“Whaddaya mean, bit much?” Ava H. said. “You’re so Harry!”
Fonda’s heart began to pound. Yes, her leg stubble was major at the moment. How did they know that?
“It’s true,” Ava G. said. “You’re all Styles!”
Oh. Fonda tipped her head. “I am?”
The Avas nodded.
“What I meant was,” Ava R. said, “what are you wearing tonight?”
“Tonight?” Fonda pictured herself in flannel pajama bottoms and a faded Meghan Trainor tank.
“Yes, tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“Very funny,” Ava G. said. Then, off Fonda’s confused expression, “Our party, Harry Styles.”
“Your party?”
“Yeah. You’re coming, right?”
“Um.” Fonda nervously twisted her friendship bracelets. Was she missing something? “But I wasn’t on that list you made.”
The Avas laughed.
“That list was for guests,” said Ava G. “And you’re not a guest. You’re practically one of us.”
Fonda searched their faces for signs of insincerity—side-eye glances, mean-girl giggles, the giant “just kidding” that would inevitably burst forth from their lips. Anything that could shame Fonda for hoping that they just might, maybe, possibly, mean what they said. But all she saw were three girls nodding kindly. “Seriously?”
“You gave us period purses,” said Ava R. “That’s, like, an automatic invite for life.”
“You know that, right?” Ava H. said to her travel mirror as she dabbed her eyelids with glitter.
Fonda’s heart stopped pounding and started to soar. She was invited. She was invited.
SHE WAS INVITED!
“Of course I knew that. Duh.” Her cheeks burned red with shame. A little bit because she said duh, but mostly because she wasted an entire week feeling resentful and angry toward the Avas. Forget Harry Styles. Harry Hostiles had been more like it.
“So, your outfit?”
“It’s a surprise,” Fonda managed. Because it was, even to her. What was she going to wear? How was she going to get there? What would she say to the boys? Would there be dancing? Would anyone ask her? Did she even want them to? What about—
The run of questions in Fonda’s head came to a sudden and jarring stop. The sleepover!
What was she going to tell the girls? How would she tell the girls? When would she tell the girls? Would they be mad at her? Would they understand? Would they want to go with her? Could they go with her . . . ?
“Quick question,” Fonda asked as the Avas gathered their bags. “Can I bring two friends?”
The Avas exchanged glances.
“They’re both new here,” Fonda continued. “But don’t worry, I’ve known them my whole life and can totally vouch for them.”
“I would, but my mom is being really strict about the numbers,” said Ava G. with a pout. “Sorry. Maybe next time.”
But next time didn’t help Fonda. Because for the first time in her life, she had two separate plans for the same night—and she had no idea which one to choose.
* * *
♥
When the girls got to the top of their street after school, Fonda gripped her stomach and winced. The pain was extreme. It was hot, swirling, and foreboding. Only it wasn’t restricted to her stomach, like she wanted Drew and Ruthie to believe. It consumed her entire body with its soul-crushing weight, the way lies often do.
She’d spent all afternoon agonizing over what to do. She considered telling her friends the truth—that she had been invited the whole time and didn’t know it. That this party was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and their sleepovers were weekly. That if Fonda went, it would be good for all of them, because next time she would probably get to make her own list and she’d put Drew and Ruthie at the very top.
Fonda knew that honoring plans with her nesties was the right thing to do. She also knew that she had wanted to be accepted by people like her sisters or the Avas for years. And now that she was, she couldn’t just thanks-but-no-thanks them. This party could be the golden opportunity her fortune was referring to. And when golden opportunities knock, isn’t one supposed to open the door and welcome them in?
Either way, the truth about Ruthie and Drew not being invited would come up. And Fonda knew from experience that that kind of pain hurt more than the lying kind, and she wanted to save them from that. So, even though she could come clean, wasn’t lying the kinder choice?
And so Fonda committed to her decision and doubled over on the sidewalk. “Owie.”
