The vet told us as he slipped Frisky into a cage that cats often foam at the mouth when they're nervous. Which was a cat fact I hadn't previously known. What an informative day it had turned out to be. I'd tell Brad about it if I ever spoke to him again.
Why was it every time I started to like a guy things always turned out miserably? Was it really so much to ask that a guy act considerate? Understanding? Responsible enough not to drive his car like it was an airborne vehicle?
I expected Brad to call me sometime over the weekend. He didn't. I wish guys would let you know why they don't call. It would have made my life so much easier if I knew whether he hadn't called because (a) he'd decided that even the chance of spending any more time in the vicinity of me or my upchucking cat was too risky; (b) he was ashamed of the way he'd yelled at me, cursed my pet, and left me stranded at the animal clinic, and was now thinking of the perfect way to beg my forgiveness; or (c) there were some really good games on ESPN he had to watch.
By the time Monday came, I still didn't know how to feel and couldn't think about anything else.
I drove to school earlier than normal to make sure I had plenty of time to discuss the matter of Brad with my friends. Every morning before classes started, I got together with Rachel, Chelsea, and Aubrie. We had all been cheerleading together since our freshman year, and even though basketball season was now over, we still got together every morning by the main landing to watch people go by.
Rachel insisted on it, in fact. She had to get her senior-stud ogling in for the day. Chelsea specialized in ogling too, but she watched everyone so she could critique their outfits. She planned on becoming a fashion designer, so it was good professional practice for her.
Aubrie and I just stood on the landing for the company, but I helped Chelsea with her fashion critiques.
"Crystal's striped shirt is bold, and the nautical pants definitely make a statement," Chelsea would say.
"Yes, but that statement is 'Please throw me overboard,' " I'd add.
"Although Ashley's shirt is the right color for her skin tone, it's about two sizes too tight."
"But on the plus side, if she's ever bleeding to death, it can double as a tourniquet."
Generally we'd end up laughing so hard people would start looking at us suspiciously as they went by, and then we'd have to do our critiques in a whisper.
But today as we leaned against the banister in the lobby my friends debated whether guys or pets were easier to handle.
"Pets are more loyal," Rachel said.
"But you don't have to worry about guys throwing up in your car," Aubrie countered.
"Unless they've been drinking," Chelsea said.
"Yeah, do you remember when Darren drank like half a keg and then got sick at the homecoming dance?" Rachel shuddered. "I wish he'd been in his car instead of trying to run off the dance floor."
"Another point in pets' favor," Aubrie said. "They know how to hold their liquor."
"Back to the subject of Brad," I said. "We're supposed to go to the prom, but I don't even know if we're still on speaking terms. I mean, what am I going to do about that?"
Chelsea tilted her chin. "It's a little late to find another date. The dance is less than three weeks away. You'll just have to swallow your pride and make up with him."
"You can still have a good time," Aubrie added. "Just don't bring your cat along."
I smirked as I imagined Frisky wedged between Brad and me in our prom pictures.
"Guys smell better than animals," Chelsea said.
"Not always. It depends on the guy," Rachel said.
"Guys are better kissers."
"That also depends on the guy," Rachel said.
Aubrie cocked her head. " Who have you been kissing?"
Rachel giggled obscenely. Rachel is just that way.
Chelsea folded her arms and got a faraway look on her face. "Wouldn't it be poetic justice if Brad got sick from drinking on prom night and threw up in his own car?"
"He'd better not be drinking on prom night," I said. "I've seen how he drives when he's sober."
"Lassie would have never left Samantha stranded in a parking lot," Aubrie said. "I think pets win."
"A boyfriend would never have scaled a wall and sat on the vet's roof in the first place," Chelsea said.
"He would if he knew the vet was trying to fix him," Rachel said.
Then all of my friends laughed and started suggesting the positive attributes of neutering.
