about. We’re breaking it in today.”

“Hang out in a boat with you while you point out all its bells and whistles?” I asked. “No, thanks.”

Fitz stepped closer. I smelled dryer sheets and warm blankets. “Come on. We’d fish. It would be fun. And I wouldn’t blab about the boat. I told you, I choose my words when it’s important.”

“Oh, so fishing with me is important?” I asked, thinking I sounded like I was flirting.

Fitz gave me a small smile. “It could be. My cell’s on the Bass Masters roster, you know.”

“Yeah, well, so’s mine.”

Fitz shoved his hands into his pockets. “I know,” he replied. “Your number’s already in my phone.”

Before I could think about why Fitz already had me in his list of contacts, my dad called to me from the bow of our boat.

“Aggie—we’re up and running. I need you to direct me while I get the boat down the launch and into the water.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’m coming.” Fitz was still standing there. “Good luck today,” I said.

He nodded. “You too. See you in study hall.”

Thirty minutes later, my dad and I were out on the water. The foamy chop rocked the boat, and the wind whipped through every layer of clothing on my body. But even in the biting cold, instead of hunkering down over my pole, I sat up and scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of Fitz.

Chapter Ten

MONDAY, APRIL 13 7:48 A.M.

“So how was the boat
on Saturday?” Sylvia asked on Monday. We’d texted each other that morning, then met in the parking lot so we could walk into school together.

“Stupid,” I lied. “We froze, and the fish weren’t really biting.”

“That sucks,” Sylvia said.

Before we hit the double doors, I grabbed her arm. “Fitz knows about you,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. “He told me Saturday. So that means it’s not just the teachers. I’m going to guess word’s gotten out.”

Sylvia readjusted her army bag so it was covering more of her belly. She took a breath. “Well, once you told me Ms. Rhone let the cat out of the bag to the other teachers, I figured it was only a matter of time. Thanks for the heads-up, but it is what it is.”

Sylvia’s face looked less sure than her words sounded. “I’ll beat up anyone who gives you shit,” I said.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Please. You have a hard time hurting
centipedes
.”

She pulled open the doors and I followed her, thinking that I could always glare at and threaten people, even if I didn’t actually hit them.

“Prom tickets!” called a cheerleader as we walked in. She was sitting at a table near the door. “Court nominations are today, so you’d better get your prom ti—” She stopped in midsentence when she spotted Sylvia and me. Her eyes slid to Sylvia’s belly.

“Hold on a sec,” I said, thinking I’d prove to Sylvia I could defend her. I walked over to the cheerleader, put both my hands on the table, and leaned in. The cheerleader’s freckled face, framed by wavy red hair, was suddenly pale.

“You have a problem?” I asked. I picked up one of the tickets she was selling—a heavy cream cardstock with embossed silver lettering—and tossed it to the floor. I put the heel of my black boot on it and pressed.

“Y—you have to pay for that,” the cheerleader whispered. She was starting to tremble. I glared at her while my heart shriveled inside my chest. She was just a freshman, and I was scaring the shit out of her. God, what was I doing? There had to be a better way to get people to stop staring at Sylvia. I just had no idea what it was.

“Your dance is a fucking waste of time,” I said, “and so are you.”

I turned and walked back to Sylvia, leaving the prom ticket where it was—scuffed and torn.

“You gonna do that to everyone who looks at my stomach?” Sylvia asked as we made our way to her locker.

“No,” I said under my breath, “because they’re
all
staring.” Every eyeball in the place was trained on Sylvia’s midsection. The halls practically quieted as we walked through them.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Sylvia said, twirling her locker combination. I thought maybe she’d start yelling at everyone, telling them to get a life and stop looking at her or she’d punch a few of them in the crotch. Maybe that’s what everyone else thought she’d do, too, since none of them dared to utter a word or a comment. But instead, Sylvia just opened her locker like it was any other day.

“Aren’t you freaked out?” I whispered.

Sylvia rounded on me. “Look, you need to relax, okay? Act like it’s cool because if people in this school think for one second I’m ashamed of this kid, they’ll think they own me. Everyone will try and use it to make me feel like I’m worthless.” Sylvia grabbed a box of granola bars from the top shelf of her locker and stuffed one of them into her bag. “So do what we always do. Be cool. Act like we don’t give a shit. It’s just another day. You got it?”

