That Girl, Darcy Read online

  “Deny. Right.”

  * * *

  Christian wasn’t in the newsroom when I got there. As much as I tried to put on a show like I didn’t care, I was relieved. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I wasn’t looking forward to another confrontation, either. I waited at the back of the room while the others chatted. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was imagining it, but it seemed like people were avoiding me. Every time I glanced at someone they jerked their head or faced the other way. Not a good sign.

  Unfortunately, Nicole didn’t seem to have a problem with me. When she came in she propped herself up against the wall right next to me. “That was hot, what you did the other day,” she said. “Very knight-in-shining-armor.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  She kept going. “Not sure why you bothered, though. Mark—that’s his name, right? That kind of thing is supposed to happen to guys like that. He carries a tin lunchbox for crying out loud. He’s basically asking for it.”

  “Doesn’t Christian have some errands for you to be running right now?” I asked in annoyance as I pulled out my phone and pretended to text someone, hopefully to give her the illusion of my being busy so she would leave. Of course, she didn’t.

  “Speaking of which, I’m sure he’s upset with you. You did attack his brother, after all,” she said with a knowing look.

  I scowled. “Well if his brother wasn’t such a prick, I wouldn’t have had to—”

  “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry I’m late.” Christian strolled into the room with a bundle of bound papers in his arms. Everyone snapped to attention while he took his station at the front of the room. He looked out at all of us except for me, which seemed purposeful. “Listen up, people. I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.” He,” he said as he hefted the bundle onto his desk. “The good news is that our first edition of The Quill is hot off the presses, and I know you all are excited to see what all of our work has accomplished. Nicole, if you could distribute these, please.”

  I waited anxiously for my copy. I’d never seen my own work in print before, and I was excited. It had been a struggle getting the article written, given that I’d been . . . preoccupied for most of the game. Luckily, I’d managed to write down enough to finish.

  “What’s the bad news?” asked Lucas.

  Christian hesitated, swallowing and making his Adam’s apple bob. “The bad news is that, as most of you know, we are responsible for all of the duties formerly handled by the yearbook committee, which means that, for the time being, we will have to divert some of our time and energies away from the winter formal.”

  Nicole handed me a copy of the paper, winking at me as she did. I spent all of two seconds politely pretending to skim everyone else’s work before flipping through to find mine. The title was, simply, “Homecoming Victory,” and underneath, “by Elliott B.”

  The Stampede managed a victory over the Meryton Mountain Lions. It was a close game, but the team managed to maintain their lead thanks to the spectacular efforts of the first-string quarterback, Andrew De Bourgh, who threw an impressive five touchdown passes . . .

  “What the heck is this?” I said, not trying to keep my voice down.

  “What’s what?” asked Lucas.

  “Spectacular efforts, an impressive five touchdowns? I didn’t write that!” I spat.

  I jumped out of my chair and stomped to the front of the room, where Christian was writing the words, “Spirit Week” on the chalkboard behind the desk. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me. “Ah, Elliott, I’m surprised to see you here. What seems to be the problem? I hope it can be resolved without resorting to violence.”

  “The problem is I didn’t write this.” I thrust the paper at him, and he plucked it from my hand. Skimming the article, nodding thoughtfully.

  “Your name is in the byline, is it not?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but you changed the words,” I shot.

  He smiled pleasantly. “I edited it.”

  I wanted to hit him. “You embellished it.”

  Christian carefully laid the paper aside and crossed his arms. “Elliott, let us be clear about something. You are a journalist for this paper. Your job is to write. I am the editor. My job is to fix what you write. Ultimately, what is printed in this paper is my decision, not yours. Now, if you have a problem coming to terms with these facts, then perhaps your talents are best used elsewhere. Do we understand one another?”

  The rest of the newsroom had gone quiet. People were waiting to see what was going to happen now. Christian leaned back in his chair and waited with a stupid, smug look on his face. I’d already hit a De Bourgh; doing it again wasn’t worth getting in trouble. Besides, that’s probably what he wanted, just so he could get rid of me.