"Okay, forget the subject of veterinary procedures," I said, and plunged into a subject change before I had to listen to any more anatomy talk. "School elections are a week after prom. Have any of you ever thought of running for anything?"
Rachel shrugged, and her gaze returned to the river of students that made its way across the lobby. "Not really. Why?"
"I was just thinking that it looked like a lot of fun."
Chelsea snorted. "What part do you think is fun? Planning things with the teachers? Like I don't already see enough of them."
"I wasn't talking about that part," I said. "I just mean, you know, being a leader."
"Leading cheers is enough for me, and it's not like we even got a lot of thanks for that." Rachel folded her arms. "You know those cookies we always bake for the team? I think a total of one person has ever said thank you to me."
Aubrie nodded. "Guys don't say thank you. That's why, in the end, they all get married—to have someone write their thank-you cards for them."
"And to have someone pick out clothes for them to wear every day," Chelsea added. "What is it with the Y chromosome that prohibits them from matching colors?"
"That's another point in favor of pets," Rachel said. "They never wear stupid clothes."
I tried to steer the conversation back to me. "But being in the student body council could be fun, don't you think?"
Aubrie leaned back against the banister and shot me a suspicious glance. "Are you thinking of running for something?"
I didn't answer right away. For a second longer I could change my mind and back out. For a second longer I didn't have to worry about planning, campaigning, or, more importantly, losing. "Yeah, I think I'll run for president."
"President?" Chelsea asked.
"Yes, president." I figured if I was going for leadership potential, then I had better run for president. I'm not sure how much stock universities put in secretaries or vice presidents.
Rachel winked over at Aubrie. "I think someone had better tell Samantha that high school presidents don't get interns."
"Or the power to nuke other high schools," Chelsea added.
I glared at Rachel and Chelsea.
"What?" Rachel said. "You're not serious, are you?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
She bit back a smile. "Because you're the one who's always said student government was for people who didn't have the talent to do sports or the rhythm to do cheerleading. Did you suddenly lose your rhythm?"
"No, I suddenly got my SAT scores." I hadn't meant to tell them my reasoning, but none of them looked shocked. In a quieter voice I added, "I thought my college application might need a boost, like a term as school president."
Everyone was silent for a moment, then Aubrie said, "So how bad was your score?"
"Eight ten."
Chelsea winced. "Well, you might have rhythm, but apparently you don't have math or English skills."
"I'll do better next year on them, but I still think it would be a good idea if I ran for student body president too. You guys will help me campaign, won't you?"
"Sure," Rachel said. "We can help you. What do you need? Posters? Flyers? Nasty rumors about your opponents?"
"I don't want to spread rumors about anyone. That wouldn't be fair."
Chelsea let out a half grunt. "Fair? This is politics. You have to do whatever it takes to win."
"I am going to do what it takes. And right now I think it will take posters. Are you guys going to help me or not?"
&nbs
p; "Posters we can do," Aubrie said, and then they spent the rest of the time until the bell rang discussing possible campaign slogans.
I nodded every once in a while, but I was only half paying attention. Chelsea's words still hung in the air before me, and I couldn't see beyond them. You have to do whatever it takes to win. What did she think it was going to take?
Brad had the same lunch hour as I did, and he usually stopped by my table to talk with me. I wondered if he would show up today and what he'd say.
I wanted to give him another chance; giving him another chance would be easier than breaking up. I could even for- get being stranded in the parking lot if he'd just apologize. With sincerity.
But Brad never showed up. I saw him only once, across the cafeteria. He walked out without even looking in my direction.
I went to my English class and fumed about Brad while I was supposed to be listening to a lesson on the passive voice. I kept thinking about the prom. Would Brad and I make up by then, or would the evening be just one long, uncomfortable ordeal interspersed with dancing? Should I be the one to try to smooth things over? Did I even want to go to the prom with Brad? I debated this question instead of listening to the lecture on the proper use of semicolons.
