Mary Anne's Revenge Page 2

  He wasn’t as bad as he’d been when I was a little girl, but he was definitely getting on my nerves. And that made me feel bad, because I could understand why he was being so protective. After all, he’d lost everything but his family in the fire too.

  Why did it have to be our house? My thoughts slipped back into the same old pattern. Why couldn’t it have been the house of someone deeply mean and petty, like Cokie? Of course I didn’t wish that Cokie’s house had burned down, but maybe I did wish she’d had major smoke damage to all her clothes.

  And then it came to me. The perfect comeback to Cokie’s shot at the yearbook staff meeting that afternoon: “No, Cokie. I’m just upset because we’ll have to have a page for you for Least Likely Ever to Be Part of a Couple.”

  I smiled, feeling better. I rehearsed it in my head, imagining her face if I’d actually had the nerve to say something that spiteful and mean. My smile widened.

  “I thought you’d like my new surprise,” my father said.

  I returned to the conversation at the table. “Surprise?” I said.

  “The new beds I bought. Yours has an antique pine headboard and footboard, carved with a leaf-and-vine-pattern trim. It’ll be great in the new house.”

  “Oh,” I said blankly.

  “And we can get rid of this lumpy, plastic-wood rental bedroom furniture,” said Sharon. “Super, Richard!”

  My father beamed.

  I said, “But Dad — I mean, the bed sounds great, but what if I wanted to pick out my own bed?”

  My dad looked startled, a little less beamingly happy. “Of course. You can do that. We’ll go by the store tomorrow and cancel the order and you can pick out whatever you want. There’s no rush.”

  “No,” I said. “Never mind.”

  “Really, Mary Anne …” he began.

  “It’s fine.” I shrugged. “It’s just a bed. Whatever.”

  We were all silent. I could tell I’d surprised both Sharon and my father. I wasn’t a “whatever” kind of girl.

  But maybe it was time I became one. Maybe it was time I stopped taking everything so seriously, worrying about everything being right. Maybe I should start taking things easy. Isn’t that what Kristy had been trying to say to me?

  Whatever.

  One thing about being the incredible shrinking Mary Anne — it’s easy to be a spy. I spent all of the next day being an attitude-makeover spy at SMS.

  That is, I kept quiet and observed my friends and fellow students at school. It was as if I were researching the kind of new attitude I wanted. Maybe you could even call it comparison shopping.

  Since Cokie had already made an announcement about the vote over the loudspeaker during homeroom the next morning, I had even more of an opportunity for research. The moment after the loudspeaker squawked and died, everyone began to talk about who would or should win the votes. I heard Alan Gray discussed as a candidate for Funniest (I was sure Kristy would disagree). I heard Emily Bernstein, editor of the SMS school newspaper, spoken of as a sure thing for Most Intelligent. I also heard both Logan and Abby mentioned in the Most Athletic categories.

  It was kind of funny, in a way, since the categories themselves hadn’t been decided on yet. We were supposed to do that at a meeting of the yearbook staff that afternoon.

  I heard the “who’s who” buzz all day long. Even Kristy, Claudia, and Stacey were caught up in it. Stacey suggested that Claudia should be the only possible choice for Most Artistic. Claudia thought Stacey ought to be elected Most Intelligent and Most Beautiful. Kristy nominated herself (to me) as Most Likely to Be President of the World.

  No one suggested I would be the most or best anything. I was just Mary Anne. I wasn’t a sophisticated math whiz like Stacey. I wasn’t artistic and free-spirited like Claudia. I wasn’t athletic and outspoken like Abby. I wasn’t presidential material, like Kristy. But maybe I could work on becoming more … well, something.

  By the time I arrived at the yearbook meeting, I was so overwhelmed by how not Most and Best I was, and so amazed at how much thought and energy everybody was putting into the idea (especially the “traditional” categories) that I could only think about what an enormous job this was going to turn out to be. Then I heard Alan Gray talking about how lucky he was to be “naturally funny.” He was campaigning! Grace Blume, Cokie’s best friend and second-in-command, told everyone that in her opinion, people with “classic bone structure” such as Cokie would be the best choice to represent the class as Most Beautiful. It didn’t take me long to figure out that Cokie herself was campaigning — through her loyal-but-not-too-bright friend.

