The Implosion Of Aggie Winchester Part 20

No. I was not okay. I wanted to tell Jess what happened over the weekend. About Rod, about Neil, about the ba.s.s, about my parents. I didn't care if she was J. rex-she was my friend. She'd stood by me so far. And I wanted her with me from here on in.

"Can we meet at Tickywinn's after school?" I asked. "I have to tell you some stuff."

"Sure," Jess said, nodding. Her blue eyes were dark with concern. She glanced around at all the students and asked, "You gonna make it till then?"

I nodded, trying to smile. "I think so."

I left Jess in the hallway and headed toward first period, wondering how I was going to get through school when, in addition to everything else, the weekend had been so humiliatingly awful. Somehow, my dad was mad at me for the dead ba.s.s, even though he'd been the one driving the boat on the return. I didn't actually think it was possible for my parents to be angrier with me than they had been on Sat.u.r.day morning when I'd been caught at Neil's, but it was like the death of the ba.s.s had heated up both their disappointment and anger in me even more.

As punishment for the Neil fiasco, my parents took away my cell and my car, which meant I had to take the bus to school. They'd wanted to take away my computer, too, but I'd begged them to let me keep it for homework.

"Fine," my dad had agreed reluctantly, "but no IM'ing."

Even all that wouldn't have been so bad if my mom hadn't been giving me the cold shoulder. She wouldn't look at me or talk to me, as if I'd wanted to be the one to screw up everything. As if I'd planned it all this way. I'd tried a thousand times to tell her about Sylvia and the ballots-to explain why I'd met with Rod and what I was trying to accomplish-but she was avoiding me, and I couldn't bring myself to say the words out loud.

I headed toward study hall, anxious to see Fitz, but when I got there, Mr. Otts was the only one in the cla.s.sroom. "We were told to direct students to the gym," he said. "There's going to be an a.s.sembly."

My stomach fell through a trapdoor into my feet. "Is it about the prom?" I asked.

Mr. Otts nodded. "I suppose I don't have to tell you this issue has everyone divided, Aggie," he said, "including the teachers. Do you want an escort? I'll be happy to walk you there if you'd like."

I pictured the signs in the hallway, the letters in the paper, and the protesters outside, and thought about how the issue wasn't just dividing the school, it was dividing the whole town. "No, I'm okay. Thanks."

Wondering what the h.e.l.l was next, I made my way toward the gym.

"Thank your mom for ruining prom for us!" someone yelled from behind me in the hallway. A wadded-up piece of paper went flying by my head. I turned around to see who threw it, but I couldn't make out much except a ma.s.s of people staring at me.

"Freaky b.i.t.c.h!" someone else taunted.

My muscles tensed. I debated flipping off the crowd or yelling something-but then I pictured actually getting in a fight, and how much worse that would make everything. My mom would inevitably find out, then probably pa.s.s out from all the stress I was causing her.

Someone b.u.mped my shoulder. I looked up at a senior basketball player. Ed something. "Where's your freaky pregnant friend? Off somewhere banging the prom king?"

Half the people around us laughed. I couldn't let it slide. "It'd be more action than you're getting," I retorted.

Ed glared. "b.i.t.c.h."

"Learned it from your mom." I shrugged. My words barely covered up my evaporating courage. Everyone at school was back to hating me, and I'd picked this exact moment to stop looking one hundred percent Goth. True, I knew it hadn't protected me from the worst stuff, and, okay, I was ready to stop looking like Sylvia. But still. Having an eyebrow ring and black lipstick right at that moment couldn't have hurt.

Ed strode off, and seeing a girls' room, I ducked inside. I am never going to make it to the gym in one piece, I thought.

I stopped before I almost plowed into six or seven cheerleaders.

"It is too your fault," one of the cheerleaders was saying. They all turned to stare at me.

I wanted to ask what was going on, but it was pretty obvious. In the middle of all of them was Tiffany Holland, whose eyes were puffy and swollen. Her cheeks were sporting twin tracks of mascara.

"Oh, awesome," I said. "Another lynch mob."

Marissa was in the group of cheerleaders, looking for all the world like she was one of them, even though she was a swimmer. The bruise around her eye had faded to yellow and green. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Shouldn't you be off organizing another protest against me?"

"Last time I checked, this was a public bathroom," I said. "And for your information, that protest was all Sylvia. Not me."

Marissa laughed. Her glossy black hair shimmered. "Yeah. Right."

