Who is this guy again?” Major stopped the car in front of the
Brighton Country
Club and reached into his coat pocket.
“Major”—I buried my face in my hands—“tell me you didn’t bring a miniature version of the banned boy book.”
“Of course not. … The print would be too small. These are just the names of the most serious offenders.” He withdrew an index card and held it up.
Marcus was at the very top of the list.
“Gordon Elliott,” I said automatically. “I’m meeting a guy named Gordon Elliott. I doubt he’s on there.”
I knew he wasn’t. Earlier I’d peeked at Major’s book and chosen the most harmless-looking guy in green marker, a seventh grader who snorkeled at the school pool during lunch hour.
Major scanned the index card and nodded. “All right, then. But I want you to take this to be safe.” He handed me a tiny spray canister.
“Uh … no. I’m not going to Mace any of my classmates.”
“This is cinnamon extract. It stings just as much when sprayed in the eyes, but the effects don’t last as long.” He forced it into my palm. “Also, the smell triggers memory functions, so your date will remember not to attack you in the future.”
“He’s not my date.” I dropped the cinnamon spray into the silver purse left over from my flower girl days. “I’m just showing up with him because I can’t go alone.”
I looked out the car window and almost jumped when I saw Marcus standing by the entrance to the country club. I ducked my head so my hair hung over my face, but I quickly realized it was a terrible disguise since I was the only redhead pledging the Little Debbies. Still, I peeked at him through my dangling strands.
Marcus had actually skipped his usual sports ensemble and worn a button-up shirt and tucked it into his jeans. If he’d bothered to brush his hair, which stood up in odd, spiky tufts, he could have passed for someone fairly gorgeous.
“I should get going,” I told Major. “Gordon’s probably waiting inside.”
Major peered around me. “He should have waited for you out here, like that young gentleman is doing for his date.” He pointed at Marcus, who chose that moment to glance in my direction. “You know, he looks vaguely familiar.”
Up until that point, I’d never believed in mental telepathy, but I focused all my concentration on melding my mind with his.
Don’t come over here, I thought. Do something gross so Major stops staring.
Marcus missed the second half of my message, but he seemed to catch the first bit and turned away, gazing across the parking lot.
“Gotta go,” I blurted at Major, fumbling for the door handle. “Pick me up at nine. Thanks!”
I closed the car door behind me, and then Major pulled a parental maneuver straight from the How to Embarrass Your Teen manual. He rolled down the passenger-side window and called across the car, “He won’t be afraid to make a move, so don’t be afraid to spray him!”
Luckily, nobody was close enough to hear this gem of wisdom but me. “Okay. Bye!” I smiled and waved until he pulled away from the curb. As soon as the car was out of sight, Marcus strolled over, smirking.
“Spray him, huh? Did you pack a garden hose in there?” He nudged my purse. “And don’t worry. This is as close as I ever plan to get to you.”
Even though Marcus was a known jerk, I couldn’t help feeling a little offended. I’d checked my reflection just before leaving the house and thought I looked pretty. And I’d been nice enough to notice his improved appearance—I just hadn’t mentioned it out loud.
I gave him my biggest, fakest smile. “You really know how to make a girl feel special. Thank you.”
Marcus looked a trifle less smug. “I told you this wasn’t a date. … And it’s not like I said you looked bad or anything.”
“Let’s just get this over …” I jerked the door open and stepped into the foyer but didn’t move any farther. “Yikes.”
My parents had never been country club people, so my knowledge of that world was limited to what I saw on television. Usually everything was white wicker and windows, with sunlight bathing young tennis couples as they laughed and sipped iced tea, served by a cheerful waiter in a starched uniform.
The Brighton Country Club was not like that.
Everything was cold and dark. The walls were paneled in ebony wood, and the carpet was a deep wine color that spilled into two wings branching off the main room. Sconces lit the way, each just bright enough to reveal the next one down the hall. Massive leather chairs had replaced (or possibly eaten) the wicker furniture, along with the laughing tennis couple. The only person in sight was a thousand-year-old woman who was watching us with a critical eye and pointing down one of the hallways.
“Jenner would love it here,” I said. “It’s like …”
“A funeral home?” Marcus ran his fingers along the wood paneling. “Or a haunted house?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “A little of both. You ready?”
