Rival (3 page)

“Well, call me when you're ready to join the real world,” Chloe says. “I'll be waiting with all the normal people.”

I hang up. Look around and…whatever. Chloe has no idea what she's talking about.

“Here.” I hand Laura a beach ball. “I can use some extra lungs.”

She blows and I blow. Awesome smells drift over from the grill. “Find Your Grail” comes on the iPod, and people launch into another sing-along. I'm enjoying the slightly dizzy sensation that blowing into this little plastic tube is giving me and then…I get this weird feeling. Like a tingling on the back of my neck. I look up, and there is Kathryn sitting by the side of the pool. I was so caught up in the whole
Gondoliers
thing and thinking about John Moorehouse that I didn't see her. Now I feel like I should make sure it actually is her. When you've been enemies for as long as she and I have, it's weird to see the other person in your own backyard.

The more I look, the more my good mood dissolves. I'll come right out and say it because it's pathetic to deny the obvious: Kathryn is really pretty. She's never had to put up with brothers who think it's funny to call her an Amazon or Brookehilde. She's never had to worry about being too tall or her nose being too big. All the guys look at her, and you know she knows it. But she spends all her
time hanging on to Matt McWalter like he's some sort of security blanket.

“Why the sour face?”

Cold metal touches my neck. I turn around to see Brice with a long fork in one hand, a plate of grilled burgers in the other. Laura pops up in her chair and sits with her back all straight. It's obvious she wants me to introduce the two of them. Instead I say, “Trying not to lose my lunch.”

They both look over at Kathryn, who's sitting with her knees smashed up against her chest. “Hey, isn't that…,” Brice says.

“Yeah.”

“Well, somebody should go over and say hi. She looks lonely.”

“Please,” I say. “Don't encourage her.”

“She still on your shit list?”

“She will never
not
be on my shit list.”

He gives me that annoying look that says he thinks he knows me better than I know myself. I look over at Laura for a little moral support.

“Brooke isn't the only one who doesn't like her,” Laura jumps in. “She's basically a leper with the whole school.”

“All the more reason to stage a rescue.” Brice makes a move to go over. Before he can get away, I reach up and grab the plate of burgers out of his hand. Laura squeals
and jumps up, knocking over her chair.

“Leave Kathryn alone,” I tell Brice. “Or I'll toss it overboard.”

“You wouldn't,” he says.

“Oh no?” I walk to the side of the pool and hold the burgers over the water. Suddenly the wind picks up and a beach ball rolls across the concrete from the gazebo.

I have a better idea.

“You know what?” I say. “Now that you mention it she does look kind of lonely. Why don't you get her in the water for some volleyball?”

Brice smiles. “Now
that's
what I'm talking about,” he says. “I knew you were hiding Nice Brooke somewhere.”

He jumps into the water and starts wading over to where Kathryn is sitting. I give Laura a little shrug before calling after him.

“Don't let her tell you she doesn't want to play! Kathryn's shy. She needs to loosen up.”

“
HEY, KATHRYN! CATCH!” A BEACH
ball hits me in the chest and then plops into my lap. I look up to see Brooke's older brother Brice bobbing in the water in front of me.

“Volleyball,” he says brightly. “Come on in!”

“That's okay,” I tell him. “I'm no good at it.”

“I don't believe you. You tell me you suck, you get in here and prove it.”

I'm torn between flustered and flattered. It's nice to be included, especially by somebody like Brice, who is something of a legend at our school. But then I wonder: Is he asking because he really wants me to play, or…I look over at Brooke, who is staring straight at me.

“Come on, Kathryn!” Brice says. Over his shoulder I see Brooke suddenly stride to the edge of the pool.

“I'll play!” she shouts, and dives into the deep end.

I look for Matt, but he's still on the other side of the
patio. I'm about to stand and walk away when a pair of arms grabs me about the waist. It's Tim McNamara again—I know because my nose is pressed flat up against Marvin the Martian. All I can register is mild surprise as he lifts me up and heaves me into the pool.

I hold my breath as we crash into the water. We're under only a second before Tim pulls me up and sets me on my feet. My hair is soaked, my heart racing, and my makeup is probably running down my face, but my feet are touching the bottom and the water isn't too deep, so I try to shake off the panic. I play along because now that I'm here there is no way to get out without making a scene. The splash must have caught Matt's attention because he's watching from the side now, just as trapped as me; if he tries to help, then everybody will know my secret.

