“Isn’t there a football play called the trap, too?”

“And then put the slogan Trap the Cougars over the top of the trap!”

Everybody except Rack goes home happy from that meeting, but one thing’s still on my mind. It’s a delicate matter. I call Rack about it. But when I tell her that I think Grimshaw should be homecoming queen this year, she’s offended.

“Serena, queens are elected,” she says. “Everybody votes. What planet do you live on?”

So a couple of nights later, we get together in Scot’s shop again, to start building a giant trap for the Minnechaug Cougars. Martin has drawn the plans. The boys get out the two-by-fours and start hammering. The girls have collected half-gallon juice containers for the teeth. Then we dip sheets of newspaper in flour paste and drape them around the chicken wire and blow-dry them so that we can spray paint them primer black. Then the boys make a trip to McDonald’s before it closes, and the girls glue the teeth on. The senior float starts to look like a huge pair of dentures.

When Martin comes back from McDonald’s, he has a fit. “That doesn’t look like a bear trap!” he shouts. “It looks like a mouth of a whale! The teeth are supposed to be serrated, you idiots!”

Rack looks at him like he’s so far out of line she can’t even take him personally. “Martin,” she says. “Do you even exist?”

Junior laughs hysterically. Overnight, he seems to have adopted Martin Gerard as his personal mascot.

“How about Hey Cougars, Bite My Missile?” This is my idea. Martin glares at me. It was only a joke, and not a very good one, but I watch incredulously as the idea takes flight. They take out Rack’s drawing of the missile again and talk about building it and putting it in the mouth.

“I hate it!” storms Rack. “And anyway, we’re not the Colchis Missiles, we’re the Rockets!”

“How about Hey Cougars, Eat My Rocket? And the rocket can be upside down in the mouth, and we can build a cougar head around the teeth.” It’s Lars. When everybody turns to look at him, his face turns bright red. Everyone starts talking at once.

“That is so stupid.”

“It doesn’t even make any sense.”

“If we build the head around the teeth, we won’t be able to get it out of here.”

“Do we even have a trailer?”

“We’re using the Grimshaws’ flatbed.”

“Do we even know how we’re going to get it on the flatbed?”

“What time is it?”

“One thirty a.m.”

Everybody groans. “I have practice tomorrow morning,” Junior says. “Hey Marty, give me a ride home.” In ten minutes, everyone’s cleared out except for me and Rack. Grimshaw’s gone home with Angel to her aunt’s apartment over the bridal shop.

“I have a physics test tomorrow,” I observe. Rack sits down on one of the car seats, reaches in her purse, and gets out a bottle of beer. I’m sitting up on an oil drum. She offers me the first sip.