Archenemy (6 page)

Then she got a boyfriend.

His name was Joe Anderson, but I didn't know much about him beyond that. I don't think Eva did either. Maybe she picked him out of the yearbook. His last name
did
start with an A.

The only thing they seemed to have in common was a willingness to stick their tongues down each other's throats.
A lot
. Right in front of me.

Everywhere I turned, there they were—slobbering all over each other. I'd close my locker door and see them leaning on the next locker, her hands shoving his face into hers or shoving his hands into her back pockets.

When I tried to maneuver around them, Eva would say things like, “Got a good look?”

I don't know who dumped who, but Joe didn't last long. So Eva got another boyfriend. And then another.

I knew what she was trying to do, of course. She was trying to prove something to me—and probably to herself too.

But knowing why someone does something doesn't stop them from doing it. Ignoring them doesn't always work either.

T

he only way to make Eva Riley stop is to report her to people who can make her stop.

Except I can't report her. I know I told my mom I would, and I know I'm probably being naive. But I can't turn her in.

Not yet. Not until I try to talk to her. She deserves that.

Okay—maybe she doesn't
deserve
it. Maybe what she deserves is to be expelled or worse.

But I can't stop thinking about the summer—about how we spent almost every day together and about how it all ended—and I can't stop thinking about her running away from the picnic she'd made for us.

Which is why, when I see Eva hanging outside my fifth-period English classroom necking with Tim DeLoy, I walk right up to her.

I don't bother clearing my throat or waiting for her to notice me. “We need to talk,” I tell her.

Eva gives Tim's earlobe a tug with her teeth and turns to me. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I have something to say to you,” I say as kindly as I can. “It's important. Please.”

Eva can tell I'm serious. Her sarcastic smile goes away. Her hand, which was scratching the small of Tim's back, falls to her hip. She nods. “Meet me at the field in five minutes.”

“We have class then.”

“I thought you said it was important.”

“It is,” I tell her. “It's just—”

“You can't be a few minutes late to class?”

“You know what happened last year…”

“You got suspended for skipping class, not being a few minutes late.”

I sigh and shrug my shoulders. “Why the field?”

“Can you think of a better place?”

I can't. It seems right to have our conversation there. That's the place where it all started.

“I'll be there,” I tell her.

I

arrive at the field first.

As I stand at midfield and wait for Eva to show up, I think about just how stupid it is for me to be here. Honestly, I'm not sure why I agreed to step out in the middle of the school day. Eva's reasoning actually seemed logical at the time. But the more I think about, the more illogical it becomes.

Being a little late to class might not be the same thing as cutting class, but what about being
a lot
late? It's not as if what we have to talk about will take only a couple minutes. Issues need hashing out.

When Eva gets to the field, I'm going to tell her that I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. After school, absolutely. But not right now.

I check the time on my cell phone. Eva should be here. I decide to wait two more minutes. Then I have to get back inside.

If I hurry, I'll only be a little late. Three or four minutes, tops. I'll rush into the classroom and tell Ms. Banks I'm really, really sorry. Worst-case scenario, she'll mark me tardy.

Right?

You can't suspend someone for being tardy, can you? Even if they have a prior record of cutting class? No—no one would do that. Still, I have to get back inside.

I check my cell phone clock again. Sorry, Eva, time's up.

Except as I speed walk out of the stadium, I almost smash right into Mr. Lenders.

“Ms. Williams,” he says. He has a giant belly and wheezes when he breathes. “I am truly disappointed to find you here.” More wheezing. “I thought the suspension last year had taken care of your aversion to class.”

“It's not what it looks like,” I say. “I was only out here because…” Because…what? Because I was meeting someone? Because I really had to talk to her? What can I say?

“Save it, Ms. Williams,” he says. “One of these days, you're going to have to start taking responsibility for your actions.”

“I know—I do—it's just—”

Mr. Lenders raises his hand to silence me. “Last year, you said it was my fault for waiting until the playoffs to suspend you,” he says. He has caught his breath, and his voice is steady. “I wonder, when are the results of your actions going to be
your
fault?”

