She Drives Me Crazy(13)

The whole team looks at me, their mouths twitching with glee. I feel like I’m flying close to the sun.

“Let’s run the Hot Dog play,” Danielle says, smirking. She passes me the ball, and I hesitate, realizing the gift she’s giving me.

“You sure?”

“Make it sail, Scots.”

We run the play with a palpable momentum. I zip around the court, and when Googy feeds me the ball, I send it swishing through the basket with a perfect jump shot.

The girls in the stands erupt. Honey-Belle actually whoops. Danielle looks at me like we’ve just found money on the ground.

“Carpool with Irene for as long as you can,” she whispers, a gleam in her eye.

And for the first time, I think it’s not a bad idea.





4


The next morning, I hustle out the door with my shoes half tied. Carpooling home last night was uneventful—we literally didn’t speak—but I don’t expect the beast to slumber for long. I plan to be outside her house way before our seven thirty departure time, just to prove a point.

But when I pull into Irene’s driveway at 7:23, she’s already outside. Of course.

“How long were you waiting?” I ask when she opens the door.

She takes her time replying, setting her bags all over my seat. “A few minutes.”

It feels like she’s saying that just to piss me off, so the moment she’s seated, I jerk the car backward with extra force. Her coffee thermos spills over the cupholder.

“Dude,” she says angrily.

“Whoops, sorry,” I say breezily. “There are napkins in the glove compartment.”

She wipes up the spill more carefully than I expected her to. “Can you turn your music down?” she grumbles. “It’s too early for this shit.”

“This is Fine Young Cannibals.”

“I know who it is.”

“Sure you do.”

“Oh, you’re right, you’re the only person our age who’s really into eighties music. I forgot how exceptionally unique you are.”

Instead of responding, I turn up the music until I’m full-on blasting it. She literally scoffs and turns away from me. We don’t speak again for the rest of the ride.

Still, that afternoon, before the end of practice, the cheerleaders show up again.



* * *



By Thursday, the whole school is swollen with Homecoming energy. Our principal announces that final voting for the Homecoming Court will take place during homeroom on Friday, so for the rest of the day, it’s all anyone can talk about. I hear Irene’s name even more than I have in the past two days, and since we’re still carpooling, the attention on me intensifies proportionally.

“Homecoming Court is completely underutilized,” Gunther muses at lunch. “We’re not getting the max value. If there’s kings and queens, why not add the scheming advisor or the greedy bishop? I can think of so many people I’d nominate.”

We’re lying on the cool grass outside the cafeteria, using our backpacks as headrests. The trees above us are still flush with leaves, but they’re starting to turn orange and red. Most of the seniors are clustered in groups around us. A few of them are messing with the marquee again. It now reads IM COMING HO.

“What’s the equivalent of a court musician?” Kevin asks. “That’s what I’d want to be.”

“Like a bard?” Danielle says. “Or a troubadour?”

“Troubadour,” Kevin echoes, laughing. “What does that even mean? How are you so freaking smart all the time?”

Danielle bites her lip, smiling coyly. “I do this thing called studying.”

“So do I, but you don’t hear me tossing out words like troubadour. I swear your brain retains, like, everything you read.”

We’re interrupted by Charlotte Pascal, the varsity soccer captain, who approaches us with a couple of her teammates. The soccer girls are notoriously hot, all long legs and California hair. They’re also our best athletic team, the only Grandma Earl sport that wins championships and local business endorsements. It’s well understood that if you want to be somebody around here, you have two options: cheerleading or soccer. Basketball isn’t even a blip on the radar.

Which is why I’m so confused Charlotte is approaching us. Before I can make sense of it, she pushes a homemade Rice Krispies Treat into my hand.

“Er—what—?” I try to say.

“Happy Homecoming,” she says, her smile impossibly bright. “I hope you’ll consider voting for me for Queen.”

Neither the boys nor I reply; Charlotte Pascal is disarmingly gorgeous, and I’m pretty sure none of us has ever spoken directly to her before.

Danielle looks at the three of us and snorts. She squints up at Charlotte and says, “You know canvassing for votes isn’t allowed, right?”

“Don’t spoil the party,” Charlotte says, wrinkling her nose. “It’s just a little Homecoming treat.”

Against my will, I look across the courtyard, where Irene and her pack have been lounging. She’s watching Charlotte with narrowed eyes, her arms splayed across the bench, her henchwomen lurking around her in pleated skirts. Irene and Charlotte’s friendship turned enmity has been the source of gossip for almost a year now, and it’s only intensified since Irene pulled that “Class Inseparables” stunt during senior superlatives. Based on the way she’s looking at Charlotte now, I’m surprised she made a joke about it at all.