  And, of course, thinking about the work ahead, I saved a few other sour thoughts for Cokie, who had not only announced the election that morning but had told the school that the ballots would be handed out on Monday. That meant that Abby, Austin, and I would have to spend the weekend getting ballots, ballot boxes, and ballot collectors organized.

  I came into the yearbook office to find that Cokie was still campaigning: “ … a category like Most Likely to Become a Major Movie Star would make a nice new edition to the list,” she was saying as I slid into a seat beside Abby. Then she tossed her head and added, “Being a photogenic and talented person helps, naturally.”

  Translation? Choose me! Choose me! Choose me!

  Woody raised his hand and said evenly, “I think you’re right, Cokie. I think we need to decide on the categories, both traditional and new. The sooner we do that, the sooner the features staff can get to work on the ballots.”

  Cokie looked smug and pleased, even though Woody hadn’t actually agreed with what she was saying. In addition to being a very good-looking guy, Woody was a much smoother operator than I had realized.

  The debate that followed was a long one. We agreed pretty quickly on the usual choices: Most Beautiful, Most Likely to Succeed, Most Intelligent, Best Athlete, Best Artist, Funniest, Best Couple, and so forth. Abby didn’t succeed in convincing the staff that the title Most Beautiful should apply to both the boy and the girl chosen in that category. In the end we called it, as always, Most Beautiful and Most Handsome. Mariah, however, persuaded us to change Funniest to Wittiest. Since no one could ever mistake Alan Gray’s gross-out antics for wit, I wondered if she had him in mind when she suggested the change.

  The new categories caused a little more controversy. Cokie suggested several extremely mean ones, such as Most Likely to Go Directly to Jail Without Passing Go, and Most Likely to Be Chosen for a Complete Makeover.

  But even Rick wouldn’t go along with those.

  Cokie looked irritated. “I was just trying to be funny,” she said.

  Cokie’s idea of funny is, obviously, putting down someone else.

  We did make a category for Most Likely to Be Elected President. Cokie and several of the others threw their votes to Most Fashionable, which we then changed to Class Style Setters.

  Other categories included Most Likely to Travel to the Moon, Most Likely to be Seen in Dark Glasses in Beverly Hills, and Most Likely to Make a Million.

  When we’d finally finished, Abby went to the computer and we got to work creating ballots.

  “This isn’t going to be so bad,” Abby assured me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I still don’t think people should campaign. It should be —”

  I never got to finish what I was saying. Cokie had overheard me, and she went into attack mode.

  “Oh, Mary Anne,” she said loudly. “Did we forget to put in a category that you might win? Let’s see. What about Quietest Student … or Most Likely to Completely Disappear into the Background?”

  As usual, Cokie’s attempts at wit drew laughter.

  Abby’s hand froze on the mouse.

  I felt my face flushing.

  Cokie went on, “Or how about Least Likely to Keep a Good Boyfriend?”

  “But Cokie,” Abby shot back, “we already have Most Likely to Drive a Boyfriend Insane, for you.”

  The even-louder laughter tha
t followed stopped Cokie long enough for me to take a deep breath, feel grateful for Abby’s support, and try to think of a comeback myself. But before I could think of anything, Logan walked into the yearbook office.

  Several other people laughed at this.

  Abby bumped my elbow with her shoulder as if to say, Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.

  Logan didn’t even look in my direction. That hurt. We hadn’t spoken much since the breakup, and I’m not sure what I expected. I couldn’t help remembering, though, how not so long ago, I was the first person Logan looked for whenever he walked into a room.

  Now he made me feel invisible. Again.

  “Hi, Rick,” Logan said. “I brought these photos by for the yearbook.”

  “Thanks,” Rick said, taking an envelope from him and opening it.

  “There are two editors of the yearbook, you know,” Cokie said, putting her hand on Logan’s arm. Logan glanced at her, then at her hand. “Hi, Cokie,” he said. “I know.”

