The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You (19 page)

Yeah, I didn't want to talk about any of that. It was easier to keep quiet.

Lucky for me, there was a knock on the door and Harper's dad popped his head in. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Harper said.

Mr. Leonard stepped into the room. He was still in his work suit, his tie firmly knotted at his throat. His steel-gray hair was parted at the side. He folded his hands and eyed us over his knuckles.

“I received an email from Dr. Mendoza on the subject of academic honesty,” he said. “It was addressed to all the parents of the senior class.”

Meg's face fell and she closed the comic in her lap. “Oh crap.”

I glanced at her. “You didn't tell your parents about the probations?”

“I didn't want them to worry about it.”

“I'm sure,” Mr. Leonard continued soberly, “that none of you is involved in any kind of unsavory behavior. But I implore you to be on alert for those around you. The scent of a scandal could severely damage your futures. College acceptance letters have yet to be issued and if any of the admissions boards hear that there is anything untoward happening at the Messina—”

“I told you,” Harper interrupted, waving him off. “The three boys who were put on academic probation have nothing to do with us.”

“Two athletes and the vice president of the role-playing club,” Meg agreed. “Nowhere near our circle.”

“Regardless,” Mr. Leonard said, “be on alert. There is no point in jeopardizing your futures. If you are aware of someone passing off someone else's work as their own, report it to the administration office immediately. Even if that person is someone you hold in, ahem, high esteem.”

Meg shot me a look of dry amusement. Any curiosity we'd harbored about Mr. Leonard's feelings about his only daughter announcing that she was in mad-crazy love with Cornell Aaron was assuaged by him straightening his tie—supportive, if uncomfortable. I wished I could pat him on the shoulder and tell him we were all in the same boat on that front, but I doubted it would go over well. I wasn't even comfortable calling him Greg. I certainly wasn't going to attempt jocularity.

“Of course, Daddy,” Harper said with a placating bow of her head. “Do you want me to make dinner tonight? I only have a short take-home quiz to do.”

He smiled at her warmly. “No, you enjoy yourself, sweet pea.” He nodded to Meg and me. “You girls are welcome to stay, of course.”

“No.” Meg sighed, stuffing her comic back into the blue plastic bag at her feet. “I'm going to have to go home and deal with my mother. Ugh. This is gonna suck.”

“And I've got an essay to finish,” I said. “No rest for the nerd girls.”

“Better busy than bored,” Mr. Leonard said. “Idle nerds become supervillains.”

“Maybe that should be the new school motto,” I said, grinning at Harper.

“It's catchier than ‘truth and loyalty,'” she agreed. “I'll get started on the Latin translation after I drop you guys off.”

 

[9:03 PM]

Me

Saga is giving me all the feels. This is your fault.

[9:04 PM]

Ben

It does that. How far are you?

[9:07 PM]

Me

Marko's parents.

[9:07 PM]

Ben

It gets worse.

[9:09 PM]

Me

That is not comforting.

[9:10 PM]

Ben

There, there. *pat pat* (It gets so much worse.)

 

[10:14 PM]

Me

OMG WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME

[10:15 PM]

Ben

I told you so. Vaughan will murder everyone you love.

[10:16 PM]

Me

He should join the Joss Whedon/Steven Moffat club of nerd torturers.

[10:18 PM]

Ben

The League of Extraordinary Character Killing Gentlemen

[10:19 PM]

Me

Ugh. I hate Alan Moore.

[10:20 PM]

Ben

WHAT. Watchmen!

[10:21 PM]

Me

Snore.

[10:22 PM]

Ben

V For Vendetta!

[10:23 PM]

Me

The movie was better.

[10:24 PM]

Ben

Turn in your geek card, Watson.

[10:26 PM]

Me

You can pry it from my cold, dead hands.

 

[11:47 PM]

Me

Quicksilver. Obviously.

[11:48 PM]

Ben

Obviously because he's cute?

[11:49 PM]

Me

You think Quicksilver's good-looking, Mr. West?

[11:52 PM]

Ben

I'm comfortably heterosexual. I'm not blind. I thought Rogue was your favorite?

