Get Even (Don’t Get Mad)

MR. CUNNINGHAM STOOD CENTER STAGE AT THAT EVENING’S rehearsal, arms folded gravely across his chest. “Fourth period was a disaster.”

That was the understatement of the century. Bishop DuMaine had been thrown into complete chaos after the rally as both sides pointed fingers. And as cool as it was to see students protest Father Uberti’s tactics, Olivia couldn’t help but think that everything DGM had fought for was beginning to unravel.

“Sorry, Mr. Cunningham,” Donté said. “I didn’t know it would get so out of hand.”

Olivia turned around and beamed at Donté. He’d spent almost the entirety of fourth period sequestered with the police, and Olivia had been convinced that he’d be hauled off to jail after his confrontation with Coach Creed. There had been a few students put on probation—Theo and Mika for organizing the protest, and several ’Maine Men for throwing punches—but Donté appeared at rehearsal that night with nothing more than a warning on his “permanent record.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Greene. I can appreciate your motivation and your passion. But, people, there are only eight rehearsal days left until opening night. That’s it. So I’m going to need all of your motivation and passion focused on this production for the next two weeks. Any questions?” He pointed to the back of the house. “Yes, Mr. Blaine?”

“Remember the prompter I told you about, Mr. Cunningham?”

Mr. Cunningham cupped his hands over his eyes, shielding them from the bright stage lights. “Excellent. Attention, everyone! We have a new member of the production. I’d like to introduce Margot Mejia.”

Margot stepped out from behind Logan and stared at the ground.

“Miss Mejia has volunteered to assist me in running lines during rehearsals and to act as a prompter during performances. With so little time before our opening night, we need all the preparation we can get, and Miss Mejia appears to have a photographic knowledge of the play.”

Margot had volunteered for drama? That seemed incredibly out of character. But now Olivia had an excuse to talk to her about the photo Ed the Head had mentioned, without it seeming strange or suspicious. She just needed to catch her in private.

“Now that we have most of the sets in, we’re going to run through all the blocking again, starting with act one, scene one,” Mr. Cunningham continued. “Since we lost fourth period, we need to get through the entire play tonight, so no one wander off. Those of you not involved in a particular scene can meet with Miss Mejia in one of the dressing rooms and run lines.”

Olivia poked her head into the dressing room Margot had commandeered. “Hey!”

Margot jumped as if caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Hey.”

“You’re going to help us run lines?” she asked.

Margot nodded.

“Awesome.” Olivia plopped down in the chair opposite and smiled. “I’m ready.”

Margot raised her eyebrows. “You know this play backward and forward. You don’t need to run lines.”

“True.” She should have known better than to try to con Margot. She reached back and pushed the door closed, then dropped her voice. “But this gives us an excuse to talk without anyone getting suspicious, you know?”

“Oh.”

“So,” Olivia said, trying to sound cheery despite her frigid audience. “How are you?”

“How am I?”

“Yeah, you know. With everything that’s going on. How are you?”

Margot stared at her blankly. “Would you ask Bree or Kitty, or just me?”

“I . . .” Olivia flushed.

“Because I’m the weak one? Because I can’t handle the stress?”

Olivia shook her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she lied.

The door opened, and Logan stuck his head into the room. “Margot, I—” He paused when he saw Olivia. “Oh! Sorry. I should have knocked.”

“It’s okay,” Olivia said, trying to look and sound as if she and Margot hadn’t just been engaged in the world’s most awkward conversation. “We haven’t started yet.”

Logan nodded, then cast his easy, sunny smile on Margot. “I’m glad you decided to join our little freak show.”

Margot bit her lip. “Me too.”

So Logan had asked Margot to volunteer for the drama production? Interesting.

“She’s the best at running lines,” Logan said. “I’ve got half the role memorized already and we only had one session.”

“Oh!” Olivia looked at Margot. One private session?

“I, uh, remember things easily,” Margot said.

“I’ve got to get onstage,” Logan said. “We still on for Sunday night?”

Margot flushed. “Of course.”

“Awesome.” Logan smiled again. “Later!”

Margot stared at the ground and an amazing realization dawned on Olivia: Margot had a massive crush on the new kid in school, and it looked as if the feeling might be mutual.

This was life-altering for Margot. Ed the Head and the photos could wait. Margot needed her help.

“Is he taking you to the Ledge for the Bangers and Mosh show?” Olivia asked.

Margot nodded. “But I might not go.”

“Why? Logan’s hot and clearly into you. You can’t bail on that.”

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

“You’ve never been on a date before, have you?”

Margot looked up. “There are more things in life than boys, you know.”

Olivia wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “Of course there are,” she said. “But not right now.” She grabbed her makeup bag and dropped it on the dressing room table. “Never fear, Cinderella. The ball awaits.”

Margot flinched away from the wand of lip gloss that Olivia held before her. It smelled like strawberries and algae, and it had the consistency of rubber cement. “I don’t wear makeup,” she said. “My parents don’t allow it.”

“You can wipe it off later.” Olivia pulled a plastic bin and a brush from her bag, as well as a shiny stick that looked like gold lipstick. “Powder,” she said, holding up the bin, “and highlighter. Learn them. Love them.”

This time, Margot didn’t recoil as Olivia swept the highlighter over her cheekbones and across her eyelids.

An internal debate raged inside Margot. One voice argued that Olivia was merely trying to be nice to her. The other was a harsh reminder of what happened when Margot trusted girls like Olivia.

“Okay,” Olivia said after a few moments. She twisted Margot’s heavy mane of dark brown hair away from her face and held it behind her neck with one hand, then swiveled Margot’s chair to face the mirror. “What do you think?”

It could have been the soft glow of the bulbs that rimmed the dressing room mirror, or it could have been the shock of seeing her face so starkly silhouetted without the thick fringe of hair masking her features, but Margot gasped.

“I look . . .”

“You look hot,” Olivia said, selecting a word Margot had never used to describe herself. “Here, hold this.” She grabbed Margot’s hand and placed it on the chignon of hair. “I think I have a clip in my—”

Olivia stopped midsentence and stared at Margot’s hand gripping the mound of hair at the back of her head. With a tentative finger, she reached out and slid the baggy sleeve of Margot’s sweater up to her elbow.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Margot said curtly. “Everyone knows I’m the girl who tried to kill herself.”

Olivia nodded and continued to stare at Margot’s scars.

“You were there,” Margot said, trying to sound like the subject didn’t bother her at all. “In junior high, I mean. I know you didn’t hang out with her then, but you remember what Amber was like.”

“Do you blame Amber for . . . for . . .”

“For making me slit my wrists?”

Olivia nodded again.

Margot opened her mouth to say yes, then hesitated. She’d spent so many years nursing her hatred of Amber Stevens, and though Amber’s daily bullying had made Margot’s life a misery throughout junior high, the photo that had been the catalyst for Margot’s suicide attempt had apparently not been taken by Amber.

“I used to think Amber took the photo of me that night,” Margot said slowly. Was she ready to share this with Olivia? “But I found out recently that it wasn’t her.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

Olivia stared at her. “How?”

Margot hesitated. She wasn’t used to trusting people with personal issues, not even a member of Don’t Get Mad. Margot glanced at her transformation in the mirror. Olivia had done that for her. As a friend.

“I got a photo.”

Olivia’s face was suddenly pale, her usually cheerful features drawn and tense. “What was it?”

“It was from the same night as the one that spread around school, but it proved that Amber didn’t take the photo.”

“And you got this photo in a plain manila envelope?”

Margot caught her breath. “How did you know?”

“Because I got one, too.”