You Should See Me in a Crown(22)

“Oh yeah?” Derek laughs. “Who’s gonna try me? That crew of off-brand Lacoste models you call a team? You know where to find me.”

All the eyes in the room are turned on the two of them now. Everyone has mostly been working on their own dishes and talking occasionally up until this point, but alliances are already beginning to form. The other Jacket Jocks—the ones who wear their letter jacket every day, mostly football and basketball guys (minus Jordan, who is looking between the two guys like he’s trying to decide when to step in)—start chiming in from their ovens.

“Off-brand Lacoste models?” Chad Davis, one of the golf team guys—which makes him a non–Jacket Jock, stick with me here—snorts from the back row. “You Neanderthals couldn’t even spell Lacoste.”

Jaxon Price, two ovens down from him, snaps back, “Okay, well, how much you wanna bet I can spell fight me without a problem?”

I feel like I’m in an alternate reality, I swear. This whole thing is so outlandish, so laughable, I can’t believe I’m in the middle of it. I can’t believe people actually fight about stuff like this. I can’t believe that we’re actually going all Sharks versus Jets in the culinary-arts room.

“Yo,” Jordan starts, rounding the counter and coming to stand between them. “I know you’re not about to start a food fight in here, right? Even you two must be self-aware enough to know how corny that looks.”

But nobody can hear him at this point, because in the back of the room, Ryan Fuqua and Chad Davis have already taken it there. Chad beams Ryan in the chest with a mixture of maraschino cherries, and Ryan starts going ballistic.

“Screw you, Chad! Now I have to have my housekeeper take this to the cleaners!”

And from there it’s anarchy.

I hit the deck as the desserts start flying. The room erupts in shrieks of shock and laughter, and the debris is splattering my back as I start crawling to the front row, where Mack is hiding beneath a cookie tray. I’m watching her get pelted with chocolate chips from the onslaught above when I accidentally put one of my hands in a puddle of vanilla frosting, slip, and faceplant into the tile.

“Woman down!” Mack shouts, sympathetic but altogether amused. No one can hear her but me. “You okay?”

She reaches out to me, and I take her hand with the one of mine that’s not covered in frosting. Her grip is tight and warm, and I don’t let go of it immediately when I maneuver my way underneath her pan-shield. We’re tucked so closely together—definitely closer than we’ve ever been—that I can smell her rich jasmine-scented shampoo through the overly aggressive sweetness of the culinary-arts room at present. Our shoulders bump, and I feel all weird and warm at the sensation.

“Is this all it takes to get them so fired up?” I manage to get out over the noise. I have to say something, anything, to distract myself from the sensation of her body against mine and her shampoo smell swirling around my head.

So, okay, yeah, maybe I am attracted to a little more than her talent.

I hear something shatter near the back of the room and a voice that sounds like Rachel’s yelling, “Derek, please! You’re going to ruin this for us!”

Mack doesn’t answer me, just laughs as her eyes search my face.

But her hand—which she must realize is still holding my own—releases mine. And then, almost like she needs a new way to busy it, she reaches up and smears some now-spilled cheesecake batter across my cheek with her index finger. She must not have intended to, but she manages to get it dangerously close to my lips. So close, in fact, that before she pulls away, I probably could have kissed the tip of her finger.

Without thinking or breaking eye contact, I dart my tongue out and quickly lick away the batter. And suddenly neither of us is laughing. At once, I’m both terrified and thrilled about what that might mean.

But then, like a record scratch, a shrill voice devoid of any faux-French accent cuts through the air. And all bets are off.

“Holy mother of God,” Madame Simoné shrieks. “What in Heaven’s name have y’all done?!”





When I walk into school on Monday morning, I stop short as soon as I reach the Commons.

I can barely tolerate Rachel in human size, but the face in front of me is enough to make a nun curse God and walk backward into hell. A banner the size of a small Mediterranean nation is displayed from one wall to the other across the Commons. COLLINS FOR COURT is emblazoned across it in this gaudy hot-pink glitter font.

She didn’t even opt for a clever caption, and that is, perhaps, the most devastating part about it. I mean, honestly, where’s the effort?

But I get it. Rachel has to reassert herself as queen worthy since she can’t sell anything at the bake sale today, thanks to her boyfriend’s food fight debacle. Gabi was right. The devil works hard, but Rachel Collins really does work harder.

“This is incredible, but also a little terrifying.” I turn around, and Mack is smirking over my shoulder. “You’d think that with a poster this big, she would have put a little more thought into her slogan.”

She must be clairvoyant or something. I should have known that those eyes were a sign of being in touch with—what does Stone call it? The astral plane?

“Rachel Collins is much more flash than substance. It’s sort of her superpower.”