[11:53 PM]

Me

I love her, but she's mostly useless.

[11:55 PM]

Ben

That's how I feel about Toad.

[11:57 PM]

Me

Oh! Did you read Marvel 1602?

[12:00 AM]

Ben

Yes. All hail Neil Gaiman.

[12:01 AM]

Me

The Doctor's Wife. Best Doctor Who episode of all time.

[12:03 AM]

Ben

Great episode. Best episode? Nightmare in Silver.

[12:04 AM]

Me

You like cybermen too much.

[12:07 AM]

Ben

They Are CYBER MEN. What's not to like?

[12:10 AM]

Me

You really like Asimov, don't you?

[12:11 AM]

Ben

Does anyone not like Asimov?

[12:14 AM]

Me

I respect what he did for the genre …

[12:16 AM]

Ben

TURN IN YOUR GEEK CARD.

 

15

“Where are we
so far, Brandon?” Peter asked, clasping his hands behind his head.

Another rainy day, another crowded lunch. B struggled to open his binder without toppling over the drink of the girl next to him. He flicked through the color-coordinated tabs in the corners, the sounds of turning pages drowned out by the chewing, laughing, and general chatter of the student council table.

“As of yesterday,” he announced, planting his finger at the bottom of a column of handwritten numbers, “we've sold forty-seven tickets.”

Peter's hands flopped back into his lap. “Seriously?”

B cringed and shot a pleading look at Ben, who was yawning widely. I wasn't sure of the exact time stamp of the last text he'd sent me the night before, but it was definitely past both of our normal bedtimes. I'd stolen some of my mother's heavy-duty concealer to hide the bags under my eyes before I'd dragged my tired butt to school. Ben, on the other hand, had shown up late to American Immigrant with bed head and a splotch of toothpaste on his chin.

The toothpaste was, thankfully, gone now.

“Well,” he said at the tail end of the yawn. “That doesn't include whatever they've sold today.”

We all looked across the cafeteria, where the junior officers were sulking at a card table beneath one of their spangled winter ball signs. A blotch of salad dressing remained on one corner. The cash box had been shoved aside in favor of the secretary's physics textbook.

“Not that business seems to be booming,” Ben finished, reaching for his soda.

“It would be if we'd opened up to the lowerclassmen,” said the girl next to B, whose name I didn't know but who appeared to be the sophomore class treasurer. “With the rate of senior suspensions, you'll be lucky to have anyone left to go to the dance.”

“Yeah,” said the freshman president from behind a copy of
Beowulf
. “Do you guys even have a ranking list yet?”

I considered how lucky the table was that Mary-Anne had started avoiding the cafeteria. I'd spotted her and Jack Donnelly arguing near the library as I'd marched across the quad. If she'd been present, there was no doubt that it would have turned into a screaming match between her and the younger officers.

“The Messina handbook expressly says that formal events are for the junior and senior classes,” Peter said with uncharacteristic force. He dragged the heels of his hands over his eyes. “It's too late to put in for a request to amend the policy.”

“Well, I already bought tickets for me and Harper,” Cornell said, loud enough to drown out the mutinous murmurs from the lowerclassmen.

“I could have bought my own ticket,” Harper said.

“You can pay for prom.” He chuckled. “It's more expensive.”

“And I bought mine,” Peter said. “What about you guys?”

I attempted to look engrossed in my grilled cheese, which was difficult as it was leaking oil at an alarming rate. I took an overlarge bite anyway and chewed painstakingly through the gush of rubbery bread and waxy orange cheese.

“I bought one for myself,” Meg said pertly. She sighed, adding a soupçon of eyelash fluttering for extra innocence. “And Trixie is boycotting.”

I rage-chewed at her, using my tongue to pry cheese off my molars instead of telling her to shut up.

Peter's jaw dropped. “No way. You have to go, Trix.”

“I really don't,” I said thickly as I started ticking off reasons on my fingers. “No date, no dress, no will, no way.”

