"Get home now, Aggie," my mom said, and hung up the phone.

Mrs. Bromes wore a satisfied smirk on her face. I ignored her and turned to Neil. I wanted to kick him in the face and tell him what an a.s.shole he was, but instead I just looked at him and said, "I'm so glad I didn't have s.e.x with you last night when you asked me to."

Mrs. Bromes's mouth dropped open, and Neil just stared at the kitchen table, unable to meet my eyes.

Without another word, I pushed my chair away from the table and bolted out the back door.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

SAt.u.r.dAY, APRIL 25 / 5:12 A.M.

When I got home, I walked into the kitchen but no one was there.

"We're in the living room," my dad called out gruffly. I shuffled to where he and my mom were sitting. My mom was curled into a chair, her legs tucked underneath her. My dad was on the couch. The Sat.u.r.day issue of the St. Davis Letter was spread out all around him.

Seeing them sitting there, I suddenly felt like I had one of those hoods over my head, the kind they put on prisoners at Guantanamo. The insides of my nostrils felt scratchy.

My mom wouldn't meet my eyes, but my dad looked directly at me. "Aggie, we need to have a very serious talk with you," he said.

I nodded, noticing his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

"We received the paper this morning," my dad said. He held up a section of it and shook it, the pages rattling. "Do you have any idea what it says?"

I shook my head no.

"It says Marissa Mendez isn't the queen, but rather Sylvia Ness is. It says that there's been complete inaction on the part of the administration, even though they've known about foul play since the vote on Monday. Mrs. Wagner alleges your mom told her to burn the ballots, and Rod Barris says he was able to confirm this information from"-here my dad s.n.a.t.c.hed his gla.s.ses off the coffee table and peered at the text-" 'a source close to Gail Winchester.' Now, who do you suppose that might be?"

The wave of nausea that had started rolling inside of me at Neil's house suddenly came back with tsunami-like force. Shame and humiliation came heaving through my throat as I vomited all over the carpet.

My mom made a small strangled noise and got to her feet. She dashed out of the room, and I could hear her opening cabinets, grabbing cleaning supplies. When she came back in, I tried to take them from her, to clean up the mess myself, but she shrugged me off again and bent down.

I couldn't look at her as she sopped up my mess, and I burst into tears. I hated crying like this, not to mention emptying my stomach in the family room, but I couldn't hold it back. I'd been in trouble before, but this was different. The sheer disgrace of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up with Rod Barris, of Neil lying to me about getting back together, of Sylvia dumping me and then thinking I'd come crawling back to her-all of my emotions about it were now in a liquid mess in front of me that my mom was cleaning up.

"I-I'm s-sorry," I managed to stammer, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. It was the only thing I could think of to say as I stood there watching my mom scrub.

The next thing I knew, my dad was standing next to me. I hadn't even registered the fact that he'd gotten up from his chair.

"Okay, Ag, okay," he said. His tone was totally different-it had gone from iron shavings to cotton b.a.l.l.s in the s.p.a.ce of one hurl. "Just come on over and sit down for a second, all right?"

I nodded and he led me over to the loveseat. My mom had finished cleaning but had left the spray bottle and towels on the floor when she resumed her position in the corner chair. Maybe in case I hadn't gotten everything out of my system.

I sat facing them both, but I couldn't meet their eyes. Instead, I busied myself with wiping my nose and tears with my sleeve until my mom handed me a tissue from her pocket. "Here."

When my crying had stopped and I could breathe without hiccuping, I finally chanced a look across the room at them.

My mom stared at me with a mix of anger and concern. Her mouth hung open just slightly, and her eyebrows were somehow raised and pulled together at the same time. My dad just looked bone tired. His forehead was creased with weariness.

As if suddenly registering my staring, my mom cleared her throat and folded her hands together. "Are you well enough to have a discussion?" she asked.

I nodded.

She took a deep breath. "Then let me begin by saying that your behavior these past two days has been seriously disappointing. And not just disappointing, but dangerous. Both for me and my career, and also for your safety, since sneaking out in the middle of the night is hazardous, to say the least. You've jeopardized both my position at the school and our trust."

I looked at the floor.

"There's also," she continued, leaning forward in her chair, "the very serious fact that you broke rules in the Bromeses' house too."

I nodded, picturing Mrs. Bromes waiting for me to sneak out of Neil's room.

"Aggie," my dad said, some of the iron shavings back in his voice, "we're not opposed to you dating, but we can't have you going out behind our backs to be with boys."

"Especially when you looked me in the eye and told me Neil wasn't your boyfriend," my mom interjected.

"Neil's not my boyfriend," I said. I twisted my damp sleeves around my fingers.

