The Implosion Of Aggie Winchester Part 13

I nodded. "I'm fine. Just tired."

My mom came over and sat next to me. "Aggie," she said, straightening the place mat, "I think we should talk about what's happening at school. Especially because it involves Sylvia."

I blinked, surprised that I wasn't going to have to bring this up on my own-my mom was going to do it for me.

"I'm still trying to piece together exactly what's taking place, but whatever happens, just know it has nothing to do with you. If someone tries to involve you, I want you to walk away. Do you understand?"

I looked at my fingernails. My mom was being vague, probably intentionally, and she was also a.s.suming I wasn't already involved in the prom debacle. I thought about telling her how Rod Barris had called me, even if it was about a ba.s.s fis.h.i.+ng story. Still, there were no guarantees he wouldn't ask me a question about the prom. Or about Sylvia. Which meant that at this point, saying to me "this has nothing to do with you" was like saying "just ignore the hole" to someone teetering on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

"Aggie?" my mom said again. "Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure," I said slowly. "I guess I don't totally understand what's going on at school. Is Sylvia the prom queen?"

My mom rubbed her temples and rolled her head from left to right. "The situation is really complicated, Aggie," she said. "It's really a mess."

I thought about the kid shoving the pet.i.tion in my face after school. "A mess how?" I asked.

My mom took a breath. "Well, I've been told there were many, many ballots turned in for Sylvia," she said, "but I never saw them. The cheerleading coach, Mrs. Wagner, was the one who counted them. In the end, she told me that Marissa won, and I believed her."

I thought my mom would keep going, but she didn't.

"But did Marissa really win?" I asked finally.

My mom began tapping her shoe against the kitchen tile. "Well, as I said, it's complicated."

She was starting to sound detached and professional. I looked at her hard. "What happened with the election?" I asked.

My mom sighed. "After the announcement about Marissa was made, there was a claim by a student-Tiffany Holland, actually-that there were many ballots for Sylvia."

"Wait, Tiffany helped Mrs. Wagner count votes? How is that even legit? She was one of the nominees."

"It's not ideal, I know. It's brought to our attention how there aren't really any rules about prom at all at the school-about who can be nominated, who can count the ballots, anything."

Next year, I thought, there's going to be a rule book the size of the dictionary for this stupid dance.

My mom pressed on. "After I heard about Tiffany, I asked Mrs. Wagner to recount the ballots, just to make sure. But Mrs. Wagner said she couldn't because . . ."

My mom trailed off, looking at the wall, at the table, but still not at me.

"Because what?"

"Mrs. Wagner burned the ballots," my mom said finally. "She threw them into a trash can in the loading dock at school, and she just burned them."

My hand flew to my mouth. No way.

"Why?" I whispered through my fingers. "Why would she do that?"

My mom looked at her hands but didn't say anything.

"Mrs. Wagner wanted Marissa Mendez on the throne, didn't she?"

"I can't confirm that, no."

"Fine, then just have a revote," I said, thinking about Sylvia's fake ballots. "Enough has gone down to warrant that. Just tell everyone that things got screwed up and make people vote again."

"We're considering it. But Mrs. Wagner's not totally in favor of that option."

I scoffed. "I'm sorry, last time I checked you were the princ.i.p.al, not the cheerleading coach."

My mom shot me a warning look. "The administration is trying to handle it internally, Aggie. We just haven't reached a consensus yet."

My temples pounded. Sylvia tampered with the ballots! I wanted to yell. Do the election over! But if I told my mom that, then I'd be exactly the person Sylvia thought I was. She'd dumped me because she'd thought I'd blab to my mom if I found anything out, and here I was. Ready to do it.

"You need some water?" my mom asked.

"No," I said, my voice tight. "I'm fine."

My mom folded her hands. "Honey, I don't mean to change the subject, but are you in a fight with Sylvia?"

I started. "What?"

"I heard from one of the teachers that Sylvia's trying to get transferred out of the fencing cla.s.s you share. One of her claims is that you're hara.s.sing her. That's not the case, is it?"

I pushed my chair back. "No. Of course not. She's the one being the b.i.t.c.h."

"Please calm down and don't use foul language in front of me. I just want to ensure that if you haven't been steering clear of Sylvia, you will do so now. Just so she has no basis for any more allegations."

My blood pressure was about to go off the charts. First, I couldn't believe that Sylvia had the nerve to accuse me of hara.s.sing her, and second, I couldn't believe my mom was telling me to avoid her. Like her wanting to leave fencing cla.s.s had been my fault.

"I am steering clear of Sylvia," I said. "Why are you a.s.suming I'm not?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything."

"Yes, you are," I said. "You just totally a.s.sumed that I'm the f.u.c.kup here."

"Enough!" my mom said. "You will absolutely not use those words in front of me, young lady, and you will watch your tone. If we can't keep this conversation civil, we won't have it."

"Fine!" I shouted. "What do I care? You don't listen to me. Ever. Why would I think you'd start now? Forget it."

I pushed my chair against the table and grabbed my keys. "I want you home by ten," my mom said, watching me the whole time.

