Against her better judgement, Mae skips homeroom on the morning of the pep rally.
Shelby suggests the idea while the girls stand in line at the coffee shop. “What if we just stay here and eat croissants instead?” Her glow is back.
“Have you ever skipped a class in your life?” Mae asks.
“Sure.”
“Like when?”
“Well, I almost skipped trig the other day.”
“That's right, she did!” Taylor inspects the rows of pastries, thrilled to be given permission to eat one.
Homeroom isn't a true class, Mae tells herself, wondering if she should skip it more often. But as the time ticks past 7:30, her croissant tastes more illicit and her coffee grows bitter.
“I like your shoes,” Shelby says to Taylor.
“Thanks.” Taylor is polishing off her pastry at an alarming speed, tearing off buttery layers and popping them like strips of newspaper into her mouth. “They're my mom's.”
“Ooh, vintage?”
“She bought them last week.”
“Well your mom's got fantastic taste.” Out comes the rose lip gloss. “Ladies, I'll be right back.” Shelby balances to the restroom on kitten heels, her phone forgotten on the table. It soon begins to buzz. The earnest bzzz—a sound demanding immediate attention—is followed by another bzzz, and then another, each growing in strength and urgency.
It's a sound Mae cannot ignore.
She swipes open Shelby's phone and sees the name Jasper. Why is Jasper texting Shelby? It's not a new text but a follow up: hows that for an apology? 😍 and Mae can't help but scroll up to talk of a party—see u on sat @ the party— and then a picture, blurry and indecipherable, of what looks like a hairy finger. It's not a finger. Mae is looking at a penis, poking out from a nest of light brown pubic hair like a cactus rising from scorched earth. With a bit of a yelp, she flings the phone back onto the table. It totters ominously.
Shelby returns mid-totter. “I forgot my...what is it?”
“Out of all the boys, all the boys!”
Taylor has no more croissant to occupy her. “I'm going to get another.”
“Why'd you look at my phone?” Shelby scrolls calmly. “Are you jealous?”
A jaunty piano solo dances in the background. The espresso machine exhales. An elderly woman noisily flips her newspaper. Mae feels a rush of anger push aside her carefully calibrated emotional facade and flip a switch. “Jasper completely humiliated you! Have you lost your mind? Have you come unhinged? He's like the biggest, most brain-damaged douche bro in the whole school!” She hears her voice rise octaves and feels her arms flail about, but to stop either is to accept they are happening and so she goes on. “God, this is like, what's the phrase? Sleeping with the fucking enemy? Yes, that. I thought you were my friend!” Other customers stare. From the corner of her eye, Mae sees Taylor whisper with the barista. Tasteful lighting and brushed chrome and a life in ruins.
Instead of raising her voice, Shelby drops hers to an almost whisper. “A friend wouldn't go through her friend's phone. Phones are private.” Angry tears form in the corner of each eye. “And who I like is private. Now I'm going to take this phone, which is a private thing that belongs to me...” She smartly deposits the slim rectangle into her quilted bag, which isn't a real Chanel but looks like one. “...and I'm gonna take it with me to school. Taylor, would you like to ride in the front seat?”
Taylor freezes.
“Oh for fucks sake, you're always complaining about having to sit in the back. Now's your chance.”
Still Taylor doesn't move. “How will Mae get to school?”
“She'll figure it out.”
Mae watches them leave—two carefully straightened heads of hair, heels clicking against tile. The old woman goes back to her paper. The barista rearranges the pastries. Time pauses. Only after they are out of sight do Mae's feet spring into action and out the door.
Off come the oxford heels. Off come the tights. In bare feet, Mae sprints a mile through the yards behind River View Road, down a back route she discovered last year on her bike in an effort to avoid game day traffic. Keeping one eye out for large dogs and sharp stones, Mae pumps her legs and gulps the morning air until she reaches the back entrance of the high school. Cheers emanate from the gym. In the back bathroom, a volleyball player in front of the mirror bobby pins a tight ponytail. “Whoa.”
“Where are they in there?”
“The cheerleaders, I think.”
“Perfect.” Ignoring volleyball player side eye, Mae freshens up and takes a seat on the front row bleacher, next to the one remaining cheerleader. The gym smells like sweat and body spray.
“Normally I'm out there,” Maddie Hourani informs Mae gravely. “You have no idea how it feels to watch from the sidelines like this.”
Cheerleaders leap about on the gym floor in brand new uniforms that look like gold-sequined bikinis over purple minidresses. Besides the use of innerwear as outerwear, the Pearville cheer team is united by the equal opportunity rumor that each has slept with at least three athletes. If Maddie hadn't fractured her ankle last summer, she would be cartwheeling across a painting of a giant bear claw right now. “They look great, though,” Maddie adds quickly. “I'm not jealous or anything.”
“You look great too,” Mae offers kindly, wondering where Taylor and Shelby are sitting. “Did you just get a haircut?”
Maddie grins a bit too gratefully. “I did!” She lets out an ear-piercing squeal as the cheerleaders rush back toward the bleachers.
After the football and basketball and soccer teams are introduced, the school a cappella group, the Bear-a-Tones, files onto the gym floor to accost the audience with heavy breath as they belt an upbeat love song. A soulful soloist with a church-trained voice leads the assault, assisted by a harmony section snapping rhapsodic. Boys in plaid shirts shuffle in black shoes borrowed from their fathers, while a lanky boy on the end sings each 'do be do' in a deep bass. Nobody in the audience is prepared for this earnestness and they sit quietly, hands in laps, hoping it ends soon.
Finally Principal Wake taps the microphone. Her hair is dyed the same shade of red as her face. “Will the candidates for Student Council President please come forward?”
Mae rises casually and tosses the audience an ironic Miss America wave. She joins Ethan and a squirrel-like senior named Nico by the microphone, which is now wielded by an overeager music theater aficionado projecting his best impression of a serious newscaster. Every year the candidates participate in a debate in front of the school, and every year it's the same softball questions: Why do you want to run? What are your plans for prom? How will you change or improve school lunch?
Ethan beams. “I'll just keep pushing for more soda pop and chips, like I've been doing. Overall, the lunch situation's pretty solid.” It's a lazy answer. Last year, when asked why he wanted to be on student council, he rambled charmingly about how he was running for the experience, to eventually be applied toward a bid for the President of the United States, and nobody batted an eye.
“Mae Brady?”
Mae clutches note cards but doesn't reference them. “Lunch needs serious improvements. There are like, so many fat people at this school and no wonder, since we're feeding them pizza and hamburgers, and Ethan here wants them to have soda and chips? I don't think so.” Emphatic hand gesture; yes, that was a good choice. “When I become president, I'll advocate for a salad bar and juice bar, so that everybody can reach their goal of being more attractive.”
To the other side of Mae, Nico bites his lip. “Ah, a salad bar. That's a good idea.”
Ethan runs one hand through his curls in feigned boredom. “Yeah, 'cept nobody likes vegetables. I mean, do you like vegetables, Nico?”
Nico's face brightens. “I hate vegetables.”
“Well by all means,” Mae says, “please run on an anti-hot platform and see how that works out for you.”
Principal Wake intercepts the microphone. “Alrighty then.” Behind her, the Pearville Bears mascot emerges, furry head bobbling atop a human neck. “Good debate, as always, I suppose. Don't forget: voting takes place on Monday!”