My mom and dad exchanged glances.

"But you still . . ." My dad trailed off, fighting what I imagined was an enormous internal battle to find the right words. "You're still clearly involved somehow."

I didn't even know how to begin to answer that. "It's not what you think," I said.

My mom cleared her throat. "Aggie, from our perspective, we're very concerned. Especially in light of Sylvia. If you're going to have s.e.x, then we want you to be safe. We should probably get you to a gynecologist in the near future."

My head jerked. "G.o.d, Mom, no. We're not having s.e.x. Why won't you believe me?"

My mom didn't look convinced. "Whatever you're doing with Neil," she continued, "we hope that you'll take every precaution."

"What's more," my dad interjected, "you need to be respectful of boundaries in other people's homes. If you wouldn't do something here, you shouldn't do it elsewhere."

I nodded, all too aware that I probably wouldn't be doing anything in anyone else's home for a long time. I figured I'd be grounded until college.

"The way you've behaved is unacceptable," my mom said, as if reading my thoughts, "and you need to be punished for what you did. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Your mom is going to have to face grave repercussions for Rod Barris's story, in part because of the information you gave him."

My brain felt like watered-down instant oatmeal. "I-I was just trying to help," I managed to say. "I was trying to tell the truth, and I thought Rod Barris was too. But he lied to me. I'm-I'm really sorry."

My mom closed her eyes but didn't say anything.

I turned to my dad. "And I'm sorry about the tournament," I said. I knew that my dad had been looking forward to today's ba.s.s tournament since opening day. Because this was a pairs tournament, if he showed up alone, or with a different partner other than me, they'd disqualify him.

My dad glanced at my mom. Ever so slightly, she nodded.

"Aggie, your mom has very graciously agreed that I should be able to enjoy an event that I've been planning for months now," my dad said. "While she doesn't like the fact that your presence is required for me to compete, she's willing to let it slide."

My head felt light. "Please go to your room," my dad said. "The tournament is starting soon, but your mom and I need a moment."

I nodded and left, but the minute I shut my door, I didn't flop on the bed like my whole body was telling me to. Instead, I paced, thinking about Neil, about my parents, about school, about everything.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and cringed. My makeup was smeared, my eyes red, my hair a mess.

I cracked open my door and heard my parents still talking. As stealthily as I could, I tiptoed to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. Once the water had steamed up the sink mirror, I scrubbed my face until every last trace of makeup was gone. I put my fingertips to my face and knew my skin was shiny and pink, but I didn't dare check the mirror to look at it. I didn't feel ready to face myself just yet.

My dad poked his head into my bedroom a few minutes later. He solemnly announced that my "punishment would commence after the ba.s.s tournament" and that "the terms would be very severe."

He didn't go into details about it, and I didn't ask him to. The way his mouth turned down and the way he looked past me, not at me, I could see he was still completely p.i.s.sed.

Before he left, I spotted the St. Davis Letter tucked under his left arm.

"Dad," I said, "can I . . . um, can I see the St. Davis Letter?"

"This really upset your mother," he said. "I want you to truly understand that."

I folded my hands together. My dad, perhaps mistaking my silence for thoughtful penance, handed me the paper.

I had to read quickly-the tournament was calling, and already we were running behind-but I had to find out what Rod Barris had written.

ALLEGED PROM COVER-UP SURFACES.

AT ST. DAVIS HIGH by Rod Barris More details, and more questions, have emerged regarding how administrators at St. Davis High School handled the election of prom queen this past Monday. Marissa Mendez was crowned queen, though a challenger, Sylvia Ness, has come forward, claiming administrators burned ballots with her name on them.

"This election has always been rigged," Ness said, alleging that her "alternative looks" and current pregnancy kept high school officials from handing her the crown, even after the student body voted for her.

Amy Wagner, the high school cheerleading coach who counts the ballots every year, says that the votes cannot be retabulated because Princ.i.p.al Gail Winchester told her to burn them. "After we announced Marissa was the queen, she told me to torch them," Wagner says.

St. Davis administration officials have declined to comment on the subject; however, a source close to Princ.i.p.al Winchester confirmed that the ballots had in fact been burned on Monday and that Winchester knew about it. Since Monday, Winchester has taken no action to rectify the prom situation, leading some in the school to believe a cover-up is in the works.

This same source also alleged that Ness wanted the t.i.tle of prom queen only because she was carrying the baby of Ryan Rollings, the prom king.

District Superintendent Paul Swanson said that in the next few days the burning of the ballots and election procedures would be investigated carefully. "We will get to the bottom of what happened," he said.

Until further information was available, he indicated that Marissa Mendez would keep her crown and that the prom schedule would move forward as planned.