"Was Aggie in on all this?" one of the cheerleaders asked Tiffany. "Or was it just you and Sylvia?"

"In on all what?" I asked.

Marissa glared. "We're the ones asking questions, thanks."

"They think I wanted Sylvia to be queen," Tiffany sniffed to me. Her blond hair looked as limp as her mood. "They think I planned all this. But I didn't."

"Maybe you didn't want Sylvia to be queen," Marissa said, "but you sure as h.e.l.l didn't want me to be queen. And that's why you went blabbing to Sylvia and whoever would listen that Mrs. Wagner shouldn't have said I was the prom winner."

"Not to mention the fact that you betrayed Mrs. Wagner," one of the cheerleaders said. "Our own coach."

Part of me wanted to really enjoy seeing Tiffany getting reamed by everyone. But a bigger part of me actually felt sorry for her right then.

"I had more ballots than you, and you couldn't stand it," Marissa said.

"But you weren't the winner," I clarified.

She glowered. "Says who? The ballots are gone. And I'm sorry, don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"I'm just saying."

"So?" Marissa asked. "It wasn't Tiffany's job to go telling people about the ballots. She was just supposed to help count them. End of story. If she'd kept her mouth shut, then no one would have found out Sylvia had any votes at all. We wouldn't have had a protest. We wouldn't be having an a.s.sembly. Sylvia Ness wouldn't be on the Martin Pollock Show."

I looked at Tiffany. She was dabbing her eyes with a paper towel. "I think this is the part where you remind Marissa that she might want to consider whether or not you would have done this if she could have kept her hands off your boyfriend."

For a split second, Tiffany actually smiled. But I lost sight of it when Marissa got up in my face. "You better turn around and get out of here right now."

I looked at Marissa's skinny jeans, her glossy hair, her perfect makeup. "Or what? You're going to do something? Turn the school against me? Sorry, been there, done that. Beat me up? I don't think so. Steal my best friend? Sorry, she's already gone."

Marissa opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"There's a lot more to this election than you know," I finished. "So why don't you take your little pom-pom brigade somewhere else."

Marissa looked from me to Tiffany. "I hope you get kicked off the squad," she said, "so I don't have to see your fat a.s.s cheering at my swim meets." She glared at me. "And your mom can rot in h.e.l.l. She told Mrs. Wagner to burn those ballots, and everybody knows it."

When the door had swung shut behind Marissa and the cheerleaders, I leaned against a stall post and closed my eyes. What a f.u.c.king day.

"Th-thanks," Tiffany said. I heard the sound of tap water running but didn't open my eyes.

"Yeah," I said. "Sure."

"You really didn't have to do all that."

When I finally looked over, Tiffany was putting concealer under her eyes. Her lips had already been reglossed. "You're right," I said. "I didn't."

There was a pause. I studied Tiffany and thought about all the things I could say. You were a b.i.t.c.h in ninth grade. You lied and turned everyone against me. I turned Goth because of you. You got what you deserved here. But I knew it wouldn't do any good. People would always be jerks. Life would always be imperfect. Being Goth or being a cheerleader didn't change any of it. The point was not to let it change you.

"I guess the a.s.sembly's starting," she said.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm gonna go find a seat. See you."

She reached in her bag for a brush and turned back toward the mirror. "Cool. See you."

Chapter Thirty.

MONDAY, APRIL 27 / 8:35 A.M.

I clomped up the gym bleachers, making my way to Jess and praying I wouldn't get anything more thrown at my head. I got lucky. At the same time I made my ascent, the members of the debate team had started throwing a plastic baby around. It had a crown glued to its head, and on its belly, BABY RYAN was scrawled in black Sharpie.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Jess said, grabbing me with her claw hand. "Are you seeing this?"

I nodded as the baby went flying into a clump of theater geeks. They volleyed it for a while, then tossed it back to the debate team.

I looked over at Ryan, who was sitting with the wrestling team. All of them were pretending not to see what was going on, but even from a distance I could see Ryan was flushed scarlet.

"Serves the a.s.shole right," I said. "He deserves it." I tried not to think about how it was my fault the entire school knew he was the father of Sylvia's kid. I didn't feel sorry for him, but I regretted my decision to out Sylvia and blab the secret to Rod Barris. She might have been a stark raving b.i.t.c.h to me, but our friendship deserved more than that. She'd been there for me lots of times-and vice versa. But never again. Not that I was looking to rekindle things with her, but if I had been, this would have effectively put an end to that possibility.

