She could already see herself in Chicago next fall, immersed in a world of endless creativity along with hundreds of other students just like her, laughing, sharing ideas. No more condescending comments like, “That's nice, but what do
you really want to do with your life?” They would understand there.
She already knew she was going to start calling herself “Kate.” She might even cut her hair short, like Audrey Tautou in Amélie.
But first, she had to win.
She went back to her work, admiring the glint of the fragile glass as it slowly
rotated. Even under the stark, buzzing fluorescent lights of the noisy gym, her mobile was beautiful. Just think what it would look like in a real art gallery.
The local yokels might not get it, but Mr. Wells's wife, Mary, who she knew
was an art connoisseur, would be sure to recognize her talent. And she was a judge this year.
And it was high time a project of culture and refinement got noticed. Who cared about the sex lives of tadpoles or a catapult made from Popsicle sticks that could chuck an orange across a room?
The only downside was that Peter had a project in the running, too. And if
she won, that meant he would lose. But it wasn't like he was going to have a hard
time getting into any college he wanted. He got straight As in everything.
She chanced another glance at his project, and she had to admit, it looked impressive. She wasn't exactly sure what it was supposed to be, but it had the requisite metal tubes, wires, and hoses sticking out of it. A little wisp of steam or something floated up from one of the connections. The corners of her mouth drooped. It looked like he was her competition.
She'd begun working on her project in early summer, right after school had ended. But, she'd told Peter, she had a problem. A problem she had to admit she'd created only to get his help. How to balance the glass in her intricate mobile. It was just science-y enough to get his attention and get him into her basement where she was working on it.
It had all been going so well. They were starting to connect again, sharing thoughts, dreams about the future after high school, occasionally “accidentally”
touching hands. And then…
A hard frown creased Katie's face.
She moved in.
July 5, when she and Peter had been picking up bottle-rocket sticks from their yards after the neighborhood fireworks the night before, an orange and white U-Haul had pulled in front of the Proctor's old house across the street. Not the usual pull-behind trailer U-Haul but the big job, the semi. They watched all
afternoon as it poured out furniture—nice-looking furniture, too, and a pool table and a ping pong table and a big-screen TV.
And then a light blue minivan pulled up. Illinois license plates. Cook
County. She knew from her parents that meant Chicago and big-city
sophistication and culture. The side door rolled open automatically and out stepped Miss Hair Toss, Miss Perfect Teeth, slow-motion, like she was
auditioning for a movie.
Penny Fitch. Short shorts and a Tiffany watch. Katie could almost see Peter's
blue eyes widen behind his glasses, lopsided smile on his face.
And that was it. It was clear. She needed to save him. Save him from this usurper, this new (obviously rich) girl from the city who had flounced in like she owned the place.
All summer long, Kate gagged when she heard, “Hi, Peter! Hey, Peter!
What's up, Peter?” And then when senior year started, it got worse. Peter and Penny's lockers were only three feet apart. Katie's was on a different floor. Then at lunch, Penny would sit on the opposite side of Peter, battling her eyelashes and asking him for help with her chemistry homework.
Penny was ruining everything.
Peter couldn't see her like Katie could. He was too nice. That was always his
weakness, too nice, to a fault. But Katie could see what was going on. Penny thought she knew him, that just because she was cute and liked science and was
in cross country with him, she could pick him right up, like some sort of adorable puppy.
And how cute and giggly she acted around him. “Penny and Peter, two peas
in a pod. It almost rhymes!” Kate heard her say at lunch once.
Barf. No, it doesn't, you moron.
All her cooing and tittering and hair tosses. Penny Fitch, the wispy witch.
And when Katie was really mad, she used another word besides witch. Not out
loud, of course, because she was still a nice girl.
But the thought that unnerved her most, the one she never dared entertain for