For St. Davis community reaction to the unfolding prom situation, please see the Letters to the Editor section.

G.o.d, I'd been such a moron to believe that Rod would have changed anything in his story just because I told him who the father of Sylvia's baby was. The only thing he'd done was add that information, which had made everything worse.

With trembling fingers, I turned to the Letters section to see what more was written there.

Dear Editor, The mystery about St. Davis High's prom queen is about much more than a prom queen. It's about caring about the opinions of others, even if they're "just kids." The princ.i.p.al and others there are hiding something, and the sooner they come forward, the sooner we can put all this behind us.-Alex Bartlett Dear Editor, If recent presidential and Senate elections have taught us anything, it's that voting matters and that each vote counts. Why should a prom election be any different just because it takes place in a high school? What are we teaching our kids about voting if we don't count their ballots?-Sasha James Dear Editor, We forget sometimes that high school kids are just that: kids. They are impressionable and need guidance. How can any administrator put an out-ofwedlock pregnant girl who dresses like a vampire on the throne as a model for others to follow? That's what the prom queen is, she's a standard. And the more we let that standard slip, the more we'll be doing a disservice to our children.-Janet Gilson I took a deep breath. At least the editor chose to print a variety of letters, I thought. It could have been worse . . . I supposed.

"Aggie!" my dad shouted from the kitchen. "Come on! Let's go!"

I folded the paper closed, then shoved it into the metal trash can next to my desk. Enough for one day, I thought, and gave it one extra push toward the bottom.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

SAt.u.r.dAY, APRIL 25 / 8:02 A.M.

At the start of the tournament, fifty boats pushed off from the sh.o.r.e and roared through the water, racing for the hottest ba.s.s spots on the lake, their wakes tearing up the surface.

There was something about those first few minutes of takeoff that were so freeing, it almost rivaled the fishing part. It was the time in the boat when the stress of too few casts, or too few fish, or all the wrong conditions hadn't seeped into your mind yet, and when all that was between you and a fivepound ba.s.s was a liquid crust teeming with life.

I knew my dad liked the takeoff, too, but he didn't even look over and smile at me as we whipped past other boats. In fact, he'd hardly looked at me at all since we'd left home, and he'd spoken to me even less. It was as if the more time pa.s.sed since the conversation in the living room, the madder at me he got. Or the more mortified he got. It was hard to tell.

I stared at the water, trying not to think about the way my dad was acting, or how I'd seen Fitz standing among a clump of fishermen before the tournament started. He'd been staring at me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. I wished I could have said sorry to him right then for the way we'd left things about prom, but he was too far away. Instead, we locked gazes until his dad emerged from the side of their new Triton and clapped him on the back. It was only then that he broke the stare and climbed into his ba.s.s boat for the tournament.

As the boat slowed, I figured my dad could be as p.i.s.sed as he wanted, but I was going to enjoy what I could of this day. Whatever it took. I had screwed up and broken the rules, but that didn't mean I was out of the game.

When the boat was finally still, my dad killed the gas motor and flipped on the electric trolling motor.

I looked up from where I was switching lures on my pole. "Dad," I said, "do you think we should troll? Don't you think we should just cast and drift?"

My dad didn't say anything right away.

"I mean, the wind's taking us in the right direction," I continued. "We can just float with it."

"We're fine," my dad said. He grabbed his pole, turned his back to me, and began casting off the bow.

If I hadn't been holding a two-hundred-dollar rod, I would have snapped it over my knee. I thought it was enormously unfair that I was supposed to be so grateful for my dad taking me on this trip when, really, I was just the warm body he needed to compete in the pairs tournament. Just like I'd been the warm body Neil wanted. It didn't really matter that I was me.

I flung my first cast into the water so hard, it probably scattered any ba.s.s that were lurking underneath. Dammit, I cursed silently.

The tournament was off to a bad start. And we still had eight hours to go.

By lunchtime, things had eased up in the boat a bit. My dad had hauled in a three-pounder, and I had a nice four-pounder, both of which were splashing around in the live well. In a tournament like this one, you weighed in your five biggest fish, which meant you could keep swapping fish out of the live well until you had your five best.

My dad, a little breeze in his hair, was fishing off the bow like he was trying to make friends with all the ba.s.s. He cast slowly, languidly, taking his time with each movement. I watched him for a second, then shook my head.

By contrast, I was breathing hard, trying to get as many casts in per minute as I could. I was always on the go, adjusting my lures and positions as the wind changed or the surface of the lake changed.

"Aggie, for heaven's sake, slow down," my dad said, shooting an irritated glance my way as I dove into my tackle box.

I looked up.