Shut Out

“My hair what?” I began, but I could see the reddish color in my brother’s cheeks, and I shook my head. Make-out hair.

I climbed into the car and gave the trailer one last look. For a second, I thought I could see Cash’s silhouette in the window, but then we were driving away, and there was no way for me to be sure, to know that he’d stayed there, watching to make sure I left all right.

When we got home I ran upstairs, telling Dad I had a lot of homework to do and leaving him and Logan to fend for themselves di

I needed to be alone for a while, so I closed my bedroom door, curled up on my bed, and pushed my face into the pillow. The tears I’d been fighting back in Cash’s bedroom ached to be released, and this time I didn’t fight them.

I was angry—at Cash for making it so easy for me to lose control, at myself for still wanting him. But I was embarrassed, too. I’d fucked this strike up. I’d taken a good idea and let it get out of hand, encouraging the girls to be cruel, to tease, just so I could beat Cash.

Only one thought offered me any comfort: Cash was wrong as well. The boys had been manipulative. Him, especially. I remembered that kiss in the library, that kiss that should have made me so happy, and how it had hurt to realize it had been a battle tactic. Cash was cruel, too, even if he couldn’t admit it.

Which was why I wasn’t giving up yet.

I sat up and wiped my eyes. The strike wouldn’t end because of this. I’d talk to the girls; I’d tell Susan and Ellen to stop with the seductress acts—and I would stop, too. We could go back to how we started; we could run this strike the right way. We could—we would—still do what we set out to do in the begi

With a little sigh, I climbed off my bed and walked to my desk, where my physics homework waited for me. Tomorrow, I’d fix things. If Cash wanted me to play fair, I would. But the girls were still going to win.

The strike wasn’t over.

Chloe called later that night—I knew she would, but it was a phone call I hadn’t been looking forward to.

“So how’d it go?” she asked. “Did you shut him down?”

I let out a breath. “Um… sort of, but not in the way I’d pla

“And I know you told me so,” I said.

“Lissa—”

“And I know I messed up,” I said, cutting her off. “I know what I did was wrong, like you said. I’m sorry.”

“Lissa—”

“Please don’t lecture me, Chloe.”

“Lissa!” Her voice was harsh, crackling through my phone, and I flinched. “Will you let me talk? I wasn’t going to lecture you.”

“Oh?”

“No. I was going to ask if you’re okay,” Chloe said. “It sounds kind of… intense.”

“Yes, I-I guess that’s a good word for it. Intense.”

“So are you? Okay, I mean?”

I sighed and pushed away from my desk, where I’d been attempting to do physics homework for the past hour. Attempting and failing. My thoughts were too consumed. With Cash. With the rivalry. With this war between the boys and the girls—the battle of the sexes that had sprung up. Just like in Lysistrata.

The girls had won. In Lysistrata, the women had won. The war between the Athenians and the Spartans ended, and the women were successful. I’d finished the play a few nights earlier, and I’d decided that if they could win, so could we.

“I will be,” I answered. “So, slumber party at Ellen’s this weekend, right?” I turned to my computer and opened up my e-mail.

Chloe snorted. “Hell if I know. I stopped reading your e-mails weeks ago. I just do what you tell me to do, since I have to drive you around anyway.”

I rolled my eyes and checked the calendar I’d set up on my e-mail server. “Well, you’re driving me to Ellen’s tomorrow night, then.” I clicked the button to shut down my computer. “I have to go or I’ll never get this homework done.”

“Whoa, you still do homework?” Chloe asked. “Why? We’re seniors. You’ve already taken your SATs. Why bother?”

I laughed. “Good night, Chloe.” And I hung up the phone.

chapter twenty-­eight

Being in Ellen’s bedroom brought on a little déjà vu. She lived in a nice house about a block from the high school, which made it an easy walk for the girls who wanted to support their boyfriends at the football game before heading to the sleepover.

Ellen’s room sent me back to a time before all of this. Before the strike, before Randy, before the stupid rivalry began interfering with our lives. Sitting cross-legged on Ellen’s floor, flipping through one of her fashion magazines, made me feel thirteen again. It felt good. Simple.

Boys had ruined that.

Plink.

“What was that?” Kelsey asked in a bored voice, pushing herself up on one elbow where she was stretched out on the floor. Ellen’s room wasn’t as big as Kelsey’s, but it was still big enough that we had room to lounge around—especially since it was the weekend before fall break and almost half the girls had already headed out of town with their families, venturing to places far, far more interesting than Hamilton. Kelsey wasn’t one of them, and I could tell she was pissed about it.

She got up and stepped over the other girls, making her way to the window as another pebble hit the glass. My body tensed as I thought of Randy and the night he’d shimmied up my drainpipe. The night I’d decided to start the strike.

“Um, Mary?” Kelsey said. “You should come see this.”

Everyone, not just Mary, made their way to the window then, curious and bored and in need of some sort of entertainment.

And we got entertainment, all right.

Standing in the grass below Ellen’s bedroom window was a small group of about seven boys. A few were still wearing football jerseys, and the others were soccer players—Cash among them. The sight of him made my cheeks burn—for several reasons, anger and shame not excluded.

At the front of the group, staring up at us and holding a battered acoustic guitar, was Fi

“Mary,” he called up to us as Kelsey, against my protests, opened the window. “Mary, I… I miss you. I—”

“Can we get this over with, man?” Shane asked. “Come on. We came here to do this. Let’s get on with it.”

“Right.” Fi

“Shut the window,” I hissed at Kelsey.

She shook her head. “Let the boy speak.”

Fi

“Hold up,” he yelled toward the window. “Just gotta say—I did not agree to this song selection. This was all Fi

“Are you done yet?” Cash asked. Even though it sounded harsh, I could tell he was half laughing.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Fi

“It’s tearin’ up my heart when I’m with you….”