  “These look good,” Rick said.

  I wanted to see the photos, but I remained rooted to the spot.

  “Good? They’re excellent,” Cokie gushed. She used her other hand to run one pink-polished fingernail down the edge of the photograph. “You’ve got such an eye, Logan.”

  “You think so? Thanks.”

  “We’ll have to find some more work for you. The yearbook needs your kind of creativity.” Cokie smiled at Logan. “I’m about to leave. Maybe you could walk me to my locker and we could talk about it.”

  “No problem,” said Logan. “I have to go to my locker too.”

  Cokie shot me a triumphant glance from under her lowered eyelashes. Then she and Logan left.

  He still hadn’t looked in my direction.

  “I’d like to use her head for a soccer ball and practice penalty shots against a wall,” said Abby.

  “Logan didn’t seem to mind,” I replied miserably.

  “I didn’t see any enthusiasm on his part. But even Logan isn’t immune to disgusting flattery.”

  Austin cleared his throat. “Is this a private conversation? Should I go away?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Let’s get to work. I’d like to get the ballots over with.”

  I didn’t add that, more than anything, I wanted to crawl home. Cokie had made her point. It was Cokie’s world, and I was just living in it.

  I didn’t get to stay home Friday night and brood over my lack of Most and Best qualities, Cokie’s lack of human qualities, or anything else. I’d forgotten that I had promised Kristy we’d spend Friday night at the movies.

  I tried to get out of it. Then I tried to persuade Kristy that we should rent videos and stay in — at her house, since it’s larger than our rental.

  “Are you kidding?” Kristy said. “Even if I could get to the VCR, which I can’t, this place is a zoo. Karen is having a sleepover, remember?”

  I’d forgotten. (Karen is Kristy’s seven-year-old stepsister.)

  “Anyway, I’ve got extra bucks burning a hole in my pocket. I want to waste it on overpriced tickets for the ghost movie they made from that old TV series and even more on overpriced popcorn, extra butter.”

  “Ugh,” I said.

  “So I won’t share. Just don’t beg me later. I’ll see you at six forty-five, fifteen minutes before showtime, out in front of the theater. Be there.”

  She hung up.

  I hung up.

  Kristy was soooo bossy. Why couldn’t I tell her to leave me alone?

  “So Abby tells me you had a nasty encounter of the Cokie kind,” Kristy said later, as I sulked up to the movie theater entrance.

  “Leave me alone,” I snapped.

  “Ah. A really nasty encounter.”

  I didn’t answer. We bought our tickets. Kristy bought her popcorn. We went into the theater.

  Kristy headed for the left center of a row in the back.

  I stopped in the aisle.

  “What?” asked Kristy.

  “You might ask where I want to sit,” I said. “What am I, invisible?”

  Looking bewildered, Kristy said, “We always sit in the same place. But if you want to sit somewhere else …”

  “No. The same old place is fine.” I followed her in and plopped down in the seat. “I don’t understand why they have to remake perfectly good old movies. But it’s even dumber to remake crummy old TV shows.”

  “Hey, this used to be a pretty good television show.”

  “So why ruin it with a terrible movie?”

  “I liked The Brady Bunch movies,” Kristy went on.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “ ‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia,’ ” I replied, quoting a line from the movie.

  “Exactly.”

  My smile disappeared. “How about ‘Cokie, Cokie, Cokie’? You should have seen her, Kristy. She attached herself to Logan like, well, like the slime she is. She is disgusting. And she practically called me a mousy little freak. And I couldn’t think of one thing to say.”

  “Cokie has that effect on lots of people,” Kristy assured me.

  “She makes me so angry.” I was fuming, my voice getting louder. “I’d like to push her into a locker and leave her there.”

  “Oooh, nasty.”

  “A gym locker,” I elaborated. “Filled with old, disgusting, sweaty gym clothes.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Kristy said. “You know, Mary Anne, it’s nice to see your dark side coming out.”

  I stopped. “Am I being too mean?”

