Counting Backwards (13 page)

“And now, young ladies and gentlemen,” one of the teachers calls from up onstage. “I’d like to announce this year’s Autumn King and Queen.”

There’s a digital drumroll provided by the DJ, and the woman produces a large white envelope from inside her jacket. The voting was done by secret ballot in school on Friday, and the wait has been hard on Margo. She fidgets beside me, chewing on her lip and ruining her carefully applied lipstick. I reach out and squeeze her hand.

“This year’s Autumn Queen and King are . . . Ms. Margo Blanchard and Mr. Victor DeMatais.”

“Oh my God!” Margo says, and throws her arms around me.
Victor takes her elbow and guides her onto the stage. He fades to the background as Margo gives the crowd her Endearing-but-Not-Overly-Joyous smile, winking at the knit of Latina Queens who glare back with pinched faces. The teacher crowns them both officiously, and they descend to the floor for a slow dance reserved for royalty. The harvest moon shines on Margo wherever she goes, and she looks just like one of those actresses in the old-timey movies. A real-life princess.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find A.J. holding out his hand to me. Is he asking me to dance? I glance around for Dominic, who is chatting with some guys from Automotive. I decide then that I’m done ignoring A.J. The silent treatment hasn’t gotten me very far. I need a new tactic. Maybe he’s in the mood to negotiate.

I take his hand, and he leads me to the floor. Another slow song comes on, and my palms start sweating. I’ve never danced with a guy like this before. His hand slides down my side, coming to rest on the slope of my hip. Every time my dress shifts, I’m made more aware of how little fabric there is between his skin and mine.

Meanwhile my other hand holds his in a death grip. If I’m cutting off his circulation, he doesn’t complain. My eyes are focused on his knees, trying to anticipate his movements and not trip on my dress or his feet.

He lifts my chin and points to his eyes.
Look at me,
he says
without speaking. I swallow hard and train my eyes on his, letting him me lead me across the floor. But once my nervousness fades, I force myself to focus on the only thing that matters.

“I want my mold back, A.J.”

He smiles like it’s funny, and it infuriates me that he’s not taking this seriously. I decide to take a gamble—all or nothing.

“Meet me tonight in the basement,” I say. “If I don’t get my mold back tonight, then tomorrow morning, I’m throwing your keys over the fence. All of them.”

His smile turns into a frown, and he shakes his head slowly, like he’s disappointed. I don’t like to make threats, but I don’t know what else to do.

The song ends, and he spins me in a slow circle. His fingertips trail down the inside of my arm, giving me chills, and he leans in so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck. Just when I think he might have something to say, he lets go of my hand and walks away, heading straight for the door without looking back. There he nods at a safety, and the two of them leave the gym together.

“Are you guys together?” Dominic asks, suddenly at my side. I hadn’t noticed that another song came on and all around me, people are dancing.

“No. We’re just . . .” I pause. “We’re not together.”

Margo comes over and throws her sweaty arms around my
shoulders. “This is so amazing!” she screams into my ear. “I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?”

I catch Victor’s face behind her, looking rather smug, and wonder if he had anything to do with their double victory. I wouldn’t put it past him to use his influence as the school’s black market supplier to give Margo what she wanted.

“I never had a doubt, Margo.”

“Oh my God, this is my song!” she shouts directly into my ear, and kicks off her heels. “Come on, T, dance with me.”

She pulls me out to the floor and we dance together, song after song. I try to lose myself in the music, but I keep seeing A.J.’s face in my mind, that moment when he leaned in close enough to kiss me.

Suddenly the music cuts off and is replaced by a deafening shriek that seems to come from all around us. It takes me another second to realize it’s the fire alarm. Water starts spraying from the ceiling, and girls are screaming, Margo among them—“My shoes! I have to find my shoes!”

I chase after her. Victor catches her by the waist, her shoes in his hand. Dominic is with him, and he puts his arm around me, guiding me to the door as people push and shove on either side. The safeties close around us like a net and funnel us out onto the lawn. We stand in the wet grass in our bare feet and ball gowns as two fire trucks barrel through the opened gate. There’s no smoke or fire
anywhere as far as I can tell, but rumors reach us like a game of telephone—trash fire in the bathroom, caused by one of those lit jack-o’-lanterns.

