Front Page Face-Off (12 page)

“An awareness of
fashion
, maybe.” She tapped her fingernails on her chin. “It must be their premiere week.”

“Neat.” I started fiddling around in Katie's locker again.

“Although why
she
got invited to the banquet and I
didn't … Delilah, now you really have to take her down. She's stealing the exclusive invitations
I
should be getting.”

“The
nerve
of that girl.” I studied the inside of Katie's locker door. She
definitely
had an obsession with sea turtles. There were pictures of sea turtles swimming, pictures of her petting sea turtles, pictures of her in sea turtle T-shirts …

“Paige!”

“Hmm?” She continued to read the date book until I snatched it from her. “Hey!”

“When I talked to Katie on the beach, she said she
never
wore T-shirts, but look!” I stabbed the locker door so hard, it swung back into the one behind it.

“She's wearing T-shirts.” Paige looked at the pictures, then at me. “You think that's her big secret? That she bares her elbows in private?”

I squeezed my fists into frustrated balls. “No! But why would she lie about that? And what's with this thing?” I grabbed the red metal globe. “There's something tying it all together, but …” I sighed. “I have to talk to her friends.”

“Monday,” Paige agreed. “But before then you have the Debutante social … which brings me to my second question.” She closed Katie's locker door and spun me to face her. “What are you wearing tomorrow night?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, jotting myself a note about Katie's old schoolmates. “I don't own a single thing appropriate for a social. My options are a flower girl dress from when I was eight or a bath towel with sequins stapled to it. Take your pick.”

For a moment, I was afraid she might take the bath towel option, just to punish me for making her life difficult, but she smiled and reached into her designer book bag.

“I had a feeling you might say that, so I brought you this.” She withdrew a green bundle and let one end tumble from her fingers until it unfurled into a dress.

“Wow.” I held up the dress to study it. “I didn't think rich people did the whole hand-me-down thing.”

“Please.” Paige laughed. “I got this for Christmas but never wore it, so I put it aside to give to the less fortunate.” She gestured grandly at me. “And here you are!”

“Thanks.” I was starting to miss the emotionally fragile Paige already.

“Anyway, green makes me look on the verge of ill, and even though you
never
dress to show your figure, I thought we might be about the same size.”

The fabric was simple cotton, but the hem and waist were accented with silver beads. I had to admit it wasn't that bad … until I saw the neckline. Instead of a zippered collar, it was two lengths of ribbon tied together.

I was going to be a reporter in a halter top.

Paige watched me the entire time, and when I didn't squeal with girlish glee, she grunted in frustration. “You're not oohing and aahing!”

“I can't wear something so revealing. My stepdad would kill me.”

“Which is why you hide it under this.” She pulled a silver scarf out of the bag with a flourish and draped it around the dress. “
Now
what do you think?”

It was better than a towel and might actually get an admiring glance from Ben, but I was baffled that Paige had put so much effort into making sure I looked good. I wanted to ask, but I just took the dress.

“Thanks. I'll find a way to pay you for this.”

“Just come up with a better clique story than Ava does,” said Paige, “and
don't
embarrass me tomorrow night.”

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.”