“What’s wrong?” Drew asked.
“Stomach,” Fonda groaned. “I’ve had the TAG teacher all afternoon.”
“Rhea?” Ruthie asked, concerned. “From what?”
“Bad chicken,” Fonda said, feeling another wave of soul-crushing guilt.
All of a sudden, an ineffable look flashed over Drew’s face and then she doubled over too.
“Same.” Drew gripped her stomach.
“Same what?” Fonda asked.
“I ate bad chicken too.”
“I thought you had salmon for lunch,” Fonda said, wondering how Drew managed to catch a fake ache.
“No, it was chicken. It just looked like salmon.” Drew doubled over again. “Ugh, why did I eat pink chicken?”
Ruthie’s blue eyes widened with concern. “Stay here. I’ll run ahead and get your moms.”
Drew waved off her suggestion like a bad smell. “I think I can make it.”
“Same,” Fonda said, “but I might need to cancel the sleepover.”
Ruthie’s face went slack. “Nooo! I have a huge secret to tell you.”
Fonda stopped to lean against a neighbor’s mailbox for maximum effect. The metal edge dug into her back like a punishment. “Can you tell us the secret now?”
“Absolutely not,” Ruthie whispered like a CIA operative. A very loud, bad one. “This secret must be delivered under the cloak of darkness.”
“I agree with Fonda,” Drew said as she shuffled weakly down the block. “I think we should cancel.”
Ruthie frowned. “But we’ve never canceled a sleepover.”
“We’ve never both had food poisoning,” Drew pointed out.
“I have an idea!” Fonda said. “Why don’t we move it to tomorrow?”
It was the perfect solution. How had she not thought of it sooner? She would go to the party, Drew could recover from her real food poisoning, and they’d have the Spa-tacular twenty-four hours later.
“We can’t have a Friday-night sleepover on a Saturday,” Ruthie insisted.
“Who cares what day it is, as long as we’re together?” Fonda said, faking another cramp. “Uh-oh, I think I’ve got Ruthie’s teacher! Gotta go.”
With that, she made a run for home and didn’t look back. Anything to get away from the disappointment on Ruthie’s face. Disappointment she caused. But she would make it up to them the very next day by throwing a spectacular Saturday Spa-tacular. In the meantime, she was going to find out how popular girls did parties, boys, and life—and make sure she, Drew, and Ruthie got on every invite list for the rest of the year. Once she did, her lies wouldn’t matter.
The nesties would.
chapter seventeen.
“HOMEWORK ON A Friday night?” said Steven, Ruthie’s father, as he entered her bedroom. Her mother followed, along with the spicy cherry scent of her perfume. He was wearing a tuxedo. She, a navy satin dress. They looked like actual people, not parents.
Ruthie shut her laptop and turned to face them with a fake I’m-totally-at-peace-with-my-situation grin, which was the real homework. Because on the inside, she was bummed to the power of ten knowing her best friends were too sick to hang out. She was, however, grateful that Rhea was teaching her how to write a novel. The ch
aracters Ruthie created for her “Foxie the Werefox” story were much-needed companions.
“Is it too intense?” Fran asked, worried.
“A little,” Ruthie said. She didn’t like when her mother wore too much perfume. It gave her a headache. “Maybe just one spritz instead of two next time.”
“No.” Fran laughed. “I was talking about TAG. We want you to feel challenged, not overwhelmed.” She sat on the corner of Ruthie’s desk and crossed her legs. “Remember the conversation we had about Foxie—whether she should follow her head or her heart? Could that have also been about you? It seemed like she was struggling with the same kinds of issues as you.”
“How is that even possible? I’m not a lycanthrope,” Ruthie said, trying to deflect. Yes, she knew lycanthropes were wolves and that Foxie was a fox. But her mother didn’t, and that word was almost as fun as oodles, so she said it anyway.
“Fair enough.” Fran exhaled sharply. “Bad analogy. The point is, your father and I have been wondering if the TAG workload is too . . . intense.”
