The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove (2 page)

“Promise to share?” I asked the sophomores, waving the bottle in the air.

The Human Blemish held out her hands as if I’d just spun gold. “Oh my God, thank you,” Darla blinked. “We’ll each take just one spritz.”

“Right,” I said, heading for the door. “Don’t go
too
crazy.”

“Nat.” Kate’s throaty voice stood out among the other girls’ chirps. She tugged on the strap of my bag. “Wait up.”

“Talk to me.” I turned around to straighten the collar of her white oxford shirt so that it lay smoothly under her pale-pink cashmere.

“Tracy Lampert wants to see you,” she said, flashing the silver tongue ring she hardly ever let show on school grounds. “Junior bathroom,” Kate directed. “Before the bell.”

Hmm . . . Tracy Lampert was the self-appointed junior-class guru. She held perpetual court in their bathroom, to the point where some wondered if she ever went to class.

“That’s convenient,” I said, wondering briefly about the odds. Tracy and I were cool, but I couldn’t remember the last time we’d sought out each other’s company—simultaneously. “I was on my way up there, anyway,” I said, shrugging good-bye to the rest of the Bambies. “Later, girls.”

As I slipped up the stairs toward Tracy’s Den of Zen, I was surprised to see how suddenly inundated the halls were with my running mates’ Palmetto Ball Court posters. Taking all of them in, I started to laugh—not just because someone had convinced June Rattler to blow up a red-faced, puffy-cheeked photo of herself honking on a tuba for her Palmetto Princess Poster, though that was pretty hilarious—and vaguely disturbing. No, I started laughing because in a weird way, it felt good to realize that I wasn’t the only one consumed by thoughts of the crown.

Here’s how crazy Palmetto is about its Ball: For one month every year, hippies forget their vows to reduce their carbon imprint and sit around their bonfires high as kites, making just as many glittery posters as the rest of us. Tramps start wearing underwear and going back to church to grease the moral judges who make the final call. Former-Princesses-turned-parents habitually bribe the school with donations of new library wings to ensure their own children’s royal legacies. Even the boys go on celery-hot-sauce diets to drop a few pounds before their campaign photo shoots.

Yes, the guys take it that seriously, too. Unless, of course, we’re talking about my boyfriend. I love him, okay? I do. Mike and I are undoubtedly the school’s most-likely-to-succeed couple. All I’m saying is if everyone in the world could get away with caring about certain things as little as Mike does . . . well, there just might not be a Palmetto Court Campaign at all.

And the campaign is only the beginning! After the ballots are cast and the winners announced, the real reign of Palmetto Prince and Princess begins. “Royalty” at Palmetto means you’re a cross between ambassador of goodwill and highest-ranking socialite. Basically: You’ve arrived.

To celebrate, the whole school throws you a massive week-long party. First, there’s the country club coronation—to which the Prince and Princess arrive by a glittering horse and carriage. Then there’s the Jessamine Day—where all the girls sport their glorified state-flower corsages. There’s the famous “Path to Palmetto” video, widely distributed, and known to have gotten more than a few former Royals into their choice of Ivy Leagues. Finally, of course, there’s the Ball.

“Gimme a countdown to the Ball—go!” Rex Freeman’s voice rang out through the hall. Rex, with his buzzed red hair and biceps always bulging through his rolled up T-shirt sleeves, was way more laid-back than he looked at the moment. Usually, he was only a taskmaster when it came to getting the right number of kegs to his parties. But from the panicked expression of his lanky sophomore assistant, Rex was taking his job as Campaign Commissioner pretty seriously this year.

“Did I stutter?” he barked at the kid. “I asked you how many days.”

“Guh . . . fifteen,” the boy twittered, backing against his locker.

“And how many posters per Prince are allowed on the walls fifteen days out?” Rex barked.

As the sophomore flipped frantically through a stapled packet of rules and regulations, Rex looked up and grinned at me.

“I assume your poster count is in compliance ma’am,” he joked, putting on his hick Carolina officer-of-the-law voice and giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“Oh, you know I play by the rules, officer,” I quipped back, matching his southern accent with my best damsel-in-distress.