  I’d been on the fence about staying on the paper before. But I couldn’t leave now, not if it would mean giving Christian what he wanted. I just barely managed to swallow my pride long enough to mutter a quick, “I understand perfectly,” and leave.

  * * *

  Mom wasn’t about to let me forget about my “punishment,” so I decided to get it out of the way when I got home Thursday evening, when it wouldn’t be as hot outside. As I gathered the gloves, a rake, and a trash bag, I struggled to see the hardship in pulling nonexistent weeds. Until I was standing in the rocks in front of our house, where I saw that there were far more of them than I’d noticed before.

  I lost track of time as I worked, and before I knew it the sun was beginning to set, sending pink and purple light flaring across the jagged horizon.

  I had cleared away half a bag’s worth of weeds when I heard the soft crunching of rocks as someone approached. I glanced up to see the last person on God’s green Earth I would have guessed would be standing there—Darcy Fitzwilliam, in the flesh.

  “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” I mumbled.

  “Funny.” She slowly sat cross-legged across from me, making sure to keep extra space between us. It made me wonder if I smelled bad or something. “How’s your face?” she asked.

  “I’ve actually had worse,” I lied, plunging my fingers back into the rocks and snatching a particularly thick weed out by the roots.

  She seemed to think about something for a moment. “How much trouble did you get in?”

  Her questions made me think of a few of my own. Like, Why are you talking to me all of a sudden?

  “Surprisingly little,” I told her. That much was true at least. “Technically, I did start it, but they let me off with a warning because of the, um, circumstances. Everyone knows Andrew’s default setting is jerkwad, so . . .”

  “Why did you do it?”

  This question was sudden and blunt, and it felt like being hit on the head with a brick. Darcy would make an excellent interrogator. “Mark is my friend.” Shouldn’t that be obvious?

  “That doesn’t mean anything. There were dozens of people around, not to mention hall monitors. Someone would have stopped it before your friend got beat up. You didn’t have to do anything. But you did. I don’t get it.” Darcy looked genuinely perplexed.

  “Friends stick up for each other,” I said.

  “Not always.” There was a little bit of pain hidden in her voice.

  “Maybe you need new friends.”

  She said nothing after that, and I wondered if she was considering what I’d just said or forgetting it. When she did speak, she asked, “Why are you out here picking weeds?”

  I gestured to the bag of weeds beside me. “That’s the ‘little’ part. This is my mom’s version of punishment.”

  She smiled. “How brutal.”

  Had she just made a joke? I didn’t think she was capable. I plucked another weed. “I know, right? The inhumanity.”

  The smallest, barest hint of what could almost pass for a smile started at the edges of Darcy’s mouth. I was sure I had imagined it. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  I suppressed a surge of apprehension
. “Don’t see why not.”

  “Why do you do it? Skateboarding, I mean. Why do you . . . skateboard?”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “Why don’t you skateboard?”

  She sighed and started to get up. “If you didn’t want to answer the question, all you had to do was say so.”

  “No!” I blurted. I instantly regretted it. She stopped and waited. “I mean, no, it isn’t like that. It’s just, I don’t have some deep philosophical answer. I figured that’s what you were looking for.”

  Darcy gave me a smug look and sat back down. “Well, you figured wrong.”

  I groaned. She was so full of herself. I should have let her go. I wondered why I hadn’t and why I couldn’t help answering her stupid questions, no matter how rudely she asked them or how much of her business the answers weren’t. “I guess I just do it for fun.”

  Darcy just stared at me. “I see . . .”

  I cupped a handful of rocks and sifted them through my fingers. “I have a question for you.”

  She shrugged. “And what’s that?”

  “It’s sixty degrees outside. We’re in a desert. Why are you still wearing long sleeves?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth drew tight. Without another word she stood, turned on her heel, and marched away, leaving nothing but my confusion and aggravation swirling in her wake.