“Why would you say that?” Ruthie asked, not sure if she should be relieved or offended.
“Well, you just seem so down lately. Are you overwhelmed?”
Ruthie glimpsed at the puzzles on her walls, the books and board games on her shelves, the spelling bee trophies . . . all proof that her brain needed TAG. But her mom did say the heart mattered more, so in keeping with her plan, she said, “It’s hard, but I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is all we can ask for.” Steven kissed her forehead. “Proud of you.”
We’ll see how proud you are on Monday when I get my test results back, Ruthie thought as her insides roiled with guilt. She hated lying to her parents, hated pretending she couldn’t keep up with the Titans, and hated knowing that her friends—the only ones who would be truly happy about all of this—were sick and there was nothing she could do to help. The whole situation made Ruthie feel like she ate bad chicken too.
“We should get going,” Steven told Fran.
“I just don’t like that she’s home alone on a Friday night,” Fran said, as if Ruthie wasn’t there.
“I can’t help it. My sleepover was canceled.”
“Isn’t there someone from TAG you can hang out with?” Fran asked. “We could drop you off on our way to dinner and pick you up on our way home.”
Ruthie considered this, but only for a moment. It would feel weird hanging out with someone new on a Friday night. As awkward and clunky as writing with her left hand. Especially since Drew and Fonda were sick. “Everyone has plans.”
“Everyone?” Fran pressed.
Ruthie opened her mouth to answer, then remembered Sage’s invitation to hang out. The idea of accepting did trigger that left-handed awkward feeling, but Sage had asked.
“There is one person,” Ruthie said as she flipped open her laptop and began typing an email.
RUTHIE: Are you still around tonight?
SAGE: Affirmative. My stepsister is throwing a party at our house. Want to come? We can spy on the dumb-dumbs.
RUTHIE: Affirmative. My parents will drop me soon.
SAGE: Wear all black. It’s better for spying. Hurry!
With a renewed sense of hope, Ruthie opened her closet, rummaged past her happy patterns and adorable kitten tees, in search of the only black items she owned: leggings with black fringe up the sides left over from her short-lived modern dance phase and a matching leotard. Footwear, however, was proving to be a problem. She grabbed a pair of polka-dot sneakers, figuring she could kick them off when she got to Sage’s. Going barefoot would be better for sneaking around anyway.
“Interesting look,” Fran said when Ruthie got into the car.
“Oh, to be young again.” Steven laughed as he backed out of the driveway.
Ruthie waved a sad goodbye to Drew’s and Fonda’s houses as they drove up the street. Spending Friday night with someone new felt a lot like cheating. But she’d bring them ginger ale in the morning and tell them about her night in such vivid detail, they’d think they were there.
chapter eighteen.
“IF YOU’RE NOT having fun, just call me,” Drew’s father said as he pulled into the school parking lot. “Mom or I can come get you anytime.”
Drew leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, which wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do in a helmet and skate pads. “Don’t worry, Daddy. It’ll be fine.”
But would it? What were she and Will supposed to talk about all night? The Skateboard Kid? Then what? Camp? Classes? Teachers? Borrrr-ing. If only she could ask her friends.
As her father pulled away, Drew began to regret her bad chicken claim. Lying to the girls felt sinister, but also a little tragic. She would have preferred it if the scene played out something like:
Guess what? Will asked me to go to that party! And they’d be all, No way! Let’s help you pick out a comfortable yet flattering outfit. And she’d be all, What about the Spa-tacular? And they’d be all, We can do that tomorrow night. This is an epic opportunity to get to know your crush. You have to go. And she’d be all, You guys are the most supportive friends ever. And they’d be all, So are you. Then they’d hug and make Drew promise to send pics.
But the conversation would never go like that. Instead, Fonda would think less of Drew for even considering it. She’d say things like Will doesn’t deserve you, and You’re choosing an emotionally immature doozer with face blindness over us? and Ruthie would say, What? I can’t hear you. I’m wearing invisible noise-canceling headphones! Mostly because she hated conflict, but also because she didn’t have any devices, so real headphones would be useless.
