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Not That Kind Of Girl
Siobhan Vivian
Slut or saint? Good friend or bad friend? In control or completely out of it?She's avoided boys, always topped her class and is poised to become the first female student council president in years.But being the good girl isn't always easy. Not when Natalie’s advice hurts more than it helps. Not when a boy she once dismissed becomes the one she can't stop thinking about.Soon Natalie’s learning that the line between good and bad is fuzzier than she thought and crossing it could end in disaster . . . or be the best choice she’s ever made.




SIOBHAN VIVIAN is the acclaimed author of The List, Not That Kind of Girl, and A Little Friendly Advice. She currently lives in Pittsburgh. You can find her at www.siobhanvivian.com (http://www.siobhanvivian.com).
“It is not often that
someone comes
along who is a
true friend and
a good writer.”
– E. B. White
TO MY GIRL, JENNY HAN
CONTENTS
Cover (#u7716bc53-0a54-54c0-ace2-7ecc47a38860)
Title Page (#ud694e08a-c4b6-5dc0-b4c8-b9e52c8b6f5f)
About the Author (#u832427d6-f35f-59df-af94-84125b343d1b)
Dedication (#ua5261cab-e968-51e0-a2db-55f73f04068d)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_45cf442f-37d9-5f69-8d64-6518dbeca121)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d05e8d25-1981-5949-8b9b-0ca47fe8df02)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_83170171-78d9-559a-b63f-74f16336a4f3)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0fbe5ba3-2e04-5b9a-a5bd-0be140b39a2b)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_9465707f-9fbf-52dd-87c6-d9ab11e8f7a4)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_22871422-cfa5-56df-80cc-24b21cd0d567)
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_65bf5415-58f6-550c-95d4-3173aa3a10b6)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_432bde5f-53f4-5545-aec6-e70ffe2e12a2)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_cdb8fb66-f346-56bd-8cdf-b879b57dfe48)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_8c12156a-7151-52ba-9f03-b12da95f95e4)
On the first day of my senior year, I happened to walk past the auditorium during the freshman orientation assembly. One of the two heavy oak doors, each with the Ross Academy crest inset in stained glass, had been propped open. There were only enough students inside to occupy the first few rows of stiff, uncomfortable seats, and the emptiness gave the place a hollow sound that surely made the freshmen feel even smaller and more overwhelmed. I had a free period and a hall pass, so I ducked inside, for old time’s sake.
It took all of three minutes before I wanted to scream.
Freshman orientation is a colossal waste of time. Or at least, the way our school handles it, forcing new students to sit through a word-for-word recitation of the Ross Academy Handbook, performed in a monotone by the guidance counselor nearest to death. There weren’t many dos in the Ross Academy Handbook. It was pretty much a recitation of don’ts, from Don’t use your phones during school hours to Don’t run at an inappropriate pace in the hallways. More than half the students struggled to stay awake, while the rest focused on subtly and not-so-subtly checking each other out.
If it were up to me, things would be run a lot differently.
First off, I’d split up freshman orientation by gender. For boys, there’d be a simple presentation, done in ten minutes tops. In fact, I could probably cancel their assembly altogether and just hand out a memo. Because there were only three things that added up to a successful high school experience for guys: doing your homework, wearing a condom (if you were so lucky), and deodorizing your leather school shoes every night, because foot sweat plus polyester dress socks makes for unbelievably rank conditions.
Obviously, things would be more involved for the girls.
I’d run their orientation like those scare ’em straight drunk-driving lectures, where the police department parks a mangled, twisted car on the front lawn of school, and a guest speaker cries about how he accidentally killed his best friend on the way home from a party. Except instead of the danger of drunk driving, I’d have a speaker talk firsthand about the danger of high school boys.
I know one girl who’d be perfect. She was in my class freshman year. She was nice. Friendly, even to weird kids. Popular, but not enough to make someone jealous, and pretty in a way that was easily overlooked. A few weeks after starting high school, she hit social pay dirt. She found herself a boyfriend.
Chad Rivington stood almost twice her height — an intimidating size until you watched him tuck himself into his rusted baby-blue VW bug, which he loved even as it fell apart. He was a senior with decent grades, nice teeth, and a spot on the varsity basketball team. In other words, he was a catch for a girl of any grade, but especially for a freshman.
They met in the nurse’s office — her with a migraine, him brandishing a savage paper cut with the hope of escaping Spanish II. By the end of the week, they were a couple. By the end of the month, they were the couple.
They fooled around, of course. But she took things slow, preferring sweet kisses while walking through piles of crispy autumn leaves over half-naked wrestling matches in Chad’s cramped backseat.
On their two-month anniversary, Chad asked her to sneak out of Algebra and meet him in the boys’ locker room for a secret celebration. The girl had never done anything like that before, but it seemed a fun and exciting dare. Though they hadn’t said I love you yet, she felt it every time Chad laced their fingers together. Just a week before, after drinking her first three beers at a house party, she’d almost let it slip. But she decided to save it for a special occasion. Like a two-month anniversary.
After glancing over her shoulder, the girl slid inside the boys’ locker room and tiptoed down to the very last row of lockers. Chad greeted her with a grin. A moment later, before they’d even said hello, they were kissing. Which quickly turned into groping. It seemed as if her private school uniform had been tailored for this sort of rushed encounter.
He had his hands all over her.
All over her.
And for the first time in their relationship, she didn’t worry about where they would go. It was romantic and sexy, and everything inside her melted. Chad had more experience with these sorts of things, and she finally let herself enjoy that.
They might have gone all the way if they’d been in Chad’s bedroom, or even in the VW. But they weren’t near a bed or a backseat. They were in a stinky locker room, next to a fifth-period gym class. And with every shout for a pass, trill of the whistle, or raucous cheer that leaked in, the danger of being discovered fanned the fog from the girl’s good judgment.
“I can’t,” she said suddenly.
Not there.
Not then.
Chad tried to convince her with words, with kisses. But now she was the opposite of melting. She pulled away from Chad’s mouth and said she’d better get back to class.
Chad sagged with disappointment — a familiar posture from their last few dates, though somehow weightier in this instance. He pleaded with her to stay. After all, she’d barely touched him, and he was so turned on. It was only fair to finish what they’d started, right?
She insisted she had to get back to Algebra. Sweetly. Apologetically. And when she noticed how bummed Chad continued to look, she leaned in to kiss him. A cute peck aimed for the tip of his nose, to make it all okay. She felt three words float up her throat, ready at last to be said.
Except Chad turned his head.
The girl felt bad as she hurried back to class. She felt even worse after school, when she came upon some guys razzing Chad next to the smokers’ tree. He walked toward his car without so much as a head nod in her direction.
The girl didn’t know that Chad’s inability to get off with a freshman had become a running joke. A social liability. Even Chad himself had made light of it for weeks, thinking his friends might ease up if he played along. So he’d complain of blue balls after he’d drive her home, or hump his locker door in mock frustration after the girl hugged him good morning before homeroom. Things like that. But Chad’s participation only made the others’ comments seem more welcome. The teasing became less funny and more personal.
It was one of Chad’s friends who suggested the locker-room make-out session. “Use the anniversary,” the guy urged. “It’s foolproof.” It seemed to Chad like everyone in school had their eyes on the clock during fifth period. Everyone expected him to finally get some. And when he came up short, Chad settled on an excuse that would let him entirely off the hook.
When the girl got to school the next morning, whispers hissed like poison arrows aimed at her back. Boys who’d been nice to her at parties, senior girls who’d just started to warm up to her infiltration of their group, now seemed cold and dismissive. Even some of her own classmates, the ones she’d helped usher into the exclusive upper-classmen world, suddenly looked down on her. She couldn’t understand it. At least not until she saw Chad and he guiltily headed in the wrong direction so he wouldn’t have to talk to her.
After homeroom, the sniffing started. Someone would do it whenever she walked by. She didn’t think much of it. It was the height of cold season. But it kept happening. Sniff sniff sniff. Everywhere she went.
It wasn’t until lunch, when one of Chad’s friends commandeered the white board and named the fish stick entrée after her, that she figured it out.
She just grossed me out too much, she could imagine Chad saying. I almost gagged, she smelled so bad. So stupid. So thoughtless. So untrue. But that was all it took. It was over. They were over. She was over.
The initial wave of teasing tapered off after a few months, like any stupid catchphrase or slogan. Chad never apologized. Maybe he cleared his conscience by admitting to someone that it was only a dumb joke, but he said nothing to the girl. And someone else took the baton that spring, when a junior supposedly had a three-way in her parents’ shower with two of Chad’s teammates.
