you wouldn’t think that a day could go downhill after dreaming you were on the roll call for Hell. But it did.
“Have you voted for the class song yet?” A student council drone shoved a half-sheet of paper in my face. Astrobright Orange is painful at any time of day, but at seven-thirty a.m. it was vomit inducing. Also, the only thing perky I want in front of me at that hour is a coffeemaker. Since the drive-thru line at Take-Your-Bucks had stretched to Canada, I was still severely caffeine deprived.
I voiced my preference in the life-and-death matter of Gwen versus Ashley by wadding up the ballot and throwing it over my shoulder on the way to the Coke machine. “You don’t have to litter!” yelled Student Council Sally. “The recycle bin is right over there.”
My response to that was equally nonverbal.
“Maggie Quinn!”
I knew that tone. Mr. Halloran, the assistant principal, must have looked up the word stentorian in the dictionary on his first day at work, and practiced in the shower until he got the voice just right.
Busted, a scant twenty feet from the Coke machine. So close, and yet so far.
“Yes, Mr. Halloran?” I Goody Two-shoed. “May I help you?”
The administrator stood by the doors leading from the courtyard to the front hall. He was fairly tall, with a full head of suspiciously thick brown hair. He was the type of stocky that comes when gravity turns linebacker shoulders into a desk-job gut. I would lay down money that he’d been a Biff in high school. “I’d like to see you in my office.”
“Ooooooooo,” said the kids in the courtyard—either a taunt or the buzzing of their hive mind.
I followed the assistant principal inside, not quite meekly. Student Council Sally smirked as I went by.
I waved at the secretaries managing attendance and they waved back through the chaos. Halloran waited at his office door like a prison warden. I entered and stood until he closed the door and gestured for me to sit. The office windows made sure we were properly chaperoned by all the staff. Everything was correct and polite and did nothing to explain why my hair wanted to crawl off my head.
“So, Miss Quinn. I hear you were involved in a hazing incident yesterday.”
“Nobody hazed me yesterday, Mr. Halloran.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Quinn.”
This seemed like an odd thing for a school administrator to say, but since he was glaring down at me, hands on his hips, I kept my opinion to myself.
“I have a reliable report,” he continued, “that you were witness to some students bullying a classmate.”
By “reliable report,” I assumed he meant “rumor.” I still hadn’t had any caffeine, my head was feeling funny, and baiting the assistant principal could hold my interest only so long. “Then I don’t see why I’m here. If there was a witness to my alleged witnessing, then you don’t need me to tell you what happened.”
He settled on the corner of the desk in an aren’t-we-buddies way. “I understand you took some photos.”
Irritation jabbed me; I couldn’t imagine who had gone tattling to Halloran. Stanley? The Spanish Club? I guess I’d been overestimating the intelligence of the general populace. Blackmail has power only as long as it remains secret.
I considered Stanley, and his desire for revenge. But he’d been adamant that he didn’t need my help, so I didn’t think he would tell Halloran that I had pictures of his humiliation.
“I don’t know what photos you are talking about,” I lied. I was already on the list for Hell—what did one falsehood matter?
“The photos of the hazing incident,” he said, getting a little red in the face.
“I don’t have any photos of a hazing incident.” This was less of a lie. “Hazing” was making freshmen wear stupid hats. Pretending you were going to drop someone off a balcony was not “hazing.” It was “terrorizing.”
“Then you won’t mind if I look at your camera.”
I had to clamp my teeth on some choice words that would get me expelled. I was offended for the entire fourth estate. As a journalist, I wanted to tell him to get some sort of court order and then we’d talk. As a high school student still five weeks and three days from graduation, I knew there was nothing I could do to stop him.
Furiously mute, I dug into the backpack at my feet and handed over the camera. Halloran turned it over, his big thumbs pressing tiny buttons as he reviewed the pictures on the memory card. Pictures of the Spanish Club’s fund-raising table, with its rows of gum and candy, and last night’s basketball game, including a stellar shot of Eric Munoz nailing an NBA-worthy jump shot.