I nodded. Sylvia always knew what to do. I reminded myself how lucky I was to have her as a friend. She plotted our course and kept everyone off our backs. I’d be lost without her. “Yeah. Okay.”

She shut her locker, and we headed toward mine. “Dude,” Sylvia said, “I forgot to ask. Did your mom get off to the hospital okay? For her lumber section or whatever?” My brain raced to catch up with her abrupt change of subject.

I nodded. “Lumpectomy. And yeah, she’s fine. My dad took her in just as I was getting up.”

Still half asleep, I had given my mom a hug before she’d headed out the door. “I’ll be back by the time you get home from school,” she said. I noticed she’d been wearing lipstick, like she was going out for drinks.

“So, when you were fishing on Saturday, I went to Tickywinn’s,” Sylvia said, switching subjects
again
, like her brain was ping-ponging around just so it didn’t land on how everyone knew about her pregnancy, “and I met this new girl there. Beth. She moved from New York, like, last week.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is she cool?”

“Totally,” Sylvia said as I opened my locker. “And she’s Goth, if you can believe it. She says in New York, everyone looks like us.”

I yanked off my coat and grabbed my chemistry book, thinking that there were millions of people in New York and they couldn’t all be Goth. I was so lost in Beth’s illogic that I didn’t notice Sylvia’s face right away.

I turned to see her glaring at me. “What the hell are you wearing?” she asked.

I blinked, then remembered. “It’s just a sweater,” I said. “My clothes were all dirty.” Which was the truth. I’d been so desperate for something to throw on that I’d delved into the stash of mom-approved clothes in my closet. I thought I’d picked the least offensive thing.

Sylvia looked me up and down. “It’s
turquoise
.”

“Like hell it is,” I said. “It’s just blue. Normal, everyday blue.” I was wearing the sweater with jeans and my black boots. A leather bracelet with studs was clamped around my right wrist. A heavy beaded black necklace was draped around my neck. My makeup was dark and heavy. Everything was the same except for the sweater.

“That is not normal blue,” Sylvia argued.

I slammed my locker shut. “So what do you want me to do? Go around in my bra all day? It’s just a stupid sweater.”

“Your coat is at least black. Wear that.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you look ridiculous.”

Anger flared inside me. “And you
sound
ridiculous. You always say you don’t care what people think.”

“I don’t care what
people
think. I care what
I
think. And I think you look stupid.”

“Well, it’s my wardrobe, and I think I look fine.”

“Suit yourself,” Sylvia replied, sounding pissed.

“Are we seriously going to fight about my sweater? Can’t we just talk about something else?”

“Okay. Here’s some news. Beth is coming to lunch with us today.”

I thought about how it wasn’t a question. “Whatever,” I said.

Sylvia grunted. “All right, look. Forget I said anything about the sweater. And Beth is legit. So be cool about her eating with us. Okay?”

“Fine,” I said, glad she was letting the sweater issue go. “If you say so.”

“Later,” she said, and we headed to our separate classes.

I slipped into study hall with time to spare before the bell rang. “A new record,” Fitz said as I took my seat. “Not just on time but
early
.”

I smiled. “Yeah, well. I’m trying to tone down my dangerous side.”

“So where’d you wind up fishing on Saturday?” he asked, leaning in. The warm blanket smell was back. I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could speak, Allie Hoffman dropped herself into an open desk in front of us.

“Can I ask you something without you beating me up?” she asked, playing with the ends of her long blond hair.

I looked at her. “What?”

“Sylvia Ness. Is she really pregnant?”

Fitz leaned back in his chair. “Plead the Fifth,” he said.

“I have history class with Sylvia,” Allie said, ignoring Fitz. “I
thought
she had a little bump. But then Erika Lloyd said this morning that her mom heard it at a PTA fund-raiser over the weekend. So, is she for real preggers? And do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

Fitz cleared his throat, interrupting her. “Excuse me, but my client can neither confirm nor deny these allegations. If you have further questions, I ask that you present them in writing.”

Allie turned around. “What are you talking about, Fitz?”

“You’re badgering my witness,” Fitz said.

“Huh? I don’t have any badgers. Oh, and Becky says you should call her. She says she thinks she left her bikini over at your house from when you were in the hot tub together.”