But the girl, it changed her. The way she walked. How often she raised her hand in class. What she’d dare to put on her plate at lunch. She was never the same girl again. Not really.
She was Fish Sticks.
This was why trusting boys was just like drinking and driving. Sure, some people took the risk. One or two beers never feels dangerous at the time. And not everyone who drinks and drives gets into an accident.
But to me, it was obvious: Why would you even take the chance?
So, yeah. Orientation should be something more like that. We could provide something useful, instead of policies on locker maintenance. Hearing a story like that was just as important as knowing your blood type, or if you’re allergic to bee stings. It was information that could save a girl’s life.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_9fbd161f-3e00-5335-83f5-b1b6d1d95dd0)
It was the start of our senior year, and my best friend Autumn was feeling nostalgic. She took pictures when we picked up our schedules from the guidance office for the very last time, called it divine intervention that even though we had only two periods in common, the rest were still close enough that we could always walk together. She reminisced about junior year as if it had been decades ago.
Even the state of my appearance after swim class — wet hair hanging like long brown icicles, melting pool water onto my navy cardigan — could make her wistful.
“You smell like summer,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder. “I wish it was still summer.”
I turned and sniffed my cardigan. Though I’d had it dry-cleaned right before school started, it already reeked of tangy chlorine, so I peeled it off and tied it around my waist. Coach Fallon never sent us to the locker room with enough time to shower. He’d rather us suffer one more lap of butterfly than have thirty seconds to shampoo. Autumn was so lucky that she hurt her shoulder a few years back and had a doctor’s note to keep her out of the pool. “Hey,” I said. “Could you give me a French braid when we get to class?” I hated the way it dried after swim class, in dull matted clumps.
Autumn’s shoulder-length hair was twisted into two perfectly symmetrical blond sections. She could make it that good without a mirror. “Here,” she said, pulling off my tortoiseshell headband before dropping a step behind me. “I’ll do it now.”
That’s how we walked through the freshman hallway, me leading Autumn by my hair, like we were elephants. I kept my head down and asked her questions from my Western Philosophy notes while she went to work, my scalp tightening with every weave. Our first quiz was in five minutes. We’d studied on the phone together the night before, so it was really more of a review, but Autumn had still gotten a few easy ones wrong.
“I can’t believe it.” Autumn stopped walking, only I didn’t realize it until my head snapped back. She sighed and asked, “Were we ever that young?”
I could tell that Autumn was trying to soak up all the excitement and possibility exuding from the freshmen mulling around us. She was completely charmed by their goofiness, bad skin, and awkward roughhousing. She smiled so wide, the skin around her blue eyes wrinkled.
I smiled, too. Except I wasn’t thinking back so much as trying to hold on to every minute of senior year. If our dream colleges accepted us, Autumn and I would be living on opposite sides of the country in eleven months. The realist in me had to accept that things wouldn’t be the same . . . or at least, not nearly as good as how we had it right now. Autumn would make new friends. Hopefully, I would, too. But it wasn’t a prospect I was particularly excited about.
“Oh, jeez,” she whispered. “Natalie! Look!”
Autumn nudged her chin toward a curvy girl with black corkscrew curls. The girl was kneeling on the floor, reaching deep into a messy locker for her books. Her pleated uniform skirt tipped forward like a ringing church bell. A small triangle of lavender mesh barely shielded her rear from the entire hallway.
Though it wasn’t actually written anywhere in the Ross Academy Handbook, it still seemed like every girl at school knew enough to wear something unrevealing underneath her uniform skirt. Spandex shorts, boxers, leggings, or at the very least, a pair of hipster underwear. Every girl but this poor, clueless freshman.
I debated whether or not to say something. But only for a second, because if I had a piece of spinach in my teeth, or if my zipper was down, I’d rather be told than make a complete fool of myself. Embarrassing moments had a surprisingly long shelf life at our school. One minute you were a normal girl, and the next, you’d be known as Ass Flasher for the next four years. It seemed only right to intervene.
I handed my notebook to Autumn. “Reread my notes on the Socratic method. I’ll be right back.” I bounded across the hallway, my braid unraveling with every step.
A couple of freshman boys had taken notice of the free show and were panting at this girl’s butt. I stared them down and positioned myself to block their view.
“Hey,” I said to the girl. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
She stared up at me from the floor, her tan face appearing slightly lighter around her eyes, probably from lying out with an oversize pair of sunglasses. “Um. Sure.” Her voice was both friendly and suspicious.
“I’m Natalie Sterling,” I said, feeling like I probably should introduce myself. “What’s your name?”
She blinked a few times and then stood up. Which, to my great relief, solved the immediate problem of her unfortunate underwear choice. “Hold on — you’re Natalie Sterling?”
“Um. Yes,” I said. And suddenly I turned into the suspicious one.
Her brown eyes were big and expectant, glittering like the eye shadow dusting her lids. She waited, and not exactly patiently, for me to recognize her. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” She didn’t sound angry. If anything, she seemed tickled.
My mind cycled through the faces at my SAT summer prep course. But this girl was clearly a freshman, so that didn’t make sense. I shrugged apologetically. “Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes and shook her head back and forth a few times, really fast. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” And then, after a deep breath, she danced a jig, right there in front of her locker.
Her toned legs kicked and sliced the air like scissors, and her flats hit the linoleum floor in loud slaps that made everyone take notice. My own deficiency in dance kept me from knowing if she was good or just trying hard. Either way, she bounced with such fervor that her curls boinged like a thousand tiny springs. After a final twirl, which honestly couldn’t have come quickly enough, she threw out her hands and exclaimed “River Dance!” Except she said it with a terrible Irish brogue, and it sounded more like Reevah Daaaanse!
That’s when it hit me.
“Spencer Biddle?” The eight-year-old girl I’d babysat for an entire summer when I turned twelve? Spencer Biddle, who wouldn’t use the upstairs bathroom without someone standing outside the door, who would eat macaroni and cheese only if the cheese were orange, who put on elaborate Irish step-dancing shows in her living room?
Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. “I’m honestly relieved you didn’t recognize me. It’s been like . . . what? Almost six years? I’d better look completely different.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, squinting past her makeup and imagining her shiny curls uncoiling to a frizzy and unkempt little girl fro. “You definitely do.”
Spencer pushed some wet hair off my shoulder. “I hardly recognized you, either. I mean, look at how grown up and beautiful you are!” It was a weird compliment, like something my Aunt Doreen or Grammy would say. Not someone three years younger than me. “Seriously, Natalie?” she continued. “You were the nicest babysitter I ever had. I remember one time when you threatened to make Eddie Guavera eat rocks when he peed on the flowers we’d just planted around the mailbox.”
I winced. “Did I really?”
Spencer laughed the same way she used to — quiet puffs of air that pulsed out of her nose, rapid-fire. “All the neighbor boys were afraid of you. It was so awesome!”
“Didn’t your family move to St. Louis?”
“Yeah. When my mom got remarried. But she divorced my stepdad, so we came back this summer.” I nodded, even though it felt weird to be discussing things like divorce with Spencer. I was pretty sure that our last conversation involved me trying to convince her that Lucky Charms would make a terrible pizza topping. “We’re renting an apartment across Liberty River. It’s not bad, actually. My room has these big mirrored closet doors where I can practice my routines.”
“You’d dance to anything,” I recalled. “Commercials. Those wind chimes your mom hung on the front porch. The sound of the phone ringing.” I had a sudden memory of how annoying that actually was, from a babysitter’s perspective. I could hardly get Spencer to sit still.
Spencer’s glossy smile gave way to a pucker. “Wait. If you didn’t recognize me, why did you come over here in the first place?”
I picked some lint off my skirt and suddenly wished that I didn’t know the color of Spencer’s underwear. I leaned in close enough to smell her cotton-candy perfume and whispered, “When you bent over before, you could see everything. And a bunch of boys were enjoying the view.”
Her mouth dropped open so wide I could see all her fillings. “Are you kidding?”
I shook my head. Despite being embarrassed, Spencer managed to smile. “You know,” I told her, “Ross does offer a pair of uniform pants for the girls, but they’re these horrible pleated slacks the color of cardboard. Really, the best thing to do is to wear something underneath your skirt.” I gave her the rundown of options, and even lifted my skirt the tiniest bit to show her the navy spandex shorts I always, always wore. Even over tights during winter.
Spencer nodded, but now she was looking behind me, trying to figure out which of the boys had been staring at her.
