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.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before? Geez, I thought everyone was obsessed with it for no reason.”
“Well. I don’t know if everyone’s obsessed with it because of the legend or if the legend grew because everyone’s obsessed with it. Anyway, McCoy says we’re not supposed to talk about it. But if you really want creepy, you should watch him take care of it. Cleans every lightbulb by hand. Caresses it.”
I laughed.
Tucker paused, his neck and ears turning red. He fidgeted. “There’s also the myth about a python in the ceiling tiles, being fed by the lunch ladies. But that one’s not too interesting. Do you know about Red Witch Bridge?”
I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Never drive through the covered bridge by Hannibal’s Rest at night. You hear the witch scream right before she rips you to shreds and leaves your car empty by the side of the road.” A gleam of excitement lit his eyes as he waited for my reaction. Normally he only got that look when he was telling me about one of his conspiracy theories.
“Have you ever done it?” I asked.
“Me? Drive through Red Witch Bridge? No, I’m brave as soggy potato salad.”
“You? Soggy potato salad? No.”
Tucker laughed and puffed out his skinny chest in mock bravado. “I know I don’t look it, but I’d run the other direction before I got anywhere near that bridge.” He dropped the act and offered me the Coke. “Thirsty?”
“You don’t want it?”
“Nah. Bought it and then remembered that I hate soda.”
I took it hesitantly. “You didn’t put anything in it, did you?”
“Do I look like that type of person?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Soggy Potato Salad. You’re a wild card.”