Which would be worse: swallowing my pride and acting like everything had been my fault—and then having to put up with a boyfriend who thought it was—or spending prom night with someone I was barely speaking to? What great dance pictures that would produce.
After school, while I took my books out of my locker Chelsea walked up. She put one hand on my locker door and leaned closer to me. "Did you hear about Brad and Whitney?"
"No, what about them?"
"He asked her to the prom."
I stood, openmouthed, waiting for Chelsea to tell me she was kidding. But she didn't.
Finally I turned back to my locker. "Well, it was nice of him to inform me we weren't going, before he asked someone else."
"Total loser," Chelsea agreed. "You're better off without him."
"Sure." She was right, but it didn't seem like much consolation after being dumped in such a nasty manner. I swallowed hard to try to keep my throat from tightening. I absolutely was not going to cry about this. He wasn't worth it.
Chelsea leaned up against the locker next to mine. "I say, tonight we go out, find every stray cat in the city, and put them all in Brad's car."
"That would be cruel. To the cats, I mean."
"Better yet, you should tell Brad it turns out Frisky really did have rabies, and now his upholstery is infected with dangerous germs."
I smiled, but just a little. "And the car needs to be demolished for safety reasons."
"Right. He and Whitney can walk to the prom."
I shoved the last of my books into my backpack. "We'd be doing Whitney a favor. She'd be much safer that way."
"You can find another date for the prom. You'll go with a better guy."
"Right." And who would that be? It was three weeks till the dance, and most people already had their plans set. My stomach knotted up. I had to go. I'd already bought my dress and shoes. I was on the prom committee. How could I help decorate the place and then not go to the event?
I said my good-byes to Chelsea and walked slowly out of the school to the parking lot to find my car.
I could always go with Doug.
No. I wasn't that desperate. After all, Doug would probably show up for the prom in the greyhound outfit.
There was Logan.
I groaned out loud and flung open my car door. Why had his name popped into my mind when I was thinking of prom dates? Logan and I couldn't get along for one evening, even if we both were desperate. He'd probably rather eat staples than go out with me. I would rather eat staples.
So who?
I climbed into my car and took a deep breath to calm down. Someone would ask me. They had to. How could I even contemplate being popular enough to run for president if I wasn't popular enough to be asked to the prom?
This thought haunted me for the rest of the day.
Chapter 4
On Tuesday I talked, flirted, and smiled my most beat smiles to all the cute guys in my classes. Upbeat shows you have confidence. Upbeat shows you don't care if some guy just dumped you.
At lunchtime, while I put my books in my locker, Brad walked up to me. He leaned up against the locker next to mine, just like it had been any other day.
"I wanted to talk to you about the prom . . ."
"Did you? Are you sure you didn't want to talk to Whitney about the prom?"
I slammed my locker door and faced him square on. "Why don't you just tell her whatever it was you wanted to say, and let it get back to me through the grapevine. That worked so well last time."
A tinge of red rose in Brad's neck. "Sorry, but after the way you were yelling at me on Friday—"
"Oh. The way I was yelling at you on Friday? That's nothing compared to the way I'm going to be yelling at you in two seconds."
Apparendy two seconds was too long for him to stick around. He mumbled something under his breath, questioned which species I belonged to, then turned and walked down the hallway.
"Loser!" I called after his retreating back. "You are such a lowlife, Brad!"
It was then that I noticed Logan and a couple of his friends walking up the hallway, witnesses to the scene I'd just made. Logan raised an eyebrow, then turned back to his friends. As they walked by me he said in a louder-than-normal voice, "And the really amazing thing is, that's the way Samantha talks to guys she likes."
I didn't set him straight.
When I got home from school, I found Mom in the kitchen kneading a bowlful of bread dough. She took a French cooking class once a week, so every Tuesday she'd present us with some strange and exotic dish for dinner. Then we'd all have to pretend we were really full, and not just too uncultured to appreciate stuffed veal kidneys.