They're all in the pool now, grouped on either side of a volleyball net that seems to have sprouted out of nowhere. The game gets going and I try to keep calm as people leap and dive around me, chasing the big, pink beach ball. Everything goes okay until it's Brooke's turn to serve. Her aim is impeccable—every single serve comes straight at me. The first couple of times I duck, letting somebody else lob the ball back. After a while I begin to get the hang of it, lifting my arm to smack the wet ball back over the net as people on my team cheer.

We get ready for another serve. Brooke raises the ball, and I prepare for it to come sailing in my direction. Then, at the last minute, she shifts her focus and hurls it at another girl on my team, beaning her right in the chest.

“Dodgeball!” Brooke screams, and people start hitting one another with anything they can find—balls, foam sticks, even a wet towel or two. I freeze, figuring if I stand still I can keep from getting knocked over.

I'm wrong.

Somebody snatches my legs out from under me, and I go under. I fight my way back toward the surface, and there's Brooke, wading toward me with a big, green Nerf ball. She aims it, spinning and dripping, at my head, and I turn to keep from getting hit. As I twist, I lose my footing.
Splash
—I'm under again. It's a forest of legs down here, and I think I've got my ups and downs mixed up because I can't get my feet underneath me anymore. A knee whacks me in the face and I bite down on my lip. Pink blood billows out of my mouth. I try to grab a shoulder, a hip, a hand, but everything is moving. I'm grasping, but all I get are handfuls of water. The surface shimmers just feet above my head, but I can't reach it.

 

“Get out of the way! Out of the way!”

I open my eyes and try to bring my hands to my face
before I realize that Matt has both of my arms around his neck as he carries me, soldier-style, out of the water. He drops me onto the pool deck as people crowd around, some looking like they're about to cry, some laughing like they haven't figured out yet what's going on. I cough and gag; I think I might throw up all over the patio. “Good thing we haven't had dinner yet,” says somebody in the crowd, who gets shushed by somebody else.

Brooke's mother bursts out of the group, helps me to my feet, and rubs my back as I bend over, coughing the rest of the water out. “Are you all right, honey?” she says. “Should we take you to the emergency room?”

I shake my head, stunned. Matt takes my arm. “She's just shook up, I think. Maybe I should take her home.”

“Yes, of course,” says Mrs. Dempsey. “I'm so sorry the evening had to end like this. Are you sure you're all right, dear?”

Somebody gives me a washrag filled with ice for my bloody lip. “Bye, Kathryn. Bye,” people say in little, sympathetic voices. Brooke is the only person still in the pool. She fixes me with an icy glare as we go by, and I have to look away, just like I always do when things between us come too close to the surface.

Mrs. Dempsey slides open the patio door and leads me into her air-conditioned kitchen. It's as if a DVD has been set on pause and somebody just hit the play button;
the cold brings my senses back and my thoughts begin to spool forward.

“I put your bag in Brooke's room,” Mrs. Dempsey says, ushering me into the foyer.

“Thanks,” I say, testing to see if my lip has quit bleeding. It has, and I bite again to stop it from trembling. “I can find it.”

As soon as she's gone and I hear the patio door slide shut, the tears come. I swipe my arm across my eyes so I can see my way up Brooke's huge staircase.

“I'm such an idiot!” My voice hitches with rage and humiliation.

“What?” says Matt, following right behind. “What did you say?”

I speak louder, but not much, because I have no idea who else might be in the house. “I
knew
something like this was going to happen. Something like this always happens with her.”

“It was just people being stupid,” he says. “Come on, it's not that bad.”

“Not that bad? She tried to kill me!”

“She did not try to kill you, Kath. You're taking this way too far now.”

I stop at the landing and turn to look down at him.

“She knows I can't swim.”

He stares at me like I'm insane; I turn back around
and head down the hall toward Brooke's room, the second door on the right.

“Kath…”

“Matt,” I say, grabbing the knob so hard that it rattles, “believe me. She knows.” Then I go in and shut the door.

The tears begin to slow as I look around. It is a huge room—a suite, really, with a private bathroom and a second room off to the side where Brooke keeps a piano all her own. I take another step in. My things wait on the bed, half buried under backpacks, beach bags, and bundles of other people's clothes. I reach for my duffel but then stop.

