For Better or For Worse

by Robin Palmer

  Luckily, I didn’t have to wait too long. About two minutes later, my overlistening skills allowed me to hear the click of his door as it started to open. After waiting what felt like the right amount of time so that when I opened the door it would seem like I just happened to run into him, in his own house, at eight o’clock on a school night, I opened the door. And smacked him right in the face with it.

  “OW!” he screeched after his nose bounced off it like one of those silver metal balls in a pinball game.

  “I’m so sorry!” I cried. I wasn’t sure what to do. In movies when that kind of thing happened, the unhurt person tended to the hurt person by checking to see if anything was broken. But because that would mean actually touching him, I hung back and just stood there as he jumped around from foot to foot like some sort of oversize Zombie High T-shirt-wearing leprechaun holding his nose saying, “Owowowowowow.” Finally, he stopped and uncupped his nose. “Is it broken?” he demanded.

  I leaned in and looked at it, but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking for. Blood? A piece of bone sticking out? “How am I supposed to tell?”

  “I don’t know! Is it swollen?”

  I shrugged. “I can’t tell. It’s as big as it always is.” The minute the words left my mouth I realized that probably wasn’t the best thing to say to either someone you had a crush on, or someone you were going to attempt to hire to help you make a kick-butt video toast so that America would find out you, too, had some talent. Or, in my case, both.

  “Well, touch it and see if it’s squishy.”

  I cringed. “You want me to…touch your nose?”

  “Yes! I’d do it, but I’m in so much pain I think my neural transmitters are all screwed up.”

  I wasn’t sure what a neural transmitter was, but it sounded pretty serious. I really hoped (a) they weren’t screwed up, and (b) if they were, he didn’t sue me because I was probably going to end up using the last of my savings to pay him in fried Oreos. It felt weird to be touching the nose of a boy you hadn’t even kissed yet, but seeing that this was a medical emergency, I decided to go for it.

  “OW!” he screeched again. “What are you doing?!”

  “You told me to touch your nose!” I cried.

  “I didn’t tell you to press it so hard! If it wasn’t already broken, it is now!” he yelled.

  I took my finger away and stood back. “You know what? I think you should just touch it yourself, then,” I shot back. This was not going well.

  He did. Like from every angle. Once he had determined it wasn’t broken (“Maybe seriously sprained,” he said, “but probably not broken. Although we’ll have to wait twenty-four hours to really know”), he turned to me. “So what are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t like Pageant Queen Rehab.”

  “I don’t,” I replied, making a mental note to Google “What does it mean when a boy knows what TV shows you do and don’t like” when I got back upstairs. “I’m actually here to see you.”

  It kind-of, sort-of looked like he turned a little red when I said that. It was a little difficult to tell because he was a bit sweaty from hopping around. “Oh yeah?”

  I gave a half nod/half shrug. “Yeah.”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  Jeez. Could he make this any harder for me? I wondered if I should find a crush who didn’t make me feel like I was being grilled like a crime suspect in those SUV shows Beatrice liked to watch. (“It’s SVU,” she was always correcting me, “not SUV.”) “I have a business proposition for you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is it legal?”

  I rolled mine. “Of course it is! Why would you ask something like that?”

  He shrugged. “Because in movies, when someone says that, it’s usually not.”

  “Well, this is legal. Not only is it legal, but it’s official,” I replied. “Meaning I’m even going to pay you for your time.”

  His eyes lit up. “With money?”

  “No. Even better. With fried Oreos.”

  He shook his head. “I’m off the Oreos,” he said. “I’ve moved on to Coca-Cola cake. You ever had it?”

  I shook my own.

  “Well, it’s awesome. It’s an international thing.”

  “It is?”

  “Well, not exactly international,” he admitted. “More like…southern.”

  Because people who had only lived in Manhattan tended to think it was the center of the universe, anywhere outside of the city pretty much was considered a foreign country to them.

  “Can you get it at street fairs?” I asked. That’s where I had had to get the fried Oreos last time. Lucky for me, the campaign had taken place during the height of the street fair season so it hadn’t been too much of a problem.

  “Nope. But you can get it at that new bakery on sixty-eighth and Amsterdam,” he replied. “They also have these things called pralines that are from New Orleans. They’re awesome. So what’s the business proposition?”