But no Biff, a.k.a. Brandon. No bug-eyed Jessica. No terror-stricken Stanley.
Halloran grunted with frustration, started to say something, then thrust the camera at me. “Get out of here, Quinn. And don’t be late for first period, because I’m not giving you a pass.”
I didn’t have to be told twice. Despite the big windows, the office felt claustrophobic. Maybe it was Halloran and his power trip. Maybe it was the wall behind his desk, filled with pictures of past sports triumphs—not the school’s, his own. The thought that this was what bullies grew into, minor tyrants who took jobs where they could relive their glory days by continuing to terrorize students, made my head ache.
I felt immediately better when I left the office, as if the air were somehow cleaner. My granny might say something about the Quinn ability to sense things unseen, but more likely it was the evil power of Halloran’s aftershave.
The warning bell clanged directly over my head. I had five minutes to find a caffeine infusion before English, which was on the other side of the building from the nearest Coke machine. (I had them all plotted on a sort of mental MapQuest.) I could make it if I ran. But pairing my graceless jog with a hurriedly gulped-down soft drink seemed like a recipe for disaster.
So I went to class, sans soda.
In English, we turned in our homework assignments, and were given the rest of the time to work on our term papers, due in a week. My theme concerned Jonathan Swift and the use of sarcasm in social commentary, and Lisa was flipping through my notes.
“I could get behind a guy who proposed that eating Irish children would solve both the famine and the population problem. I’m going to remember that when my despotic plans come to fruition.”
“He was being satirical, Lisa.”
“Maybe I am, too. Maybe not.” She wiggled her eyebrows maniacally. Lisa had finished her paper a week ago. Her subject? Machiavelli. Sometimes I thought my friend was one of the drollest people I knew. Other times I thought she was one of the scariest.
“What did Halloran want?” she asked.
“Are there no secrets in this school?”
“My spies are everywhere.”
“Girls!” We jumped guiltily as Ms. Vincent called from her desk. Well, I jumped. Lisa merely turned complacently. “Are you working on your papers, or are you gossiping?”
My compatriot replied with a composed lie, “I’m helping Maggie, Ms. Vincent. She needs advice on solidifying her argument.”
The teacher accepted this with insulting ease. “Why can’t I be helping you?” I hissed at Lisa as we pretended to get back to work. “I’m the future Pulitzer Prize winner. You’re just the future Lord High Poobah of the World.”
“You can be helping me next time.” She brushed a glossy lock of hair over her shoulder and asked again, “What did Halloran want?”
“The pictures I took of yesterday’s bully-o-rama.”
Her brows lifted. “You got actual dirt on Brandon Rogers?”
“Yeah. Snapped a really unflattering picture of the prom queen front-runner, too.”
“You didn’t hand them over, did you?”
“No. I deleted them from the camera last night after I downloaded them onto my computer.”
“Smart thinking. The camera is school property, like the lockers, with no expectation of privacy. Well done, my Padawan apprentice.”
I tucked my hair behind my ears and tried to get back to work. I wasn’t very successful, because I was now thinking about Halloran and bullies instead of Swift and Lilliputians.
“Why do you suppose Halloran wanted the pictures?” I mused aloud. “He likes good ol’ Biff. Why would he want incriminating evidence on him?”
“To take it away from you, of course, and make sure it never sees the light.”
“But I have copies.”
“You ought to put them in an envelope marked ‘Open in the event of my mysterious death or disappearance.’ ”
“Gee thanks, Lisa. I would never have thought of that. How handy to have a criminal mastermind as a friend.”
“I prefer Evil Genius. And you’re welcome.” The class began gathering their books. There was no visible signal, just the action of the collective unconscious. Lisa and I rode the wave.
“See you in civics,” she said as the bell rang.
I had journalism next. The class was supposed to be separate from the lab where we worked on the school’s weekly newspaper, but by this time of year the structure was pretty fluid. I turned in my article on the Spanish Club and gave Mr. Allison the pictures of the basketball game. He whistled when he saw the jump shot. “Great photo, Maggie! You really caught the motion.”