  “Are you kidding? How could anybody be too mean about Cokie? Especially after what she said to you. You have every right to be totally infuriated with her.”

  “Good.”

  The houselights went down.

  I folded my arms. “And now we have to sit through hours of dumb advertisements and movie trailers,” I said.

  “You go, Mary Anne,” cheered Kristy. She thrust the popcorn toward me. “Here, you can even have some popcorn to keep up your strength.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think I will.”

  * * *

  The next morning I woke up feeling grouchy and mean. Was this how Cokie felt all the time? In a way, I enjoyed it. It was such an unusual feeling. Breakfast cheered me up a little. Since it was Saturday, I could stay home and be me.

  Whoever me was.

  Unfortunately, my father had different ideas.

  “I was thinking about what you said about picking out your own furniture, Mary Anne, and I’ve decided you’re right.”

  The old Mary Anne would have said, “That’s great, Dad.”

  The new, mean Mary Anne said (to herself), “Duh.”

  “So Sharon and I have decided that what we need is a house tour.”

  “We’re going to tour our new house? Again?” I said.

  “No. We’re going on a real house tour. The Greenvale Historic House Tour. It’ll give us some great ideas.”

  There went my quiet Saturday at home.

  I looked around the kitchen, wincing at the ugly wallpaper. Maybe I didn’t want to spend the day in this house.

  “Okay,” I said. I know I sounded less than enthusiastic, and I saw Dad’s eyebrows pull together in a quick frown. But Sharon rushed in to say, “Terrific! There’s a great new restaurant there, I hear, and if we have time we can check out some of the antique shops.”

  “Shopping? Oh, no!” My father groaned, pretending to be dismayed.

  “I’ll go get ready,” I said, standing up.

  Sharon was prepared for the trip. When I got into the car I discovered she’d brought a camera, a notebook, a pen and a pencil, and a plastic zipper file to put catalogs, folders, and business cards in.

  “What’s all that for?” I asked.

  “Research,” explained Sharon. “I can take notes, photograph furniture I like, and save everything for reference.”

  “I’m impressed,” my father said. “And maybe a little afraid.”

  Greenvale is about thirty miles from S
toneybrook. It’s a classic New England town, with old houses, big trees, stone walls lining every narrow, winding road — and lots of tourists with cameras slung around their necks.

  My dad finally found a parking space, bought tickets for the tour of the nine houses, and led us into the tourist herd.

  It was sort of fun, at first. But how many old houses can you walk through?

  Lots, apparently, if you are Sharon and my father. By the fifth house, I was tired. Sharon was still going strong and my father was perfectly happy to follow the rest of the crowd from room to room, admiring this Queen Anne table and that well-preserved rug.

  I lagged farther and farther behind until, after the sixth house, I said, “I can’t go on.”

  “What? Are you all right?” My father swung around and put his hand on my forehead as if I were a little kid.

  I jerked away. “I’m fine,” I said, speaking more loudly than I had intended. “I’m just tired of walking through old houses.”

  “Only three more,” Sharon said.

  “Why don’t I just wait here?” I suggested. I gestured toward a wooden bench under a sprawling oak tree.

  “No,” my father said. “We can’t leave you all alone out here.”

  “I won’t be alone. There are millions of people around.” There were a lot of people, all waiting patiently in line for their turn to ooh and ahh their way through the house.

  “We’re in a strange town,” my father said. “I don’t want to abandon you.”

  “You won’t be abandoning me. I’ll stay right here. I promise. And my feet really hurt.”

  “She’ll be fine, Richard,” Sharon said.

  My father didn’t listen. “I’m not going to leave you alone,” he said.

  “No one’s going to kidnap me! And I’m not going to go off with some stranger offering me candy. I’ll be fine. I’m thirteen years old!”

  But my father was shaking his head. “I’ll stay with you.”

  “Richard —” Sharon protested.

  I didn’t give her a chance to finish. “NO!” I said, so loudly that heads turned. “Leave me alone. I’m not a baby. Okay?”

  My father’s face became perfectly blank. He looked at me as if I were a stranger.