Rock Bottom Girl(111)

The best part? She made it half a mile through the parade before someone took pity on her and ripped the sign from the car. The other best part? Amie Jo’s supposed BFF, Shonda, was also on the court and in the convertible behind her and never said a word.

That was just an appetizer. The main course was arriving at any moment now.

I was ready, standing on the sidelines at halftime. The photographer to Vicky’s school newspaper reporter. I wasn’t going to miss a second of this.

And then it began.

The marching band lined up on the far end of the field for their halftime show to present the Homecoming Court. There was a tension in the air that only I could feel. Things were about to go off the rails.

The color guard marched forward, a rolled-up paper banner clutched in junior Gwen’s hands. I hadn’t even had to bribe her. Amie Jo called Gwen’s little sister “Fatty Too Ugly” in gym class last week. Gwen found her sister crying and doing endless sit-ups in her bedroom.

I trained the school’s camera on them and held my breath. This was for all of us.

“Are you getting this?” Vicky asked, chomping on her gum.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

At that moment, one of the drummers tapped off a jazzy three-count.

Just as the music started, Gwen and her color guard compatriot unfurled the long paper banner.

It was supposed to say, “Culpepper 1998 Homecoming.”

Instead, it read, “Amie Jo hates Jesus.”

I was going for the jugular. People in central Pennsylvania were not allowed to hate Jesus. It just wasn’t done. Amie Jo’s gynecologist father was a church deacon in the Culpepper Emmanuel Lutheran Church.

The crowd went from cheering to gasping in horror as the band innocently advanced onto the field. They made it all the way to center field, giving everyone a good, long look at the message, before a vice principal jogged out and physically ran through the banner, tearing it in half.

“Was that you?” Vicky asked out of the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” I smirked.

“Genius,” she said proudly.

I turned the camera to its video setting and waited for Part B to commence.

“Well, that was an interesting start,” the announcer in the booth chuckled nervously. “Let’s get on with the good old-fashioned Homecoming fun. It’s my great pleasure to introduce you to Culpepper Junior/Senior High’s 1998 Homecoming Court.”

I pressed record.

I could hear the click and whirr of the tape the announcer slipped into the stereo and smiled. I hoped my timing was close.

Stately, classical music crackled over the loudspeakers, and the announcer introduced the first couple. A blonde in a tweed blazer and pencil skirt and a tall, gangly guy in a suit. The next couple sauntered out after them. Another blonde. Another blazer. This one’s escort was a soccer player still in his uniform.

I held my breath.

“Our next court couple is Amie Jo Armburger and Travis Hostetter.”

Travis? What the hell?

Was she really that greedy that she had Travis for her escort and Jake for her Homecoming date?

Amie Jo’s smile looked tense and faker than usual. Someone must have told her about the banner. Good.

As she waved at the very quiet crowd, the music stopped and was replaced with voices.

“I’m not pregnant, and you know it.”

“But it’s what everyone else believes that counts,” she reminded me brightly. “As far as Culpepper is concerned, you’re a pregnant whore.”

A gasp stirred up in the crowd.

“Oh my God. You didn’t!” Vicky squealed.

“Oh, I did.”

The tape continued. “You’re nothing. You’ll never be anything. Just like the rest of these pathetic losers in this school.”

Someone in the crowd started to boo, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the earful of the real Amie Jo from the loudspeaker.

“Of course I cheated on Ricky with Phil,” tape Amie Jo confessed. She’d forgotten that the losers of Culpepper had ears, too. In less than a week, I’d been able to collect forty minutes of voice recordings of her being an ass. I had a hard time paring it down to just the highlights. Thankfully the AV club had been helpful with the editing.

“Ugh. I don’t know why Becky thinks she’s so pretty and popular. If it weren’t for me befriending her, she’d still be the fat, ugly loser she always was.”

One of the blonde girls on the court turned scarlet. Amie Jo shook her head vehemently. “I never said that,” she lied.

“Shonda is so into her stupid boyfriend, she thinks she can blow me off on a Saturday? We’ll see who blows who off when I tell everyone he gave her herpes!”

“That garden gnome Mr. Fester? My daddy owns him.”

“Get off the field,” someone yelled from the stands.

Someone else started chanting, “Asshole.” It caught on quickly.

But the tape continued. I grinned as my mix tape of Amie Jo’s greatest hits—gossiping about her best friends, discussing sexual encounters, and general bitchiness echoed through the stadium.

Travis looked pale next to Amie Jo’s full fury.

“You!” I couldn’t hear her over the crowd’s displeasure. She looked at me and pointed like a witch casting a spell.