So, when Fonda said she was sick, Drew thought it would be easier to say the same. The sleepover was canceled anyway, so what harm could come of it?
Actually, Drew, a ton of harm can come from it, she thought as she skated toward their meeting spot. She had to admit that despite her five reasons, her friends had a point. She had never even hung out with Will, and yet he managed to bum her out. What if he treated her like a stranger all over again? Or worse? What if he didn’t show? Then what? It wasn’t like she could run crying to Fonda and Ruthie about it. They thought she was at home with Ruthie’s teacher!
Drew considered turning around, claiming miraculous recovery, and bringing Fonda ginger ale and toast when a boy dressed in skinny jeans, a turquoise tee, and red sneaks came skating toward her, his smile so sparkly she giggled like a girl with nothing to say. It was too much for one person to handle.
“Hey,” Will said as he approached.
“My parents made me wear these,” Drew responded, indicating her body armor.
“Good idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Drew giggled (again).
“I saw you skate. That’s all.”
“That wipeout was your fault!”
“My fault?” He kicked up his board and caught it. “How?”
“Don’t get me stah-ted.”
She laughed a little longer than the joke deserved to avoid an uncomfortable silence. Then Will suggested they get going.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Drew answered in some strange Harry Potter–type accent that she instantly regretted. Did every girl feel like a malfunctioning robot when she was alone with someone she liked?
They headed down Temple Road—a winding neighborhood street that allowed for long, lazy swerves. As they skated, the sun began to sink behind the ocean, its final kiss of light landing on their faces like a blessing. If Drew had been watching this scene in a movie, she would have envied the girl for living inside such a perfect moment. But Drew was that girl. And the moment, the boy, the sunset, the winding road . . . they were all hers.
She wanted to ask Will if he liked the sound of wheels grinding on asphalt, if that was his favorite song too? But unlike the girl in her imaginar
y movie, this scene didn’t come with a script. What if he thought she was bananas?
It was funny. Drew had had hundreds of imaginary conversations with Will in her head, but now that they were on an official skate hang, she had no clue what to say. There were so many little things she wanted to know, like what he watched on TV, what he liked to snack on, and were his parents embarrassing too? If so, how embarrassing? Because they couldn’t possibly be more embarrassing than hers. But there was one big question that took priority over all the little ones. The little ones would have to wait.
“So, I have a question,” Drew said, pulling up beside Will. Now, she didn’t have to be a boy stuff expert to know that asking a guy why he’d been weird was a major no-no. That she was supposed to act aloof and unaffected by his moodiness because, well, her mother’s bathroom magazines said so. But, really? Who got answers by not asking? “Remember when I saw you on the first day of school?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Oh, good. I can cross amnesia off the list,” she said, wishing Fonda and Ruthie were there to appreciate her snark.
“Huh?”
“You acted like you didn’t know me.”
“Yeah.” Will lowered his head. “About that . . .”
Drew’s mouth went dry. She knew it. There was a reason. And judging by his guilty expression, shyness was not it. This reason had an element of secrecy to it, maybe conspiracy. Even his white shell necklace seemed to be in on it. The way it wrapped itself around him like a protective sidekick, ready to defend him at all costs. But Drew was not going to be intimidated. She was determined to get an explanation, no matter how unpleasant it was. “Then why were you—”
“What up, Wilbur?” called a blond boy as he stepped out of a Prius. An even blonder blond got out next. They were both wearing surf trunks instead of shorts.
“What up?” Will said back with a sharp wave that seemed to say, Just because we know each other doesn’t mean we’re friends. Then, quietly to Drew, “That’s Dune Wolsey. He’s been calling me Wilbur ever since we read Charlotte’s Web in third grade. Five more years, and I’ll never have to hear that again.”
girl stuff. Page 9