“Thanks.” Sports and action photography took a knack and a bit of luck. I think I’d been more lucky than anything else, but I was still proud. “May I have a pass?”
“Where are you going?” he asked, reaching for his pen.
I didn’t think “To the Coke machine” was going to cut it, so I said, “To the auditorium. Big Spring Musical is this weekend, and I thought I’d interview the cast.”
“Good idea. Phillip was saying we could use something to round out the edition. Think you can have it ready tomorrow?”
“Just a fluff piece? Sure.” Phillip was the student editor and he had a gift for knowing exactly how many inches of story the edition lacked at any given moment. Mr. Allison tore the pass off the pad, I took it with a cheery “Thanks!” then grabbed my backpack and headed to C Hall where lay the Band Hall, Choir Room, auditorium, and, not coincidentally, several vending machines.
Finally! Sweet liquid ambrosia of caramel-colored, high-fructose, caffeinated bliss. With the carbonated burn coursing down my throat and the sugar rushing through my veins, interviewing the Drama Club seemed a small price to pay.
Mr. Thomas, the drama teacher, was a harried-looking guy who didn’t seem long out of high school himself. “All those things need to be organized on the prop tables, stage right and left. How are we coming on costumes? People! We open in less than three days!”
He might have been addressing the air for all I knew; there was no discernible change in the chaos in the auditorium, where there seemed to be an awful lot going on, but very little getting done. I coughed to get his attention and he turned his wild-eyed stare on me. “Hi. I’m Maggie Quinn, from the Avalon High paper. I was hoping I might interview a few of the cast members.”
“Excellent! I’ll introduce you to our star.” He called toward the stage at a volume that made me jump. “Jessica! Have you got a minute?”
Boy, this day just kept getting better and better.
The model thin blonde who turned at her name was not, thankfully, the Queen Jessica—the Jessica Prime—though I did recognize her from the Jessica chorus in the Incident with Stanley on the Breezeway.
She joined me at the edge of the stage with a distinct air of noblesse oblige but no sign she knew who I was, other than paparazzi, and therefore a necessary inconvenience. That suited me fine. I flipped open my notebook and donned the armor of professionalism.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what made you interested in Drama Club.”
“First of all”—she tossed her blond hair—“it’s not the Drama Club. It’s the Thespian Society.” She mistook my blank expression for a sign that said Yes, thank you, I would love a generous helping of condescension. “Named for the Greek god Thespis?”
I hated when people did that, went up at the end of a statement when the only question they were asking was “Don’t you realize I’m smarter than you?” Especially when they didn’t even know that Thespis was not a god, but just some ancient Greek whose life must have sucked so bad that he had to write a bunch of plays about it and call it “tragedy.” Sort of like a preteen with a blog, only with less Avril Lavigne lyrics.
“O-kay.” Professionalism, Maggie. “Why don’t you tell me what made you interested in the Thespian Society?”
“Actually, I’ve been performing for a long time. Ever since I won the Little Miss Princess Pageant when I was six years old. And maybe you’ve seen my television work? The commercial for Calaway’s Quality Used Cars?”
“Oh really?” My response wasn’t strictly necessary. Thespica was used to an audience that didn’t talk back.
“Honestly, I really didn’t have time for the musical this year. After all, there’s cheerleading tryouts—I’m an officer, so it’s a big responsibility, choosing the next squad—and the Prom Queen Nominating Committee. But when Mr. Thomas begged me to audition, I knew I had an obligation.”
“Your dedication is truly awe-inspiring.” Maybe I would invent a society named after the Greek goddess Sarcastica. “Talent can be such a burden.”
She sighed, completely without irony. “I know. You’d be surprised how many people never realize that.”
I had to leave then, or bust a gut laughing.
Back in C Hall, I breathed deep of the unpretentious air outside the auditorium. I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to class for the five remaining minutes, so I ducked into the nearest restroom. It wasn’t entirely unjustified. I had, after all, gulped down that soda.
