The Best Night of Your (Pathetic) Life (2 page)

“And look at Daphne,” Barbone said.

The two girls on his team, Allison Feldman and Chrissie Arrington, just laughed and laughed.

“I didn’t know they’d opened the hunt to transvestites.”

“Pretty big word for a guy like you,” Dez said. “Though you’re obviously still having trouble using it properly in a sentence.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was all so ridiculous at this point. Graduation was only one week away. Why couldn’t we all just go to our own corners and wait it out until the day we’d never have to see each other again? I, for one, was tired of bobbing and weaving around these idiots and was
so looking forward
to that day, to never having to see Barbone, specifically, again. Because apart from hounding us all for
years
in his Cro-Magnon way, Barbone had—to the surprise of many—gotten into Georgetown, on a football scholarship, while I had been wait-listed. When I was finally rejected, just last week, my lifelong status as an “also-ran” felt 100 percent solidified.

No Georgetown degree in Foreign Service for me. No sir.

Come fall I’d be enrolled in a similar program, also in D.C., at George Washington University—International Affairs—but the dream had been Georgetown and now that
dream was Barbone’s and it made my blood boil, much as I’d been trying to put on a good game face.

It didn’t matter that my grades were better.

It didn’t matter that the alumnus who had interviewed both of us had resigned from doing future admissions interviews when he’d been informed that Barbone had been accepted and I had not.

Barbone played football and Barbone’s dad went to Georgetown and it was hard not to think he got the slot that could have been mine—
should
have been mine—for those two reasons.

And for a
third
reason: Principal Mullin had decided that it only made sense for him to recommend one student for Georgetown and so he’d dubbed Barbone alone “Georgetown material.” When I had presented my case to him—pointing out my stellar grades and recent regional mock trial victory—he’d simply said, “Then how come I barely know who you are?” Feeling stung, I’d almost said, “Because you’re too busy sucking up to football players,” but I’d bit my tongue, hard.

It was a wonder I still had a tongue.

“I have to say”—Barbone brushed his own chest and smiled in advance of what he was about to say—“that the Yeti is going to look
pretty freaking awesome
in my dorm room next year.”

He turned to Fitz but it was, of course, meant for me when he said, “The Yeti is
totally
Georgetown material.” He high-fived Fitz and walked away while my face burned.

I could not move.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Winter said, sliding an arm around my shoulders.

“Yeah,” Dez said. “He’s probably going to flunk out of Georgetown anyway.”

“Not helping,” I managed, wiping away tears whose quickness to arrive took me by surprise.

“Come on,” Patrick said, coming closer. “Don’t be like that. You were so psyched for this!”

It was true.

I was.

Or had been.

And could be again.

“Guys,” I said. “We
cannot
let Barbone win the Yeti.”

My friends exchanged solemn looks and nods, and there were whoops and laughs coming from Barbone’s general vicinity, and Patrick said, “Agreed.”

“Yeah,” Winter said.

“Totally,” Dez said.

“Hey,” Patrick said, waving to someone behind me. “There’s Carson and those guys.”

And pushing up through my tears I felt that excitement start to return. Because everything about Carson was exciting.

Carson and Jill had been dating for nine months, which was pretty much
forever
. Walking toward them, I felt a pang of jealousy and longing, even though I knew everything wasn’t as it appeared. First there was the matter of the car they were leaning on, the Lexus hybrid SUV Carson had found waiting in the driveway on the morning of his seventeenth birthday back in January. It hadn’t had a bow on it like in TV commercials, but the keys had been in a small box that was presented at the breakfast table by both of his parents, or so he had told us all, and so everyone else believed. About a week later, though, he’d slipped when talking about his parents
having been out of town and the dates didn’t line up right for the birthday scene he’d described. Only I had noticed.

Then there was the situation with Jill, who was still technically his girlfriend, but apparently Carson had said something to our friend Mike Bono, who’d said something to Winter, who’d then told me, that Carson wanted out.

Maybe even today.