“That’s more than I can say for your boyfriend,” Rex winced, looking down at his biceps. “I might need a witch doctor after Mike’s tackle today.”

I groaned and popped a piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth. Rex and Mike had been tight since they accidentally tied their shoelaces together back in second grade, so I was used to them horsing around. But this week was no time to get a stupid football injury!

Usually, I love Mike’s carefree-yet-successful way of going about high school—he definitely balanced me out. But Mike’s place on the Court should have been just as much of a shoo-in as mine this year. It would be, too, if he’d just put in the tiniest bit of effort—well, and if it weren’t for Justin Balmer.

I leaned over to tap the packet Rex’s lackey was still fumbling through. “If I were you, I’d keep an eye on J.B.’s poster count,” I said before continuing down the hall.

Of all the posters plastered on the wall, Justin’s was the one I knew I’d be most unnerved by—so I’d made myself promise to avoid it. I was this close to reaching the junior bathroom safely when I came face to face with J.B.’s cardboard incarnation and stopped dead in my tracks.

In the picture, Justin stood tan and shirtless on one of his boats in his father’s marina down near Folly Beach. And okay, it wasn’t an entirely unattractive photo. In fact, the intense look in his deep-green eyes almost made me stumble forward. When I leaned in for a closer look, I realized I knew that boat. I’d once spent an endless evening on it back when . . . well, back when things were different.

Justin Balmer,
the poster read,
a Prince eighteen years in the making.

Please, more like eighteen years in the faking. I’d learned the hard way that J.B. was so much less than the sum of his cotillioned parts. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger sham—and at Palmetto, that was saying something. I squinted at the picture, wondering which Bambi skank had taken it, and when.

“I thought you gave up idol worship.” It was Justin, leaning against the wall and smirking at me with those same green eyes. He smelled the way he always did—Kiehl’s aftershave and freshly cut grass.

I gestured at the poster, unimpressed. “I was just checking to see whether that was a smudge or a giant mole on your chest,” I said. “Have you put on some weight?”

“Cute cover up, Nat,” he said in a low voice. “But I think we already know all about each other’s secret charming imperfections.” His hand grazed the small of my back, just inside the waist of my jeans.

I shoved him back against the locker, then quickly spun around to check for witnesses. I did not want anyone seeing me sweat Justin Balmer in plain sight. Luckily, the only person in the hallway was bespectacled Ari Ang, who scurried by carrying a beaker full of something green.

“I didn’t see anything,” the Anger pleaded, covering his large-frame glasses with his beaker. “I’m just on my way to chemistry. . . .” His voice trailed off, and I turned back around to face Justin.

Once, we might have laughed about the Anger’s perpetual beaker handling. Now I wanted to spit my new piece of Juicy Fruit in J.B.’s face. But I made myself swallow the bilious instinct. I forced a smile.

“Aww,” I cooed. “It’s cute that you still think your—what was your phrase—charming imperfections are secret.” I let my eyes pause deliberately on his crotch before spitting out my gum, tearing off a piece of Justin’s poster, and wadding the yellow sphere inside it. “Don’t worry,” I went on, “my lips were sealed. But if you ever want to really check in with yourself, try hacking into the Bambi blog about you—and maybe stop slutting yourself out quite so much. Those girls are merciless. See ya.”

“Nat,” he grabbed my wrist, forcing me to look him in the eye. “Come on.”

“Come on what?”

“Can’t a guy change?” he asked so quietly I had to lean in to hear.

I hung there, knowing the answer like I knew my own name: no. But I couldn’t make myself respond. Finally, I settled for whipping my hand away and ducking inside the junior bathroom. I leaned against the back of the door, working to catch my breath. I wondered if Justin was still standing on the other side. I wondered if there was anything I could do to rattle him.

“Hey Tracy,” I said, refixing a smile on my face when I saw the juniors in their shamanistic circle.

Tracy Lampert rose from her royal-blue beanbag chair in the corner of the bathroom. Her long black braids swung forward when she moved in to give me a hug. Usually, I’m the first to go off about how a girl could hardly step away to check her voicemail in Charleston without getting a hug on her return, but after my hallway tumble with Justin, I didn’t mind a little bit of affection, even from the pseudo-psychic Lampert.

