Total Knockout (18 page)

Oh, please
, I thought as I went back to my room to sulk. My mother speaking in clichés was a whole new low.

I even sought spiritual guidance from Henry. After I told him what went down, he said, “The ugly fish in the beautiful river is part of what makes the river beautiful.”

“What?”

“You should treasure this ugly fish in your life's river,” he continued, with a straight face. “Treasure it as much as all the beautiful fish. They're all a part of our journey downstream.”

After that, I realized that the only person left to turn to was my dad.

It was Friday night, just after Nicole's article on how smashingly well the new student council was doing without me appeared. I wondered what I ever did to Nicole for her to write such negative stuff about me—she really seemed to have it in for me. And where was Mrs. Troxel through all this? Wasn't she supposed to approve everything before it was printed? Where were the checks and balances, the fair and unbiased reporting?

I made myself a sandwich and settled in front of the TV for reruns of my favorite crime show.

As I pried the sticky bread off the roof of my mouth, Dad came in and sat at the opposite end of the couch with a bag of barbeque chips and a bottle of name-brand beer. I wondered bitterly why he got fancy beer but I wasn't allowed my organic milk.

He let out a deep sigh and stared blankly at the TV. Mom was working late and Henry had just left for his friend Simon's house, where they were testing recipes. In addition to giving up all meat and fish, he'd recently given up root vegetables like carrots and potatoes, saying killing is killing since the plant dies when you uproot it. Mom told him if he wanted to be fed, he'd have to come up with simple alternatives she or Dad could fix at mealtimes.

“Henry's finally cracked,” I told Dad through a mouthful of sticky bread.

“What now?” He took a gulp from his bottle, then set it on the coffee table in front of him.

“He's talking about ugly fish and beautiful rivers. He's totally not making sense.”

“That's better than what Mom is saying,” Dad said.
“She basically said I should get off my butt and go fishin' for a job.”

I didn't say anything because what I wanted to say to him wasn't very nice. I didn't want to be mean or snarky to Dad—in spite of myself, I just wanted someone to talk to.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do now,” I said, both of us keeping our eyes on the television. A cop was interrogating a suspect, who was pretending he wasn't intimidated. “The student council was
my
thing. Now I don't have a . . . thing anymore.”

Dad stuck his hand in the chip bag and said, “Don't I know what you mean.”

“I mean, I've always been president. If anyone ever asked, ‘Who is Lucia Latham?' all you had to do is look in the old yearbooks. You'd see it right there. ‘Oh, she's the student council president. That's who she is.' But now I'm nothing. Just a regular student. Worse, actually. I'm a regular student who used to be somebody.”

“I know the feeling.” Dad sighed.

As the suspect on TV finally cracked and threw himself at the false mirror, I said, “You know what? I'm getting what I deserve. I always thought things could be so
great, that I could do such amazing things as long as I tried hard enough. But from now on . . . forget it.”

“Forget it,” Dad repeated, his eyes on the TV, same as mine.

“I'm not saying I'm not going to try. I'm just going to keep my expectations low. That way, no matter how badly I bomb out, I won't be as disappointed. And I won't expect anything of anyone else, either.” I nodded to myself, realizing that this was the way to live. The higher the expectations, the harder the fall. Everyone knew that.

“Well,” I said to Dad, who took another swig of beer, his glassy eyes on the television, “I'm going to bed. Thanks for listening.”

Before my resignation, in the days when I cared, I would wake up each morning with a solid plan of action for the day. Not anymore. With my new mantra of keeping my expectations low, I woke up with nothing to do—and nothing to worry about.

I thought this would make me feel better, but I realized that not thinking about anything made me think about a lot of things I didn't want to—like Cooper, who still wasn't talking to me because I still hadn't apologized to him, and also Melanie, whom I had to face on the school bus.

The one thing I had to acknowledge was the fact that Melanie had run for v.p. at my request. She didn't even want it. She barely paid attention in council meetings, and she showed no initiative in any projects. Now she was president.

It angered me that something I had taken such pride in and took so seriously was handed over to her even though she hadn't asked for it. She'd probably look at it as another fun project that wouldn't hold her interest through football season. And with the yearly fund-raiser coming up at the end of the week, she had to focus and actually raise all that money. The school, the students, the entire football team, and all their parents were expecting new warm-up suits, and she had to deliver. For once, Melanie had people depending on her and frankly, I wasn't sure she'd pull through.

The Monday after I had my talk with Dad—or, as I realized later, after I'd talked
to
Dad—I waited for the school bus on the corner as usual. And as had happened every day since the beginning of the school year, Melanie came running out of her house at the last minute, with whatever hat she was wearing that day threatening to fly off her head. But instead of waiting at the bus's door for her to arrive, for over a week now I quickly climbed the stairs, sat in the second seat on the right, and buried my face in a book. She always passed by me and sat a few rows back and usually started in on some unfinished homework (I could see this in the bus driver's mirror). We didn't say a word to each other, and we didn't even
look at each other. But on this Monday, she decided to break our unspoken agreement.