Fitz paled. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

Allie whipped back around. “Tell Sylvia that my mom is a doula, and that if she wants to have a natural birth, my mom would totally help.”

“A doula?”

Allie nodded. “Yeah. It’s like a midwife.”

I didn’t say anything. The final bell rang. “Nice sweater,” Allie said before standing and leaving. “That color totally works on you.”

As Mr. Otts took attendance, I pulled out my chemistry book, rattled to my core. Not only did the entire junior class know about Sylvia, but it also appeared that Fitz had a girlfriend. The Becky that Allie had mentioned had to be Becky Quinn—a junior on the debate team. I’d seen them talking in the halls a few times, but I never figured them for a couple. Which, if I’d been wrong, had meant that Fitz had asked me to hang out in his dad’s stupid new boat even though he was probably sticking his tongue down Becky’s throat.

Not that I cared. I tamped down what felt like disappointment. Fitz and his huge mouth could do whatever they liked. It was no sweat off my back.

Suddenly, Mr. Otts was standing over me. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. My stomach knotted, fearing it was something more to do with my mom.

Instead, I saw it was a prom ballot. Mr. Otts moved along, handing one ballot out to each kid from a wad in his hand.

The prom.
It stopped for no one. The paper was so we could determine the court nominees today.

“There are six lines on your paper,” Mr. Otts said. “You are to nominate six of your classmates to the junior prom court. You’ll turn in the ballots to me, and I’ll hand them over to be counted. The finalists for the court will be named at the start of third period, after the votes are tabulated. Then, first thing next week, you’ll vote from among the six court finalists for king and queen. Everybody got it?”

The class mumbled yes. I stared at the six lines, my brain buzzing. Fitz had a girlfriend. Everyone knew about Sylvia. My mom was getting a lumpectomy. Prom was here.

Just think of six people
, I told myself, struggling to focus.
It doesn’t matter who they are
. Three guys, three girls. Easy, right?

LINE ONE:
Sylvia
Ness

I tapped my pen against my temple. Who else? Girls like Allie and Tiffany Holland would all be putting each other’s names on the ballots. Who could I nominate who was the
anti
them?

LINE TWO:
Jess Kline

I had no idea what to write in for line three. So I made up a name. Yoleesha Squakshot. I said it in my head a couple times and had to swallow back a giggle.

I took a breath. Now for the boys. I could bet right now Sylvia was putting Ryan’s name down on her slip of paper. She could defend him all she wanted, but the idea of penciling
his
name onto a ballot made my brain shiver a little. I mean, Ryan was blond and athletic and rich and all the things the St. Davis High prom king
always
was but, well, if he was the father of Sylvia’s kid, he wasn’t handling it very honorably. And shouldn’t a king—even a stupid prom king—have a little honor in him somewhere? Shouldn’t a
king
come forward and take responsibility for his kid? Or at least, for starters, acknowledge Sylvia publicly?

They should make it against the rules for jackasses like Ryan Rollings to even be king
, I thought. But that’s not how it was at St. Davis High. When it came down to it, there were only a few people who were truly “royal” around here. And Ryan, no matter how I might feel about it, was one of them.

LINE FOUR:
Fitz Peterson

What the hell, I figured. At least he was in the Bass Masters.

LINE FIVE:
Jefferson Talbot

He was an asshole, but at least he threw good parties.

I liked making up names, so I did it again. Just to mess with the system. Greystone McBuffatude. I put my hand over my mouth so I didn’t giggle again. I wondered for a second if I was losing it.

Mr. Otts came around and collected the nomination slips, putting them into a bag with glitter and faux fur and JUNIOR PROM written all over it. Every year, the school cheerleaders made these kinds of bags to collect the votes.

A few minutes later, a student council member showed up at the door. Mr. Otts handed over the bag. I knew the council member would take the bag to Mrs. Wagner, the cheerleading coach who, rumor had it, went all the way to Minneapolis for Botox injections. She and her minions would sort through the nominees on the slips of paper, then announce the results as soon as possible. Because God forbid anyone at the school should have to wait to know who was on the
court.

When the voting was done, I kept my face in my chem book. I glanced to the side every now and again to see if Fitz was trying to get my attention—to flag me so he could hurriedly explain about Becky—but he never did.

Not that I would have listened anyway.