It's strange being in someone else's personal space when they aren't there; everything has an energy to it, like a part of the person is still in the room, watching everything you do. Brooke has piles of new clothes with the tags still on them draped over her desk chair, a brand-new laptop on her desk, and an iPod on her bedside table. The room smells of an expensive perfume I tried on once at the mall.

Something yellow catches my eye—the Blackmore pamphlet, stuck to her vanity mirror with the entry form already torn out. Taped next to it are pictures of Brooke at parties, Brooke at football games, Brooke messing around with the other A-listers outside by the pool. I run my finger along the frayed edges of the pam
phlet and then step away from the dresser. Matt was wrong; nothing has changed between the two of us. I survey the room once again. Nothing has changed here, either. Everything is pretty much the way I remember it. See, I've been in Brooke's room before—a long time ago, when she and I were friends.

I HEARD KATHRYN BEFORE I
ever met her—through the door of a practice room freshman year, on my way to audition for Honors Choir.

For everybody else in my class, starting high school was superscary. After a summer of parties with Brice and Bill Jr., freshman year for me felt pretty much like an extension of junior high—nothing to be afraid of, but nothing to get excited about, either.

Nothing, except for music.

With my audition piece under my arm, I opened the door to the music wing and took a couple of steps inside. Ever since we'd moved to Lake Champion I'd been obsessed with the vocal department at William O. Douglas. Knowing I could go there someday was the one thing that kept me sane after my mom yanked us out of New York.

First, I stopped to check out the trophy case with the
plaques honoring all the choirs and soloists who'd won first place at State. Next to those was a line of photos showing the Honors Choir through the years. Girls in burgundy gowns stood in formation next to guys in tuxes. They looked grown-up and serious. Professional. Just like I wanted to be.

I took a sip from my water bottle and started down the hall. I walked past the practice rooms, hearing people warming up through the doors. And then I went past the door to the stage where I'd always seen the Honors Choir perform. Most of the time I'd had to go to concerts by myself because none of my friends ever wanted to go along.

As I got closer to the choir room I could hear more and more people rehearsing. I started putting my ear up to doors. And that's when I heard her—this incredible soprano voice singing “Deh Vieni Non Tardar” from
The Marriage of Figaro
. The voice was sweet but powerful. So clear and focused you could hear every word, even through the practice room door. I would have felt threatened by a voice like that, except whoever it belonged to wasn't competition since I was up for an alto spot.

“Dempsey? Brooke Dempsey?” I snapped around to see a woman poking her head out of the audition room.

“Um…that's me.” I'd gotten so caught up listening that I'd missed my chance for a last-minute warm-up.
She held the door open while I went in. I hoped the hour I'd done at home would be enough.

Anderson sat behind a big folding table. “Brooke Dempsey,” he said. “Why does that name sound familiar?” He looked through my paperwork while the rest of the judges stared at me. For a second I panicked, thinking maybe they'd heard about how I'd gotten wasted at the Fourth of July party and almost got arrested trying to climb the water tower by the lake, or how I threw up all over the lobby of the Steak 'n' Shake when Chloe and I got the beer munchies two weeks after that.

“Ah yes,” Anderson said. He'd found my Training and Experience sheet. “You study with Hildy Shultz, over at the university—she mentioned you to me.”

“She really respects the program here,” I told him. I hoped I didn't sound like an ass kisser.

Anderson just nodded and said, “Are you familiar with how we structure our choruses?”

I nodded, almost laughing. I knew everything there was to know about how the department worked. I knew that most people started out in freshman glee club or Concert Choir, and then worked their way up through Chorale and into Honors Choir at the top. Usually only juniors and seniors got into Honors. Sometimes a sophomore made it, but freshmen almost never got in.

I'd made up my mind that I would be different.

“What are you going to sing for us?” Anderson said.

“‘Che faro senza Euridice,' by Gluck.”

“Impressive. Begin when you're ready.”

I took a second. Shut my eyes and got focused. Then I nodded for the pianist to start the introduction. To this day I still remember it as one of those performances where everything goes right. The notes just came without me having to think about them. I even took a chance on a cadenza at the end and nailed it.

Anderson told me, “Excellent. Check the results tomorrow, then enroll in the appropriate class when you come to school on Monday.”