Bread looked normal, though. I walked farther into the kitchen, eyeing the counter for rogue ingredients she might be planning to ruin the bread with. No sign of escargot, truffle paste, or liver pâté.
Mom punched the dough, and puffs of flour floated up into the air. "Samantha, my hands are sticky. Would you get the butter out of the fridge?"
Butter was good. Part of a regular food group. I got it out of the refrigerator and put it on the counter by her. "What are you making?"
"Croissants."
"Great. I love croissants."
"They're for the goose-neck-and-garlic sandwiches."
"Goose neck? People actually eat that on purpose? I always thought that was one of those animal by-products that ended up in dog food."
Mom wiped a section of hair that had fallen into her face, leaving a smear of flour across her cheek. "Goose neck is a delicacy. You have to at least try it. In fancy restaurants people pay up to fifty dollars a plate for this stuff."
And at our house we were force-fed it for free. Just another irony of life.
I waited until Mom was spreading flour over the counter, then grabbed a bagel from the bread box. I surreptitiously took a bite, then inched toward the kitchen door. She plopped down the croissant dough on the counter and asked, "Did anything good come in the mail?"
"Not unless we've actually won the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes this time."
"Your SAT scores didn't come today?"
"No." Technically it wasn't a lie. They didn't come today.
Mom got out the rolling pin and flattened the dough into a circle. "I talked to Linda Benson today. She said Elise got her test score—a composite of twelve hundred. Can you believe it?"
Elise was a girl my age whose bad attitude canceled out all of her good looks. Elise said and did whatever she wanted, including—and especially—tormenting anyone who got on her bad side. Last year we went to the same girls' camp, and she averaged two practical jokes a day—three if you counted the ones she played on the leaders. If she wasn't sewing someone's tent flap shut, she was hiding plastic bugs
in the sleeping bags. I fell victim to her jokes on a daily basis. My shampoo was dyed orange, my sleeping bag wandered by itself to tents across the camp several times, and one morning I woke up with purple marker lines across my cheeks. Everyone called me Poca-Samantha for the rest of camp.
All of this wouldn't have been so bad if Elise actually got in trouble for any of it, but no one ever caught her. I knew she was guilty, though. I could tell by the way she smirked innocently every time it happened.
Anyway, I wouldn't have thought Elise cared enough about school to be able to count to 1200, let alone get that score on the SAT. I actually pay attention in class most of the time, and I got an 810. Life is so unfair.
Mom said, "Don't worry about your scores. I'm sure you did great. I just wish they were here already so I could start bragging about you."
No, I thought, you really don't.
"I bet they come tomorrow."
I'd take that bet. In fact, I'd bet they were never going to come. They'd been inexplicably lost in the mail. Perhaps even rerouted to a small village in Albania. Funny how those things happened sometimes.
I decided to change the subject. "Class elections are coming up. I thought I'd run for president."
Mom spread a thin slab of butter across the dough, then folded it over. "That's wonderful. You'll make a great president."
"Well, I have to win first."
"Who's going to be your vice president?"
"Whoever the student body votes for. We don't run as a ticket."
Mom spun the rolling pin across the dough again and shook her head. "That's not very efficient. What if you and the vice president have opposite political views?"
"I think mostly we just plan dances, fund-raisers, that sort of thing."
"You should still have some sort of an agenda. What are you planning to campaign on?"
"Poster boards. Flyers. Maybe some buttons if they're not too expensive."
"I meant what issues are you campaigning on?"
Issues? What was the point of having issues when all you did was plan dances and fund-raisers? I imagined myself standing in front of the student body delivering my campaign speech. "And if elected, I promise not to hire bands who have thus far performed only in their garages and who create songs using screeching sounds instead of actual musical notes. Furthermore, if elected, I promise that when we do our annual car wash fund-raiser, none of you will have to scrape bugs off of strangers' radiator grills. We'll make the incoming freshmen do that."