Made You Up(12)

“What do I do?”

“You’re going to go up there”—he pointed at the empty bleachers—“and shut up.”

Was there some kind of law about drop-kicking *s in the face? Probably. They always had laws against things that really needed to be done.

“No,” I replied. “I think I’ll go sit over there.” I pointed to a spot a few feet from where he had, then marched off to sit there. I crossed my arms and glared at him until he and his eyebrow looked away. Then I yanked all the ruined books out of my bag, piled them beside me, and started my homework.

When the volleyball team entered the gym, I paused homework to snap pictures: Jetta and Art setting up the volleyball net like pros; Theo manning the concession stand; Evan and Ian scouring the bleachers for trash; the volleyball team looking perky and athletic in their spandex.

The only thing missing was Miles. But he was probably circling somewhere, destroying villages and hoarding gold in his mountain lair.

I cracked my neck and returned to calculus. Homework was a bitch, especially since this year I’d be doing it in the free time I had between school, work, and community service. Not to mention I still had to look for scholarships and fill out college applications. And visit my damned therapist twice a week.

But I had to do it. Had to get it right this time. No screwups with my medicine, however much I hated the stuff. No distractions. I didn’t have time to worry about what other people thought of me, yet I had to—if I seemed too on edge, too paranoid, it wouldn’t matter what my grades were. If anyone decided I was crazy or dangerous, I could say good-bye to a future and hello to the Happy House.

Miles walked back into the gym and settled himself at the scorer’s table. For half a second he turned, stared up at me, and quirked that eyebrow, before facing the Spandex Squad again. The base of my skull tingled. I hadn’t thought about it before—why hadn’t I thought about it before? Miles. Miles was a genius. Miles liked to screw with people.

Miles didn’t seem to particularly like me, and I’d been antagonizing him all day. It would be easy for him to figure me out. Especially if I kept staring at him like I had in chemistry. Maybe I could head him off. Tell him about it before he found out, then beg for his silence or something.

Or you could grow some balls, said the little voice. That was probably the best option.

I turned my attention to the scoreboard. McCoy had made at least five different announcements about it today, and during each one somebody would mimic him and everyone would laugh.

“There’s an urban legend about that scoreboard, you know.” Tucker appeared next to me, holding a Coke. I looked around. The bleachers were already full. How did that happen? I glanced over my shoulder, expecting someone to be standing there with a knife.

“Really?” I asked absentmindedly, doing a belated perimeter check. “Somehow I don’t find that surprising.”

Cliff Ackerley and a few other football player types stood at the foot of the bleachers, holding up signs for Ria Wolf, who I gathered was the starting setter. I spotted Celia Hendricks on the edge of a bigger group of students who didn’t look like they were putting any effort toward actually watching the game. Parents filed into the gym from the rotunda, holding popcorn and hot dogs and wearing shirts that read “Go Sabres!”

“What a ridiculous sport,” said a woman near me, her voice laced with acid. “Volleyball. They should call it ‘sluts in spandex.’”

I searched for the disgruntled parent, but teenagers surrounded me. I squeezed myself into a smaller space.

“Did you hear that woman?” I asked Tucker.

“What woman?”

“The one who said the thing about volleyball players being sluts.”

Tucker looked around. “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

I shook my head. “Must’ve been nothing.” I’d learned a long time ago that asking someone else if they heard something was much safer than asking them if they saw it. Most people didn’t trust their ears as much as they trusted their eyes. Of course, auditory hallucinations were also the most common kind of hallucinations. Not good for me.

“Now cheerleading, that’s a sport. A sport with dignity. You make it or you don’t. There’s no gray area, not like with volleyball.”

Her voice mingled with the crowd and the squeak of shoes on the court, then faded out.

Tucker shifted beside me. “The legend says that some chick who went to East Shoal years ago was so obsessed with high school that she refused to leave it, and, in a weird suicide stunt, made the scoreboard fall on herself. Now her soul inhabits the scoreboard, influencing matches to help East Shoal win. Or lose. Depends on how she feels that day, I guess.”