The warning bell rang. I needed to hurry to class, so I could get settled and focused before the quiz. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, Spencer. And let me know if you have any questions about school stuff.”
“Believe me, I definitely plan on exploiting that I’m friends with a senior! All the other freshman girls are going to die of jealousy.”
I knew that wouldn’t actually be true, but hearing Spencer say it made me feel pretty good as I hustled across the hallway to avoid being trampled by our entire football team. Connor Hughes, all tall and lean with his wavy brown hair grazing the collar of his white button-up, led the charge of boys down the hall. He held a playbook in his hands and the rest of his teammates orbited him, peering inside.
Autumn closed my notebook and handed it back to me. “I don’t know where you get your courage, Natalie. I couldn’t say anything like that to a stranger.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “That was no stranger.”
I told Autumn the story, and she glanced across the hallway. “So wait. Were you too busy catching up with Spencer that you forgot to tell her about her underwear?”
I turned and saw Spencer bent over again, her butt back on display for everyone.
The eyes of the passing football players flitted to the left, as if Spencer’s ass gave off a high-pitched noise at a frequency that only boys could detect. One of the guys, Mike Domski, snatched the binder out from Connor’s hands and flapped it furiously toward Spencer’s rear end, trying to make a strong enough breeze so her skirt would flutter up even higher. The rest of the team fell all over each other in a fit of laughter.
A sour feeling rippled across my stomach.
Spencer spun around and pressed up against her locker, a look of pretend embarrassment, feigned modesty, painted on her face. The same one I’d fallen for a moment ago.
“Looks like Spencer’s grown up to be quite a lady,” Autumn said.
She meant it as a joke, I think. Except neither of us laughed.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_de5f536b-f000-5bdd-8fe7-4b979b3019bf)
I left extra, extra early the next morning, and picked up two egg sandwiches and two Oranginas from the bagel shop on Main Street. It was the first official day of student council elections, and I wanted to get my posters hung up before anyone else, claim the best wall real estate. When I got to Autumn’s house, I beeped my car horn along with the song snippet played in between NPR news stories. Across the street, an old lady in a flowered nightgown stared me down from behind her screen door. I mouthed an embarrassed apology.
Autumn finally appeared, darting across her lawn in bare feet. Her black flats were perched on top of the books clutched in her hands, a pair of wrinkled cream-colored knee socks slung over her shoulder. My campaign posters were tucked under her arm.
“Careful you don’t bend them!” I called.
I could tell Autumn hadn’t bothered to shower that morning, preferring instead to sleep an extra twenty minutes. I had always been an early riser, but Autumn loved to sleep, so I’d make sure to always have a book underneath my pillow whenever we had sleepovers. Lately, I only read SAT prep guides, but that’s how I devoured the entire Goosebumps series during middle school — next to my snoring best friend.
Autumn crouched down to the open passenger window and tipped her books forward, causing her shoes to fall onto the seat. She brightened when she saw the white paper bag. “Ooh! Breakfast!”
“Your reward for getting up early to help me.”
“I don’t need a reward,” she said, throwing her books in the backseat and then gently laying my posters on top. “After all, I’m your unofficial campaign manager.”
“I wish you’d be my official vice president,” I said under my breath.
Autumn sighed as she dropped into the passenger seat and clicked her seat belt into the latch with way more force than necessary. “Natalie. You have to let this go.”
I’d posed the idea countless times during the summer and as recently as this weekend, when we’d stayed up until three in the morning painting campaign posters. I’d painted one poster with both of our names on it, but Autumn just complained that I’d wasted a perfectly good piece of oak tag. “Good ideas are hard to let go,” I said.
She took a big bite of sandwich and got some ketchup on her face. I handed her a napkin. “Look,” she said, in between chews. “It means a lot to me that you think I could actually do something like this. But it’s not like I need to be vice president to help with all your projects. I’ll still be at every student council meeting, just like I’ve been the last three years.”
“It’s not about you showing up to meetings. It’s about you living up to your full potential, Autumn. You always say that you’re more of a behind-the-scenes person. But that’s not true. It’s just a convenient excuse not to be noticed. College admissions counselors don’t just want to know that you’ve participated in extracurricular activities. They want to see leadership skills. That you can take charge of something.”
Autumn opened her Orangina and chugged down about five huge gulps. A tiny part of me thought she might be considering it. Then she changed the subject, asking, “What were some of those funny slogans we came up with? I was trying to remember them this morning.”
I couldn’t force my best friend to run for student council. I knew she had to want it for herself. But that didn’t make it any less frustrating.
For the rest of the ride to school, we tried to remember the corny slogans that made us laugh so hard this weekend. Like Vote For Natalie — She’ll Do Things Nattily! Except without being sugar-drunk on Dr Pepper and cookie dough, they weren’t really funny at all.
Ours was the first car in the student parking lot. Ross Academy looked beautiful, the sun rising behind the fieldstone walls, sparking off the dew on the thick lawn. I was so taken with the beauty of our school that it wasn’t until I’d gotten halfway up the path when I noticed that every single window had been covered over with white paper.
“That’s weird,” I said.
“Looks like Kevin Stroop’s seriously stepping up his game,” Autumn said.
“I guess.” Kevin Stroop was last year’s treasurer and, as far as I knew, the only person running against me for president. I’d been counting on an easy campaign, mainly because I was last year’s vice president, but also because Kevin had made a stupid accounting error that had nearly left us bankrupt. We’d had to enforce a strict one-slice-per-person rule at the end-of-the-year pizza party, which no one had been happy about.
I pulled open the main door and hundreds of pieces of paper fluttered with the fall breeze I’d invited in. They weren’t just taped to the windows. Our entire school had been wallpapered — the bathroom doors, bulletin boards, every locker, and the trophy case. An empty plastic tape dispenser crunched beneath my loafer as I stepped forward. Several dozen others were discarded on the floor, down the length of the hallway.
I knew Kevin didn’t have the chops to pull off a stunt this big.
I pulled a single sheet from the spout of a water fountain.
It was a piece of photocopied notebook paper, with a bunch of flaming footballs drawn on it, and a cartoon version of Mike Domski, smoking a cigar and flanked by two busty bikini girls.
Unfortunately, this drawing was no sick fantasy. Mike Domski actually got girls to like him. Sure, he was a football player, and, yeah, he hung out with the popular kids. But the guy was a total scumbag, preying on girls too stupid to know better. There seemed to be a sad learning curve on that sort of thing.
Underneath his drawing, he’d actually written Domski 4 Prez. And he hadn’t even bothered to rip the page out properly — the bottom left corner was missing and he had proudly photocopied the jagged paper fringe.
“Mike Domski,” I said aloud.
“You’re kidding.” Autumn grabbed the flyer and made a face. “Ew. Why’s Mike Domski running for student council?”
I actually had to think about it. “Maybe to help his college applications? Or just to be an ass.” That was really all the reason someone like Mike would need.
“I’m going to take so much satisfaction in watching you annihilate him.” Autumn searched a nearby wall. “What are we going to do with all your posters? He’s left no room to hang them up. This can’t be legal! Do you want me to try and find Ms. Bee?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. And then I taped my biggest poster right over a bunch of Mike Domski’s stupid cartoon grins.
By lunch, Mike’s posters had begun to disappear. I wondered if Ms. Bee had gotten word that he’d charmed the school secretary for use of her copier and deemed them against election rules. But no. Kids had been ripping them down on purpose. I watched a line of guys in the cafeteria ask Mike to autograph them, because they’d be “worth something” someday. Which basically made me want to puke.
Over the rest of the week, I did my best to ignore Mike Domski. It wasn’t hard. He wasn’t in any AP classes, and we certainly didn’t have any friends in common. Still, even from afar, watching him ham up his whole candidacy drove me crazy. The way he’d strut around making ridiculous decrees in old English that started with henceforth and ended with evermore, and demanded that people address him as Prez.
But I stayed calm and collected, even when Mike took direct aim at me. It really didn’t bother me all that much. Probably because I was one of a rare few at Ross Academy to see guys like Mike for who they really were — power-drunk meatheads who’d do anything to get a laugh. High school was the best Mike Domski’s life would ever get. You could see his entire depressing future written on his dopey face. He’d get into some mediocre college, fall in love with a pregnant stripper, lose all his money to a get-rich-quick internet scheme. I might have even felt bad for Mike Domski, if he hadn’t been acting like such a jerk.
But Autumn hated watching Mike make fun of me, and no matter how stupid his insults were, it ate away at her. Like this one time in the cafeteria, when Mike stood underneath one of the banners we’d painted together, flashing two thumbs-up and screaming something about me having wicked bubble letter skills.