“You okay, Nat?” Tracy asked. Even though her signature sapphire-tinted glasses hid her eyes, it was almost like her voice was squinting at me. “Your energy orb is very present. Which can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on—”

“I’m fine,” I told Tracy.

She raised her eyebrows but dropped the subject.

“Sit down,” she cooed. “Have some tea.”

Tracy poured a steaming mug of chai from a hot pot on the windowsill, and her two cohorts Liza Arnold and Portia Stead sat down on the beanbag flanking her sides. Portia whipped her long hair up into a massive blonde bun, and Liza closed her eyes meditatively. I stifled a laugh, thinking that by the time these girls were seniors, they’d be so over this phase that they’d look back and laugh at themselves. But for now, I was in their court, so I just plopped down among them on the final beanbag in the ring.

“So,” Tracy said, giving strange weight to the word. “How’s life?”

I cocked my head. “Life’s good,” I said. “But why don’t we talk about why you called me in here?”

Liza opened her eyes, coming out of meditation. She glanced at her watch, then at Tracy. “Just tell her. The bell’s about to ring.”

I lifted my chin. “Tell me what?”

“Okay, I’ll just cut to the chase,” Tracy said. Her voice changed and let in a rare hint of her natural southern twang, which made the bindi between her eyes look halfway ridiculous. “My sister-in-law is one of the ballot counters for the Ball this year,” she said. “She told me this thing about Justin Balmer last night. Now I know you guys have a history—”

I held up a hand. “We
don’t
have a history—”

“Whatever,” Tracy said. “It’s obvious you and Mike are really happy; I’m just saying that I thought you should know there’s buzz about J.B. this year.”

I could feel the blood rising to my face. Even though Palmetto Court was technically a student-driven vote, everyone knew that behind the scenes, the righteous right-wing school board kept a hawk eye on the ballot boxes to ensure that no one “unsavory” ended up with the crown.

I should have known J.B. would do something to secure a leg up with the ballot counters. What had he done? Bribed the judges? Not that I hadn’t thought about it myself . . .

“Okay, which wrinkly ballot counter is that asshole screwing?” I blurted.

The juniors gasped, and Tracy covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “No, sweetie, you misunderstood. The judges aren’t exactly buzzing about J.B. in a good way.” She tucked a braid behind her ear. “Between you and me, someone’s trying to keep him off the Court. Some bad blood from last summer—I don’t know the details. I was just telling you because—”

I could breathe again. I almost wanted to kiss Tracy.

“Because you knew I was worried about Mike,” I said finishing her sentence.

“Exactly,” Tracy nodded. “Nothing’s certain, of course, but I figured I owed it to you to pass along the word. Your poker face isn’t half bad. Still, I hate to see a pretty girl give herself premature worry lines when I can do something to help.”

“Does Justin know someone has it in for him?” I asked, trying to smooth out my forehead without looking too obvious.

But before Tracy could answer, an apocalyptic crash of thunder boomed outside. All the girls crowded around the window to get a look.

“Oh my God!” Liza cried, gazing out at what was quickly turning into a full-fledged hailstorm. “We left the banners in the parking lot. They’re tempera paint! They’ll melt!”

Instantly, the junior bathroom mobilized. I guess hippies couldn’t always be at peace with the weather. All the girls started scrambling to get their massage oil back in their hemp bags so they could save their junior-spirit banners from the elements.

On her way out the door, Tracy cupped my elbow.

“J.B. doesn’t know a thing,” she said. “Probably best if we keep it that way—know what I mean?”

Then she and her friends scattered, taking their tempest outside. The only sign of life in the empty bathroom was the swinging door that led out to the hallway—the swinging door with J.B.’s face plastered on it.

The question still rang in my ears. But I’d heard that one too many times before. So I stood before the half-ripped poster and ran my hand over his face, the way they do in the movies to close the eyes of the dead.

Then, glancing around the empty hallway, I snatched it off the door, folded it neatly in half, and dropped it in the junior-class recycling bin. I wasn’t so far away from my own junior year that I’d forgotten how to voodoo.

CHAPTER Two

“
I
have had the foulest day,” I said that evening, slipping my purple backpack off my shoulder and tossing it on the French window seat in Mike’s bedroom.