All's Fair in Love, War, and High School

  "I've decided to run for student body president, and I'm going to need people to help me with my campaign—"

  I didn't get any further before Logan's smile turned into coughs of laughter. I glared at him while I waited for him to stop. "You could have just said no."

  "It's not that I don't want to help you," he said, after more coughing. "It's just the idea of you campaigning is so funny."

  "You don't think I can campaign?"

  "To campaign, you have to talk to people outside your clique."

  I folded my arms tightly across my chest. "I know how to be friendly."

  Logan leaned toward me, using his height to make a point of looking down at me. "Samantha, you can't walk into a room of six people without insulting five of them."

  Also by Janette Rallison

  PLAYING THE FIELD

  LIFE, LOVE, AND THE PURSUIT

  OF FREE THROWS

  FAME, GLORY, AND OTHER THINGS

  ON MY TO DO LIST

  All's Fair

  IN

  Love, War,

  AND

  High School

  Janette Rallison

  Copyright 2003 by Janette Rallison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any

  information storage and retrieval system, without

  permission in writing from the Publisher.

  All the characters and events portrayed

  in this work are fictitious.

  First published in the United States of America in 2003

  by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.;

  first paperback edition published in 2005.

  Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers

  For information about permission to reproduce

  selections from this book, write to Permissions,

  Walker & Company, 104 Fifth Avenue,

  New York, New York 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rallison, Janette, 1966—

  All's fair in love, war, and high school / Janette Rallison.—

  [1st American ed.]

  p. cm.

  Summary: When head cheerleader Samantha Taylor does poorly on the SAT exam, she determines that her only hope for college admission is to win the election for student body president, but her razor wit and acid tongue make her better suited to dishing out insults than winning votes.

  [1. High schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction.

  3. Self-perception—Fiction. 4. Elections—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.R13455A1 2003

  [Fie]—dc21

  2003042299

  eISBN: 978-0-802-72153-2

  Book design by Jennifer Ann Daddio

  Visit Walker & Company's Web site at www.walkeryoungreaders.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

  To Devon,

  who was the greatest prom date.

  To Shawn,

  who I'm sure knows why.

  To Tim,

  whose relentless editing made all the difference.

  To the Rallison clan.

  And to Katerina Chernikova,

  who will always be our Katya.

  Special note to all my friends from Pullman: The characters in this story are purely fictional, but if you think I may have written you into the book, by all means buy three or four copies because hey, how cool.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The problem with getting bad news is you hardly ever get to go home and cry, or sulk, or rip things up, like you'd like to. Usually you have to be someplace that requires you to smile and make pleasant conversation. That's exactly what happened after I got my SAT scores.

  I should have waited until after work to open up the envelope, but I'm not one of those patient types of people— you know, the kind who never even sneak a peek at their presents before Christmas. I had to know my score the moment I took the letter from the mailbox. I ripped open the envelope and scanned to the score results. I got a 470 on the language section and a 340 on the math. My score was 810 out of a possible 1600. I may have bombed the math portion of the test, but even I could figure out my score wasn't high enough to be admitted to a good university.

  I leaned against the mailbox and reread the letter more carefully this time, hoping there had been some mistake. Perhaps a typo. Perhaps the SAT people sent somebody else's results in my envelope. But it was my name, Samantha Taylor, on the letter.

  I shoved the envelope into my purse and walked over to my car. I had ten minutes to get to my job, and apparently a really long time to decide what to do with my life besides going to college.

  While I drove I told myself everything would work out all right. I was only a junior in high school and could take the SATs again next year. Next year I'd do better. Much better.

  Only I'm a terrible liar, and even while I told myself all of this, I kept hearing a little voice in the back of my head that said, Like what? You're suddenly going to get smart in the next year? You're going to give up your social life and study every free minute?

  I parked my car and walked into The Bookie, Pullman's only bookstore, then trudged upstairs to the general fiction section.

  Logan Hansen was standing behind the book cart, but he looked up at me when I came over.

  "You're late."

  "So fire me." I went to the closet where Mr. Donaldson kept our vests and slipped mine on.

  Logan handed me a stack of books. "I wouldn't fire you if I could. It's nice to have you around because next to you I look like a really hardworking employee."

  I smiled back at him. "Next to me you also look ignorant and poorly dressed, but I try not to hold it against you." Without waiting for his reply, I turned and went to put my books away. Usually I didn't mind sparring back and forth with Logan. Most of the time I was the one who started it. But today I just wanted to avoid him. I felt too emotional, and the last thing I needed was to break down and make a fool of myself in front of him.