She sat down heavily right next to me as the bus rumbled down the street. My heart raced. I didn't know how to feel toward her—I really didn't. I wanted to be mad at her for taking the two things that meant the most to me, but in my heart I knew she hadn't done anything wrong. I mean, she could have told me about Cooper, but other than that . . .

“Lucia,” she said. “You have to talk to me sooner or later.”

Henry had recently told me that being angry with someone is so unhealthy that it can actually break down your immune system and make you ill. I couldn't afford to come down with the flu, but being next to Melanie and her carefree attitude—and that hat, a tan fedora this time, always a new hat, how much money did she, did her
father
, spend on those things?!—made it hard for me to act like everything was fine.

“What should I talk to you about?” I asked, scooting closer to the window.

“Well, I don't know. The fact that you won't talk to me? You're not actually this mad at me, are you?”

She didn't sound like her usual peppy self. In fact,
she sounded a little whiny. That was weird because I didn't know what she had to complain about. After all, she had everything.

“I don't know,” I said. “Should I be?”

“No,” she said. “You shouldn't. I didn't do anything wrong, Lucia.”

“Really?” I said, my face flushing hot, all of Henry's advice going right out the window. “Well then, I guess I'll just go ahead and say,
you're welcome
.” She scrunched her eyes below the rim on her hat. “You're welcome for introducing you to my best friend. So glad the two of you have hooked up.” Melanie clenched her jaw but said nothing. “And you're welcome for making you president of student council. Sounds like you're doing a fan-freaking-tastic job of it.”

“Look.” She scooted away to face me better. “I know it's impossible for you to admit, but I actually
am
doing a good job of it.”

“So I read. Sounds like everyone is totally in love with you. You're like our generation's JFK.”

“Why can't you give me any credit? I've never said anything bad about you. All I've done is try to come up with creative ideas, like for the fund-raiser. I think it'll take it to a whole new level than it's ever been in the past.”

My hands clenched the bar of my backpack. “The bake sale is a
tried and true
way of doing things. It's
traditional
. And I could raise a ton of money. Just ask Cooper—he knows what a great job I always do.”

“I'm confused,” she said. “Is this about the presidency or Cooper?” I didn't answer, but stared defiantly out the window. “Look,” she went on, “if you like Cooper, just say so. . . .”

“This has nothing to do with him,” I said, but a bit too loudly. My face was totally red, I could feel it. “But I don't
like
him like him.”

“Fine, sorry I asked,” she muttered.

We finally pulled up to the school. “You know what? Just forget it.” I pushed past her to get out of the seat, which was hard with my big backpack. I couldn't believe she thought I liked Cooper.

As I pounded down the steps of the bus, dragging my backpack behind me, one thought kept swirling in my confused head:
I do not like him.

I was so mad I couldn't see straight. And, okay, I know I was being totally mean and irrational about Melanie but I couldn't help it. My feet simply stormed ahead of me down the halls, the wheels of my backpack squeaking angrily behind me.

I didn't know what her brilliant fund-raiser idea was, and maybe it was something good, but that didn't mean that after all my years as president and all the projects I'd worked on, she was better than me. And that's what I felt like she was saying.

And her suggesting I liked Cooper! Please. Please, please, please! He was like a brother to me. I didn't like him like
that,
and in fact, I didn't like him much at all right then, even though I sort of missed him and knew I had to apologize. But come on, the thought of kissing Cooper or even just holding his hand made me feel . . .

I was so lost in my thoughts that I wasn't even watching where I was going, and I rammed right into the boy himself. As I backed away from Coop, I looked into his eyes, then quickly looked away, reminding myself to breathe.

“Oh, s-sorry,” I stammered.

He had his hand on my elbow, then seemed to realize he was touching me and quickly pulled it back. “You okay?” he asked, and I understood that he meant from our colliding, not from anything else.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” I said. I could barely face him after what Melanie had suggested, but I felt like I was stuck to the spot. I hardly noticed the students pushing past us and wondered, a bit confused, why I had never noticed the bump on the bridge of his nose before.

Oh, God. Why was I thinking like that?
It's Cooper,
I told myself.
Cooper!

“So . . .,” he began.

“So.”

“I'm glad I ran into you,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Well, I don't mean literally run into you. I'm glad we're seeing each other.” I looked down at my
brown loafers, feeling so happy that he still wanted to talk to me and that he didn't hate me.

“Listen, Coop.” I reminded myself not to get my hopes up. After what I did to him and what I'd said, I deserved to be friendless. So, with my expectations appropriately low, I said, “I'm really sorry. About everything, but especially, uh, about hitting you. I was just upset about the whole impeachment thing and I guess, I mean, I
know
I took it out on you. I didn't mean to make you my punching bag.” I made myself look into his eyes when I said, “You're my best friend.” They were the same words he'd said to me just a few weeks ago, and I realized that saying them out loud meant everything.