Plastic Polly (17 page)

“Oh.” Suddenly it seems like such a stupid tradition, the fact that the members of the Court automatically get to plan Groove It Up. But when you're popular, sometimes it feels like things get handed to you on a silver platter. Whether or not you deserve them.

“How have things been going for you?” I ask Justin.

“Honestly?” Justin's green eyes seem tired behind his glasses. “I'll be kind of glad when it's over. It's been fun but kind of stressful.”

“I don't know
what
you're talking about,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “What could
possibly
be stressful about planning Groove It Up?”

Justin polishes off the last of his chocolate cake and leans back in the booth. “Well, I could tell you, but it's
classified, so I'd have to kill you. You
are
the enemy.”

We laugh, and Justin holds out his hand. “May the best man win?”

“May the best school win,” I say.

We're shaking hands when I feel a chilly blast of air from behind. Then I hear Melinda's cold voice. “Why are you hanging out with American River's PlanMaster?”

I turn. Melinda and Jenna are standing behind me. Today Melinda is wearing a drab orange-and-green shirt. She sort of resembles a moldy pumpkin.

And both Melinda and Jenna are staring at me like they've just smelled a rat.

Justin looks from me to Melinda and Jenna. “Um, it's classified?” He makes a small attempt at a laugh, but no one joins him.

“We were just going over last-minute details.” My voice is squeaky. And defensive, even though I know Justin and I haven't done anything wrong.

“Oh, really.” Melinda smiles at me. A smile that reminds me of the way a snake looks at a rabbit.

Right before she eats it.

Melinda and Jenna get seated in the booth behind Justin, making it difficult for us to talk. Melinda texts away on
her phone. Jenna loudly complains about the service and sends her slice of apple pie back to the kitchen two times—first because it's too cold, then because it's too hot.

I don't have to wonder who Melinda texted, because pretty soon my cell starts pinging every two seconds, and I figure she's been tattle texting on me to Kelsey. Finally I tell Justin I have to leave.

“I have to do damage control,” I whisper, glancing at Melinda and Jenna.

“Okay,” Justin says. “See you at Groove It Up?”

“Deal. I'll be the one holding the trophy over my head,” I say as I slide out of the booth.

“No, you won't,” Justin calls as I walk out the door.

Outside, pink clouds dot a gray sky, and my breath puffs out in frosty Os. I shiver and pull my cell phone from my pocket, intending to call Kelsey back and tell her that I swear—this time—I didn't spill any secrets about Groove It Up to Justin. Except the texts weren't from Kelsey. They were from Mom, which go from anger that I'm not home to flat-out panic that I'm not texting or calling her back. The last one reads:

Just got a call from Mrs. Huff. Leave the diner immediately. You are in BIG trouble.

I text back:

On my way.

I slip my cell back into my pocket. Great. Instead of tattle texting to Kelsey, Melinda and Jenna texted Mrs. Huff, the biggest gossip in Maple Oaks. I practically run home, hoping Mrs. Huff didn't completely ruin my night.

But I'm too late. At home Mom, who decided to leave work after all and surprise me with a gift card to a fancy restaurant one of her clients gave her, is livid. We're standing in the kitchen. The application for Camp Colonial sits on the breakfast bar, right next to the phone book. Apparently she was about to start calling hospitals when I finally texted her back.

“Okay, I'm sorry,” I say for about the twentieth time. “And why are you using the phone book, anyway? You could've just looked up the number online.”

I guess that was probably not the right thing to say, because Mom's face turns slightly purple, and a few hairs spring loose from her bun. “Do you think this is
funny
, young lady? Because I think you get a lot of privileges around here.” Mom starts ticking things off on her fingers. “You get a cell phone. A very expensive one, I might
add. You get a credit card in case you need it. We don't give you a lot of grief over chores. I'd say we're pretty lenient. And
this
is how you repay us?”

I stare sullenly back at her. I want to tell her I wouldn't need the phone, or the credit card, if she was around more often. Or that she doesn't have to get on me about chores, since I keep things neat anyway.

“You know the rules, Polly. After school you come straight home. Otherwise you call me and
ask
for permission to go out.”

“I'm sorry. I totally forgot. I had to—”

“I had no idea where you were. Then I have to get a phone call—from Sharon Huff, of all people—telling me that my daughter is at a diner, with a boy. Do you know how that felt, listening to that woman insinuate that I don't know how to take care of my own daughter?”

“Who cares what Mrs. Huff says? Aren't you the one who's always telling me I shouldn't care so much about what other people think?”