I took care of business and was straightening myself back out when a whiff of something half-remembered made me pause. Obviously, there are plenty of odors in the school bathrooms, none of which I wanted to investigate too closely. But the sickly sweet smell tickled the back of my throat, and brought back a not-quite-clear memory of smoke, flame, and …
Pot. Someone had lit up a joint in the boys’ room, and the smoke was seeping through the vent.
The door to the bathroom opened, and I heard familiar voices. It was the unholy triad of the ruling class, Jessica Prime and her two most senior handmaidens—Jess Minor, and my new friend Thespica, who was briefing the others on our meeting.
“I cannot believe that Quinn actually asked for an interview with you.” Jess Minor was the queen’s permanent shadow, copying everything she did, but not quite as well. The result was a tweaked stunt-double resemblance and a slightly desperate air of tries-too-hard. “What a loser.”
“It’s pathetic.” Jessica Prime’s voice, when not shrieking like a banshee, was sugar sweet and slightly husky from years of yell practice. “Does she really think that sucking up to you is going to do anything for her social credibility?”
“Maybe she thinks I’ll be her friend. You should have heard her fawning all over me.”
From my hiding place, I rolled my eyes. It was wishful thinking that they would conveniently go into the other stalls and allow me to escape. I guess girls as perfect as the Jessicas never had to pee.
Instead, they planted themselves in front of the sinks, applying powder, lip gloss, and venom. They went on about me for a while, talking about what a loser I was, then numbering me among all the other people they considered geeky, poor, fat, unfashionable, or otherwise beneath contempt, and how they’d rather die than be any of the above.
As fascinating as this insight into the bitch psyche was, the smoke was getting stronger and making me slightly nauseated. Granted, I didn’t have a lot of basis for comparison, but this had to be the worst smelling weed ever.
“What is that?” Prime’s voice held such horror, I figured she smelled it, too. “Jess, is that …” She seemed to be having trouble even saying it. Not the smell, then. I edged forward, peering through the gap in the stall to see Jessica Prime staring at Minor’s purse as if something slimy were crawling out of it. “Is that a … knockoff!”
Lip gloss wand suspended in midair, the lesser Jessica looked baffled. “No. My mom bought it for me at Saks when I was staying with her on spring break.”
Prime laughed, making me think about D&D Lisa, and the important distinction between laughing with and laughing at. “You didn’t get that at Saks.”
“I did!”
“Jess!” She grabbed the bag and pointed to the metal insignia on the front. “It says Conch. You didn’t buy a purse, you bought a type of fritter.”
Thespica peered at the name. “It does say Conch, Jess. I’m afraid you’ve been had.”
“Did you buy it off the back of a truck or something? Maybe your mother did.”
“No! She took me to the store!”
“It’s okay, Jess.” Prime patted her shoulder in a consoling, condescending way. “Everyone gets taken sometime.”
Jess had dropped the lip gloss in the sink and grabbed her purse with both hands, reading the metal tag. “It says ‘Coach.’ ” She sounded like a lost little girl. “You two are making fun of me.”
I never thought I’d feel sorry for a Jessica; her confused hurt almost made me forget she was one of them. That was one of the most loathsome things about the breed. The pack could turn on its weakest member just as quickly as on an outsider.
Queen Jessica finished applying her makeup, pressed her lips together, then studied the effect of her pout. “Don’t worry, Jess. As long as you hide that thing in your locker, we’ll still let you eat lunch with us.” While Jess Minor continued to examine her bag with a bewildered expression, Prime stepped back and studied her own reflection with the slightest frown. “Does this skirt make me look fat?”
“Of course not,” said Thespica, completing her own toilette. “I wish I had your figure.”
As far as I could tell, she did. I was so sick of their nonsense that I was ready to burst out of the stall and take my lumps. Whatever had possessed me to stay hidden in the first place? At this rate I’d be well prepared for a job with the National Enquirer.
Finally, they left. I barely stopped to wash my hands before I vacated the place myself. There was an intolerable stink in that bathroom, but it had nothing to do with the toilet.