The Sweet Revenge of Celia Door (15 page)

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” I added. “I would feel . . . bad if it got out.”

“I promise,” said Becky back, closing the door to her locker. We both walked off to class.

× × ×

“So, Mom and Dad invited Japhy’s family over for dinner,” Drake reported at lunch, “but haven’t heard back from them yet.”

I was sitting in the grass with my notebook in my lap, carefully smoothing my hands over the cover.

“Buddy says that there will always be reasons to delay going after your Dream. ‘The only way to achieve your Dream is to make your Dream your primary Reason,’” he quoted. I was getting a little sick of Buddy Strong’s nonsensical mantras. Drake seemed to have memorized half the book.

I couldn’t tell if Becky Shapiro had started the hamster wheel of rumors spinning yet. I did know that the best way to start gossip is to ask someone to keep a secret. Drake and I didn’t seem to be getting any more attention than usual. He played in the pickup game, and I sat in the grass, finishing the poem about him that I started on Monday. Sandy and Mandy did not materialize.

× × ×

Wednesday night I had dinner with my mom. We made spaghetti together and ate in front of the television. I did not mention anything about the mall.

CHAPTER

27

Thursday morning, I was getting into my locker before first period when Becky Shapiro showed up. As she started opening her lock, she got my attention. “Did you find a dress for homecoming yet?” she asked sweetly.

“I think I’ll look for one this weekend,” I said with a lame smile. Even though I didn’t know Becky well, I suddenly felt bad about lying to her.

“Well, I wanted to let you know that I didn’t tell anyone what you told me yesterday,” she whispered. She smiled a genuine smile, proud of keeping my confidence.

“Oh . . . thanks, Becky,” I said in a true effort not to sound disappointed. I really needed to cultivate some more devious acquaintances.

Homecoming was one week from Saturday, and my rumor obstinately refused to spread. I needed to take the gloves off. Time was running out. I walked into Language Arts, dropped my backpack at my chair, and was about to sit down when Mr. Pearson called me up to the front of the room. I walked cautiously to his desk. “Celia,” he said, handing me back my paper on “We Real Cool.” “Excellent essay. This confirms my suspicion that you are not working up to your potential in Language Arts. I expect more class participation and timely assignments from you in the future,” he said firmly. “I took off ten points for the lateness, but you still get an A minus.” He didn’t smile, but looked back at his computer as a way of dismissing me.

Turning back to the class, I noticed Sandy and Mandy whispering behind their hands and glancing at me. I gripped the paper hard between my fingers. There was no time to feel happy about the A minus. I had to concentrate on my revenge. One week away. As Buddy Strong would say, I needed to keep my eyes on the tiger. I walked back to my chair and sat down.

“Okay, class, get out a pencil and one sheet of paper for a pop quiz on the reading from last night, the final chapters of
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

Sandy and Mandy joined the rest of the class in groaning as they cleared their desks for the quiz. I picked up my backpack to get out some paper, then put it down again beside me.

Mandy turned around in her seat to take her purse from where it was hanging on the back of her chair, and pulled out a pencil. As she attempted to rehang the purse on her chair, one of the handles got caught on the edge of her desk and spilled the contents all over the floor. Lipstick and makeup brushes went flying, pens and lip balm, Mandy’s wallet and keys, everything sprayed across the floor. And her cell phone skidded over the linoleum and landed right in front of my toe.

Without a questioning thought or a second’s hesitation, I picked up my right boot and crossed it carefully in front of my left one, gently concealing the phone between my two shoes.

Mandy and Sandy both turned around and leaned out of their chairs to snatch items up off the floor as Mr. Pearson said, “Okay, your five-minute quiz begins now.” He flipped on the document camera and revealed ten questions about the end of the novel.

“Shit.” Mandy frantically grabbed things off the floor and stuffed them back into her bag.

“Spaz.” Sandy shook her head while dropping Mandy’s lipstick and brushes into her purse, which Mandy then hung again on the back of her chair. They both turned around to start working on the quiz.