As I left the room a tiny girl was standing by the door, waiting to go in next. I watched her through the window as she gave her music to the accompanist. Then she started to sing. The door blocked most of the sound, but I could hear enough. It was her—the soprano from before.

And so it turned out I wasn't the only freshman who made it into Honors. Kathryn showed up, too, sitting a few seats away from me in the back row. I recognized her by the long, dark hair. But even though we were considered freaks and intruders by the upperclassmen, and even though I knew how good a singer she was, we never talked. Our school is huge, and I always had stuff going on with Bill and Brice's friends. It wasn't until the
twins graduated, leaving me and Chloe without an automatic social life, that I really got to know Kathryn.

 

Chloe noticed her when she came to meet me after choir on the first day of junior year.

“Who's that?” said Chloe.

I looked where she was pointing, and there was Kathryn, walking away from us down the hall.

“Her name's Kathryn,” I said. “Pease, maybe?”

“She's pretty,” said Chloe.

A light went on in her eyes, and I could see the ideas start to bubble up. Chloe's the social director in our group—sort of like a teenage Martha Stewart, Miss Manners, and Perez Hilton, all rolled up in one. Back in sixth grade, she was the first person who put into words why people were so interested in a gawky new girl from New York.
You're popular, Brooke,
she'd told me.
You're lucky.
When we got to William O. Douglas, she'd made herself the official keeper of the A-list for our class—no one was admitted without Chloe's blessing.

“We should invite that girl out,” Chloe said. “In fact, I can think of a lot of people we should invite out. Now that your brothers are gone we should be recruiting new friends. No. Wait. We should be
discovering
them!” She got out her notebook and started scribbling. “We'll have a slumber party. It'll be like sorority rush!”

“I don't know,” I said. “Won't it be weird walking up to people and saying, ‘Here, come to my house so we can ogle you all night'?”

“It won't be weird, it'll be great.” Chloe handed me what she'd written.
Meet new friends Friday night at our JUNIOR GIRLS SLUMBER PARTY!!!
“I'll make invites tonight,” she said. “Quit frowning, Brooke, this is going to be fun.”

 

The invitations, which Chloe printed on Pepto-pink paper, made it obvious what the slumber party was really for. Especially when you looked at who got one and who didn't. Chloe started with our basic group of friends. Then she filled out the guest list with girls she'd seen in the hallways and in class. The main criterion for getting invited was “looks cool.”

“What does that mean?” I said as I went over the guest list with her in the commons after school.

“You know.” She waved at a couple of girls walking past like they were animals at the zoo. “Pretty. Nice clothes. Like that girl from your choir—what's her name? Kassie?”

“Kathryn.”

“Right. Like her.”

“Kathryn doesn't have nice clothes.” Kathryn actually had great clothes. But they weren't brand names.
A lot of her stuff looked handmade—skirts sewn out of vintage fabric, hand-knit sweaters. You couldn't find stuff like that at the mall.

“She's got inner style,” Chloe told me. “It's a wonder the music freaks haven't killed it yet.”

Chloe sat down on a bench and started rummaging through her purse.

“I'm a music freak,” I told her.

“No, you're not.” She pulled a big purple pen out of her bag and started adding names to the list. “You're superinvolved.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I bent over and took her notebook away so she'd have to look me in the eye. Chloe knew how much music meant to me.

She sighed and tossed her razored red hair. “You're one of those people that does it all. You have to be a little bit into everything. If you weren't you'd only be a little bit popular.”

“But I'm not a little bit into music,” I said. “That's what I do.”

“Well, thank God you do other things, too.” She grabbed the notebook and went back to her list.

 

The original plan was for us to have the party at Chloe's house. Her stepdad, who was in the middle of running for state representative, had just put in a new hot tub,
and she was dying to show it off. But then he invited some big campaign donors over for dinner. Chloe's mom waited until that morning to tell her our party would be too disruptive, and, by the way, could she please make herself scarce for the rest of the evening?

I thought it sounded like a great excuse to cancel. But Chloe wanted to have the party more than ever, so we went to plan B. We had it at my place. She had Dina Mendoza text out the new plans, conveniently neglecting to mention that my mom would be working late. Not that it really mattered. Even when Mom was around, she always pretty much let the twins do whatever they wanted, and that extended to me, too.

