Heather smirked at me.
When Charlie and I broke up, and he “officially” started seeing her again, I’d thought I was off the hook. But girls like Heather never forget. She was just waiting for Charlie to dump me, and when he did, she didn’t waste any time. Almost right away the rumors started—that I was anorexic, that I’d become a druggie, that I had cancer. She wasn’t exactly subtle. She glared at me during lunch. But a stunt like this was a new low.
“I think she does it because he still likes you,” Katrina had said on our way out of Choir.
I didn’t believe her. “He dumped me.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t still like you.”
Not possible. Not after that night.
“Well, I heard that one of Charlie’s friends called her ‘sloppy seconds’ behind her back the other day and it got back to her.”
A flush of pleasure went through me even though this development would definitely make things worse for me. “How do you know?”
“I heard a rumor.”
Crap. In addition to believing Charlie belonged to her, Heather considered herself the queen of everything at our school. And for the most part, she was: junior class president, “gifted” cheerleader, teacher suck-up. Possessor of both a great fake ID and a cousin who worked at 7-Eleven and let her buy beer with it.
“You’re wrong,” I said.
“I’m not. Besides, it’s obvious that he still likes you.”
“How?”
“The way he looks at you.”
“He never looks at me,” I said.
“You just don’t see it. You never see anything good about yourself.” She paused. “Anyway, when it comes to Charlie, I’m glad. You’re better off without him.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Elizabeth, you are, and you know it. Look, I’m going to be late for class. I’ll see you later, okay?”
I didn’t answer her.
That night, I showed up for the concert a half hour early like Ms. Parker wanted and tried to make it all the way backstage without anybody seeing me. The black scarecrow vest she’d given me was full of patches and sprouts of glued-on hay that scratched me through my black T-shirt. I’d nixed the matching pants. Ditto the hat. No effing way was I wearing a spray-painted-brown witch’s hat. I looked like a loser already.
To make matters worse, the room kept spinning like a carnival ride. I’d eaten four almonds for breakfast and was too stressed to eat lunch. The last things I’d eaten were my three bites of dinner, which I divided in half so they looked like six. I would’ve skipped the meal entirely except I didn’t want Mom and Dad to get suspicious. I’d learned that as long as I ate something they were happy. Now, totally dizzy, I wondered if a few more bites would have been smart.
The air hung dark and heavy behind the navy-blue velvet curtain. Tuck, the pimply stage-crew guy, bustled around, carrying ropes, tying knots, and testing lines hanging from the ceiling. He was also a junior, but we’d never talked. He fastened the last carabiner and tested it with a shake. “You ready?”
I nodded.
He didn’t look convinced. “Remember, hold on to the ropes so you stay upright. Got it?”
The harness was tight. Too tight. It hooked around the backs of my thighs, giving me a sweatpant bubble butt in the back and a penis-like bulge in the front.
Tuck ripped off a piece of duct tape. “I’m going to do the moon now, okay?”
My hairs stood up. “Why do you need duct tape? I’m just holding it, right?”
“Didn’t Ms. Parker tell you? I’m taping the moon to you.”
“What? You don’t need to do that. I swear I’ll hold it really tight.” Right in front of my face, I almost added.
He shrugged. “Sorry. Ms. Parker’s orders.”
“Why do you guys even need a person at all? Couldn’t you have just hung a paper moon up there?”
He started singing. “Only a paper moon…”
This was no time for singing. I glared at him.
“What? It’s a famous Frank Sinatra song. Haven’t you heard it?” He hummed a few more bars. “No?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Personally I think it would have been easier to suspend a moon from the rafters with some rope, but Ms. Parker wanted a scarecrow to hold it. I think the whole thing is lame—no offense or anything.”
“None taken. It wasn’t like I volunteered or anything.”
“Yeah, I heard you were voluntold.”
“Voluntold?”
“Yeah, you know, someone asks for volunteers and then makes somebody who doesn’t volunteer do it?”
“Oh, right.” I wanted to ask him what else he’d heard, but the metallic rip of duct tape shut me up. Tuck wrapped a single piece across the moon, over my shoulder, and then around the other side.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” I snapped. The room spun.
“If you say so.” Tuck bit his bottom lip and gave the carabiners one last shake. “If you have any problems, just look for me down below, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, wishing my voice wasn’t shaking.
Ms. Parker blew in like a whirlwind, her heels clacking on the stage floor. “Is she ready?” Tuck nodded, and Ms. Parker looked me up and down. My feet were already asleep. “Perfect.” She peered at me. “Actually, you look a little peaked. Are you feeling all right?”
I shrug-nodded.
“All right, then,” Ms. Parker announced, nodding to herself. “Showtime!” And with that, Tuck pulled the rope and I was jerked slowly up to the rafters.
The plan was for me to hang up high, where no one could see me, and then Tuck would lower me into position as the last of the three songs, “Harvest Moon,” started. Then I’d swing around with the moon and be completely humiliated in front of the entire school. Good times.
As I dangled, I willed myself not to look down. The harness dug into my legs and cut off my circulation. I tried to wriggle my toes to get the blood moving, but they just hung there.
I glanced at my watch. Two songs, or about six minutes to go until my debut. I fought back the urge to vomit onto the floor. It would really splatter from so high up. The world went fuzzy. I shook myself back into focus. Idiot. You should have eaten something. Anything.
And then I heard it. The twang of a guitar. “On this har-vest mo-on,” the choir sang. My ropes twitched, and when I looked down, I saw Tuck wrestling with them like a balloon handler at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. With every yank, I lurched violently down a foot or so, my dead legs swinging like a doll’s. The audience tittered. The lights were hot. My head hurt.
The harness started to spin. I twisted backward, my bubble butt waggling at the audience. I tried to bicycle-kick my legs to turn around, but they stayed asleep. I waved my arms, frantic now, trying to gain momentum to reposition myself. Someone in the audience yelled, “It’s a bird! It’s a plane!”