Chapter 4

4

The next morning, I hustle out the door with my shoes half tied. Carpooling home last night was uneventful—we literally didn’t speak—but I don’t expect the beast to slumber for long. I plan to be outside her house way before our seven thirty departure time, just to prove a point.

But when I pull into Irene’s driveway at 7:23, she’s already outside. Of course.

“How long were you waiting?” I ask when she opens the door.

She takes her time replying, setting her bags all over my seat. “A few minutes.”

It feels like she’s saying that just to piss me off, so the moment she’s seated, I jerk the car backward with extra force. Her coffee thermos spills over the cupholder.

“Dude,” she says angrily.

“Whoops, sorry,” I say breezily. “There are napkins in the glove compartment.”

She wipes up the spill more carefully than I expected her to. “Can you turn your music down?” she grumbles. “It’s too early for this shit.”

“This is Fine Young Cannibals.”

“I know who it is.”

“Sure you do.”

“Oh, you’re right, you’re the only person our age who’s really into eighties music. I forgot how exceptionally unique you are.”

Instead of responding, I turn up the music until I’m full-on blasting it. She literally scoffs and turns away from me. We don’t speak again for the rest of the ride.

Still, that afternoon, before the end of practice, the cheerleaders show up again.

---

By Thursday, the whole school is swollen with Homecoming energy. Our principal announces that final voting for the Homecoming Court will take place during homeroom on Friday, so for the rest of the day, it’s all anyone can talk about. I hear Irene’s name even more than I have in the past two days, and since we’re still carpooling, the attention on me intensifies proportionally.

“Homecoming Court is completely underutilized,” Gunther muses at lunch. “We’re not getting the max value. If there’s kings and queens, why not add the scheming advisor or the greedy bishop? I can think of so many people I’d nominate.”

We’re lying on the cool grass outside the cafeteria, using our backpacks as headrests. The trees above us are still flush with leaves, but they’re starting to turn orange and red. Most of the seniors are clustered in groups around us. A few of them are messing with the marquee again. It now reads IM COMING HO.

“What’s the equivalent of a court musician?” Kevin asks. “That’s what I’d want to be.”

“Like a bard?” Danielle says. “Or a troubadour?”

“Troubadour,” Kevin echoes, laughing. “What does that even mean? How are you so freaking smart all the time?”

Danielle bites her lip, smiling coyly. “I do this thing called studying.”

“So do I, but you don’t hear me tossing out words like troubadour. I swear your brain retains, like, everything you read.”

We’re interrupted by Charlotte Pascal, the varsity soccer captain, who approaches us with a couple of her teammates. The soccer girls are notoriously hot, all long legs and California hair. They’re also our best athletic team, the only Grandma Earl sport that wins championships and local business endorsements. It’s well understood that if you want to be somebody around here, you have two options: cheerleading or soccer. Basketball isn’t even a blip on the radar.

Which is why I’m so confused Charlotte is approaching us. Before I can make sense of it, she pushes a homemade Rice Krispies Treat into my hand.

“Er—what—?” I try to say.

“Happy Homecoming,” she says, her smile impossibly bright. “I hope you’ll consider voting for me for Queen.”

Neither the boys nor I reply; Charlotte Pascal is disarmingly gorgeous, and I’m pretty sure none of us has ever spoken directly to her before.

Danielle looks at the three of us and snorts. She squints up at Charlotte and says, “You know canvassing for votes isn’t allowed, right?”

“Don’t spoil the party,” Charlotte says, wrinkling her nose. “It’s just a little Homecoming treat.”

Against my will, I look across the courtyard, where Irene and her pack have been lounging. She’s watching Charlotte with narrowed eyes, her arms splayed across the bench, her henchwomen lurking around her in pleated skirts. Irene and Charlotte’s friendship turned enmity has been the source of gossip for almost a year now, and it’s only intensified since Irene pulled that “Class Inseparables” stunt during senior superlatives. Based on the way she’s looking at Charlotte now, I’m surprised she made a joke about it at all.