  Logan and I had been at odds with each other since the eighth grade, when I broke up with him. It wasn't that we were ever a serious couple. "Going out" consisted mostly of passing notes, hanging out in the halls, talking on the phone, that sort of thing.

  We "went out" for a couple of months, and then the big realization hit me. Logan was not the one. In fact, if I'd had a list of my favorite guys, Logan would have been way down in the triple digits. My problem with guys is this: I always start out thinking that if a guy is cute, he'll be perfect in every other way. Then after a couple of months of getting to know him, I realize he isn't anywhere close to what I want in a boyfriend. I don't remember what turned me off about Logan. He exhibits so many irritating behaviors now, it's hard to recall which one it was that bothered me back then. And besides, I've gone out with a lot of guys. Their fatal flaws have all run together in my mind.

  My last boyfriend swore too much. The first time my seven-year-old brother repeated one of his commentaries at the dinner table, I knew he had to go. The boyfriend before that talked endlessly about the guys on the fo
otball team. I mean, really. What girl wants to hear about the team's ongoing battle with athlete's foot?

  I don't know why it's so hard for me to find just one ideal guy. I've probably read a hundred romances, and every single one of them has my ideal man in it. So they must be out there somewhere: all those tall, handsome, brooding men who exude high doses of testosterone yet, at the same time, can take a woman in their arms and murmur poetry into her ear.

  None of the guys I meet are capable of murmuring anything that doesn't involve food.

  Logan walked by me and said, "We've got another book cart to unload in the back room, so get a move on," then disappeared into the maze of bookshelves.

  Logan, for example, could never have qualified as a romantic hero. True, he wasn't bad-looking. He had thick dark hair and a smooth olive complexion that always made him look tanned, but not one of the romantic heroes I've ever read about has dirt underneath his fingernails. Logan loves to work on cars. He looks like he dips his hands in oil before he comes to work.

  Besides, he took it very hard when I broke up with him in junior high. He told all of his friends I was a jerk and a snob, and ever since then he's taken it as his personal mission to prove how worthless I am. A romantic hero would never do that. If a romantic hero was ever hurt by a girl, he'd never stoop to sullying her name. He'd just brood about it and be all the more attractive.

  While I was shelving the next batch of books Logan came up and leaned against the end shelf.

  "So," he said slowly, "how are you today?"

  I barely looked over at him. "Fine. What do you want?"

  He put his hand to his chest, pretending to be hurt. "I'm just making polite conversation. Don't you do that anymore?"

  "If you're asking me to take your shift on Friday night, I'm not interested."

  "Oh? You must have a hot date. Who's the lucky guy?"

  He said the word "lucky" really sarcastically, so I glared at him. "Brad Willis."

  "Brad Willis, huh? A guy with both the build and the intelligence of a semi truck. A perfect match for you."

  I shoved my copies of Dr. Spock onto the shelf with a thunk. "Yeah, well, I'd tell you who your perfect match is, but I don't know anyone with the personality of a broken-down bicycle."

  I walked back to the cart, and Logan followed me. "Are you and Brad serious?"

  "We've been going out for a month and a half."

  "So you're about through with him then?"

  I forced a smile on my lips. "No, but I'm through with you. Go away."

  "I didn't mean to be rude," he said with a perfectly straight face. "I was just asking because I know someone who wants to go out with you."

  "Oh? Who?"

  Logan hesitated for a moment, as though he wasn't sure he should come right out and tell me, then said, "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you aren't into guys who are big in the brains department, right?"

  "I went out with you, didn't I?" I meant it as an insult. I meant I was agreeing with him and using him as an example of the stupidity of my boyfriends.

  "Yeah," he said, "but for the most part the guys you date aren't heavy on the /part of IQ, right?"

  There's nothing more frustrating than insulting someone who doesn't get it. "Just tell me who it is, okay?"

  "Doug Campton."

  Doug was one of those guys who must have been starved for attention as a child and was thus making up for it now by being a class clown. If something stupid happened at Pullman High, chances were Doug was involved. His last escapade involved his stealing the school-mascot outfit—a greyhound that actually looked more like a giant, happy rat. He put on the outfit, along with a bikini top and a hula skirt, and then ran through the gym during a home basketball game. He was carrying a sign that not only insulted the entire female population of PHS but also questioned our shaving habits.

  Totally juvenile.

  I gathered a few books in one arm. "Tell Doug, I'd rather just be friends."

  Logan, who hasn't ever taken an interest in my love life other than to make fun of whom I'm dating, looked disappointed. "Oh, come on. Why don't you give him a chance?"

  "Why?"

  Logan shrugged and held out one hand. "I like the guy, and for some reason he likes you. I just want you both to be happy."