Autumn’s cheeks blushed the most awful shade of purpley red, the same as the undercooked steak on her tray. She kept her eyes locked on that steak, pushing a gristly piece back and forth with a plastic fork that was about to snap in her death grip. And then, without warning, she shot straight up, bumping our table so hard my soda splashed on my lab worksheet.
“Leave her alone,” she said, overenunciating each word in as stern a voice as someone as sweet as Autumn could muster. I looked up at her with a half-smile, shocked that she’d had the guts to say anything. She was shaking, the tiniest quivers. My heart broke, knowing what a good friend I had in Autumn. If that was hard for anyone to do, it was hardest for her.
Mike reacted like Autumn had suddenly appeared out of thin air, with phony surprise and awe. He strutted over to our table, sniffing the air like a bloodhound tracking a scent, and stopped right in front of her. “Hey, Fish Sticks! I didn’t smell you there!”
Those words sucked the air out of the entire cafeteria. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look at Autumn. I just listened through the silence for her next to me, praying that she remembered to breathe.
I had always wondered when the rest of the school would figure out that joke wasn’t funny anymore. Or maybe it was something closer to hope. Hope that, with each passing year, people would forget. But in that moment, I finally understood that would never happen. Someone would say it at our twentieth reunion, and Autumn would have to explain it to her husband. Fish Sticks would get a cheap laugh, somewhere, for the rest of our lives. It was too easy. Too mean. And I found it piercingly unfair that someone like Mike Domski would never comprehend how much those two words destroyed my beautiful best friend.
Anger rose up inside me like lava. I reached for the closest object and hurled it at Mike. That turned out to be my slice of pizza, and it hit him square in the chest, leaving a triangle stain of oil and sauce and hot pepper flakes behind on his shirt before it fell with a splat on his brown suede shoes.
“Oops,” I said in my most unsorry voice. A bunch of people gasped, and I even got a few laughs.
Mike curled his lip. “Damn. You know what? I threw out the student council handbook Ms. Bee gave me. But I’m sure I saw a whole section about election rules and the kinds of stunts that could disqualify a candidate. Tell you what, Natalie — I’ll double-check if she has an extra copy and let you know.”
I rolled my eyes as Mike stalked off. But really, inside, I panicked. Had I ruined everything, just to defend Autumn’s honor? Had I handed the entire election over, the thing I’d been dreaming about and working toward for the last three years, to Mike Domski?
Tears welled up in Autumn’s eyes. “Come on,” I said, stuffing our things into my book bag. I didn’t want her to humiliate herself even more. “Let’s go to the library.”
“I’m so sorry, Natalie,” she whispered. “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble. I’ll die if you get disqualified!”
Autumn moved too slow, so I grabbed her hand and pulled her along. “You didn’t have to defend me like that,” I muttered. If she could have just ignored Mike like I did, this wouldn’t have happened.
She shook her head. “That’s what best friends do for each other,” she said with resolve. Autumn wiped her eyes with one hand, and with the other, she squeezed mine tight, the way I’d always squeezed hers.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0f7e5399-f786-5491-9bd7-f5b044353dee)
I am not an every cloud has a silver lining type of person, but one undeniably good thing did come out of the original Fish Sticks debacle: It saved my friendship with Autumn.
Autumn and I had met forever ago at the pool. We were six, and our moms had signed us both up for swimming lessons. Autumn had gone to Ross Academy since kindergarten, but I went to public school, so I’d never seen her before.
I noticed her right away. Her blond hair was light like the underside of a lemon peel, and it hung all the way to her waist. I liked the way it floated through the water, and watched with utter fascination as it turned green from the chlorine over the course of our lessons.
But that’s not why I really noticed her. It was because Autumn was the most spastic swimmer in the pool. She’d splash more than anyone else and always looked somewhat distressed.
When the lifeguard made us partners, I groaned, because each lesson ended with a kickboard race and the winners got to pick a Jolly Rancher out of a big glass bowl in the pool office. I pretty much knew Autumn and I would never have a chance. We didn’t, either. We never won a single Jolly Rancher. Even though I was probably the fastest kickboarder in the pool, I could never go fast enough to compensate for her.
I would’ve been mad . . . but Autumn was so nice. Once, I’d shared my towel when she’d forgotten hers, and she said thank you about a million times. And she was surprisingly silly, too. She taught me how to make a particular kind of fist, that when you squeezed, it would shoot a stream of water.
Except those things didn’t exactly make us friends, just girls who swam together. My parents both had extremely demanding jobs — Mom at her architecture firm, and Dad at his ophthalmology practice. Either one would show up at exactly five minutes to three, and I’d get put in the car, even before I’d had a chance to properly dry off. Autumn, on the other hand, would make plans to play with one girl or another as soon as she was out of the pool, like swim class was a warm-up for the fun she was about to have.
It wasn’t until the very last lesson, when the lifeguard let kids jump off the highest diving platform, that Autumn and I bonded for real.
Autumn froze with terror, but I forced her up the ladder with me. Mainly because none of the other girls in class would do it, probably because they all wore two-pieces and a jump that big could easily make you lose your top. They hung near the shallow end and laughed as the boys leaped off and did ninja kicks or screamed like Tarzan. I wasn’t scared, but it did feel like we were climbing forever. At the top, I laced our wrinkly fingers together and counted to three before jumping. Well, I jumped. Autumn sort of got pulled along with me, screaming the whole way down and getting water up her nose once we plunged in.
She doggy-paddled out of the pool, coughing hard. I followed her, feeling terrible, and decided that I would sit out with her for the rest of the lesson. Instead, Autumn raced to the ladder. She kept jumping. On her own. Each time, she’d spring a little higher, a bit farther out. I loved watching her test herself. Autumn had real courage, buried deep down inside her. All she’d needed was a push from me.
We announced ourselves as best friends when our moms arrived to pick us up that day.
Autumn and I were definitely an odd couple. She would show up at my house in a skirt and sandals, even though I’d tell her I wanted to try to get the boys down the block to invite us to play Manhunt. She’d say I was the worst fingernail painter in history, and that she’d do a better job with her left hand than I’d do with my right.
I wasn’t a tomboy. Sure, I’d wear my cousin Noah’s hand-me-downs, but sometimes I’d pick out a sundress, even if we weren’t going to church or out to dinner. I had a collection of stuffed bears that lived in a nylon hammock strung over my bed and I cried like a baby the time Christopher Clark threw a garden snake he’d found behind his garage at me. But before Autumn, I really never had any friends who were girls. None lived on my street.
Autumn was like fizzy water, light and bubbly. I always knew it, but when I transferred to Ross Academy for junior high, it really became clear. For the first time, I saw how effortlessly Autumn made friends, much more easily than I did. So many people would say hi to her in the halls. I remember feeling lucky that I had gotten in early. Lucky, and a little nervous.
She’d get invited to sleepovers. She’d have girls wanting to sit next to her at lunch. Even though Autumn stuck by me, I could still feel her drifting away. Not intentionally, of course. But I think saying no to invitations and trying to score me pity invites had started to get a little old for both of us.
Autumn explained I could be a know-it-all sometimes, only she said it in a much more polite and gentle way. I didn’t deny it. My parents were both intellectual types, and that sort of thing permeated everything we did as a family. We had our kitchen radio always tuned in to NPR. We did brainteasers over dinner. We shared the Sunday paper. And family vacations were to science centers or fossil expeditions or historical monuments. Maybe it made me weird, but it definitely made me smarter than most people I knew. But smart didn’t necessarily cut it in junior high.
I had invited Autumn to come with my family to a laser show at the planetarium. Her face fell, and she explained that she’d accepted an invitation from Marci Cooperstein’s family to visit their lake house for a week.
I played it cool, but inside I steamed. Marci had been trying to edge in on my friendship with Autumn for months. Autumn had held Marci off, but I guess the promise of Jet Skis and barbeques and bunk beds were too much for her to resist. It was seven days of pure misery for me. I made my mom take me to the library about four different times, because all I did was sit in my room and read. By that time, the other kids on the block weren’t friends, only boys to feel awkward around. I had no one else.
When Autumn did come back, tanner than I’d ever seen her, she slept over four nights straight and gave me a friendship bracelet she’d made especially for me, courtesy of Marci’s bead kit. She had used the nicest beads, too — lavender glass spheres alternating with iridescent stones shaped like tiny grains of rice. Every time Marci saw that bracelet, she seethed. I wore it until the string broke, and then I picked up all the beads I could find. I still have a few in my jewelry box.
