Wild Cards by Simone Elkeles

nemesis puts a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and toast in front of Julian. My mouth waters from the smell of freshly toasted bread. Julian eats, humming enthusiastically with each bite. The tune reminds me of our school fight song, which is chanted by the fans during halftime at our games.
    Thinking of our fight song reminds me that I didn’t look outside to make sure my house hasn’t been tp’d by Fairfield. It was all clear when I went to bed last night, but Falkor slept in the den and might not have heard anything. I pull back the curtains in the living room. My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the sight of my entire front yard.
    No! No, no, no, no, no!
    It’s worse than being tp’d. Worse than I could have ever imagined, and completely humiliating.
    Toilet paper isn’t hanging down like white flags waving from branches of every tree. Instead, hundreds of maxi pads are stuck to the tree trunks, and tampons are tied to the branches like a bunch of little Christmas ornaments fluttering in the wind.
    As if that wasn’t sick enough, all of the pads and tampons have fake bright red blood marks on them. Even my mailbox has pads stuck all over it.
    I seethe with anger and burn in embarrassment as I rush to clean up the yard, then suck in a breath when my eyes focus on my driveway. In big letters are two words written in a multitude of pads: FREMONT’S BITCH.

Chapter 9

Derek
    Ashtyn cursed a bunch of times, then rushed out of the house like a zombie was chasing her. I find her in the front yard, staring at the mess littering the lawn and the trees.
    Holy shit.
    “Go away,” she cries as she frantically lifts the pads that are stuck to the driveway spelling FREMONT’S BITCH. She’s got what looks like ketchup all over her hands. It gets on her hockey jersey as she piles pads in her arms.
    As a guy who appreciates pranks, I’m impressed. This took some serious thought and effort. Retaliation would be fun to plan. But Ashtyn’s breathing hard, like a dragon about to spit fire. She’s not amused or impressed. She’s pissed. I grab a garbage can next to the garage and start untying tampons from the branches.
    She yanks the can away from me. “What are you doing?”
    “Helping.”
    She’s managed to get ketchup on her face and hair. She pushes stray strands out of her face, but that only makes it worse. “I don’t need your help.”
    I glance at the tampons waving in the air above her. “Come on, Ashtyn. You know it’ll take you twice as long to do it yourself.” I pull a tampon off a branch and wag it at her. “Let go of that big ego of yours and let me help you.”
    She grabs the tampon out of my hand and tosses it into the trash. “I don’t think you’d find it funny if this happened to you.” Turning her back, she drags the can out of my reach. “Why don’t you get brownie points by helping my sister or nephew, because you’re so good at that? You’re not earning any with me, so you might as well go back in the house.”
    If that’s the way she wants it, fine. I hold my hands up in surrender. Let her deal with the mess. I know from past experience that getting mixed up with girls like Ashtyn, who take life way too seriously, is more trouble than it’s worth. “You are one bitter girl.”
    “What’s going on out here?” Gus demands, then turns to me. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
    “No, sir.”
    Ashtyn keeps ripping pads off the trees.
    Gus huffs and looks at Ashtyn as if this prank is the worst thing that could possibly happen. “I’m calling the police.”
    “Dad, no!” Ashtyn gives her father a pleading look. “If you call the police, everyone will accuse me of being a weak girl who can’t handle being team captain.”
    “You are a girl, Ashtyn,” Gus states matter-of-factly. “Whydon’t you let some boy be captain? Have someone else’s family deal with vandalism to their yard.”
    “Gus, it’s not her fault,” I say. Maybe they need to hear the voice of