  "No, really. Why?"

  He was silent for a moment, as though debating what to say next. "All right, I'll tell you. Doug has this cousin who lives in Moscow. Veronica." Logan said her name as though savoring the word. "Her family came to watch him play the last baseball game, and I met her. She was really nice, and well, Doug says he can set me up with her if I set him up with you."

  "Why don't you just call Veronica yourself?" Moscow, Idaho, is only eight miles away from Pullman, and even though Pullman is in Washington, the cities are so close together and both so small, we use the same phone book.

  "I don't know her last name, and Doug won't tell me. It's blackmail, and I need your help. Come on, Samantha, you go out with everybody. What difference would it make if you go out with Doug? Just one date with him, that's all I'm asking."

  Logan had never asked me for a favor before. I enjoyed the moment and smiled over at him graciously. "You know, I was in a bad mood when I came in, and I have to thank you for doing your part to bring me out of it. Really, it's so gratifying to know I have the power to make you happy or miserable. I feel much better now."

  "I'll take your next weekend shift for you."

  "Not a chance." I ran a finger over the books in the cart, checking a last time for any that might be in my section.

  "The next two."

  "Nope."

  "All right, you tell me what it would take. What do you want from me?"

  It was ironic he should offer to help me now, when I needed help so badly. If Logan could have somehow made my SAT scores go up, I would have jumped at the chance. But he couldn't do that. No one could. I suppose I could have asked him to help me study for the entire next year, but he wouldn't have agreed to that.

  I sighed dejectedly. "Sorry, what I want, you can't get me."

  Logan blinked at me, his eyebrows raised in a question. He probably thought I was talking about some sort of criminal activity. In a mildly shocked voice he said, "And what exactly would that be?"

  "Better grades."

  "Oh. Well, you're right there." He paused for a moment and then added, "Since when did you start caring about your grades?"

  "Since I started thinking about college."

  "Ahh, I guess that cheerleading scholarship didn't come through, huh?"

  "No, and I suppose you're still waiting for your application to comedian school."

  "Naw, I'm going to Western Washington University."

  WWU That was one of the schools I'd been considering.

  You'd think that knowing Logan was going there would have made WWU seem less desirable, but it had the opposite effect. I absolutely couldn't be rejected by a place that Logan could be so casual about getting into.

  "Are you sure you have the grades to get in?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "I think so. And besides, they take other factors into consideration when they review your application. I've been in student body council for years." He smiled over at me nonchalantly. "I've got leadership qualities."

  "And so many other qualities too—many of which I have to endure on a daily basis. Do they take those into consideration too?"

  Logan laughed then, which was something else I found annoying. One moment he'd be so spiteful I'd want to slap him, and the next moment he'd smile over at me like we were the best of friends.

  "If you go out with Doug, I promise never to annoy you again."

  "That's a promise you can't keep." I walked over to the general fiction section with the rest of my books, and this time Logan didn't follow me. I knew he hadn't given up on this whole Doug thing, though. He'd probably be bugging me for days, until I was so frustrated with it all I'd have to drive to Moscow and go on a door-to-door search for Ver
onica myself.

  Still, I wasn't mad at Logan. In fact, for the first time in the shift I was in a good mood because he'd given me an idea. As soon as Logan mentioned leadership qualities, I mulled it over. Why couldn't I do something that would show my leadership qualities too? I had them, after all. As head cheerleader, I was constantly organizing things. All I had to do was show colleges that I was a leader. And the election for next year's school officers was less than a month away.

  When I got home from work, I kept the envelope with my SAT scores in my purse and didn't mention to my parents that they'd come. I wasn't exactly sure what their reaction to a score of 810 would be, but I had a vague fear it might be grounding me until I reached that same age.

  The lecturing would go on all night.

  Dad: Young lady, you obviously need to spend more time on your studies. Don't come out of your room until you can calculate the square root of pi in your head.

  Me: But—

  Mom: And no more dating until you're a straight-A student.

  Dad: That's right. We've never liked the guys you hang around with, and this gives us the perfect excuse to banish them from your life. From here on out, we decree that any guys who are cute, cool, or listen to music with lyrics we can't understand won't be allowed to cross our threshold.

  Me: But—

  Mom: And while we're angry I'd like to point out that your room is a mess, you haven't practiced the piano in weeks, and you're two inches shorter than I've always wanted you to be.

  Me: But—

  Dad: And stop calling us names. You're grounded.

  Okay, maybe my parents wouldn't be that extreme. Well, at least my dad wouldn't be. Mom tended to get worked up easily. She expected me to do everything flawlessly. Apparently the SAT was one area where I was far from flawless.