I guess that kind of competition should have prepared me for Chad, but it didn’t. Guys were not a part of our equation. We didn’t even talk about them. That probably sounds weird, but our friendship had this strange, timeless innocence about it. And though I knew I could compete with the Marci Coopersteins of the world, I was no match for Chad. Chad swept Autumn completely off her feet.
Once I was at her house practicing a dialogue for our French project when Chad called and invited Autumn to meet him and some friends down near Liberty River. Autumn assumed I wouldn’t want to go, but I told her I would. It made me happy, how excited she was to have me go with her. Excited, until she gently urged me to change into one of her sweaters and to try some of her berry lip gloss.
I had a weird feeling when Autumn took my hand and we veered off the sidewalk into a thin patch of woods. We followed a worn stretch of dirt, littered with trash and a few cigarette butts. I was pretty disoriented even though I could hear the river, but Autumn walked like she was both Lewis and Clark. After a few twists and turns, we came upon a big boulder, perched over the silvery water. A bunch of guys sat on it, drinking beers and blowing smoke into the night sky. We were the only girls there.
Looking back, I definitely overreacted. But older boys and beers and dark, dark woods were so far out of my realm of experience. After about ten minutes, I pretended to feel sick. Autumn knew I was faking, and let me walk home by myself.
She only invited Marci Cooperstein after that.
I thought I’d lost her.
Then the Fish Sticks incident happened, and I was the one person who stood by her. To everyone else at school, she was tainted. The boys were grossed out by her, and even some girls were snooty and snotty and suddenly too good for her. Marci actually laughed a few times at the jokes other people made. Right in front of Autumn.
I told Marci that she was pathetic.
And then I happily picked up the slack. I walked in front of Autumn, or struck up a loud conversation about absolutely nothing, casting the best friend force field to distract her from the sniffers and the stinky faces. I think some people were afraid of me. I became known as the nerdy girl with the scary intensity who’d do anything to protect Fish Sticks.
A couple of weeks later, Marci apologized to Autumn in a note she’d written during chorus. Autumn showed it to me. It was full of grammatical errors. Your right to be mad at me, Marci wrote. Idiot.
I thought Autumn would write Marci back, but she crumpled up the note and flushed it down the toilet. I’d never been more proud of her.
With my help, Autumn turned her negative into a positive. Together we channeled our energy into schoolwork. Autumn was never a great student, and that first semester of freshman year, she’d nearly failed out from the stress of everything that had happened. But I helped her come around. We’d take our lunch in the library and study or do homework together. I even got her involved with student council. Autumn still didn’t do well enough to make it into AP classes, but she made regular honor roll, and so long as she didn’t royally screw up her SATs, she’d have her pick of colleges.
After Chad Rivington, Autumn never had another boyfriend. It saved her from a lot of needless heartbreak. And me, well, the whole thing just let me be a good best friend. Which was all I’d wanted to do in the first place.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_233c41b9-89c5-5c86-aceb-18b1eb143261)
On Monday, I found one of my posters taped to the wall above my locker. The Friday before, it had hung near the main office, and my original pieces of masking tape were still stuck to the corners. The poster had a picture of me on it, holding a jacket in each hand during last year’s winter coat drive. It read, Vote for Natalie, A Leader with Experience.
Mike (obviously) had taken a marker and done some doodling at my expense. He had given me a moustache, drawn two enormous penises (one for each of my hands) and a bunch of question marks hovering over my head. He’d crossed out leader and written VIRGIN on top of it. And squeezed the word NO in before experience.
The hallway was empty, but it wouldn’t be for long. The classrooms were still locked from the weekend, so I couldn’t grab a chair. After jumping up a few times in a desperate and unsuccessful attempt to reach the poster, I headed straight for Ms. Bee’s office, walking so fast that my kneesocks slid down my calves.
I had expected Mike Domski to retaliate for Friday’s pizza incident, of course. I knew he’d want to embarrass me like I’d embarrassed him. But his attack was worse than any grease stain. It was degrading.
Ms. Bee sat at her desk, blowing through the cloud blossoming from the ceramic cup cradled in her hands. Even though she was in her early sixties, Ms. Bee was tan and fit and beautiful, in a loose black linen dress, a tangle of turquoise and red glass beads, and leather slides the color of honey. Her thick white hair curled off her forehead like the crest of an ocean wave and pooled at her shoulders. She had a stack of papers and folders before her. It took a few seconds, and a small fake cough, for her to notice me lingering outside.
Ms. Bee looked up and said, “Natalie. Good. I wanted to talk with you today. Come in. And close the door behind you.”
I was too angry to sit, so I stood just inside her office with the doorknob pressing into my back. “Mike Domski defaced one of my posters.” My voice quivered, and I sounded like a little baby. I hated that Mike could get under my skin so bad.
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes.” I glanced at the clock above her head. If we didn’t act fast, students would soon be arriving, looking at that poster, laughing at me.
“You saw him do it?”
“No.” My face burned. “But I know it was Mike. And he wrote terrible things about me.” I thought about telling her exactly what terrible things, only I was too mortified.
“I see.” Ms. Bee set her cup down. “Is it true you threw a slice of pizza at Mr. Domski last Friday?”
My chin hit my chest. “Yes, I did.”
Each semester, I’d drive my guidance counselor crazy, shifting requirements around so I could take every single history class Ms. Bee taught, even her electives like Vietnam and the ’60s, which were way harder than electives like ceramics, but incredibly interesting. She supplemented her lectures with personal photos, memorabilia, even reading from her own diary. I had always wanted to impress her. And now, thanks to Mike Domski, I’d done the opposite.
She took off her glasses, an angular pair of black frames, and slid them into a silk pouch. “Despite the fact that you’re upset, I must admit that I’m glad to hear about this poster issue. I was worried that I might have to discipline you, but since Mr. Domski has also chosen to take a less-than-dignified route in this campaign, these infractions can cancel each other out.” She leaned back until her wooden chair creaked. “Can I give you a little friendly advice, one girl to another?” I nodded. “Boys like Mr. Domski are intimidated by powerful women, Natalie. The only way he can think to belittle you is for simply being a female. But you must remain as strong and poised as you have been the last three years of high school. You must not let him beat you in this election.”
A burst of energy flew through me. Ms. Bee was right. Mike could only resort to low blows because I outmatched him in every legitimate way.
Ms. Bee pulled open a desk drawer and rooted around. “I wish I could say that you won’t meet a million more Mike Domskis in the course of your lifetime, but I’m afraid that simply isn’t true.” She handed me a glossy pamphlet. “There’s a leadership conference for young women in Boston during our spring break. It’s going to address exactly these sorts of challenges. The woman who runs it was my roommate during my master’s program, and I might be able to work out some kind of discount for you. Or at least the opportunity to network directly with some incredibly inspiring women at the very top of their fields. If you haven’t already packed your bikinis for Cancun” — she grinned — “I think it could be a formative experience for you.”
“Thank you,” I said. But really, those two words didn’t even come close.
I walked back to my locker with my head held high. The hallway was starting to get thick with students, the height of the morning rush. I found an empty trash can I could flip over and climb on, to be tall enough to rip the poster down. But I didn’t need to. Someone had beaten me to it.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_28fa035a-6d7d-5bbe-9c6f-3d86a9b92f20)
On election day, I sat between Mike and Kevin in the front of the library. Kevin was a couple of inches away, but Mike was so painfully close that the arms of our chairs were touching.
His left leg bounced up and down in a khaki blur, and the floorboards creaked sharp sounds that stabbed straight into my forehead. He did it on purpose, of course. Anything to rattle me. My pleated skirt crinkled up underneath my thighs, itching me like crazy, but I wouldn’t move. Not an inch. I didn’t want to risk touching Mike by accident. I didn’t even want our uniforms to touch.
What seemed like the entire school had gathered to hear the results. Connor Hughes sat in the front row, his tie loose around his neck, turning when someone behind him started chanting, “Dom-ski Dom-ski Dom-ski.” A bunch of other voices joined in the chorus. The whole room got loud, and I suddenly had trouble swallowing the syrupy dissolve from my peppermint Life Saver.
In a perfect world, this would be no contest. The most qualified candidate would win. But Mike Domski had a lot more friends than I did. A lot more.
I quickly tried to prepare myself, in case things didn’t go my way. I envisioned myself having to smile, to shake Mike’s hand, because that’s what a gracious loser does. I wiped my palms against my bare legs. They felt clammy. Cold.