“Do you do this often?” Mom demands. “You're not allowed to date, and you know that—”

“It was
not
a date. Justin is—”

“—so for you to sneak out behind my back and—”

“Sneak out?” I interrupt. “Are you kidding? You'd
have to actually be home for me to sneak out. You're never here, and it gets really old, really fast, sitting around every afternoon by myself. For all you would know, maybe I do stuff like this all the time.”

I know I'm going too far and I should stop. But I can't. Mom thinks I don't have my own voice? Well, maybe it's time she heard me, loud and clear. I grab the application for Camp Colonial and crumple it up. “And I am not going to some stupid pre-high-school camp just because you want me to. And you want to know why? Because I don't want to go to law school and become a lawyer— just so I can work all the time and never see my family. Because the last thing in the world I'd ever want to be—is anything like you.”

After I finish, I expect Mom to yell at me or tell me to go to my room, but she doesn't do either of those things. She doesn't
do
anything. She just stands there, drilling me with her ice-blue eyes, unblinking. Unmoved.

“Pull yourself together,” Mom says finally. “You can speak to your father when he gets home.”

Then she turns around and leaves. And she doesn't look back.

The long and short of it is this: I'm grounded until my parents feel like they can trust me again. Or until the day
I die, whichever comes first. I can still go to Winston's dress rehearsal and Groove It Up on Saturday, but starting next week I'll have to go straight home after school and call Mom—from our home phone—as soon as I get there. And if something like this ever happens again, they said they would actually hire an after-school babysitter.

After Dad came home, he walked into my room and told me we needed a family meeting so we could all talk. Dad spent about ten minutes trying to get Mom and me to “open up and share our feelings,” before he finally gave up and handed down my punishment. Besides being grounded and threatened with a babysitter, I had to give him my cell phone and my laptop.

“You're to have no online or phone access, period.” Then Dad asked me if I've ever sneaked out of the house before.

“I told Mom earlier, it's not sneaking out if—”

Dad held up a hand. “I think you know what I'm asking. And I want an answer.”

“No,” I said. “Never.”

The whole time Mom never spoke. In fact, she wouldn't even look at me. Later, after she'd gone upstairs, I tried to reason with Dad and get him to lessen my punishment.

“Don't you think you guys are overreacting?” I said.

“No, actually,” Dad answered. “You broke the rules. And just as important, you upset your mother.”

“No I didn't. She was a total ice queen. It was like she didn't even hear me.”

But I heard something later that night when I was on my way to the kitchen to get a snack. Strangled, gurgling sounds were leaking from Mom's office. She'd left the door cracked open. I peeked in and saw her shoulders shake as she quietly sobbed into her hands. I guess Mom isn't such an ice queen, after all.

I thought about saying something to her, telling her I hadn't meant the horrible things I'd said. But then I remembered the last time I'd eavesdropped on Mom, when she told Principal Allen I was too much of a follower to be the PlanMaster. So I tiptoed away and went downstairs.

And I tried not to care that she was crying.

True Confession: When you're popular, it feels like people always want to be near you. But that doesn't mean they know you.

C
ROWDS ARE USUALLY NOT A PROBLEM FOR ME
. P
EOPLE
tend to get out of the way when anyone from the Court walks down the hallway. Kristy—whose family goes to church—says it's like Moses parting the Red Sea. So the next morning I can tell something's wrong as soon as I set foot on campus.

No one moves as I walk down the hall. Most people are too busy staring at me—and not in a good way. One girl deliberately smacks into my shoulder as we pass each other, and I drop my history textbook on my foot.

“Ouch!”

“Poor Plastic Polly, did you hurt yourself?” calls another
girl as I bend down to pick up the textbook. Weirder than the fact that someone's calling me Plastic Polly to my face is that several students are smiling, like they think it's funny.

What's going on?
I think as I silently hurry away. Did I accidentally walk into the wrong school today?

Someone taped a note to my locker, and I smile for the first time this morning as I rip it off and start spinning the combination lock.

I've unloaded and reloaded my backpack and am just about to open the note when I hear Alyssa's voice behind me. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I grumble, turning around. “I'm grounded until I'm at least thirty, my parents hate me, and for some reason everyone is acting totally weird today.”

Alyssa's eyes go wide. “So you don't know? Didn't you get my voice mails?”

“Know what? And no, I didn't get them, because my parents took away my phone.”

“Why are you grounded?” Not waiting for an answer, Alyssa adds, “Polly, everyone's talking about you—it's all over school.”

“What's all over school?” I open the note, but before I can look at it, Alyssa places a hand on my shoulder.

“Everyone's saying you've been hanging out with
American River's PlanMaster, and that you're actually trying to help them win.”

“What?”
I glance down at the note. The word “TRAITOR” is written in big block letters across the top. Below that is a drawing of a boy and a girl holding hands. Both of them have the word “PlanMaster” written across their shirts.