But Aubrie nodded. “I don’t suppose it would hurt if we were less critical.”
Rachel humphed. “I’m not that critical to begin with.”
“Think you could go two weeks without criticizing someone?” I asked.
“Probably,” she said.
Chelsea shook her head, then picked up her fork. “I think Doug is going to get a date out of this one way or the other.”
“Yeah,” Aubrie said, “but it might be with you.”
And then we all laughed, at least we all laughed except for Rachel, who went on to vigorously protest that she wasn’t the critical type.
CHAPTER 15
On Tuesday three things of importance happened—the first one being that when I came to school I ran into Logan passing out flyers in the front lobby. When I got close to him, he winked at me, then handed a flyer to a passing student and in a loud voice said, “Vote for Samantha, she’s really not all that bad.”
“Very funny.” I took a flyer to see what it said. It had my name down one side, and in the middle of the paper it said, VOTE FOR SAMANTHA. SHE’S TAYLOR-MADE FOR THE
PRESIDENCY. A little candy bar was taped on the bottom of each flyer. “Catchy,” I said.
“Where did you get them?”
“Chelsea made them. She’s passing out more of them upstairs.”
“That's nice.” I knew it was her way of apologizing, and despite the last couple of days, I knew everything would be all right between us.
The second thing was that I talked to Amy. I hadn’t said much to her, well, ever, but I had said even less to her since the campaign started. Now I sought her out. I walked around the hallway by her locker until she finally showed up. While she pulled colo r-coded folders from her locker I went and stood beside her. “Look, I’m not really good at apologies; but I thought you made that flyer about me, so I tore down your first set of posters. I’m sorry I did it, and if you turn me in— well, I’ll understand.”
She stopped shuffling her folders for a moment. “Oh.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, and I shifted my weight uncomfortably while I waited for her to say something else.
Finally she said, “I wouldn’t feel right about getting you in trouble. I mean, if I win this election, I want it to be because the students like my ideas and want me as their president. Not because the only other choice was some guy whose platform consisted of beer and anarchy.”
“Thanks.” And then because I really respected her at that moment, I added, “And if I win, I’d like your help running things. I think you’re really smart and organized.”
She smiled. “Thanks. And if I win, I’d like your help too. I think you’re really . . . um . . . popular.”
Sometimes it’s just better not to compliment people. Still, I smiled. “I’m glad there are no hard feelings.”
And there weren’t. I mean, I couldn’t hold it against Amy that she couldn’t think of any presidential skills I had. After all, the only thing she’d ever seen me do was lead cheers.
Once this was all over, though, I was going to make an effort to get to know her better.
The third thing that happened was that I met up alone with Rick.
Ever since I noticed the poster at the prom, I’d thought off and on what I’d say to him the next time I had a chance. Part of me wanted to scream at him. I wanted to take him by his shoulders and shake all his safety pins loose. I wanted to tell him he and his stupid flyers were the root of all my problems, and everything bad that had happened to me over the last couple weeks was his fault.
But that wasn’t entirely true. And besides, he’d enjoy knowing all the trauma he’d caused me.
I seriously thought about not saying anything at all and just taking a marker to his posters. I wanted to go up to every single RICK ROCKS poster and pen the word EATS in the middle.
I couldn’t do it, though. I didn’t want to destroy posters again.
I really wished I could take the high ground on the matter. I wanted to walk up to Rick with an aloof stare and say, “I would never stoop to your level.”
But I already had. I wished so badly I could go back in time, back to before I ripped down Amy’s posters, so I could stop myself. Then I’d feel justified marching Rick and his flyer into the office and nailing both of them to the principal’s desk. But how could I do that when I hadn’t used good campaigning tactics, either?
So I didn’t say anything to the principal, and I didn’t know what to say to Rick. And then during fifth period while I ran an errand for my biology teacher, I nearly tripped over Rick on the stairs. He sat sprawled on the landing, head tilted back, eyes half open, listening to his ipod.
He was probably cutting class. It figured. I was doing everything I could to try and get into a good college, and Rick was skipping school. Had he ever, for even one moment, thought of his future?
And what would his future be?
As soon as this thought occurred to me, I felt sorry for him, and it was probably that one instant of sympathy that kept me from kicking him as I walked by. Inste ad, I stood in front of him, hands on my hips, and waited for him to notice me.
He pulled one of the headphones out of his ear. “Yeah?”
I still didn’t know what to say to him. I stood there simultaneously reliving picking up those flyers from the parking lot and remembering every lesson on forgiveness I’d ever had.
I didn’t move. “Hey.”
A snarl grew on his face, and he paused his music. “You want something, Taylor?”
His snarl brought my anger back. “Yeah, I do.” I wanted him to tell me he was sorry.
I wanted him to borrow a conscience for two minutes, just so he could understand what he’d done. I also wanted to be able to think of the perfect thing to say to him to show him how I felt.
But that was impossible. I wasn’t even sure how I felt. And with so many emotions running through me, I was afraid if I said anything, I’d say everything and never stop.
I’d spit out: Speaking of Rick’s rocks, which one did you just crawl out from underneath?
And if you’re going to stick sharp objects through your head, do us all a favor and aim for a lobotomy next time.
And I notice you didn’t report your test scores anywhere on that flyer. I suppose there’s a good reason for that.
But as I stood there I kept thinking, What is his future going to be? And I couldn’t say any of those things to him. I didn’t want to. I was completely and horribly reformed.
I dropped my hands from my hips and shrugged. “I just want to tell you good luck on your campaign.” Then I smirked. I couldn’t help myself. “And may the best candidate win.”
Which, of course, excluded Rick.
Okay, maybe I wasn’t completely reformed.
I turned and walked away from him, still smirking when I reached the bottom of the stairs.
For the next three days I spent all of my free time either campaigning or worrying about the election. Sometimes I imagined how it would feel when the principal looked me in the eye and said, “Congratulations, Samantha, you’re our new president.” Other times I worried that if it were Amy’s or Rick’s eyes the principal looked into, I’d do something to humiliate myself—like scream, or cry, or perhaps be struck dumb for several moments.
I also spent a lot of time doodling the initials LH in my notebook, but then I crossed them out before anyone could see them. I was almost afraid to think of how our date on Saturday would go. Logan would probably be obnoxious the whole time, or beg me for another chance with Veronica, or do something equally terrible. Then I’d have to throw my lobster at him, and the whole night would be ruined.
Was it too much to ask for just one nice evening with Logan?