As tough as that would be, I refused to give Mike the satisfaction of humiliating me on top of everything else. I forbade myself to cry if I lost. I’d drown my insides before I let a single tear roll down my cheek. That’s exactly what he’d want. Natalie Sterling, crying over a student council election.
Losing wouldn’t even be the worst part. The worst part would be quitting student council. I didn’t want to, of course, but what else could I do? I decided it was best to write a resignation letter to Ms. Bee instead of telling her in person, so she wouldn’t try to convince me to stick it out. I couldn’t do that to myself. And as much as I knew Ms. Bee would be disappointed, she wouldn’t want my participation to come at the price of my dignity. I knew what would happen — Mike would get bored with all the responsibility and work, and push everything on my lap. He’d try to make me into his personal secretary, someone he could boss around. And there was absolutely no way I could deal with that.
Ms. Bee sat inside the library office. I watched her through the glass, her head down as she counted ballots. Her forehead seemed more wrinkled than usual, which worried me for obvious reasons. I sat up tall and tried to make eye contact.
“Nervous?”
Mike smugly stared me down, thick-as-caterpillar eyebrows touching over his nose. I pressed my lips together tight and ignored him. A smirk spread across his face, and he rubbed the dusty black of his stubbly chin. Of course Mike didn’t bother to shave for election day. “I have to say, Natalie, your level of intensity is pretty hot.” He gently patted his lap. “I’m actually getting a chubby.”
I glanced over at Kevin Stroop, his eyes burning holes through the floor. It could have been a campaign strategy. Let Mike and me duke it out, while Kevin cleaned house. Though I doubted it. More likely, Kevin feared Mike Domski, or he just didn’t care if a guy said such disgusting things to a girl.
Not that I needed Kevin to stand up for me. I could handle this myself. “Stop talking to me,” I declared, which fell far short of the sharp retort I’d hoped to conjure up.
“Hey! Come on, Natalie. I’m only kidding with you.” His smile lengthened to a sneer. “You could never give me a hard-on. You’re like . . . dick repellant.”
Anger burned hot through my body, and I gripped the sides of my chair. Mike Domski wanted to hurt me, and the best way he knew was to call me ugly. I hated that, despite the fact that I would rather eat vomit than touch a hair on Mike’s head, it worked. It took all my self-control not to hock the biggest, wettest ball of spit right between Mike’s eyes. And I would have, too, if not for Ms. Bee weaving through the thick crowd, waving a slip of paper over her head. “Okay! Thank you for your patience! Here we go!”
Spencer lurked near the doorway, huddled with a couple of other girls. When our eyes met, she gave a big wave and blew me a kiss, which was a gesture more baffling than comforting. I tried to find Autumn’s face in the crowd, but when I couldn’t, I settled on the wall to my left, where the senior portraits of former Ross Academy student council presidents hung. Most were boys in blazers, wearing grins dripping with unabashed, unapologetic ambition. There were only a handful of girls, all stern-faced with set jaws. I felt the kinship straight away.
Ms. Bee joined us in the front of the library. The smell of her peppery perfume comforted me, just a little. “It’s wonderful to see so many of you interested in student council this year,” she said. “Our first meeting will be on Monday, and I hope you’ll parlay this enthusiasm and sign up for one of our many committees.”
I waited, a hollow smile frozen on my face, and listened to the names of the winners. David Goss won secretary. Dipak Shah won treasurer. Martin Gedge took vice president. I smiled at Martin to congratulate him, and he gave a worried look that cut right through me.
The stuffy library air fluttered with the tepid applause of people waiting for the main event. Ms. Bee cleared her throat and the room went quiet. All except for my heart, which pounded rapid and crazy.
“And in the election for your new student council president, we may have had our closest results in my history as an adviser. The winner, by just a handful of votes, is . . . Na —”
Somebody in Mike’s crowd booed, and I never heard the rest of my name. Not that it mattered.
From somewhere in the back of the room, Autumn barreled through the crowd toward me, knocking people aside with her huge book bag. Her hair flopped all in her face, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. I rose to my feet, smiling so hard it hurt. Autumn wrapped her arms around me tight, and we swayed with such force that we almost fell on the floor. We jumped up and down, over and over, both of us screaming and laughing.
I noticed Mike standing with his friends. Connor grinned at me. He thought my celebration was funny, I guess. But Mike could barely conceal his disgust.
I broke free from Autumn and pushed myself in front of him. I knew I had huge damp spots in the armpits of my white shirt, but I didn’t care. After pulling up my hair into a quick ponytail, I stuck out my hand and waited for Mike to shake it. “Don’t you want to congratulate me?” I said in my most sarcastic voice. His friends were all listening. Connor Hughes. Everyone. And I loved every second of it.
Mike looked down at my hand and scoffed. “Congratulations on being the kind of loser this stuff actually matters to.”
Before I could say anything back, Autumn pulled me away. “You okay, Miss President?” she asked, and massaged my shoulders like a boxer and his trainer after a long fight. The library had begun to empty out, but there were still lots of students who stuck around to congratulate me. The moment felt so right, so beautiful. Like destiny. Like all those life-changing moments should feel. Easy.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_b0689708-06fd-5f17-939f-e72a82239d06)
I picked up Autumn later that night. It was supposed to be, at least to her knowledge, our typical Friday — renting whatever movie was next on our list (we’d been working our way through the AFI Top 100 Films list, which I’d cut from the newspaper and dutifully laminated at my mom’s office), followed by snacks, followed by either face masks or new nail polish, followed by whatever lame show was on television until we fell asleep.
Except I had heard on NPR during breakfast that A Streetcar Named Desire was playing at a little independent movie theater a few towns over. It wasn’t actually the next film on our list, but the chance to see one on the big screen was too exciting to pass up. Plus, it would make for a more special night, considering I’d won the election a few hours before.
Even though my air-conditioning was on, everything still felt sticky. September weather always left you guessing, with some days hot like summer and others chilly like fall.
I beeped and Autumn came running out in jeans and an oversize hoodie I’d bought her on one of my college tours. I felt a little bad, because I was in a red corduroy skirt, a black scoop neck, and the tiny silver hoops Grammy had given me on my Sweet Sixteen. Not that we needed to dress up, but this particular movie theater was a lot different than the megaplex inside Summit Mall. It served wine and had gourmet snacks, like kettle corn and Italian chocolate bars. A red-velvet curtain hid the screen until just before the film started, and they showed movie trailers in French and Italian.
Autumn knew something was up as soon as she saw me. “What’s going on?” she asked, smiling. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a secret,” I teased.
“But you look so nice. Should I go change?”
I would have said sure, but Autumn was slow enough getting ready for school, never mind when she actually had a choice of outfits. Anyway, she always looked pretty. I shook my head. “Don’t worry. You look fine.”
I decided to take back roads, to keep Autumn guessing — a wandering maze of rolling hills and twisted streets that made our stomachs drop, so long as I hit the gas at just the right moment. Together we sang whatever song came on, my pathetic radio turned up so loud the speakers crackled. My heart felt buoyant, lifted by my relief over the election and the excitement of surprising Autumn. It seemed less like driving and more like we were floating.
Autumn kept guessing about what I had planned. Then she pointed out the window and looked all excited.
“No way!” she gasped. “We’re going to a party?”
Her words didn’t make sense to me at first. We weren’t anywhere near the theater. I had to come down from the clouds and look around to figure them out.
Cars were crammed along every available inch of curbside, parked in haste, as if the beer supply might run out at any second. I recognized some by their Ross Academy bumper stickers. Music thumped from a small house halfway down the street, bursting with people. Some kids were hanging out on a lawn, blanketed by fall leaves no one had bothered to rake up.
All I could come up with was, “Are you kidding?” What in the world would ever make Autumn think I was bringing her to a party?
“So . . . this isn’t what we’re doing tonight,” she said, the excitement draining from her face.
I shook my head. Even though I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, I explained what I had planned for us. I tried to sound excited about all the fancy snacks and the velvet curtain, but Autumn didn’t look interested. She kept staring out of the passenger window as we passed by the party house.
Finally she turned to face me. “What if we just walked in?”
“Why would we do that?”
“I don’t know. To freak everyone out? Not in a bad way. We’d be like . . . celebrities or special guests or something. Plus, we’ve never been to a party together before, which seems like something we should probably do before we graduate, right? And besides, you look so pretty tonight.”
