Vivian lantzs second cha.., p.8
Vivian Lantz's Second Chances, page 8
That’s what I envision as I steer clear of Virgil’s aquarium cord—win!—and head to lunch. Possibility is what I love most about writing. You’ve only got twenty-six letters to work with in the English language, but somehow, there are endless arrangements to make. Scintillating sentences and punchy paragraphs—a whole realm of unwritten ideas, awaiting fresh ink to bring them to life.
I don’t know much about newspapers, but I’m going to give it my all. And in return, the Jaguar Gazette will teach me to be a better writer—just like Q. S. Murray.
My Master Plan is back on track. Now it’s time to ace the rest of this magical second-chance day.
9
I STOP BY the bathroom on my way to lunch. The whole period thing is going okay. Yeah, it’s weird to see blood and not freak out. Three years ago, I would’ve assumed I was dying of a mortal wound, like when Sage Miriel only discovers she’s been hurt in the Battle of Brawn when she takes off her rose-crested armor and gush.
Boy, Sage Miriel, do I commiserate.
After washing my hands, I linger in front of the mirror. My rocker chic outfit has dried out, and I touch up my makeup until it’s A+. Even my hair is impressive, considering it got the rainwater treatment this morning. My hopes are sky-high as I strut into the cafeteria. I know precisely where Alex and Amberleigh are sitting, and I plan to make an unforgettable appearance.
But first? Food.
The line is short, since I’m later to lunch than before. I grab the usual, but somehow it looks yummier today. The tuna salad is almost appetizing.
“Hellooo, wanna sign up for the Labor Day bake sale?”
I just about throw my tray of tuna in the air.
Mike Brot stands before me, fists on his hips and teeth bared. Sunshine gleams off his pearlescent smile.
“You have to stop doing that,” I wheeze, recovering from the Great Scare of My Life.
“Stop what?” Mike asks cheerily. “Fighting for the cause of baked goods? Never.”
Maybe I should’ve expected Mike’s attack, but I assumed I’d avoided him, thanks to my change in schedule. Turns out, a bathroom stop means nothing to this guy; he’s been lurking in the cafeteria shadows, waiting to pounce. I scowl at his goofy iguana shirt.
“Sorry, I can’t make cookies,” I say, and I cut him off when he starts to protest. “Or cakes, or muffins, or pies.”
Mike is undeterred. “What about your parents? I bet your mom—”
“Don’t have one of those,” I interrupt. “Good luck!”
I whisk past Mike, making it clear that the conversation is over. I feel a twinge of guilt, but how can I be expected to care about Labor Day bake sales when I’ve got a true love to woo? Would Torin the Rogue be caught dead baking gingersnaps at a time like this, if it were Sage Miriel’s heart on the line?
No way.
Alex sits at Amberleigh’s table, laughing so hard at one of Neil’s jokes that his brown curls practically vibrate. They look so soft, and his eyes are impossibly deep. If you stared into them for too long, you’d straight-up drown.
That’s why I’m careful to look only at my tray as I walk up. I tell myself, Be confident. It’s a lot easier to do now that I’ve got an invite to the pool party. It would be weird if I didn’t sit with the group, right?
“Hey!” I say. “Can I sit here?”
I point to any empty chair at the table. There are two empty chairs, actually, and I know who should be in one of them. Same as yesterday, Gemma isn’t sitting with the group.
Amberleigh glances up. “Oh. Hi, Vivian.”
She waves limply at the seat. She’s not exactly exuberant, but she’s not unfriendly, either. So I sit, sliding my tray next to Tate, who gives me a sort of half smile. I remember what she said yesterday about me smelling like poop, but I can let that go. If I’m getting a second chance, then Tate can have one, too.
Across the table, Amberleigh says, “Vivian, don’t your parents own a store?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Be Kind, Rewind. On South First.”
“Hmm,” she says. “It’s secondhand stuff, right? Junk that people don’t want anymore.”
Irritation prickles my skin. I’m sure that Amberleigh didn’t mean “junk” in a bad way, but it feels kind of demeaning, all the same.