I glance sideways at Margo.

“It wasn’t me,” she says. “I wasn’t even smoking.”

I glance past the school building, past the fire trucks and police cars, to the front gate, which is still wide open. The guard is nowhere in sight. Then I look to the dorms, where A.J. must be right now. Surely they must have heard the fire trucks and the commotion on the lawn, but no one has left the building.

“What happens if there’s a fire in the dorms?” I ask Margo. “How does everyone get out in time with all the locked doors?”

“The doors automatically unlock,” she says, then clasps one slender hand over her mouth, perhaps guessing at my motives.

“Safety first,” I say to her.

All around me, people are complaining about how their shoes, their dresses, and their night have been ruined, but mine just got exponentially better.

I know how to get out of the dorms and past the gate.

That night I unlock the boys’ stairwell door for A.J. and follow the stairs down with his keys stashed all over my body—in my pockets, my socks, my bra. I make my way over to the couch and sit down. A few minutes later, I hear him come in.

“I can smell your shampoo,” he says. “Are you still wearing that dress?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

My face flushes with heat. How can he be so reserved in the daylight and so open down here—like two different people?

The cushions move as he sits down beside me.

“How was the rest of the dance?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, and think back to that trash fire and all that it revealed. “It actually ended pretty spectacularly.”

“You know, I would have taken you.”

“You never asked me.”

“You weren’t speaking to me.”

“Hmm . . . how frustrating is that?”

He’s silent, and I figure it’s because I’ve hurt his feelings. I didn’t come here to be mean. I just want what’s mine. “I want my mold back, A.J.”

“Where do you plan on going when you leave here?”

“To a city.” I’m not giving him any details, but I’ve already got it mapped out in my head. I’ll drive the car to Valdosta. There I’ll take a bus to Atlanta. Trey has a couple of good friends who live there. Maybe they have a couch I can sleep on until I find a job.

“City living is expensive,” he says.

“I’ll get a job. Or five.”

“What about your parents? Won’t they be worried?”

“I’ll call them. Eventually.”

“And your probation? What about that?”

My probation, the thorn in my side. Breaking probation is a pretty serious offense, but there must be some way around it.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Sounds like you’ve still got some kinks to work out.”

“I’m leaving, A.J., whether you help me or not. If it’s not the shop car, I’ve got other ideas. If I have to climb the fence and hitch a ride, I’ll do it. I’m not giving up.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then finally he says, “I thought so. That’s why I went to the trouble of having your key made.”

I stop and replay his words in my head, not trusting my own hearing.

“What?”

“I made you your key.”

I don’t believe him, but I want to. Still, I need proof. “Show me.”

I hear him stand, then the squeaking of the bulb screwing into its socket. The light flickers on, and he holds up the shining, silver key. I step closer, in a trance, until I see the Ford imprint reflecting in the light. He really did it.

“I’ll give you this,” he says, “but you have to do something for me first.”

I have no clue what I could possibly do for him. “What is it?”

“Promise me you’ll stay until December.”

Is that all?
I think, then realize the gravity of his request. December is a whole month away. There’s no way I’m staying until then.

“Okay,” I say.

“You mean it?” He studies my face closely.

“I’ll stay.” I make my face blank, revealing nothing. “Until December.”

He hesitates, like maybe he’s having second thoughts, but finally holds it out to me. I pluck it from his fingers and shove it deep into my pocket.

“Thanks.” I retrieve one of his own keys and hand it over. “This one’s for you.”

“Where are the others?”

I collect his keys from their various hiding places while he watches with some curiosity. I unwrap the silver chain from around my ankle and drop it into his hand as well.

“Sorry for breaking your chain.”

“I forgive you.”

He takes a step toward me, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s staring at my lips. He’s going to kiss me, I think. And I realize I want him to. “Besides,” he whispers, “you still need to get past the gate, don’t you?”