Marcus tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “Listen. Earlier, I really didn’t say you looked bad.”
“Yeah, but …” I wanted to argue that he hadn’t said I looked good, either, but I realized this was the closest he would ever come to paying me a compliment. “Thanks.” I returned to all business before things could get awkward. “Now are you ready?”
He let out a deep breath. “Not really, but I don’t think she plans to leave until we do.” He nodded to the old woman, still standing with her arm outstretched. “Come on.”
Even though the hallway was wide enough for us to walk several feet apart, we drifted closer together with each step. It was strangely comforting to be with someone who felt just as awkward, and from the way Marcus’s arm kept bumping mine, I knew he was thinking the same thing. As we passed the woman, he whispered, “Your spirit is free, old one. You’ve done your duty.”
I laughed but stopped short when a guy and a Little Debbie hurried past us, and I was almost blinded by her crystal-covered tiara.
She was wearing a tiara. I didn’t even own a headband. And her heels were high enough to cause serious head trauma if she were to stumble.
“Man, I knew I should have worn my crown jewels,” I said.
Marcus didn’t seem to catch my joke. “I should have worn a tie,” he mumbled. “Or different shoes.”
For someone who’d spent sixth grade shoving people’s heads into toilets, he seemed awfully concerned about opinions now. Maybe he had changed since his Swirlie Bandit days.
“You look fine,” I told him. “That kid’s the overdressed one. I mean, what twelve-year-old wears cuff links?”
He nodded. “I was just hoping to make a good impression, like you said at the beach.”
“Oh. Right. The beach.” I pressed my lips together before a guilty confession could slip out. He’d actually taken me seriously and wanted to improve his social standing, but I’d brought him for my own amusement. Now I felt bad. I needed to hate him. I needed to interview him and hear him say he couldn’t wait to dunk more kids.
But first I needed to check on Ben and Ava.
They weren’t hanging around with the few couples outside the Crystal Ballroom, but I did see the girl from the Little Debbies gift bag table. She was sitting at yet another table outside the doorway, and this time she was in charge of a stack of purple picture frames and stick-on name tags. I wandered over to her, wondering how much money she’d be after this time.
“Name?” Table Girl addressed my midsection.
“I can write my own name tag,” I said, grabbing a Sharpie.
Table Girl slammed her hand on top of mine, as if I’d been trying to pocket her marker and run away. “Your name tag is over here.” She pointed to the stack of picture frames, and I indicated the one with my name on it.
When she gave it to me, my hand dropped a little from the weight. I turned the frame over and saw someone had glued a giant safety pin to the back.
“Do I really have to wear this?”
She answered me with a sour look, so I pinned the picture frame to my purse. “It clashes with my dress,” I explained.
“Whatever.” She uncapped the Sharpie and turned to Marcus. “Name?”
“Marcus.”
Instead of writing, she stared at him.
“Marcus,” he repeated louder.
“I know,” she said. “But unless you’re Fergie, you should have a last name too.”
“Taylor. I’m Marcus Taylor.”
“The Swirlie Bandit!?” Table Girl’s cry demonstrated a lung power I wouldn’t have thought possible of a Little Debbie. Like choreographed dancers, the other couples all whirled and glanced at us, faces frozen in varying stages of alarm.
Marcus turned red, the spikes in his hair needing no gel to help them stand on end. “I … uh … don’t really go by that. I haven’t dunked anyone since I left school.”
Table Girl’s eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. “You dropped out?”
“No! I mean, since the first time I left to go to a different school.”
“Ohhh.” She nodded and winked. “A ‘school’ behind a wall of razor wire?”
“Okay, we’re gonna go now.” I was starting to get the same irritated feeling from Friday morning, when Ben had been insulting Marcus for no reason. This time Marcus could defend himself, so it shouldn’t have bothered me—but it did.
I grabbed his arm and as we walked away, I could hear Table Girl tell everyone, “They really should screen pledges better to find out who they’re dating.”
Marcus didn’t argue or even laugh at the D word. He seemed to be interested in drawing as little attention to himself as possible, and when we walked into the Crystal Ballroom, he hurried off to the left, away from the dance floor and the tables surrounding it.