“It’s a vintage store,” I explain. “So, they’re, like, nice things from the past. Da focuses on furniture—especially mid-century modern pieces. Pop is more into fashion and knickknacks: old records and photos and . . . well, shoes.” I nod at Amberleigh. “Last month, he got a pair of Saint Laurent heels from the seventies. You might like them.”
Amberleigh screws up her eyes. “I don’t know. I buy my things new.”
Neil guffaws. “Your parents buy them, you mean.”
“I get an allowance,” Amberleigh corrects him. “But my parents say you should always buy new. They haven’t ever bought a used car, because can you imagine? You don’t know what’s gone on in there. There could be old coffee spilled on the upholstery or baby barf.”
“Or people had sex in the back seat,” offers Neil.
“Ew,” Tate says, giggling.
Amberleigh rolls her eyes but says, “Exactly. It’s gross.”
I don’t say that both Dads and Arlo bought their cars used. I especially don’t say that Amberleigh’s parents sound like out-of-touch snobs. I’m trying to make a good impression here, so I change the topic.
“Is Gemma sitting with you?” I look around the caf, expecting to see her coming toward us with a drink refill. There’s got to be an explanation for why she isn’t around.
When I look back to the table, though, I get a sudden chill. It’s like the temperature’s dropped a full ten degrees, thanks to an icy look in Amberleigh’s pale blue eyes.
Whoops. Turns out that wasn’t a good topic after all.
“Who knows where she is.” Amberleigh sighs. “She’s been acting weird lately. Hasn’t she, Tate?”
Amberleigh turns expectantly to Tate, who’s taken a big bite of tuna salad.
“Urgh,” Tate says around the food. “Yeah, I guess.”
“So weird.” Amberleigh points her fork at me. “You were sitting by her in opening assembly. Didn’t she seem weird?”
Everyone at the table looks at me, including Alex. This time, I can’t help myself. I stare into his deep brown eyes and start to float off to sea. . . .
“Uh, Vivian?”
I snap my attention back to Amberleigh.
“S-s-sure,” I splutter.
Amberleigh has pulled out her phone, and it looks like she’s reading a text. After a moment, she glances up at me. “Sure, what?”
“Uh,” I say slowly. “I mean, it’s kind of weird that she doesn’t want to go to the party.”
Amberleigh makes a face. “She said that to you?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, heat filling my face. This is . . . not great. I like Gemma. Amberleigh must like her, too, or they wouldn’t be friends. But it’s clear that Amberleigh’s not happy with Gemma right now. She obviously wants me to say more.
What do I do? If I leave it like this, Amberleigh might get bored with me. Maybe she’ll go back to talking about how uncool it is for my dads to sell used stuff. Or what if she disinvites me from the party? Tells me it was all a big mistake? That would mean no more chances to make friends. No chance to hang with Alex and his deep-sea eyes . . .
I catch myself. I did it again—got lost in those shimmering pools of goodness. I clear my throat and refocus. Then, sneaking another glance at Alex, I make my decision.
I go on talking.
“Yeah,” I say. “Gemma told me the party’s gotten old. Like, you all should grow up and do something more exciting.”
Okay, I added a slight embellishment, but that’s more or less what Gemma told me yesterday.
Even though Amberleigh’s phone is still out, her eyes are fixed on me. I wait for her to say something, but the table stays silent. That’s when I realize I have to commit. I keep going.
“Which is, like, a weird thing for her to say, right? She’s the one who draws those goofy cartoons in class. I mean, drawings of princesses—isn’t that, like, total third grade stuff? It’s pretty embarrassing. Who’d want someone that immature at a party, anyway?”
Nobody at the table replies. Neil is blowing into the straw of an empty Capri Sun. Alex and Tate are looking at Amberleigh, like they’re waiting for her to answer first. But Amberleigh seems distracted. She’s brought her phone close to her chest, tapping away. There’s a swoosh sound—a sent text message. She looks up solemnly.
“Wow,” she says. “I didn’t know you thought Gemma was so immature.”
I feel raw, like I’ve peeled off a layer of skin. My head spins as I catch up with the words I just spewed. Why did I bring up Gemma’s drawing? That seemed personal to her. Not to mention, I don’t actually think there’s anything embarrassing about drawing princesses. I read about princesses, don’t I? I even dress up like them for Relevane events. So why did I say all this stuff I don’t mean?