At the front of the gym, Mr. Swanson, the superintendent, took the podium on the stage.

"Quiet, please," he said into the microphone. "Quiet, please."

Gradually the gym settled down.

"Good morning," Mr. Swanson said. His fat neck jutted out over the top of his shirt collar, and his chin jiggled when he talked. "I'm here today to make a few announcements and hopefully answer the questions that many of you have about what's currently taking place in this school.

"The first thing I want to do," he said, his palms facing the ceiling, "is to a.s.sure all of you that your high school will continue to function as it always has, and will continue to provide a quality education for its students. Nothing at all will deter us from that goal."

"What a load of c.r.a.p," Jess whispered.

"As many of you know," Mr. Swanson continued, his round face beginning to shine under the hot gym lights, "there has been some confusion about exactly who St. Davis High's junior prom queen is."

Buzzing started in the gym and Mr. Swanson again held up his hands. Even from my seat in the bleachers his fingers looked like bloated sausages.

"I am here today to tell you that this year's prom queen at St. Davis High"-Mr. Swanson paused for effect-"is Sylvia Ness."

The gym exploded. Some people cheered, others booed.

"Quiet!" Mr. Swanson demanded. "Quiet at once!"

When the gym finally quieted down again, Mr. Swanson took a deep breath. "The dance will still take place this weekend," he said, "and I hope all of you will make plans to come and have a good time. In the meantime, we are still investigating this year's election, and we hope to be able to divulge the details of what happened very soon."

That makes two of us, I thought, picturing Sylvia's bag full of orange ballots.

Mr. Swanson folded his sausage fingers together. "I also want you to know that your princ.i.p.al, Gail Winchester, may be absent for some time, possibly permanently. We will work diligently to ensure that there is no administrative gap during this period."

Everyone standing nearby turned to look at me. Jess opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Swanson wasn't done. "We appreciate your continued patience with this," he said, "and we want to remind you that the best thing you can do is to not spread false rumors and innuendo. This is far more hurtful than it is helpful."

Mr. Swanson dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

"Why is my mom going to be absent?" I asked Jess. For a moment I feared it was the cancer. "What in the-"

"There is one more thing," Mr. Swanson said, "and that is the fact that I have granted someone permission to speak to you today. Someone who wants to say she's sorry."

I blanched. It had to be my mom. Was she going to tell everyone about her sickness? Maybe apologize to the school?

"Oh my G.o.d, what is happening?" I asked.

My legs began to itch, and the itch started spreading to my torso and arms. And just then, from the side door of the gym, in walked Mrs. Wagner.

The itching stopped.

As Mrs. Wagner took her place next to Mr. Swanson, boos erupted from all over the gym. Again, Mr. Swanson held up his hands. This time there were dark spots under his armpits.

"Please, let her speak," he insisted. "That's only fair."

Mrs. Wagner stepped up to the microphone and adjusted it, causing reverb to blast through the gym. Students covered their ears while Mrs. Wagner's hands began to shake.

She looked small and feeble up at the podium, even though I knew that she was athletic from her years of gymnastics and cheerleading coaching. She wore a school sweatshirt and jeans, but her copper-colored hair looked like she was ready for the red carpet.

"I won't take much of your time this morning," Mrs. Wagner said from the podium. "I simply came here to apologize for any pain I have caused this school. It was not my intention to deceive any of you. I was simply doing what I was told to do."

More rumbling from the bleachers. "Bulls.h.i.t!" Jess shouted, but her voice was lost in the huge expanse of the noisy gym. The cacophony rose.

"My mom didn't tell her to burn those ballots!" I yelled. A few people nearby turned to stare at me, but for the most part, no one heard. It was too loud.

"Please, let me continue," Mrs. Wagner pleaded, raising her voice to be heard. The crowd settled. "I hope that over time you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. I love this school, and I'm proud to be a teacher here. I never meant to hurt anyone."

Dramatically, Mrs. Wagner wiped away a tear and stepped back from the podium. I watched as Mr. Swanson gave her a hug. From somewhere in front of me, one of the cheerleaders burst forward and ran to Mrs. Wagner to embrace her. Soon the entire squad-save Tiffany Holland-was out on the gym floor, circled around Mrs. Wagner in support. Mr. Swanson fought through the ponytails and skirts to get back to the podium for two more words.

"You're dismissed," he said, but instead of rushing out of the gym, I stayed put, trying to keep all my emotions in a pile at the bottom of my stomach so I could still function.

I can't flip out now, I thought. There's too much left to do.