The front gate. Of course that’s why he made me the key, because he’s counting on that gate to keep me here.

“Yeah,” I say, giving nothing away. “There’s still that.”

I know then that this thing between us can’t go any further. Because in a few days I’ll break my promise to him. I’ll be gone, and it’ll only hurt him more to think that I was lying to him this entire time.

“Well . . .” I begin. I should go now,
right now
, but I can’t seem to tear myself away from his eyes, making my head feel foggy and dim. I take a step backwards and stumble. I laugh a little, nervous and high-pitched. “I guess we better go,” I say.

“So soon?”

“Yeah. I’m tired and . . .” I don’t finish my thought, just turn and walk toward the door. Behind me he unscrews the lightbulb, then follows me out of the darkroom and up the stairs. At the stairwell landing I muster up the courage to
meet his eyes again. This is probably the last time I’ll see him here, in our secret place. Something needs to be said, a good-bye of sorts, but I don’t know how without giving myself away.

He pulls me to him, wraps his arms around me like a warm winter coat, and kisses the part in my hair. I’m suddenly gripped with emotions that are too big for my puny little heart to handle. There in his arms I want to confess everything, that I’m leaving despite my promise to him. I want to tell him I’d like to see him again on the outside, and thank him for being my friend and helping me get out of here. But if I tell him those things, he’ll know I’m a liar. He’ll think I’m using him, and maybe I am.

I break away from his embrace. “Good night, A.J.”

I turn away and slip silently onto the floor and into my bedroom. I crawl under the covers and relive the night in my mind. My plan is coming together now, so smoothly that it seems like it’s meant to be. I couldn’t have done it without him. I hope when I’m gone, he’ll be able to forgive me.

I wake up the next morning feeling more rested than I have in weeks. After “Sunday reflection,” I get permission from Kayla to go down to the second floor and visit with Margo. It might be one of our last times together, and I want to say a proper good-bye.

When I come into her room, she’s sitting in a chair in front of her distorted carnival mirror. I really hate those mirrors. The longer you stare at yourself in them, the more you forget what you really look like.

“I’m so old,” Margo says, pulling down on the skin around her eyes.

“Margo, you’re seventeen.” I push some of her clothes off her bed and lie down on my stomach.

“I’ve been out of the biz for so long. I’m going to have to start all over—new agent, new head shots. I’m going to have to sit through casting calls and wait for hours to only say one word, just to have someone tell me that I’m too short or too tall or too fat or too skinny, too—whatever.”

I want to be sympathetic, but it’s hard when she’s basically
living my dream, to be getting out of here. I wish I had her problems.

“It’s better than sitting in here,” I tell her. “At least you have a chance of getting paid after all that waiting.”

“But what if I’m not good enough, T? What then?”

“You could try getting a job at Burger King, like the rest of us.”

She ignores my sarcasm. “My mother already has a photographer lined up for me. He’s got a waiting list, he’s that good. I mean, I love performing, it’s just a lot of pressure.”

She pulls a silver flask out of her pocket, unscrews the top, and takes a long swig—vodka; I’d know that smell anywhere.

“Did Victor give that to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Listen, Margo, getting drunk isn’t going to make it go away. It’s just going to make you feel worse when it’s over.”

“I want to get drunk, Taylor. I want to start a trash fire. I want my therapist to tell my team that I need more time.”

“Margo, that’s crazy.”

“I’m crazy.”

I shake my head, frustrated with her. “No, Margo, you’re not crazy. You’re just . . . scared.” I know the feeling. I’m scared myself, of running away, of staying here and only getting worse. I glance around her room, trying to think of something encouraging to say.

“You know that feeling,” I say, “right before you go out onstage?”

“Stage fright?”

“Yeah. You’re worried that you’re going to go out of here and mess up your lines or trip on your high heels, but you’re not. You’re going to blow them away, just like you always do. You’re a woman who knows what she wants, and you know how to get it. You’re going to be the most, Margo, to say the least.”

She studies her reflection in the dingy mirror. “Stage fright, huh?”