  “So my mom is finally marrying Laurel’s dad and I get to give the toast at the wedding, and I thought it would be cool to make a video toast,” I said. “And because you did a good job on the video campaign, I thought I’d ask you if you’d help me.”

  He nodded. “I did do a great job on that one, didn’t I?” he asked. “Maybe I should drop out of school and just start making films. I bet I could get an agent and everything.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It was pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?! It got you elected!”

  “It was one of the things that got me elected,” I shot back. “The fact that I have a non-threatening personality and I smell like watermelon helped, too.” I wasn’t exactly sure what a “non-threatening personality” was, but at one point during the campaign while I was in the stall of the bathroom near the cafeteria I had overheard Odile Majer tell Claudia Lowenstein that. And Alice had reported back on the watermelon comment, made by Kurt Ogilvy when I sent her to overlisten (because it was overlistening and not eavesdropping, it wasn’t like it was illegal or anything). Kurt was known for having an oversensitive nose and liked to compare everything to smells.

  He leaned forward and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything watermelon-like.”

  “So do you want to help me or not?” I asked, moving back. It wasn’t so much that I was worried that he could smell me as much as the fact that I had a slight suspicion that I was getting my period at that very instant. Stress and excitement were known to bring it on (at least according to Marissa), and I had definitely had a lot of both of those lately.

  He shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “But I’m not sure I want to be paid in Coca-Cola cake,” he said. “I might want it in some other sort of dessert currency.”

  I looked at my watch. It was already eight-thirty and I hadn’t even watched the episode of Come On, People—Get with the Program that I had DVRed earlier. If it turned out that I did get my period, that was going to push me back even further. “Can we decide on the payment stuff at another time?”

  “I guess so,” he replied. “I’ll start writing a contract up and e-mail it to you.”

  Yeah, well, we’d see about that. So far his track record with following up on his promises to get in touch was about as good as my promise to Mom to keep my room clean for longer than three hours.

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  Not to tell you how to run your business or anything, but if you had a Yelp page where people could leave comments and ratings, I’m pretty sure you’d only average like one star and some very not-so-good comments about the fact that you don’t return people’s e-mails. And because a lot of people base their decisions on those comments—like, say, Sarah, my dad’s girlfriend-slash-mother-of-Ziggy-my-half-brother—this might eventually make you lose a lot of your popularity. Which would mean no one would watch your TV show anymore or buy your books. And ultimately you’d end up with no money and you’d have to get a job as a waitress at a diner or something like that
.

  Or who knows—maybe it’s just MY letters that you’re not returning. Which therefore makes you guilty of discrimination, a subject I feel very passionate about. (If you remember from when I ran for class president, my whole campaign platform was that I was going to try my best to stop dork discrimination.) (Which, BTW, I’ve been very successful at.) (But seeing that you NEVER READ MY LETTERS you probably didn’t know that.)

  But the reason I’m writing today is not to tell you how disappointed I am about the fact that you never write me back (even though I am). It’s to ask for some advice. Okay, so you know how our family is being taped for Wendi Wallerstein’s show? (You’d know that if you read my e-mails.) Well, Laurel and I sort of got into a fight on-camera. Not really a fight, because Laurel would never do that on national television since her publicist would yell at her and tell her it would ruin her image. But she totally embarrassed me by basically telling all of America that I’m on the messy side. WHICH IS NOT TRUE—I’m just CREATIVELY ORGANIZED. If you ever want to come over, I’ll show you my room so you can see that I’m not lying.

  Even though we’re not exactly in a fight-fight, Laurel and I are not really talking. If I went to my mother and told her what was going on, she’d probably say, “Lucy, sometimes it’s better to just put your ego aside and go and be the bigger person and start talking to her as if everything is fine.” But (a) I can’t even go to my mother because SHE’S acting all weird, too, and (b) I’m a little sick of being the bigger person all the time.

  Is there any way to fix this situation that does not include me doing anything bigger-person-like?

  yours truly,

  Lucy B. Parker

  “Oh! Oh! I know!” Alice gasped the next day at lunch, waving her arm around as if we were sitting in a classroom rather than at a cafeteria table.

  “Yes, Alice?” I asked.

  “You could e-mail yourself for advice about what to do about Laurel,” she replied.