Kevin is the first to regain his voice. “Thanks for the treat,” he tells Charlotte. “Good luck with Court.”

Charlotte gives him a flirtatious smile, glances over the rest of us, and walks away. I notice she makes a point of avoiding Irene’s corner of the yard. It’s like feral cats delineating their territory.

“She is very … um … yes,” Gunther says, gulping.

“She’s stunning,” Kevin says, and Danielle stiffens, “but she scares me.”

“I swear I get a vibe from her,” I tell them. It’s a theory I’ve brought up before: that Charlotte gives off some queer energy. Tally was the only one who ever agreed with me, but she was more fixated on Charlotte’s popularity than her possible sexuality.

“I doubt that,” Danielle says. “She’s been going out with that Candlehawk dude for, like, a year.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t be queer,” I say.

“Whatever her deal is,” Gunther says, “Charlotte’s definitely more of a Lady Macbeth than a Homecoming Queen.”

---

This time, when the cheerleaders show up for the end of our practice, they bring the boys’ basketball team with them. There must be at least twenty people watching us now. It’s hard to keep my cool, and I can tell my teammates feel the same way; even Danielle seems flushed. But after a few minutes of playing for a crowd, we start to feed off their energy. When we finish our scrimmage with a crisp layup from Googy, the group in the stands cheers loudly.

“This is insane,” Danielle says as we’re walking out of practice. “No one’s ever given a shit about us before.” She pauses to high-five one of the boys’ players, then looks to me in disbelief. “Damn. I know you hate her guts, but Irene is really doing us a solid.”

I shake my head, annoyed at how impressive the whole thing is. “She’s not doing anything. She’s just bored waiting for me to drive her home, and her minions follow her wherever she goes.” I point over my shoulder to where the popular kids orbit around Irene like the sun.

Danielle clucks her tongue. “Poor Charlotte and her Rice Krispies Treats don’t stand a chance of winning Queen.”

We separate, heading to our cars. Danielle says something about going home to tweak her application essay since we’ll be busy with Homecoming all weekend. I wish her luck and drop into my car, grateful that it’s almost the weekend. I can’t wait to get home, take a hot shower, and kick back with a movie.

But Irene doesn’t get in the car right away. She loiters off to the side, talking to Honey-Belle with a serious expression on her face. I make a show of starting the ignition and flicking on the lights, but she ignores me.

After a full two minutes of this, I open the door and shout, “Excuse me! Can we go, please?!”

Irene holds up her palm to indicate I should wait. The nerve of it sends me over the edge, and I pound on the horn so it blares across the parking lot.

Irene jumps and shoots me the ugliest look I’ve ever seen, but she finally steps away from Honey-Belle. She gets into my passenger seat like she’s descending into the lowest level of hell. I can almost feel the negative energy crackling off her.

“That was really rude,” she snaps.

“Yes, I agree, it was very rude of you to keep me waiting.”

She shakes her head and jams her seat belt into the buckle. I switch on my music and cruise out of the parking lot feeling like I just won a boxing match.

But then Irene jabs the stereo off.

“What the—?!”

“I’m getting my car back this weekend,” she says without preamble. “And Honey-Belle’s picking me up tomorrow morning, so I won’t need a ride.”

I turn the music back on, too distracted by her audacity to understand what she’s trying to say. “So?”

“So you don’t have to drive me anymore.”

That gets my attention. “Wait, really? What about tomorrow afternoon?”

“I don’t go home on game days,” she says shortly, like I should have known that already. “We get ready at school.”

“So this is the last time I have to drive you?”

“Yes. I just said that.”

I’m too delighted to be put off by her snark. Only a few more minutes of this tense arrangement, and then I’ll be free forever. I’ll never have to deal with this girl again.

We’re quiet until I remember something that doesn’t quite fit with the information she’s given me.