I felt bad for Jill, of course—she was part of our circle of friends now—but I’d had a crush on Carson for years and time was tick-tocking on anything ever coming of it. Ever since he’d moved to Oyster Point two years ago and walked into my parents’ restaurant with his family on the day they’d moved in, I’d felt a sort of giddy nervousness whenever he was around. Not just because he was so seriously cute but also because he seemed to know so much more than I did about the world, because he’d
seen
more of it. The giddy nervousness was, for a long time, accompanied by this idea that he was, somehow, out of my league, but I’d recently decided that I was being silly, that it was only his
parents
who were in a different league than my parents. The restaurant provided a comfortable life for us, but nothing like the luxuries that Carson’s architect dad and hedge-fund-manager mother provided him. But that didn’t have to dictate my fate. I could be with someone who owned skis, and went to Europe every year, and drove a Lexus hybrid SUV, and practically lived at Mohonk Mountain House, this ridiculous swanky resort a few miles from Oyster Point—even if my father didn’t own a boat like Jill’s did. It could work provided we loved each other. The only thing standing in the way was Jill.

Patrick and Dez had walked over to Carson with me. Winter, who’d lagged behind, finally came, too, and everyone
said their hey’s and hi’s and how-are-you’s. Carson’s team was rounded out by Mike Bono and Heather Melling, who were both the sort of easy-going, up-for-anything people you’d want on your side during an enterprise like this. And their entire team was, for the record, appropriately dressed, in shorts, sneakers, and T-shirts, like I was. Carson looked totally awesome in a cool slate-gray graphic tee with a picture of a guitar on it (
of course
he played) and a pair of black cargo shorts. He had Converse on, like Patrick, but his were gray like his shirt, and both laceless and sockless. The sight of the hair on his legs made the hair on my arms stand up for reasons I didn’t want to think about. I got the sense that Carson’s knowledge of the world also included a fair amount of knowledge about the opposite sex. There, for sure, we were not a match.

“This is going to be so much fun,” Jill said, and she pulled me into a black cloud of fruity-smelling curls, then stepped back to show her straight-toothed smile. It was all so
sweet
that I felt bad for having a thing for her boyfriend. But the thing had predated her and, also, romantic feelings were out of our control. If four years of high school and hormones had taught me anything, it was that.

“Barbone just bragged about taking the Yeti to Georgetown with him,” I blurted.

“And he called me a transvestite,” Dez said, shaking his head.

“Oh, Mary,” Jill said, “don’t let him get to you.”

“That guy is such an asshole,” Carson said, giving me a look that I took to indicate that he’d say more if he could. It was looks like these—looks that had become more frequent during our time together on prom committee while poring over DJ applications and catering menus—that had me convinced that Carson had finally…what was the phrase…
woken up to me
, and that I was the reason he and Jill were heading for Splitsville. It was possible I was imagining it, but I wasn’t imagining the way my feelings for Carson had started to intensify, the way that everything he said and did seemed to take on more meaning.

Patrick put an arm around me right then and said, “We’ll take him down a few notches today, Mary. Don’t give it another thought.”

And for the first time, I felt strangely guilty about the Carson crush I’d never once mentioned to Patrick.

I also felt guilty about how awkward I felt having Patrick’s arm around me. Though the truth was I’d been feeling weird just being around him ever since prom, which was supposed to have been a great epic night but had turned out to be, instead, an epic fail.

Dez said to the group, “We have
got
to win this thing. You guys or us, it doesn’t even matter.”

Carson looked at me and said, “We’re gonna try our best, Shooter.”

And I swooned. Because I loved it when he called me that. Outside of my family, who’d dubbed me “Shooter” when I was three years old and had sucked down an oyster shooter at the restaurant bar without batting an eye, no one else ever did.

For the record, I had orchestrated our participation in the hunt. I’d led the charge. In the past few weeks, I’d reminded everybody endlessly that the hunt, while unofficial, was part of
senior week
.

That we
were seniors
.

“I’ve always thought it sounded kind of lame,” Patrick had said, when we’d first talked about it at lunch one day,
and I’d retorted, “This, from the guy who is organizing a senior show skit about math team cheerleaders doing a cheer based on the quadratic equation?”