I couldn’t believe what she was saying. If there was anything in the whole world I didn’t want to do, it was randomly show up at a high school party that I wasn’t invited to, full of people we didn’t like. And Autumn was delusional if she thought we’d be welcomed with open arms. Not to mention that I had made other plans for us. Better plans.
But I didn’t bother saying as much. Instead I pointed out the window at a boy kneeling on the curb, puking into a bush. “Wow. Looks like we’re really missing out on an awesome time.”
“We should pull over and make sure he’s okay, don’t you think?”
I looked at the clock. We still had plenty of time to get to the theater, but I was concerned that if I parked to check on this boy, Autumn would make a run for the house, and then I’d have to go chasing after her. So, after locking the doors, I put the car in park and rolled down my window.
“Hey. Puking boy . . . are you okay?”
The boy didn’t say anything, or even look in our direction. Instead, he waved and gave us a thumbs-up.
I turned to Autumn. “Can we go now?”
“I guess,” she said, all pouty. She turned off my radio, rolled down her window, and strained to make out the music wafting in the air.
I guess was good enough for me. I wasn’t going to wait around and give Autumn a chance to change her mind.
Autumn screamed as I hit the gas.
I pressed the brakes as hard and fast as I could, slamming my car to a sudden stop. My headlights rocked up and down the dark street. Four drunken boys stood frozen at my bumper. Mike Domski, Scott Phillips, Paul Zed, and James Rocker.
“Watch where you’re going!” I screamed, my quivering hand hovering over the car horn. The smell of burnt rubber wafted though my vents.
The boys’ movements kickstarted with uproarious laughter, as they realized imminent death had, just barely, missed its mark. I tried to inch my car forward, but we were pinned by the human roadblock, forced to witness their drunken celebration. They leaped into each other’s burly arms and sang a chorus of holy shit, dude! Mike Domski tossed aside a beer can and started humping my hood ornament.
“Get off my car!” I shouted.
“I’m trying!” he moaned. “Oh, God, I’m trying!” After Mike pretended to bring my Honda to orgasm, the laughing boys made their way up the front lawn of the party.
“Looks like Mike’s over losing the election,” Autumn said, trying to sound lighthearted. Then she added, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
“Why don’t I just drop you off?” It came out bitchy, but I couldn’t help it.
“Forget it,” Autumn said, though she sounded like she was doing anything but.
A shaggy straggler shuffled a few quiet steps behind the pack. Connor Hughes. He stooped to peer inside my window with this curious look on his face. I could smell the beer all over him, warm and sour. “There’s a spot down the street,” he offered, pointing off into the blackness. His thumbs were threaded through holes in the cuffs of his thermal.
We locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. His were blue and watery, because he’d been drinking and doing who knows what else.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said sarcastically, then pressed my foot down on the gas.
Autumn spun around in her seat. “That could be interpreted as an invitation.”
I glanced in my rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything. Only night. My heartbeat started to slow. “We’re going to be late for the movie.”
Autumn turned back around and huffed. “You know, there’s something to be said for spontaneity.”
I didn’t even bother responding. I just drove as fast as I could away from that house.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_3f719c15-2260-535d-850f-399f27eee358)
The rest of my weekend pretty much sucked. Autumn didn’t sleep over on Friday or Saturday, but she came over on Sunday to do a few SAT practice exams together. I could tell she wasn’t feeling it. I’d look up and she’d be staring out our kitchen window, even though the timer was ticking away and she was at least five test pages behind me. Obviously, practice exams aren’t the most fun thing to do, but the SATs were in just over a month, and I wanted us to be as ready as we could possibly be.
Not that it always worked that way. Because even though I’d practiced my speech countless times, I was way more nervous than I’d thought I’d be for the first student council meeting on Monday. I kept trying to remind myself that the stresses of the election had passed. I’d beaten Mike Domski, and now I could finally get down to business.
Before heading to the meeting, I wanted to freshen up and collect myself. The perfect place to go was the girls’ bathroom near the teachers’ lounge. Other girls avoided it for the risks of getting caught talking on their cell phones or smoking a cigarette, but the lack of use meant that it was always clean. The dispensers stayed full of syrupy pink soap, and there was always toilet paper and paper towels to be found. It was my favorite place to pee. It was like an executive girls’ bathroom.
But I wasn’t alone. I opened the door to find Spencer kneeling on the radiator. Her back was arched, and she stretched her head toward the ceiling, like she was in some strange yoga pose.
I flashed her a quick smile and dropped my book bag in the well of a dry sink.
“Shhhh!”
Spencer took her finger off her lips and pointed above her head at the vents in the ceiling. A layer of fuzzy dust sat on each slit. She whispered, “Mrs. Dockey was just bitching about Principal Hurley not approving her costume budget for the school musical. She actually said that she ‘can’t put on The Wizard of Oz with fucking bedsheets and a burlap sack!’ ”
We both tried to hold in our laugher, but it was practically impossible. Mrs. Dockey was about eighty years old and completely soft-spoken. I didn’t think it was possible for her to curse like that. Then again, she did take the musical theater productions very seriously.
I rifled through my bag for my hairbrush, forcing it through the knots in my hair. I made sure my headband was perched right at the top of my head. I slicked my lips with my tube of Burt’s Bees. I looked as ready as I could be, but inside, my stomach was churning. I’d never had the chance to stand out like this before. To be a leader.
“I took your advice,” Spencer said to me. “See?” She jumped off the radiator and lifted up her skirt, flashing a pair of pink satiny petticoat underwear with layers of frills across the butt. “These were actually part of my dance costume for this can-can routine I did in a Moulin Rouge show.”
I smiled. Not the toothy kind, but the lips pressed together kind. It was . . . a marginal improvement. But I had to give Spencer credit. If she danced in outfits like that, she probably wouldn’t get nervous giving a student council speech.
“So, congratulations on winning the election. A few girls in my homeroom were planning to vote for Mike because he was cute, but I forced them to vote for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, and tucked my shirt into my skirt.
“I saw what Mike did to your poster.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Though I guess you can’t really blame him.”
Had Spencer been the one to take it down? I turned to face her. “What do you mean?”
She scrunched her curls in the mirror. “Sexual tension makes guys act like complete idiots.”
I raised an eyebrow. There was certainly tension between me and Mike Domski, but it was hardly sexual. Not even close.
Spencer gave me wink, as if I were acting coy. “Mike totally wants to bone you. It’s so obvious.”
I shook my head emphatically. “Umm, no, he doesn’t. We hate each other.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Okay, maybe on the surface he hates you,” Spencer conceded. “But I bet it goes deeper than that.” She tapped a finger on her lips a few times, thinking. “He could never get a girl like you. You are so out of his league, it kills him. And all that frustration bubbles up and makes him act the way he does. Honestly, it’s textbook boy.”
It was nice to hear Spencer say such complimentary things about me, even though she had no idea what she was talking about. But it was also sort of unnerving, listening to her analyze me and Mike like that. What could she possibly know about sexual tension? She was only fourteen.
I zipped up my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulders. I didn’t want to be the last one in the library and appear irresponsible. But Spencer leaned against the sink next to mine, blocking my way to the door. She clearly wanted to talk. And maybe it would be cool to be the girl everyone was waiting for. To make a dramatic entrance. I guessed I could spare a couple more minutes.
“So, Spencer. How are your classes going?” I asked.
“Pretty good. I like everything, except for History of Modern Civilization.”
“I took that freshman year. It’s not actually that hard, so long as you keep up with the reading.”
“It’s not so much the work as it is the teacher,” Spencer groaned.
“What? Are you kidding? Ms. Bee is awesome. She’s the best teacher in our entire school.”
Spencer looked doubtful. “She doesn’t like me.”
“I’m sure she does,” I said. But really, there was a part of me that wondered if Spencer might be right. Ms. Bee was a tough teacher, and she was hardest on the girls. I liked that about her, but she definitely wasn’t going to pander to Spencer’s underwear-flashing antics. “You just have to show her that you care about learning. If she thinks that you aren’t interested, then she won’t be interested in you.” I was afraid that was Spencer’s biggest problem. She was concentrating on the wrong things. “Have you joined any clubs?”
“Not yet. I’m still evaluating my options.” It was a weird thing to say, because what did Spencer need to evaluate? If you wanted to join a club, you did. There were no limits on that kind of thing. “I really wish our school had a dance team.”
“Well, if you join student council, you could propose that to the school board.”
“Really? Students have the power to do that?” she asked, and I nodded. “That’s awesome. Maybe I’ll come to the first meeting. It’s tomorrow, right?”
