Page 20 of Gone Tonight
Coach told us it was time to elect a captain and Mrs. Davis walked around the table, distributing little pads of paper and pens. The pads all had the logo Davis & Libertelli at the top. Brittany’s father was the founding partner of the law firm that was our biggest sponsor.
Subtlety wasn’t a strength for the Davis women.
Coach told us to write down the name of the girl we believed deserved to represent us as captain this year, then fold up our papers and pass them down to him.
In the ensuring silence, everyone could hear Brittany stage-whisper to the girl next to her, asking if something smelled kind of rank, while she glanced meaningfully at me. They both laughed in that way only mean girls can—it’s an art, really. It combines superiority and malice with a dash of exclusivity.
Strange to think that just a few years ago we were learning how to French braid each other’s hair and taking our first-ever sips of vodka from the little airline-sized bottle I’d stolen from my mother’s stash, the kind she tucked in her purse when she went out to run errands.
Coach Franklin started piling up the votes in front of him while I looked down at my blank paper.
I’m not sure what prompted me do it. Maybe it was Brittany cupping her hand over her face and making snorting noises. I was well aware I’d put on ten pounds over the summer, and she was making damn sure everyone else was aware of it, too. Or maybe it’s because I looked up, saw James’s eyes on me, and drew courage from his steady gaze.
I decided to stop trying to be invisible.
I wrote down my own name. I didn’t even disguise my handwriting.
I ripped the sheet from my pad and crumpled it up and threw it down the table, then took another long sip of cold, delicious water, finishing my third glass.
When all the papers were in a little pile in front of Coach, he shuffled them around. Mrs. Davis sat with her pen poised over her pad, ready to tally the results.
Coach reached for the first paper and unfolded it. He called Brittany’s name.
There were a few excited squeals. Brittany flicked her hair and smiled.
The second vote was for Brittany, of course.
And the third.
But the next two were for me.
I almost dropped my fork.
One vote I knew was coming. But someone else had written down my name? I looked around the table. Brittany and her cronies appeared as shocked as I was.
Coach reached for another slip of folded paper.
He called out a vote for Brittany, her fourth.
Then there was another for me. And another.
With two-thirds of the votes counted, we were dead even at four votes each.
I sensed tension rising around our table like smoke. All the side conversations ceased. Everyone watched Coach intently as he unwrapped the ninth vote. I held my breath.
He called out my name.
Someone gasped. It might even have been me.
Out of twelve votes, I’d gotten five so far and Brittany had four. Was I being set up?
If this was another planned humiliation, Brittany was a few steps ahead of me. I had no idea what she could gain from this. She desperately wanted to be captain. The captain got to lead us on and off the field for the halftime show and stood in front of the squad during certain routines. She would never have willingly given up that spotlight.
There was only one other possibility I could think of: Some of the girls were rebelling against Brittany. They were rising up, trying to unseat the queen. Maybe she’d cut them one too many times with her barbs, or maybe they had grown sick of her rules.
Coach unwrapped the next slip of paper.
He’d stopped smiling.