“Come on,” he said, “that’s going to be
awesome
.”

He’d been chewing, then he got an idea. “Hey, how come no one’s made a TV show about a high school math team?”

Winter had said, simply, “You’re joking, right?” Then she’d turned to me and said, “Scav Hunt is like a bad teen comedy. One called something lame like
Scav Hunt
. I wouldn’t even want to play
myself
in that movie.”

But I’d laid it on thick, telling them that we were almost done with the slog that was high school and that this was our last chance to do something big together, “something worth remembering.” I wasn’t even sure what I’d meant at the time, but then prom had not lived up to expectations. And now that we were here it was all becoming clear: Keeping the Yeti out of Barbone’s hands would definitely qualify as something big, something worth remembering.

So here we were.

“I almost forgot,” I said, digging into my messenger bag, strung diagonally across my chest even though I hated what that did to my boobs. “The rules! So we’re not disqualified for something stupid.”

I started handing out copies to funny looks and said, “Yes, I made copies.”

“Well, you’re nothing if not motivated,” Patrick said, taking a copy and folding it in half. The others did the same until I looked at them—all just standing there holding the rules—and said, “Well, don’t just stand there…READ!”

Unofficial Senior Week Scavenger Hunt

RULES OF COMPETITION

1.   Forty bucks buys your team entry to the hunt, aka “The Best Night of Your Pathetic Life.”

2.   3–6 peeps per team. A “Sloppy Seconds” rule allows members of teams eliminated after Round 1 (aka “losers”), or people whose performance has been deemed lacking by their original team (aka “big losers”), to jump in bed with another team (aka join said team) for Round 2 as long as that team still has no more than six peeps. If taking advantage of the Sloppy Seconds rule, you may bring one item acquired in Round 1 along as a dowry.

3.   The Round 1 list (aka “Afternoon Delight”) will be distributed at 1:00
P.M.
in The Pines. Teams must return to The Pines by 6:00
P.M.
with a minimum of 1250 points in order to obtain the Round 2 list (aka “Nighttime Is the Right Time”). If you’re late, you’re out. Please. No begging. No bribing. No sexual favors. Don’t embarrass yourselves.

4.   All items/stunts on the lists can and should be obtained/performed legally. The Yeti takes no responsibility for bail payments, legal fees, destroyed friendships, groundings, rescindment of college admissions or scholarships, lost limbs, locusts, plagues, etc.

5.   We encourage you to seek sponsors and freebies whenever possible as we strive to be an equal opportunity event. You
can
spend your own money if you must but don’t go broke on account of Scav Hunt. That’d be lame.

6.   Sabotage, if found out, should be reported to the Yeti, who will decide whether expulsion from the hunt is in order.

7.   There is a category of points called Special Points that will be awarded at the discretion of the Head Judge for Special Points. For example, if we say, “Bring us a Derek Jeter jersey,” and you get it at Target, you get the measly 5 points on the list. If, however,
Derek Jeter is wearing that jersey
, you can appeal to the Head Judge of Special Points and earn anywhere from an extra 2 to 2000 points for being so gosh darn special. Nudity, when not required by item listed, will not yield Special Points. And all Special Points are awarded at judging and not a minute before.

8.   The Yeti knows about Google! He’s familiar with the Interwebs, enemy to the spirit of the Scavenger Hunt. Use it sparingly, perhaps to ferret out clues, but count on JPEGS being worth dick. (If we say “Bring us a
Breakfast Club
movie poster,” and you bring us a printout of a JPEG photo of said poster, you get bubkes.)

9.   Keep your phones on and make sure the Yeti has your numbers. Texts will announce updates, clues, and additions to the list. If your battery dies and your charger gets abducted by aliens and both P.C. Richard and RadioShack were already closed and blah-blah-blah…we don’t want to hear it. A phone with a camera and video camera is required to participate
if you want your team to stand a chance
. All photographic evidence must be texted to the Yeti before relevant deadlines.