  “It was a joke,” I grumbled as I watched her leave, “Don’t rich people make jokes?”

  Chapter 10

  Now that Gabby had agreed to come to the dance, I was actually excited to be going. Even though it meant I had to wear a suit, since the dress code was—for some stupid reason—semi-formal.

  The dance was being held in the gymnasium. By the time Jake and I got there, people were already funneling inside. It was always weird to see my schoolmates dressed up; it felt unnatural, like seeing a teacher at a grocery store.

  I readjusted my tie for what felt like the millionth time. I owned a total of three ties, one blue, one black, and one black with blue stripes. I’d opted for the black one tonight. Black was a safe color.

  Mom had insisted on my ironing my dress shirt and I’d had to knock the dust off the suit I was wearing now. The whole ensemble felt stiff and uncomfortable, and I was sure I looked like a starched-up penguin.

  Jake, on the other hand, looked like he’d just walked off the cover of a GQ magazine. He wore a burgundy two-button suit with a matching tie and a perfectly folded pocket square. When I’d asked him where he’d learned to fold a pocket square, he’d thought I was joking.

  “I thought that was just something people knew how to do,” he’d said.

  That was why he looked like he was walking the red carpet and I was barely meeting dress code.

  Yet, he still had the nerve to ask me if he looked alright.

  “I should’ve brought my baton,” I told him as we joined the line moving into the gym.

  He turned to face me. “What for?”

  “To beat all the girls off you,” I answered.

  Jake laughed and shook his head. “As if that’d happen.”

  Just to prove him wrong, the group of girls ahead of us fell into high pitched whispers, tossing furtive glances back at us. Or, back at him. Jake didn’t seem to notice, and I knew it was because he had only one girl on his mind.

  Bridget wasn’t hard to find. As soon as we stepped into the gymnasium, I saw her. She was wearing a canary yellow dress with matching heels that made her hair look even blonder. She was talking to a guy I vaguely knew from one class or another. Actually, he was doing the talking, and Bridget was listening with her same doe-eyed look, although every few seconds she would glance at the door.

  When she saw Jake, she broke out into a smile so wide it was shocking. She politely excused herself and nearly ran to him. “There you are!” she said. Jake hugged her, and I saw he was smiling too.

  “You look . . . absolutely amazing,” he told her.

  Bridget glowed bright red. “You don’t look too shabby yourself. Wanna dance?”

  “You know it.”

  Arm in arm, the lovebirds left for the center of the gym, where people were already dancing. I watched them go with a smile, then started looking for Gabby. I didn’t see her on the dance floor, next to the stage or near the DJ booth. I didn’t see her at the seats on the far side of the auditorium, or next to the long snack table. I was about to shoot her a quick text when my phone went off. She’d sent me a message.

  Not gonna make it. Sorry :(

  I started to ask if everything was ok, when she sent a second text.

  Got grounded. Dad’s being a jerk.

  I tried to ignore the deflated feeling that filled my chest. That . . . sucked.

  Sorry to hear that. Maybe next time.

  Suddenly I wanted to turn right around and leave. But I couldn’t. I’d told Jake I’d stick around for moral support, and that’s what I was going to do.

  I spotted Lucas over at the far end of the snack table ladling sparkling grape juice into a cup.

  “How goes it?” I asked sullenly.

  He downed the juice in one gulp. “It doesn’t. Look at this,” he gestured out at the dance floor. “This party sucks. It’s too tame.”

  I laughed and started plucking at the cheese and crackers. “It’s definitely not on par with a Lucas party, I’ll admit. But what’d you expect?”

  He crinkled his nose. “I expected it not to feel so much like a funeral. What’s up with this top-40 radio hits music?”

  “You can always leave,” I reminded him. A fact I was jealous of.

  “A party’s a party,” he said, “even if it’s a lame one.”