I feel like crap, and the way Amberleigh’s glaring at me doesn’t help matters. She looks grossed out, like I’m a hairball some cat has chucked up on the lunch table.
She taps her phone, a regretful look on her face. “If I were Gemma? I’d be so pissed at you right now. Like, how awful to get a video of you saying those things about her.”
Like that, my hearts stops beating.
“Wh-what do you mean, video?”
I stare at Amberleigh in disbelief. She shakes her head back at me.
“Sorry, girl, but Gemma is one of my best friends. I think she deserves to know when people are talking behind her back.”
The truth crashes in on me. I understand now why Amberleigh was holding up her phone during my Gemma speech. All this time, she was recording me. And now? She’s sent that recording to Gemma’s phone.
No. No.
“That’s not okay!” I yelp.
“Yeah,” Amberleigh agrees. “It’s not okay to talk crap about someone you don’t even know. You’re, like, a really mean person, Vivian.”
My face catches fire. I look around the table, horrified. Amberleigh, Neil, Tate, Alex—they’re giving me the same dirty look. Like they think I’m a living, breathing monster. A monster who shouldn’t be sitting with them.
I thought I was giving Amberleigh what she wanted. How could she trick me like this? Now everyone here thinks I’m mean, and Gemma? My stomach hollows out at the thought of Gemma seeing that video. Oh my god. No.
I’ve made a huge mistake. I have to find Gemma and apologize—or better, stop her from ever opening that video. There’s still a chance she hasn’t seen it. There’s a chance to save my perfect first day.
I grab my lunch tray and get to my feet.
“Mmm, yeah,” Amberleigh says, yawning, like she’s bored. “You’d better go.”
And right then, right there, I know: this was Amberleigh’s plan, all along. This is why she’s been nice to me. It’s why she invited me to her party. That was all to lure me in, get me comfortable. Then she took that video on purpose. She wanted to get everyone mad at me. So . . . what? She could end whatever fight she’s having with Gemma?
It’s unjust. Torin wouldn’t stand for something like this. He’d rage like he did before the Council of Seven, when they voted to banish his younger brother Jerrod from court. But I’m not Torin of Marladia. My rage stays stuck inside, held down by a lump in my throat. Mainly, I’m trying not to cry as I step away from the table, heading for the tray conveyor belt.
It’s as I’m passing Amberleigh that I feel a sudden whack. I glance down, startled, to see my tray smushed against my chest. When I look up again, I see Amberleigh’s arms in the air—stretched up high for an “innocent” stretch. She timed the collision perfectly.
“Oh gosh,” she says, wincing. “Sorry, did I do that?”
I peel the tray from my chest. My ringer tee is covered in banana pudding. Glops of it fall to the floor, splattering onto my shoes, and it’s official: I’m a banana-scented disaster.
“Wow.” Amberleigh’s voice booms from the table. “That’s so embarrassing for her.”
Around me, kids are pointing and snickering. Neil is laughing so hard that he starts to cough. And Alex? He holds a hand over his mouth, curls vibrating.
Alex Fernandez is laughing at me.
My vision tilts, like I’m aboard an unseaworthy galley on the Tempest Sea. Everybody’s laughing at me again.
I run. Past Alex. Past tables of giggling kids. Past a concerned-looking Mrs. Campos.
“Vivian!” she calls after me.
But I don’t stop. I keep running—past classrooms, around corners, down hallways—until someone else shouts my name. It’s a voice I recognize—and the last one I want to hear.
I stop in my tracks, horror stricken, and slowly turn around.
There’s Gemma Cohen, standing in the empty hallway, near the east stairwell. I wish the earth would open up like the Chasm of Celater and swallow me whole.
I’m in no such luck.
“Vivian?” she says again.
Her cheeks are as red as the strawberries on her dress. She steps closer, and I notice the phone gripped in her right hand.
It’s too late. She’s seen the video. Gemma has heard every horrible thing I said about her. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could do over this do-over. I wish, but it’s not doing me any good.