“Oh, bull,” Ben said into his soda can. The sound echoed like a hundred scathing voices. “We're all going stag, except Corny and the Harpsichord—”

“Terrible nicknames,” Cornell said.

“I kind of like them,” Harper said, snickering. “Corny.”

Ben ignored this, leaning back imperiously in his seat. “What's one big cliché high school experience?”

“Yeah, Trix,” Meg cheered, reaching out and shaking my forearm until I thought I could hear my brain rattling. “It'll be a stag party!”

“That does not mean what you think it means,” I grunted.

“We could all chip in and buy your ticket,” Peter said.

My brain scanned tirelessly for a loophole. The winter ball was a fundraiser for a pointless and esoteric sports team. It was two weeks before finals. It was a slippery slope from winter ball to prom. I was too tall to wear high heels. I wanted to watch all of
Battlestar Galactica
again. I needed to ace my finals and win third place in the ranking. If we ever got the ranking back.

“Hell, I'll buy the ticket,” Ben said, slamming his soda down on the table. Underneath the bravado and the lack of sleep was a stunning sincerity. The rest of the room disappeared for a second and I could clearly see that I was the only thing that Ben was looking at. It was the same look I'd envied between Harper and Cornell, a spotlight of love that only I could feel the scorch of.

He smiled, a slow unveiling of teeth. “Nut up, Watson. All the cool kids are doing it.”

My heart rabbit-punched me in the teeth. “I will consider it. Everyone shut up about it for a while, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Harper said, her lips stretched white with the effort of holding back a grin. “Terrible weather we're having, huh?”

*   *   *

Friday night was officially take-out night in the Watson household. With the kitchen table covered in white oyster pails, my parents and I took our plates to the living room. Mom and I had vetoed Dad's plan of watching both versions of
Dune,
arguing that seeing Sting in a metal diaper would put us off our spicy eggplant. So, instead, we settled in for Chinese food and
Fawlty Towers
. Classic BBC comedies paired well with all meals.

After I took my empty plate back to the kitchen, I curled up on the loveseat, wrapping myself in an afghan GG Bea had knitted. Sherry hopped up beside me, resting his chin heavily on my hip and licking garlic sauce from the tips of my fingers. I scratched his ears absently.

“You know,” Dad said, setting his chopsticks down on the coffee table. “You really should have applied to a college in the UK. There's a ton of shows that we never get over here. It'd be nice to have a BBC supplier.”

“The Internet exists,” I said. “If we bought a region-free DVD player, you wouldn't have to ship me to another country.”

“True,” he said. “But think of all the
Doctor Who
swag we never get in the States.”

“Oh, Scotty.” Mom sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Don't say ‘swag.'”

He furrowed his brow and tapped her arm in thought. “Merch? Nifty crap?”

I laughed, raising my index finger in the air. “I vote nifty crap.”

“Nifty crap for the win! Boom!” He punched the air victoriously and Mom sighed again, resettling herself against his side.

“And this is why we had to stop having game night,” she murmured.

Dad took her hand, entwining their fingers together before craning his neck down to kiss the top of her head. “P is for pwned.”

I giggled. “And people let you teach their children.”

He winked at me. “I know, right?”

The pocket of my pajama pants buzzed. Sherry leapt back against the opposite arm of the loveseat, woofing indignantly as I retrieved my cell phone. I glanced at the screen and took in a shaky breath as I saw Ben's name pop up.

Checking to make sure that my parents were focused on John Cleese shouting in fake German on the television, I opened the text message.

Come to winter ball
.

The phone trembled in my hands as I covertly typed a response. Technically, the no-electronics' rule of a Watson movie night only applied to watching something for the first time and I had definitely seen every episode of
Fawlty Towers
at least a hundred times. Still, I didn't need my parents noticing what I was doing.

Why?

I squeezed my eyes closed and slid the phone under the afghan. I jumped when it buzzed again.

Because it's going to be lame as frak
.

I held back a laugh as my brain shouted,
He watches Battlestar Galactica!
I had to stop myself from immediately asking him what he thought about the ending of the series. Making a mental note to badger him about it later, I typed quickly under the cover of the blanket.