I didn't answer. I just got in my car and peeled away, mad enough to scream.

Chapter Twenty-one.

MONDAY, APRIL 20 / 8:12 P.M.

"Thanks for meeting me," Rod Barris said. He was sitting across from me at Tickywinn's. The track lighting above us illuminated his head, which sported thinning brown hair. Despite the balding, he didn't strike me as being a geezer-I pegged him as being somewhere in his thirties.

I stirred my coffee and didn't say anything. Now that I was here, something about this meeting felt creepy. I told myself to just chill-it was only my imagination.

Rod pulled out a pad and a pen. "Mind if I take notes?"

I shrugged. "Sure."

He leaned back in his chair. "So, which came first, the ba.s.s fis.h.i.+ng or the Marilyn Manson getup?"

"I don't look like Marilyn Manson," I said, irritated.

"All right, but, quite honestly, this isn't the look I pictured the ba.s.s-fis.h.i.+ng princ.i.p.al's kid to have."

"Life's full of surprises, I guess."

"Indeed. So tell me. Are the other ba.s.s fishers accepting of how you look?"

I blew on my coffee. "Well, they didn't really talk to me much at first. But I guess once they found out I could fish, things loosened up. They don't put dead minnows or rotten fruit in my tackle box, if that's what you're getting at."

Rod jotted a few things down. "And your mom. How does she feel about this?"

"About what? Ba.s.s fis.h.i.+ng?"

"That and your attire."

"Maybe you should ask her that."

Rod set down his pen. "Well, here's the funny thing. I tried calling your mom today, but she wouldn't return my messages."

I sat up. "You called her? About this story?" I wondered why she hadn't mentioned it when we'd been home together earlier.

Rod rubbed his lips together. "Well, not exactly. I'm working on two stories, you see. One about you and ba.s.s fis.h.i.+ng, and the other about the prom. It just happens that the two stories intersect."

The room suddenly felt cramped. "What do you mean?"

Rod flipped through his notebook. "I got a call today from someone saying there's a scandal at the school. They say someone named Sylvia is the true prom queen, but the administration crowned someone else instead." He checked his notes. "A Marissa Mendez."

"Yeah? So?" I tried to keep my face neutral.

"So maybe you know something about it?"

"Why would I know anything about it?"

"Your mom's the princ.i.p.al. I also hear you're friends with Sylvia. Seems to me you might know quite a bit."

I glared at him. "Do you always do this?"

"Do what?" Rod asked.

"Trick girls into talking to you because if you told them the truth, they wouldn't meet you? Because now would be a good time to tell me that there's no ba.s.s-fis.h.i.+ng story."

Rod blinked. "There's no ba.s.s-fis.h.i.+ng story."

I wanted to kick myself. Rod had played to my vanity, and I'd bought it. Hook, line, and sinker-no pun intended.

"But listen," he continued, "you can still play an integral part in the real story. The prom story. I'm sure you have valuable input."

I looked at my coffee and thought about the orange ballots in Sylvia's bag. I thought about how I'd told Jefferson what I knew, and how it didn't seem like he'd pa.s.sed it along. I thought about how I'd overheard Mrs. Wagner and Mr. Monroe talking, and then what my mom had said about the ballots being burned. For a second, I thought maybe I should spill my guts to Rod and tell him everything I knew. At least then someone would listen to me, and then maybe, if the Letter printed everything, the whole prom mess could get sorted out.

Except Rod was a lying sack of c.r.a.p, and I wasn't about to help him get his byline. "Why don't you call Sylvia?" I asked. "I'm sure she'll comment."

"Sylvia is more than willing to talk, but I'd like to talk to you, too. And your mom, ideally. I just can't get her to call me back."

"So try her again," I said, standing up.

"Maybe you could just pa.s.s my name and number along to her," Rod said. "And if you feel like you have anything to add to the story, please feel free to give me a call."

"Screw you," I said, and walked out of the cafe.

Chapter Twenty-two.

THURSDAY, APRIL 23 / 9:12 A.M.

The middle of the week was filled with enough rumors and speculation to fill a whole season of Jerry Springer. Tiffany was helping Sylvia look for a dress, and they were now best friends; Marissa was planning to show up to the dance and throw blood-a la Carrie-on Sylvia; Mrs. Wagner had been seen taking suspicious pills to cope with the stress.

Despite all the BS, the one thing that did seem true was that the more time pa.s.sed, the more it seemed people wanted to see Sylvia wrestle the crown back from Marissa.

Not that Sylvia was around much for anyone to tell her that. I barely glimpsed her until Thursday, when she finally came to fencing.

"She looks awful," Jess observed through her fencing mask.

"Totally," I agreed. Her hair was spiked, but its purple color had faded to something more gray, and her clothes were wrinkled. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.

"Okay," said Ms. Rhone, "with your partners, one of you try a long-distance attack lunge, and the other practice a retreat. Ready, go!"

I was just getting ready to advance when Sylvia suddenly doubled over. "Oooo!" she cried.

Instinctively, I dropped my sword and ran over to her.