“Easy on the onions!” Chloe shouted. She swooped down on Angela Van Zant, who was making chili at the stove in my kitchen. “Seriously, An! We don't want our breath to reek while we're talking to people.”

“Sorry,” said Angela, and she started scooping onions out of the pot.

I hoisted myself onto the counter and stole a carrot from the veggie tray. “Why don't you make it yourself, Rachael Ray? Then you can put in whatever you want.”

“Because it's inefficient,” said Chloe. She took the spoon from Angela and removed all but the last few pieces of onion. “Everybody has a job to do, and if everybody would do it
right
, then we wouldn't be running late
like we are right now.”

I looked around and, sure enough, Chloe had taken a bunch of our friends and put them to work. We'd already dragged the flat screen up to my room, plus the Wii. Now we were making refreshments. Jenna Rogers and Kiersten Coons were in charge of cutting up veggies while Madison Verbeck spooned cookie dough onto baking sheets. Violet Alexander was mixing up guacamole, and…

“Where's Dina?” I asked just as Bill and Brice banged into the kitchen. College hadn't started for them yet, so they'd stayed in Lake Champion an extra week to party. Their arms were loaded with bags from the liquor store that never checks IDs.

As soon as they saw the twins, everybody dropped what they were doing and tried to look cool.

“So, Bill!” chirped Chloe. “Are you two going to be around tonight? We could totally use your input on the new girls.”

“That's a negative.” Bill leaned over and snagged a celery stick. “We're headed to The Rocks.”

“But we didn't forget you,” added Brice. He set one of his bags down on the table. “There's beer, Boone's, and peach schnapps in there. Should be enough to at least get you started.”

Everybody totally forgot their cool as they swarmed
around the table. If it's possible to fit fourteen arms into one paper bag, we managed to do it. I opened a bottle of beer and took a long drink.

“Hey, Brooke.” Brice stopped on his way out the door. “How's your ass?”

“Yeah!” chimed in Bill before they both disappeared down the hall. “Watch your butt tonight, okay, Baby B?”

Everybody cracked up. I poured the rest of my beer down the sink. At the end-of-summer party, I'd thought it was hilarious to let Dan Hummel chase me around and try to whip my bare ass with some old Mardi Gras beads we'd found in my kitchen junk drawer. The next morning, though, when my butt cheeks were covered in welts and people were posting photos on Facebook, it didn't seem funny at all. Plus, I had a hazy memory of running into the street and almost getting hit by a car. All because I was sloppy, stupid drunk.

I tossed my bottle into the recycle bin, but if anybody noticed me wasting perfectly good beer they didn't say anything. That's because Dina had just walked into the room.

“Dina!” shouted Chloe. “Where are the DVDs? Didn't you get them?”

“No.” Dina's voice was small and sad. She slumped into a kitchen chair.

“Hey!” I went over and knelt down next to her. “What happened?”

“I went to Videoworld.”

“And?” Videoworld was a dump, but not bad enough for a visit there to make someone look borderline suicidal. Dina glanced around to see if the others were listening. They totally were, even though they pretended to be busy with their snack making.

“
He
works at Videoworld,” she half-whispered to me. “I didn't know he worked there.”

“What? Oh no!” Chloe flew across the kitchen and flung her arms around Dina's neck. “Are you saying you saw Noah?”

Dina deflated even more. Her nose went red.

“I didn't know he worked there, either!” Chloe said. “If I'd known I would have told you to go to Blockbuster instead. It's just that Videoworld has such a better selection….”

I shot Chloe a look. Noah Brink was a senior. Dina'd practically gone all the way with him over the summer and he'd not only dumped her the next week, but he'd told everybody the gory details, too. Dina had been avoiding Noah like the plague ever since.

“That must have been awful,” Chloe murmured. “Especially after you sent him that email with your class schedule so the two of you would never even
have to be in the same hallway.”

“You did?” said Madison from over by the oven.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Dina. She jumped up and hurried out of the room. I rolled my eyes.
This
was why you never told Chloe anything you didn't want broadcast to the rest of the world in boldface caps.

“Are you sure you didn't know he worked there?” I asked. Chloe'd been mad at Dina for going to lunch with the cheerleaders and not inviting her along. And since Chloe always knew everything, it wasn't hard to imagine she also knew where the guy who'd broken Dina's heart worked.