“Hold on,” I say. “You’re not going home before the football game? But don’t you have to get ready for Homecoming Court? I mean, like, don’t you have to dress up for halftime?”

For a second I think she’s gonna tell me it’s none of my business. But then: “My mom’s bringing my dress. I’ll change after we finish our second quarter routines.”

I snort. Does she ever not plan around her beloved cheerleading?

“So you’re gonna be all sweaty in your dress? Why don’t you just sit out the routines tomorrow night?”

Now she glares at me. “Would you sit on the bench during a big game just so you could look pretty in a dress?”

“No, but that’s because what I do is an actual game.”

She whips her head around. “What are you trying to say?”

“What? I just mean, like, you’re not actually competing for anything. You’re cheering on the competitors. There’s no winning or losing for you.”

She twists in her seat, more agitated than I’ve ever seen her. “Oh okay, and this is coming from someone whose idea of ‘competing’ is lobbing a ball at a hoop? Cheerleading is more competitive than you can imagine. It’s gymnastics meets acrobatics meets dance, with a shit ton of cardio work, not to mention the emotional intelligence it takes to read a crowd’s energy—”

“And yet you’re not actually winning or losing anything. It’s just a performance. A performance you’re doing for someone else.”

“It’s not for someone else, it’s for ourselves and our own physicality and—”

“It’s for the boys’ football team. Or their basketball team. Whichever boys’ team is being worshipped that night.”

“Wow, aren’t you such a bastion of feminism, tearing down other girls because you think we’re oblivious to misogyny—”

“Aren’t you, though? Or is it just my imagination that I’ve never seen your squad at my basketball games before?”

“Have you ever asked for us to be there?” she counters. “I don’t have time to hold your hand if you can’t even be bothered to speak to us. I’m doing more than enough already, captaining two squads during overlapping seasons and trying to win Student Athlete of the Year.”

This last part takes me by surprise. The Student Athlete of the Year award is just about the highest honor a Grandma Earl senior can win. The last few years, it’s almost always gone to soccer or football players.

“You’re trying for SAOY?” I ask.

“Don’t say that like it’s so fucking surprising.”

“It is surprising. I’ve never heard of a cheerleader winning that.”

“That’s because no cheerleader ever has,” she snaps, her eyes burning. “But we work just as hard as other student athletes, so why shouldn’t we be considered?”

I shake my head and turn away from her.

“What?” she spits.

“It just seems like a waste of your energy,” I say, knowing very well that I’m playing with fire here. “You’re obviously going to win Homecoming Queen tomorrow night, which is a natural extension of being cheerleading captain, but instead of focusing on that, you’re thirsting after an athletic award you stand no chance of winning?”

“Fuck you, Zajac,” she growls. I only barely register her use of my name; it’s jarring coming out of her mouth. “You have got to be the most arrogant, dismissive, judgmental person I’ve ever met—”

“And who are you to talk?” I say nastily. “You’re just a stuck-up cheerleader who’s high and mighty enough to think that Homecoming Queen is beneath her.”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me who I am—”

“Ah, right, I forgot I’m not allowed to ‘make assumptions’ about you. Since it’s our last day together, though, I’ll leave you with one final thought.” My words tumble out with a reckless, satisfying feeling. I know I’m crossing a line, but I can’t stop. People have been singing Irene’s praises to my face for days, but I know just how shitty she can be. “It’s not my fault you’re so fucking insecure about being a cheerleader or that no one, including your own mother, takes you seriously about it. So figure out your own shit and stop taking it out on other people.”

The silence between us cuts like a shard of glass. Irene turns very slowly in my direction. Her jaw is clenched. Her eyes are dark fire. They’re also, to my shock, slightly wet.

I’m breathing hard; she’s hardly breathing at all. I don’t know what else to do, so I twist the volume dial until it’s all the way up, so loud that it pounds in my ears. Irene says nothing. She sits eerily still in the passenger seat, her arms crossed over her practice hoodie.