“Why would you say those things about me?” Gemma’s question is threadbare.
“I shouldn’t have,” I say, desperate. “It was—”
“Like, what is wrong with you?” Gemma’s voice is stronger now, a mix of fury and hurt in her brown eyes. “I never told you the pool party had gotten old. Why would you lie about that?”
She’s right. Gemma told me that yesterday. In this version of Monday, I’m lying. Even if I weren’t, there’s no excuse for everything else I said.
“I’m sorry.” I press my hands together, pleading. “I swear, I never wanted to hurt your feelings.”
Gemma snorts loudly, folding her arms. “Know what’s messed up? I actually thought you might make a good friend. But now I get it: you’re like them—Tate and Amberleigh.”
“N-no,” I say. “I promise, I’m—”
Gemma holds up her hand. “Whatever, Vivian. Save it for your mature friends.”
She turns away, but I see the tears spilling down her cheeks.
Guilt washes over me so fast, I think I might drown in it.
I feel like I’m falling, falling, falling—and then? I hit the cold, hard ground of reality.
What have I done?
I turn and run again. I run, and this time, I don’t stop until I reach the nurse’s office.
I burst inside, causing Ms. Wendy to shout, “Good lord!”
But I don’t apologize. I don’t even stop to think.
I blurt, “I got my period, and I want to go home now.”
I sit alone in my bedroom, bemoaning my folly.
You would think that for such a big fan of the Relevane series, I would know that magic comes with risks. When Princess Dexalva made a deal with the Amethyst Mage to make her the most cunning warrior in battle, she accepted the consequences of their pact: in return for her military prowess, she gave up half the years of her life. The mage warned her, “Magic comes at a price.”
So I should have known that this second-chance magic would come with strings attached. I had the chance to make things right, but choosing wrong—bad-mouthing Gemma—has made my first day even worse than before.
Sure, I didn’t get mass humiliated by my period, but I’m beginning to think that Amberleigh Allen is a fate ten times worse. Secretly videotaping me. Saying Dads’ shop is full of junk. Smashing banana pudding onto my shirt. Who does that girl think she is?
I’ve always thought of Amberleigh as kind of unreachable—rich, popular, maybe a little snooty. But I never thought she could be so mean. I figured there was a reason why people wanted to be her friend. Now I know the truth: Amberleigh is not to be trusted. She used me to make Gemma feel bad. She humiliated me in front of everyone, including Alex. She’s a backstabber, plain and simple.
But more terrible than that—what’s got me really torn up—is that I’m the worst, too. I stabbed Gemma in the back first.
How could I do that? What kind of person am I? When I shut my eyes, Gemma’s face is there—every detail etched onto my memory. She looked so hurt. So sad. And I did that to her. I made fun of something super personal. I sold her out, and for what? Amberleigh’s good opinion? A chance with Alex Fernandez?
Even if I’d gotten what I wanted, I know now that I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.
Pain, sharp and unexpected, blooms inside me. I had no idea I could feel this bad—so absolutely, completely rotten.
I deserve way worse than a banana pudding to the chest.
After Pop drove me home from school, I listened dully to what he and Da had to say. They told me the usual: I can take off tomorrow if I’m still not feeling good, they’re around for questions, and Aunt Ximena is, too. I didn’t breathe a word about what Amberleigh did to me. As far as Dads are concerned, my misery is due solely to period woes.
I want to keep it that way.
Now that they’re gone and I’m burrowed in bed, my brain throbs with a hundred “shoulds” and “shouldn’t haves.” I should’ve remembered my period. Should’ve remembered the traffic jam. Shouldn’t have trusted Amberleigh. Shouldn’t have talked crap about Gemma.
Now? There’s zero chance of me getting into Amberleigh’s group, let alone winning Alex’s heart. Now Gemma—a girl I actually like—hates my guts. And as for the Jaguar Gazette—what if Amberleigh ends up sharing that video of me with the whole school? Who would want to interview with me after seeing something like that?
At least yesterday I had potential with Alex. I had a journalistic career before me. I was making friends with Gemma. It wasn’t so bad. Not compared to social ruination by Amberleigh.