I dug my heels into the carpet and tugged him to a halt. “Okay, if this is your idea of making a good impression, it’s not working.”
“It’s never going to work,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind. You don’t have to interview me.”
“Well, I already told everyone I would, so I kinda do.” I glanced around for the darkest, most secluded table I could find. “We can go over there. By that window.” I steered him toward it just as Paige hurried over.
“What are you doing?”
“Being antisocial at the social,” I said.
“I mean with him.” She pointed at Marcus as if he were twenty feet away, not close enough for her to poke in the shoulder. “You brought the Swirlie Bandit?”
Marcus cleared his throat. “Actually, I don’t—”
Paige blocked him with a hand to the face. “I told you not to embarrass me, Delilah!”
I thought I’d enjoy seeing her freak out, but even the fact that her face matched the pink in her dress didn’t amuse me. “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “He’s changed, and nobody at the social is in danger of a dunk and flush. But if you’d rather we leave …” I grabbed Marcus’s arm and made like I was headed for the door.
“Wait …” Paige tugged on the halter straps tied around my neck. “You have to at least stay for another half hour, when everyone gives their progress reports.” She eyed Marcus suspiciously and leaned close to me. “Just keep him under control and out of the way.”
I nodded. “Do you want me to chain him to the wall or just hit him with my shoe whenever he acts up?”
Paige crossed her arms and exhaled out of her nostrils. “Whatever … it … takes.” She stormed off to yell at someone for double-dipping chips in a bowl of guacamole.
I rolled my eyes at Marcus. “Let’s try this again.” I headed for the window, but he didn’t follow. “Marcus?”
“I’m gonna go.” He nodded toward the door. “This was a really bad idea.”
It was a bad idea … even worse than my Renee Mercer story. But I needed the interview, and I couldn’t be dateless when Ava waltzed in with Ben. “If you leave,” I said, “everyone’s going to think it’s because they’re onto you and that you haven’t really changed. You have to show them that you’re not a threat … and you can’t do that if you’re not here.”
He sighed and dropped his shoulders. “I know.”
“And you can also show them by talking about what really happened.” I started walking toward the window again, and this time he followed me. I sat at the table and pulled a mini cassette recorder from my bag. “Why did you do it?”
When I flipped the recorder on, Marcus didn’t answer right away.
“The first time I did it …” He spoke slowly, thinking about each word. “The first time it was to prove a point.”
“That you could fit someone’s head in a toilet?”
Marcus smirked. “There was this kid … this eighth grader who kept calling me a wimp. So, I dunked him.”
I frowned. “An eighth grader? I thought your first victim was someone from our class.”
Marcus shook his head, then realized my tape recorder wouldn’t catch that. “No, but the guy wasn’t going to admit that he’d been flushed by a sixth grader, so nobody ever found out about it.”
“But you had your revenge,” I pointed out. “Why didn’t it stop there?”
Marcus looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “Because it was fun. It was power. And even if kids didn’t know who did it, for a moment, I wasn’t …” He faltered, and the spark of happiness fizzled out.
“You weren’t what?” I prompted.
He shifted in his chair and watched the other students.
“Marcus, you weren’t what?” I repeated.
“Do you know all these people?” He pointed to a couple admiring an ice sculpture shaped like a giant high heel.
“A-a little,” I stuttered in my confusion. “The girl’s in the drama department, and her date’s some guy who wins the talent show every year.”
Marcus nodded. “Everyone knows them.”
Now I understood what he was getting at. “But they didn’t know you. You were—”
“Invisible.” He folded his hands on the table and studied the thumbs.
We sat quietly while the cassette player continued to record our silence. I’d never been invisible; writing for the paper made sure of that. But if I hadn’t gotten involved in any school activities … if I’d been a loner, I wondered what I might have done to feel like I mattered.
“Well,” I finally said, “you definitely have everyone’s attention now.”
Marcus glanced up at me. “Yeah, I guess I do.” One corner
of his mouth turned up. “Of course, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
I laughed. “Well, what did you have in mind? Tell me everything you’d like people to know about the Swir—” I stopped myself. “About Marcus Taylor.”