***
We were heroes. Not to the administration, of course, who’d escorted us straight into the chancellor’s office in Blackwell, where we’d had to wait an hour just to be yelled at about indecent exposure, illicit fireworks, complaints from irate Chapman Hall students. The chancellor kept questioning Coop, the only one of us who’d refused to put on a shirt, like he was the dark mastermind behind the whole thing. But there was still Mint, with his family’s clout, and Frankie, the football star, to contend with. So in the end he gave us two months’ community service and a stern warning to stay out of trouble for the next three years.
No, the administration hated us. But the students…
We walked into the Phi Delt Homecoming party that night, the seven of us together, arms laced, and stopped dead in our tracks. Hanging from the staircase in the foyer was the banner from our float, the one where we’d crossed out Chapman Hall Champions and painted East House Seven.
“Holy shit,” Heather breathed. “They saved it.”
The frat house was madness, filled with more people than usual, regular students plus alumni, the latter mostly slick, polished lawyers and bank managers in dad jeans. A guy standing at the top of the staircase near the banner spotted us and pointed with his beer. “East House Seven!”
Everyone in the foyer turned, their eyes like spotlights swinging in our direction. “It’s those streakers from the parade!” someone shouted. “The ones who tried to shoot down the chancellor!”
Cheers and whistles exploded across the room. “You shoulda won the Battle!” someone yelled from the back.
A Phi Delt senior rushed forward, grabbing Frankie. “Man, you guys have balls of steel.” He slung an arm over Jack’s shoulders, then winked at Heather and me. “But seriously, what’d the Chance say? You’re not kicked out, are you? ’Cause you clowns were born to be Phi Delt.” He punched Mint’s shoulder. “And you. Fucking troublemaker, who knew? I love it.”
The brother dragged the boys away in the direction of the bar. I raised my eyebrows at their backs. If Frankie and Jack weren’t being rushed on their own merits before, they certainly were now.
“Come on,” Caro said, tugging my hand. “Dance floor!”
I turned, realizing I hadn’t seen Coop since we walked in—where had he disappeared to, and so fast?—but Caro was already pulling me.
It turned out it wasn’t only the boys who were famous. When we stepped onto the dance floor, the crowd parted, dancers turning to tell us they loved our float, our bikinis, that we were a breath of fresh air, subversives taking on the administration and skewering Homecoming traditions. We laughed at their compliments, but we didn’t correct them, didn’t say, We were only out for revenge; everything else was an accident. We just smiled and drank what they handed us.
Only Courtney wasn’t impressed. She glared at us from the corner of the dance floor, surrounded by her usual coterie of girls who were dressed like knockoff versions of her. They whispered, pressing close, wanting her shine to rub off on them. I almost felt sorry for her, but then again, I could afford to now. It could have been the East House Eight, but she’d bet wrong. Now we had the glory, and she was cut out. I could already feel the divide growing between us, invisible but solid.
Heather paid no attention to Courtney, spinning on the dance floor with her arms outstretched. We’d switched dresses tonight: she was wearing my pink dress that tied in the back, and I wore a black dress I’d coveted since the day I saw her buy it at the mall, though I blanched even remembering the price tag. When we were getting ready, she’d asked, Want to borrow? And it hadn’t even been a question. Immediately I’d turned to her closet, looking right where this dress hung, fabric whisper-thin and shimmery. But I couldn’t admit I wanted it until she’d said, I’ll wear one of yours. An even trade. Then it had been okay. She’d pulled my pink dress on, and said, Perfect fit, with a little smile. And then, to her reflection, tugging on the bow, Charmingly down-market.
It was that word—down-market—that made something click when it hadn’t before. Made me remember what she’d said to Courtney when she defended me yesterday: Stop punching down. Meaning I was Heather’s friend, yes, but that’s how she saw me: beneath her.
I wore her black dress anyway. So maybe I was.
The song changed to something Frankie liked to play on repeat in his room, and Jack came swinging around the corner, clutching a bottle of whiskey, his perfectly combed Mr. Rogers hair mussed over his forehead like he’d been roughhousing.