My heart was racing. Divine providence had clearly played a part in these events. This must be a sign. The tide was turning and taking my revenge out to sea.

Eyeing Sandy and Mandy to make sure they were focused on the quiz, I gingerly slid both feet, cell phone gripped between them, to the side of my chair next to my backpack. Then, I reached down and exaggerated the action of scratching my leg, while subtly lifting the phone from the floor and depositing it into the pocket of my hoodie. I flew through all ten pop quiz questions in two minutes.

“Yes, Celia,” Mr. Pearson said when I raised my hand.

“May I go to the bathroom? I’m finished with my quiz.”

He nodded and I made a heroic effort to leave the classroom casually, dragging my boots all the way to the door. It was all I could do to keep myself from running down the hall. I kept one hand on the phone in my pocket and repeated to myself, “Just breathe, just breathe.”

Safely inside a stall and sure I was the only person in the restroom, I flipped the phone open and turned it on. Since students have to power their phones down during class, I could only pray that it wasn’t password protected. The light came on, it vibrated once, then a picture of Sandy and Mandy in swimsuits at the beach wallpapered the screen. No password needed. It was real. I had Amanda Hewton’s phone.

It wasn’t the same carrier as the cell my dad had given me, so I had to tinker with it a little before I could figure out how to create the text message. I couldn’t take too long in the bathroom or I’d risk raising suspicions. I typed hurriedly with my thumbs.

had to share the gossip: sandy f rejected by drake b for hcoming. d says s “isn’t cool” & is taking celia d

Then I selected every name I recognized in Mandy’s phone from freshman girls to boys on the basketball team. Clearly, Mandy was gaining some popularity. I saw some names I didn’t know and selected them anyway. After a few minutes of pressing buttons, I had texted over a hundred people. And the best part was, they all thought that news was coming from Mandy, Sandy Firestone’s soon to be ex-best friend.

I’ve never smoked a cigar, but I had the insatiable urge to light one up. This was a moment to be savored, an experience to be written about in epic poems that future freshman outcasts would recite at high school reunions. I was Beowulf
slaying Grendel. I was Casey at the Bat. I opened the bathroom door and walked back through the hall with an opera soundtrack playing in my mind, my boots moving in slow motion. I had just pulled the sword from the stone.

× × ×

Language Arts went on like nothing momentous had just happened in the girls’ bathroom. Mr. Pearson was going over the answers to the quiz, which I was pretty sure I had managed to pass, despite my distraction. Sandy and Mandy looked surprisingly smug for two people so stressed out about a quiz.
Enjoy it,
I thought. I had a feeling their happiness would last only until the bell rang and students started turning on their phones in the hallway between classes.

I sat with my hand in my pocket, knowing I had to make one more calculated compass reading before I was out of the woods. At the bell, everyone stood to leave. Sandy and Mandy surprised me by rushing to exit, but they didn’t get out fast enough. There was a bottleneck at the door with students trying to get to the hall, giving me just enough time to position myself behind Mandy and slip the phone back into her purse. The perfect crime.

Once outside the room, I followed Sandy and Mandy toward my second-period class, where a bank of freshman lockers lined the wall. They were walking fast and kept looking behind them, almost as if they were expecting the catastrophe that was about to happen. I stopped outside the door to French and propped myself against a column to watch the students bump and rustle through the halls. Then I closed my eyes and listened through all the voices and commotion to the sound of phones coming on, the beeps and chirps and ringtones of incoming texts, the laughter and repetition of, “Oh my God, did you get it?” It sounded like being in a mechanical forest where all the birds sing artificially. It was the sweetest noise I’d ever heard.

Then I heard Sandy Firestone. “What the hell is this?” I opened my eyes to catch Sandy shoving Mandy hard on her shoulder. They were standing at Mandy’s locker down the hall and looking at a third girl’s phone who held it out for them.

“Look at the time signature,” said Mandy. “It wasn’t me. You were sitting next to me in L.A. when this was sent.”