  I laughed and shoved more cheese and crackers in my mouth. I felt a light tap on my shoulder and turned around.

  It was Darcy, wearing a black strapless dress that showed off her lithe figure. She’d done her hair in an intricate updo, with a few wispy strands dangling across her brow. I stared at her like a moron with a mouthful of food until she cleared her throat.

  “Would you care to dance?” she asked curtly.

  I nodded.

  “Okay,” she said. She hesitated, then, “I’ll let you finish here.”

  She left in a hurry. I swallowed and gasped. “What the heck did I just agree to?”

  Lucas chuckled. “I think you just agreed to dance with Darcy. I’m sure that’ll be fun. She’s cute, after all.”

  I didn’t care to agree with him aloud. But he was right. She was cute. Actually, cute didn’t quite cover it. She was beautiful in a why-aren’t-you-a-model way.

  But she was also evil. And she was waiting for me.

  I brushed myself off and popped a few mints in my mouth. “Might as well get this over with,” I muttered.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Lucas, slapping my shoulder.

  My timing could not have been worse. As soon as I met Darcy on the edge of the dance floor, the pop music stopped.

  “Time to take things down a notch,” said the DJ, “these next few are for the couples.”

  The lights dimmed, and a slow ballad started.

  “I don’t suppose you know any ballroom dances,” I said to Darcy, hoping she’d say no.

  “I prefer them, actually,” she said, “the waltz especially. Do you know it?”

  “I took lessons a while back.” With my mom, which I kept to myself.

  “How’d that go?”

  Honestly, not well. It had been one of her ill-advised attempts to “culture” me. Not that I was about to tell Darcy that.

  “Guess we’ll find out,” I said, offering her my hand. She took it, and we maneuvered onto the floor. Having her this close to me was unnerving. Her breath was cool and minty, her skin soft and smooth. In her heels she wasn’t that much shorter than me, meaning our eyes were almost level. And her eyes were beautiful. Swirling blue irises with streaks of even deeper blue, they seemed to change colors according to the light.
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  We danced in absolute silence. All the while I tried to figure out what the heck I was doing here, at homecoming, a dance I didn’t want to go to, waltzing with a girl I didn’t like.

  It was too much. The silence was pressing in on me. Someone had to say something, and it was probably going to have to be me. So I tossed out the first subject I could think of.

  “How are you coming along with the book analysis?”

  We were working on analyzing Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey in Advanced English. Not exactly an enthralling topic to bring up now, but it was better than nothing.

  “I’m analyzing the influence of aestheticism on Wilde’s work,” she said. “You do know what that means, right? Aestheticism?”

  “Art for art’s sake,” I challenged. “Sort of like the decadence movement, and hedonism, which to me is the stronger influence in the book.”

  Darcy didn’t even try to hide the look of surprise on her face. “Oh,” she said plainly.

  A few more seconds passed. One song bled into the next, and we danced on in silence.

  “You know, you don’t really talk much,” I said, grasping at straws at this point.

  “What’s there to talk about?” she asked.

  What’s the point of dancing together? “Lots of things. Anything, really.”

  Darcy looked at me like I was speaking Pig Latin.

  “That was actually your cue to say something,” I told her.

  With an I’m-humoring-you face she asked, “What would you like me to say?”

  “I don’t know. How do you like Phoenix so far? What do you think of your classes? The funny shape of the room, how your day’s been going—”

  “Do you really care how my day’s been going?” she asked, raising a brow.

  “That’s not the point.” But I did, oddly enough. I wanted to know how she was adjusting to life here in the valley. I wanted to know what she thought of the school and the people here.

  “Do you make a habit of talking while you dance?” she asked.

  “Only when I don’t want to be bored to tears. It’s natural to talk. That’s how you get to know people.” It was annoying having to justify perfectly normal behavior like I was the weird one. So just to irritate her, I added, “Who knows? You and I could actually have things in common.”