“Amazing,” I reply. I know the Ivy League is the holy grail for the Knights.
“Not amazing. New Jersey is cold. Real fucking cold. Cold as Illinois. I want to go to college somewhere warm. Studying outside in January? Getting a tan? That appeals. University of Arizona, UCLA, Gainesville, someplace like that. But I don’t have a choice. At what point do I get to be in charge? When can I call the shots? When am I allowed to finally steer this ship?” More to himself than to me, he adds, “They act like I’m going to lose control and crash into the rocks. So what if I did? What then?”
Before I can answer, the door from the kitchen bangs open and something pasty-white whizzes past us. We hear a Tarzan-type yell, followed by a huge splash. A brief-clad Kent has launched himself off the diving board into the pool, with a half-dressed Noell on his heels. She shouts, “Tunaverse!” before she hits the water. Another girl runs up behind them and hops in, too.
Liam looks at them and then looks at me. “Fuck it. I can’t control the future but I can still swim if I want.” He rises from his chair, a bit unsteadily, and pulls off his T-shirt and hoodie in one fluid motion before dropping his pants.
Blimey.
He has those cut oblique muscles on either side of his stomach, a la David Beckham. I love those. A lot. My hand takes on a mind of its own, reaching in the direction of his abs. Before I can connect, he begins to sprint away. Pity.
Over his shoulder, he calls, “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”
What else can I do?
I strip down to my camisole and knickers and I’m in the pool, too.
The whole party moves outdoors and everyone starts jumping into the warm water, some of them fully clothed, and some of them completely bare-assed. (Maybe that’s just Jasper?) We chicken fight and relay race. We play round after round of Marco Polo before we collectively decide we’re freezing and head inside.
Liam and I never finish our conversation, but maybe splashing is more therapeutic than talking. His medicine knocks him out fast once we’re back inside and when Kent and I leave, he’s snoring on the couch in the living room. He looks to be at peace.
We practically jog home because we’re both in damp underwear and chilled to the bone. Kent is suddenly grateful to his loathsome tennis sweater. We live close, so we don’t have much time to download, save for him repeating over and over that this was the greatest night of his life.
Only after I’m snuggled under my duvet with a bully puppy do I realize Stephen never showed.
What was he was doing instead?
23
MALLORY
“Can’t you at least pretend to be happy?”
I say this through gritted teeth. For everyone watching me in the stands, I’m beaming, radiating joy, but that’s just on the surface. Inside, I’m a mess.
In a fit of serious passy-assy, last year’s queen jammed the bobby pins directly into my skull as she was adjusting my crown. (Like it’s my fault Kaya gained the Freshman Fifteen at Oberlin?) Instead of responding, I just smiled and waved, like I was a good little Miss America contestant or something.
No one ever considers how the pageant winner holds it together when all of the also-rans smear her face with their lipstick in the final thirty seconds of the telecast. She’s forced to stand there with her bouquet, trying not to cry off her fake lashes, feigning delight when the runners-up give her the kind of intentionally violent congratulatory kisses that wreck her ’do and dislodge her tiara.
In this scenario, the losing contestants return to their Atlantic City hotel rooms and order, like, fifteen pizzas, while the winner’s obligated to spend the next year under the constant public scrutiny to not gain an ounce, lest she wind up on the cover of People for porking out.
Some prize.
Liam replies through his own clenched teeth. “Why does it matter if I look happy? Wasn’t this all about you anyway?”
I blow a kiss to the crowd. Under my breath, I reply, “These pictures will be in the Round Table, in the yearbook, probably in the Herald and on North Shore Daily. Please pretend you’re grateful.”
And most definitely pinned and featured prominently on my mother’s Facebook timeline, with the caption “She gets it from me, of course!” Maybe she’ll even snap a selfie later wearing my crown.
By “maybe,” I mean “absolutely.”
Liam finally plasters on a fake grin. When I glance up at him, I notice his eyes are bloodshot. “Better?” he asks.
Flashes go off all around us. For a minute, I feel like we’re on the step-and-repeat at some glamorous Hollywood event, instead of standing on the fifty-yard line during halftime at Homecoming.
“Yes. Was that really so difficult?”
He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “You have no idea.”
Why are we talking to each other like this? Why is this suddenly hard?
Being with Liam was never supposed to be challenging. Liam is meant to be my respite, my safe space. In theory, anyway. Really, we’ve been together more out of habit than anything else for the past few months. Something between us changed over the summer.
I wonder if we’re not getting along because, in some small way, I used him to bring me here, to this moment, to stand on this dais in this crown?
If that’s factual, then I don’t feel good about the win for so many reasons.
Truth?
I needed to ride Liam’s coattails. I couldn’t be elected Homecoming Queen on my own; I’d only win if I were part of a package deal, like with Junior Prom. Even my mom knows that. (In fact, she likes to tell me so. Often.) I mean, Liam is a demigod here. Mr. All-Around. Class President, star of the soccer team, and within three tenths of a point of making valedictorian. (Why did he opt for Honors Humanities and not AP? WHY? The weight in those grades would have made all the difference. I asked him, “Did you want to hand off the graduation speech to Sri Kapur?”)
Or maybe I just felt like I needed some of his light reflecting back on me.
Liam’s the one who’s the full package, not me. I’m a pale substitute, an also-ran. Everyone loves him, from the underprivileged kids he coaches during the off-season to the hair-netted lunchroom ladies. The old gal with the unfortunate birthmark saves the biggest slice of pizza for him every week! He even says hi to freshmen in the hallways, not because he has to, but because he wants to. He learns people’s names on purpose. He exudes goodness.
Everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ve worked for has led up to this moment and he and I are finally here, experiencing our (literal) crowning achievement. Instead of feeling amazing, like I finally reached that mountaintop, like everything will be easier from here on out, my sole emotion is rage.
I want to punch Liam right in his Prince Charming square jaw.