That was my cue to disappear. I backed through the door into French, where I happily chatted away with Liz and Vanessa all throughout
conversation
, replaying again the words between Sandy and Mandy in my mind. I tried to mentally translate “What the hell is this?” into French.
“Est-ce que c’est diable?”
People say revenge is sweet, but I would describe it as tangy with a hint of spice, more like pickles or a delicious curry.

I was still full on the intoxicating dish after class when I met Drake to walk to Earth Science. I couldn’t resist asking, but tried to act nonchalant. “Did you talk to that girl Sandy today in Spanish?”

“She wasn’t there,” he said, disinterested. “I still didn’t hear back from my parents yet about this weekend with Japhy. What do you think is taking so long?”

“She wasn’t there?”

“Who?”

“Sandy.”

“No. Why?”

“Oh. That’s strange because she was in homeroom,” I said. Maybe she was so upset by the text, she went home.

“Bad kid. Must have been skipping,” he said, taking a few skips toward science. “If you’re worried about her and homecoming, I could just tell her I’m leaving earlier for New York.”

“I already bought our tickets,” I lied, “so, we should just go.”

“Homecoming Saturday, back to New York on Sunday,” said Drake, giving me a nod and then opening the door to science.

I tried to concentrate on earthquakes and our terrifying look at the Pacific Ring of Fire during third period, but I had my own internal shake-up to think about. Built-up tension was breaking apart inside me. The release the earth must feel during a 9.0 quake must be fabulous. I couldn’t wait to get to lunch and hear all those cell phones beeping again. I looked at Drake two rows ahead and smiled. I had a best friend
and
revenge. What could be better than that? Finally, the bell rang, and I stood to put my science book back into my backpack. That’s when I noticed something I didn’t see before, something I had been too excited and distracted to take in.

“I can’t find my poetry notebook,” I said as Drake approached my desk. I was pushing aside the other books and folders in the bag.

“You probably left it in your locker,” he said casually, “or one of your other classes.”

I started taking books out of my bag, then abruptly turned the whole thing upside down and poured all the contents onto my lab table. Science book,
To Kill a Mockingbird
, two subject notebooks, pens, first aid kit, a glue stick. No poetry journal.

“Time to go,” Mr. Diaz said. “I have students taking a makeup test during lunch.”

My hand was shaking as I put the books and notebooks back into my backpack.
Don’t panic,
I told myself.
Not yet.

“Meet you on the grass,” I said to Drake, and flew out of the room and down the hall toward French, saying a little prayer with each step I took. I noticed students grouped in the hall, looking at a flyer posted on the wall, probably a reminder to vote for homecoming court.

I burst into my French classroom and said, “Ms. Arnold, I think I left my poetry notebook in here during—”

“Celia,” she interrupted me.
“Je ne comprend pas. En Français.”

I grabbed my head, willing my brain to think quickly in French.
“Je
 . . . lost . . .
mon journal de poesie, et je pense que je
 . . . left it . . .
ici
,
”
I finished pathetically.

Mademoiselle Arnold looked around the room and shrugged.
“Je n’ai pas trouvé un journal, mais—”

Rudely, I didn’t wait for her to finish, but turned to race back to Mr. Pearson’s L.A. class, praying he would look at me over his glasses and admonish me for being forgetful as he handed it back to me.

But as I left my French room and started down the hall, I saw what the other kids had been looking at posted on the wall. It wasn’t a homecoming flyer. It wasn’t a flyer at all. Photocopied onto goldenrod-yellow paper and plastered every five feet along the length of the hallway was a sickeningly familiar image. It was six lines long, and it was in my handwriting. I forced my feet to walk over. Yanking the first one I could reach off the wall, I looked closer. Above a page from my poetry journal, someone had written this.

A POEM FROM THE DEEP AND IMPORTANT
WRITING OF CELIA THE WEIRD . . .

Since Drake told me that day in the wooded lot,

while the leaves agreed with gravity and left the trees,