might clear up by this afternoon.”
The sophomores gasped. There was nothing polite about mentioning another girl’s blemish, even in the privacy of the powder room.
I rolled my eyes. “I mean, the weather.”
Outside, thunder rolled. Strands of weeping willows slapped the windows, and the sophomores whined and pulled on their hair in unison. It was embarrassing, watching them all wig out over a few insignificant flyaways before a pep rally. How did they expect to cut it in two years when there were legitimate things to stress about? I sighed and pulled a bottle of my secret weapon hair gloss, courtesy of Mom, from my purple backpack. I didn’t need to court votes from these girls, but around here, you could catch a lot of flies with really good hair products.
“Promise to share?” I asked the sophomores, waving the bottle in the air.
The Human Blemish held out her hands as if I’d just spun gold. “Oh my God, thank you,” Darla blinked. “We’ll each take just one spritz.”
“Right,” I said, heading for the door. “Don’t go
“Nat.” Kate’s throaty voice stood out among the other girls’ chirps. She tugged on the strap of my bag. “Wait up.”
“Talk to me.” I turned around to straighten the collar of her white oxford shirt so that it lay smoothly under her pale-pink cashmere.
“Tracy Lampert wants to see you,” she said, flashing the silver tongue ring she hardly ever let show on school grounds. “Junior bathroom,” Kate directed. “Before the bell.”
Hmm. . Tracy Lampert was the self-appointed junior-class guru. She held perpetual court in their bathroom, to the point where some wondered if she ever went to class.
“That’s convenient,” I said, wondering briefly about the odds. Tracy and I were cool, but I couldn’t remember the last time we’d sought out each other’s company — simultaneously. “I was on my way up there, anyway,” I said, shrugging good-bye to the rest of the Bambies. “Later, girls.”
As I slipped up the stairs toward Tracy’s Den of Zen, I was surprised to see how suddenly inundated the halls were with my running mates’ Palmetto Ball Court posters. Taking all of them in, I started to laugh — not just because someone had convinced June Rattler to blow up a red-faced, puffy-cheeked photo of herself honking on a tuba for her Palmetto Princess Poster, though that was pretty hilarious — and vaguely disturbing. No, I started laughing because in a weird way, it felt good to realize that I wasn’t the only one consumed by thoughts of the crown.
Here’s how crazy Palmetto is about its Ball: For one month every year, hippies forget their vows to reduce their carbon imprint and sit around their bonfires high as kites, making just as many glittery posters as the rest of us. Tramps start wearing underwear and going back to church to grease the moral judges who make the final call. Former-Princesses-turned-parents habitually bribe the school with donations of new library wings to ensure their own children’s royal legacies. Even the boys go on celery-hot-sauce diets to drop a few pounds before their campaign photo shoots.
Yes, the guys take it that seriously, too. Unless, of course, we’re talking about my boyfriend. I love him, okay? I do. Mike and I are undoubtedly the school’s most-likely-to-succeed couple. All I’m saying is if everyone in the world could get away with caring about certain things as little as Mike does. . well, there just might not be a Palmetto Court Campaign at all.
And the campaign is only the beginning! After the ballots are cast and the winners announced, the real reign of Palmetto Prince and Princess begins. “Royalty” at Palmetto means you’re a cross between ambassador of goodwill and highest-ranking socialite. Basically: You’ve arrived.
To celebrate, the whole school throws you a massive week-long party. First, there’s the country club coronation — to which the Prince and Princess arrive by a glittering horse and carriage. Then there’s the Jessamine Day — where all the girls sport their glorified state-flower corsages. There’s the famous “Path to Palmetto” video, widely distributed, and known to have gotten more than a few former Royals into their choice of Ivy Leagues. Finally, of course, there’s the Ball.
“Gimme a countdown to the Ball — go!” Rex Freeman’s voice rang out through the hall. Rex, with his buzzed red hair and biceps always bulging through his rolled up T-shirt sleeves, was way more laid-back than he looked at the moment. Usually, he was only a taskmaster when it came to getting the right number of kegs to his parties. But from the panicked expression of his lanky sophomore assistant, Rex was taking his job as Campaign Commissioner pretty seriously this year.
“Did I stutter?” he barked at the kid. “I asked you how many days.”
“Guh. . fifteen,” the boy twittered, backing against his locker.
“And how many posters per Prince are allowed on the walls fifteen days out?” Rex barked.
As the sophomore flipped frantically through a stapled packet of rules and regulations, Rex looked up and grinned at me.
“I assume your poster count is in compliance ma’am,” he joked, putting on his hick Carolina officer-of-the-law voice and giving my shoulder a squeeze.
“Oh, you know I play by the rules, officer,” I quipped back, matching his southern accent with my best damsel-in-distress.
“That’s more than I can say for your boyfriend,” Rex winced, looking down at his biceps. “I might need a witch doctor after Mike’s tackle today.”
I groaned and popped a piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth. Rex and Mike had been tight since they accidentally tied their shoelaces together back in second grade, so I was used to them horsing around. But this week was no time to get a stupid football injury!
Usually, I love Mike’s carefree-yet-successful way of going about high school — he definitely balanced me out. But Mike’s place on the Court should have been just as much of a shoo-in as mine this year. It would be, too, if he’d just put in the tiniest bit of effort — well, and if it weren’t for Justin Balmer.
I leaned over to tap the packet Rex’s lackey was still fumbling through. “If I were you, I’d keep an eye on J.B.’s poster count,” I said before continuing down the hall.
Of all the posters plastered on the wall, Justin’s was the one I knew I’d be most unnerved by — so I’d made myself promise to avoid it. I was this close to reaching the junior bathroom safely when I came face to face with J.B.’s cardboard incarnation and stopped dead in my tracks.
In the picture, Justin stood tan and shirtless on one of his boats in his father’s marina down near Folly Beach. And okay, it wasn’t an entirely unattractive photo. In fact, the intense look in his deep-green eyes almost made me stumble forward. When I leaned in for a closer look, I realized I knew that boat. I’d once spent an endless evening on it back when. . well, back when things were different.
Please, more like eighteen years in the faking. I’d learned the hard way that J.B. was so much less than the sum of his cotillioned parts. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger sham — and at Palmetto, that was saying something. I squinted at the picture, wondering which Bambi skank had taken it, and when.
“I thought you gave up idol worship.” It was Justin, leaning against the wall and smirking at me with those same green eyes. He smelled the way he always did — Kiehl’s aftershave and freshly cut grass.
I gestured at the poster, unimpressed. “I was just checking to see whether that was a smudge or a giant mole on your chest,” I said. “Have you put on some weight?”
“Cute cover up, Nat,” he said in a low voice. “But I think we already know all about each other’s secret charming imperfections.” His hand grazed the small of my back, just inside the waist of my jeans.
I shoved him back against the locker, then quickly spun around to check for witnesses. I did not want anyone seeing me sweat Justin Balmer in plain sight. Luckily, the only person in the hallway was bespectacled Ari Ang, who scurried by carrying a beaker full of something green.
“I didn’t see anything,” the Anger pleaded, covering his large-frame glasses with his beaker. “I’m just on my way to chemistry. . ” His voice trailed off, and I turned back around to face Justin.
Once, we might have laughed about the Anger’s perpetual beaker handling. Now I wanted to spit my new piece of Juicy Fruit in J.B.’s face. But I made myself swallow the bilious instinct. I forced a smile.
“Aww,” I cooed. “It’s cute that you still think your — what was your phrase — charming imperfections are secret.” I let my eyes pause deliberately on his crotch before spitting out my gum, tearing off a piece of Justin’s