When we finally pull into her driveway, she throws off her seat belt and snatches her bags from the back seat. Just as she’s about to get out of the car, she punches my stereo off. I can only gawk at her.

I open my mouth to say something, but before I can figure out what, she slams the door and stalks off into her house.

---

That night, my sisters and I curl up in Thora’s bed to watch Teen Witch at Daphne’s request. Pickles and BooBoo prowl across our legs, restless. They haven’t been allowed in Mom’s garden for several days.

“I messed up today,” I say when we’re halfway through the movie.

“Did you hit another car?” Thora asks, and I shove her while Daphne laughs.

“No. I was an asshole to Irene.”

“Nemesis Girl?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s your nemesis. You’re supposed to be an asshole.”

Daphne frowns. “What happened?”

I tell them about our spat—and how ugly I was to her. “I don’t know why I said that thing about her mom,” I say feebly. “I don’t usually go for people’s weak spots.”

“No, you don’t,” Thora says thoughtfully. “Sounds more like something your ex would do.”

I stare at her. “Tally might be the worst, but she wouldn’t do that. She’s not outright malicious.”

“Yeah, she would. I watched her do it to you for months. She got completely in your head, making you worry that you’re not good enough. You’ve been a walking insecurity since you dated her.”

I pause the movie. “You think I’m a walking insecurity?”

Thora looks straight at me. She never glosses over things. “Right now? Yes. And there’s no reason you should be. You’re smart and cute and really good at basketball. You should be thriving.”

A trickle of bile runs down my throat. “No one else seems to think that.”

“Who cares what anyone else thinks? What do you think?”

“Thora, do you really believe that no one else’s opinion matters?”

“Absolutely.” She shrugs like it’s as easy as two plus two. “At the end of the day, I’m the only person living my life. Why should I answer to anyone else?”

“You obviously don’t remember high school very well.”

She snorts. “Of course I do. The unspoken social hierarchy sucks. But you know what I’ve figured out since then?” She dances her fingers in front of my eyes. “It’s all perception, Scots. Making people see what you want them to see. If you want them to think you matter, start acting like they should already know that you matter.”

Daphne nods. “Fake it till you make it.”

“Exactly,” Thora says.

I scratch BooBoo’s ears, thinking. “You wanna know something stupid? Carpooling with Irene is the coolest I’ve felt all year. Like, it’s the first time people have paid attention to me. Even Tally was jealous. How fucked up is that?”

“Tally was jealous?” Thora laughs humorlessly. “God, that girl is a fucking case study. She’s probably worried that you’re secretly dating Irene.”

I snort. The idea of that is unthinkable. “I would never. I can’t stand that girl.”

“Maybe Irene isn’t as bad as you think,” Daphne says. “Why do you hate her, anyway?”

I pause, considering. I never confided in my sisters about the tow truck incident. It would only open a can of worms if I told them now.

“She’s just a jerk,” I say. “She … kinda messed with me last year.”

Thora’s eyes flash. “What’d she do?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Seriously, nothing. I just don’t like her.”

I can tell Thora wants to press me on it, but she doesn’t. She plants a kiss on my head and goes back to watching the movie with Daphne.

You’ve been a walking insecurity …

Is that true? Judging by the constant ache in my chest, I have to believe it is. But when did I become this way? I didn’t used to care about my social status; I was content to fly under the radar. But that was before Tally. It was also before the tow truck incident.

I always wanted to confront Irene about that prank. I wanted to scream that it was a completely disproportionate reaction to me knocking a drink on her. But the truth is, I was afraid it had nothing to do with spilling my drink. That maybe it was a cruel whim of hers, of all the popular kids’, because I was more of a social pariah than I even knew. The queer, gangly ginger who had no right to be at their party.

After all, isn’t that why Tally left me? Because she could see that, too?