“It’s today. In about five minutes, actually.” How did she not know this? Spencer had been in the library on Friday, when Ms. Bee announced the meeting. And there were signs posted all over the hallways. I’d hung them up myself.
She pouted. “Shoot. My mom’s supposed to take me to the dance studio on Main to sign up for some classes.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “You can still be involved in student council, even if you miss today’s meeting.” I smiled. “And you know me, so you’ve got the inside track.”
“Ooh! Then you’re the perfect person to ask. Is it true that we get to wear normal clothes on pep rally day? I heard someone say that in the hallway.”
“Yes, so long as you’ve got on school colors.”
“Cool. A few of my friends and I were thinking about designing our own T-shirts. You know, to show school spirit.”
Her enthusiasm was a pleasant surprise. “You should definitely meet up with your class rep. We’re going to be deciding them today at the meeting, so I don’t know who it is yet, but find me tomorrow and I’ll tell you. He or she will be in charge of organizing the hall decorations for the freshman class. I’m sure your help would be appreciated. Pep rallies are sort of a big deal here.” I felt for the note cards in my chest pocket. “And I have something pretty exciting planned for this year’s festivities. Seriously. It’s going to be epic.”
“Cool.” Spencer bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Natalie. I feel like I’m letting you down or something. I wish I could come today.”
I wished she could, too. Not that being involved with dance wasn’t a good thing. But I had a feeling that Spencer could benefit from a more traditional school activity. One without sexy costumes. “Well, I’m going to be late. And that wouldn’t look good at all.”
Spencer let out a deep, happy sigh. “I still can’t believe how lucky I am that you were my babysitter, and now I’m like automatically friends with the student council president. Honestly, it doesn’t get much better than that.”
I felt myself blushing.
“Break a leg, Natalie!” she said, throwing up her hand for a high five.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had one. When I slapped Spencer’s hand, it made the best sound.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_6ed74f47-ba71-50a7-8f8b-4c5d27fe3f6c)
Heads turned when I entered the library. I was still a few minutes early, but the room was already full. Several wooden tables had been pushed together to make one huge rectangle. I scanned for a vacant seat, until I remembered that mine was the one at the very front of the room.
“Where’ve you been?” Autumn asked.
“I was talking to Spencer in the bathroom, trying to get her to join student council. I think it could be really beneficial for her.” And then I had a great idea. “You should talk to her, Autumn. Tell her how good this was for you.”
Her mouth wrinkled up. “What do you mean?”
I could tell she was getting mad, and I guessed this wasn’t the best time to get into a conversation about the Fish Sticks incident. “Never mind,” I said.
I thought about asking someone to move, so Autumn could sit near me at the front of the room, but before I could, she took a chair in the last row, near the door. Which sucked, but was probably for the best. I didn’t want to look like I was playing favorites with my best friend. And if she had really wanted to sit up front, she would have run for vice president, like I’d suggested.
Dipak fought with the plastic window shades, pulling until they snapped up, exposing the library to a weak September sunlight. Outside, the tops of the trees — fiery reds and oranges and yellows — blazed through the thick leaded glass. Martin leaned over and whispered, “There are a lot of kids here, don’t you think?”
I nodded, and tried not to focus on the tiny flake of dandruff floating in a tuft of Martin’s wiry black hair.
Ms. Bee shut the doors and the talking quieted. She nodded at me to begin. I stood up and cupped my note cards in my hand.
“Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming,” I said, projecting my voice as best as I could, and then flipped to the next card. I probably should have written more than a sentence on each one, but my handwriting was really bad, and I wanted to make sure I could read it. “I am thrilled to have been voted president of student council at Ross Academy, and I call this, our first meeting, to order.” A few people clapped, which felt good.
“It’s going to be a very busy and exciting year, with lots of expectations on our shoulders. Everyone who participated in student council last year knows that I have enormous shoes to fill.” I went on to proudly list the many accomplishments of Will Branch, our most recent president. In addition to his regular student council duties, Will also established a senior lounge with leather couches, filibustered the banning of The Chocolate War by storming a secret school board meeting with a Gandhi-inspired sit-in, and coordinated a student-teacher basketball game to raise money for a freshman with leukemia.
Will had set the bar high, but I was going to aim higher. “Rest assured,” I said, “I have innovative ideas of my own. Including —”
Just then, the door slowly creaked open, and Spencer stuck her head inside. She had tried to be quiet, but everyone turned to look. “Sorry!” she said, and excused her way through the room, passing plenty of open spots, until she found a place to squeeze in at the table.
Clearly, it wasn’t the best timing. But I couldn’t be mad. I was happy that Spencer had shown up after all. Not just shown up, but pushed her way to the front, where the older students sat. The girl was fearless. I smiled and flipped to my next card.
“In addition to this year’s pep rally festivities, I’ve decided that, as my first act as student council president, we will have our very first bonfire, to take place immediately after the football team annihilates Saint Ann’s.” Whispers instantly overtook the room. People were excited. It was exactly the reaction I’d hoped for.
“I promise to work as hard as possible and make sure I leave Ross Academy a better place. But I can’t do this alone. I’ll need you to sign up for as many committees as possible, and join me, help me. Together, I know we will be able to accomplish great things. Thank you.” With a nod, I sat back down to another round of applause.
David replaced me at the podium and went over the list of committees that would immediately need members, beginning with the pep committee. Dipak addressed the state of our treasury. Low. I resisted the urge to shoot a dirty look at Kevin Stroop. This, Dipak explained, could possibly extinguish my bonfire plans.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I think the idea is cool. But how are we going to pay for it? We’ll need a permit, and to pay for the wood, and —”
“The permit fee would be waived,” I explained. “I already worked that out with the local fire department.” Of course I did. I wouldn’t have suggested the idea if I hadn’t thought it at least partially through. And I didn’t appreciate the hint of condescension in Dipak’s voice. But one thing I hadn’t thought about was who would pay for the wood. “We’ll just get a business to sponsor the bonfire,” I said.
“I’m not sure that would work with Ross Academy rules,” Ms. Bee said. “You know the board voted down the branded soda machines a few years back.”
Spencer cleared her throat. “We could sell little kits to make s’mores and roast hot dogs. That would help offset the costs.”
“That’s a great idea, Spencer,” I said. Seriously. I was impressed.
Dipak shook his head. “Offset is a good start. But we hardly have the collateral to begin with.”
The room got quiet. I felt my good idea going up in smoke.
Autumn raised her hand. You didn’t need to raise your hand at student council meetings, but Autumn so rarely spoke up, she probably never noticed. “How about you ask Connor Hughes? Maybe he could donate it.”
I could have kissed her, it was the perfect solution. Connor’s family owned the Hughes Christmas Tree Farm. They probably had plenty of scrap wood we could burn.
The rest of the meeting went smoothly. I took dutiful notes and loved the way that all the people in the room found me, talked to my eyes. I was the focal point.
Ms. Bee looked surprised when Spencer raised her hand to be a freshman rep. And maybe it was a little bit overkill, but she also signed up for almost every single committee and group.
After the meeting, Ms. Bee asked if she could speak with me for a minute. She walked me over to the portrait wall, away from everyone else.
“I love the bonfire idea, Natalie. It takes me back to my Ivy League days. You’re really thinking outside the box. And I’m anxious to see what other projects you propose this year.”
“Thank you, Ms. Bee.”
She leaned in close. “I didn’t want to tell you this before, in case something terribly unjust happened and you didn’t win the election. But there have only been eight other female student council presidents in the history of Ross Academy, and none since I returned to teach here eleven years ago. Which, honestly, as a woman who cares deeply about these sorts of things, made me feel like a complete failure.”
I turned to say something, but Ms. Bee just stood there, admiring the wall and the rows and rows of slightly dusty frames holding the portraits of former student council presidents. It took a second before I realized her picture was right in front of me.
I knew Ms. Bee had divorced her husband — a professor of philosophy — several years ago. They’d lived overseas and had never had children. After the separation, she’d returned to her childhood home in Liberty River and begun teaching at Ross Academy.
She had been beautiful back then, too. Pin-straight raven hair, dark eyes, small pearl studs and a tiny gold cross. She was grinning more than smiling, one eyebrow arched with a tinge of mischievousness. Nancy Bee.
Ms. Bee pointed to the empty space next to the final picture, of Will Branch. Unfortunately, he’d blinked at the worst possible time. I wondered if people ten years from now might assume he was blind. “This is where your senior portrait will hang, Natalie. It’s an exclusive club, but I know you’ll make a wonderful member. And you’ll be known forever as number nine.”

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