That's when it hits me how he found me. Eva. She must have told him. Why else would he walk all the way out to the track? “I'm not saying it's not my fault, Mr. Lenders. I'm just saying—”

He raises his hand again. “In any case, I won't make the same mistake twice. We'll let Principal Collins figure out a suitable punishment here and now. I doubt he'll be in favor of keeping you on the soccer team given your prior record. I hope you'll use this time to think about
your
actions and not the actions of those around you.”

E

verything seems to be happening exactly as it did last year.

Like last year, Mr. Lenders escorts me through the halls of the school.

Like last year, he's taking me to Principal Collins's office.

Like last year, Mr. Lenders's route to the principal's office takes us through the athletic department hallway. Coach Berg's office is at the end of the hallway. I wonder if—like last year—he'll be sitting at his desk as I walk by. Is he going to take the news as badly as he did last year when he heard about my suspension?

No
, I tell myself.
It'll be better this time.

It has to be.

After all, unlike last year, I won't be missing playoff games. And, really, maybe I won't be missing any games at all. Last year, my suspension was entirely my fault. Even though I was angry about the timing, I knew deep down that I was getting what I deserved. This year is different. I'm not saying I should have cut class, but I have reasons for doing it this year that I can explain. Reasons that adults will be able to understand. Maybe, once Principal Collins and my parents and Coach Berg hear my side of the story, they'll drop the suspension completely.

Or maybe not.

Because as I pass Coach Berg's office, I see that he's not alone. Eva is in there with him.

 . . .

I can see Eva's whole plot clearly now. Eva told me to meet her outside, ratted on me to Mr. Lender, and then headed to Coach Berg's office. She wants me to get suspended again. And just in case getting caught leaving the school isn't enough to do it, Eva's going to seal the deal with lies about me. It's so obvious that I wonder why I didn't see through her plot earlier.

Okay, maybe it's not obvious. Maybe Eva's not really evil enough to do all of this to me—but right now, after all she's done to me, it seems totally possible.

As I sit outside the principal's office, I think about all the nasty lies Eva might have told Coach Berg. I imagine her telling Coach … what? That she's uncomfortable with me on the field? That she wants to play with someone she can trust? I'm not entirely sure, but I know it's not good.

The more I think about it, the more of a hurry I'm in to talk with Coach. After all, the longer Eva's version of what happened between us sits alone in Coach Berg's head, the more likely he'll think it's the truth. Mom talks all the time about how this happens in her job. When the media reports only one side of a case, the public immediately assumes it's the only side—even if the facts tell a different story later. The trick, Mom says, is to get the truth to the public as quickly as possible. If people have a chance to compare what
really
happened to what supposedly happened, they're more likely to be able to tell the difference. But you have to reach them before they've made up their minds.

That's why I need to talk with Coach Berg ASAP.

Except I can't. Not as long as I'm stuck in the lobby of Principal Collins's office, waiting for my parents to arrive. I've been staring at the door for what feels like forever, silently pleading for my parents to walk in.

Open, door,
I tell it.
C'mon. Please. Open.

When the door doesn't open, I'm actually mad at it for not cooperating. In fact, I'm mad at lots of inanimate objects right now. The chair I'm sitting on for being so hard and uncomfortable. The brown carpet for being exactly the same color as scum and dirt—intentionally. All the carpet in this school is this color because adults are worried kids will get actual dirt on it. Kids can wear muddy shoes or spill whatever they like, and it will blend right into the natural color of the carpet. Adults think they've solved the problem, when they haven't solved anything. They've guaranteed that their carpets will always look dirty, even when they're clean. Adults can be really illogical if there's no one there to point out the flaws in their thinking.

Hurry up, Mom and Dad! I need to point out the flaws in whatever's in Coach Berg's head!

Almost on cue, the door opens and my dad steps in. He's wearing wind pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers—his usual attire.

“Where's Mom?” I ask.

“On her way,” he says. “What's this all about, Addie?”

I know he's concerned because he's rocking back and forth from toe to heel. I can see his calves bulging through his wind pants.

“Nothing—I mean, not nothing. I'm definitely in a lot of trouble, and I definitely can explain what happened. But not right now, okay? Right now, I have to explain it all to Coach Berg because I need him to understand what happened between me and Eva—not some other version of it. I'll tell you everything—I promise—but not until I tell my coach first. Trust me.”

I stop talking and take a deep breath.

Dad does some more rocking.

“Of course I trust you,” he says.

He opens the door for me and tells me good luck.