  I shook my head. “No. This one is too hard,” I said glumly. “I don’t think even I can come up with the answer to this.” I had tried, for hours last night. I had even tried to enlist Miss Piggy’s help by locking her in the room with me, snuggling her, and whispering the whole thing into her ear. (I didn’t want to risk Laurel hearing in case she was standing at the door overlistening or something.) But all I got were some scratches on my arms.

  Before Alice could wave her hand with another idea, Malia tapped me on the shoulder. “Cristina Pollock at nine o’clock,” she said.

  We all turned to see a girl who looked like she had just sucked on a lemon striding over to our table. The fact that she had left Kansas to come over to Arizona was NOT a good sign. Usually when Cristina did that it was to threaten me about something—like when she told me that if I ran for class president against her I’d be seriously sorry. (Which, BTW, I ended up not being on account of the fact that I beat her.)

  As usual, her long blonde hair flowed and bounced behind her like the actresses in shampoo commercial. It really wasn’t fair that someone so mean had such good hair. I wondered if it was a karma thing. Although the idea that Cristina had been nicer in a past life was hard to imagine.

  “Hello, Lucy,” she said as she flipped her hair.

  Unlike Beatrice, who had no problem rolling her eyes in front of Cristina, I was only brave enough to do it in my mind. Maybe if I had once been BFFs with Cristina before being dumped like Beatrice had it wouldn’t have been so hard, but because Cristina was known as not only the most popular girl at the Center but also the meanest, I didn’t feel like taking any chances.

  “Hi, Cristina!” I said, all friendly. “How are you today? That blue sweater goes really well with your eyes.” I left out the fact that I knew it was from Laurel’s new clothing line that had just started selling at Always 16. Cristina totally tried to copy Laurel all the way from her head (long, layered haircut) to her feet (the same lilac Uggs that Laurel had worn in the latest episode of her show, also for sale at Always 16 but in knockoff style); it was pretty lame. Instead I was practicing what Dr. Maude called “reverse psychology,” which was where, in hopes of getting someone to do what you want, you did the OPPOSITE of what you really felt like saying or doing. Like, say, being really nice to someone who was always really mean to you.

  She wrinkled her nose as if I had just said, “Hi, Cristina! You know, sometimes when I eat too many pickles, my stomach gets all wonky and I end up burping a lot.” “Yeah, well, anyway,” she said, all snotty. “So I was wondering what a person has to do to get an invitation to that wedding.”

  “What wedding?” I asked innocently.

  She rolled her eyes. “Um, your mother and Laurel’s father’s?” she said as if I were super dumb. “It’s all over those Week with Wendi commercials.”

  Right. The commercials. Mom had not been happy when she heard about those. Even though the show was nowhere near to being on TV yet, because Laurel was such a big star, from the minute she had agreed to do the show, the network had started advertising it. When you’re trying to keep a wedding quiet, having it announced on national television every commercial break didn’t help. Suddenly, Mom’s phone was ringing off the hook with calls from people she hadn’t talked to in years.

  “And on Austin’s Twitter feed. He just Tweeted that Laurel invited him,” she added.

  My eyes widened. What?! Okay, yes, so Laurel and I weren’t getting along so great at the moment but the fact that Austin was coming was BIG news. How could Laurel—as my BFF and frister—not tell me about this first? Was this part of The Change? Like, because she was older and famous she now got to do whatever she wanted? And what about the whole this-wedding-is-only-going-to-be-immediate-family thing? My grandmother wasn’t even invited—and because she followed Austin on Twitter, she was now going to know he was coming and be really mad about that.

  I rummaged in my I Hate Mean People Even Though It’s Mean to Hate tote bag for my phone. (When you had to lug around various logs and a notebook called “Important Pieces of Advice,” a regular old purse wasn’t big enough. Which was why I now had almost as many tote bags as I did pairs of Chuck Taylor sneakers.) Right before I pushed Laurel’s name in the address book, I remembered that they were shooting a scene from her sitcom at Billy’s Bakery that afternoon. Forget about trying to handle this on the phone—I needed to handle this in person.

  And not just because Billy’s was my most favorite place in New York City.

  Since they had the most delicious cupcakes in the world, Billy’s was always crowded to begin with, but with the crew there from Laurel’s show it was even more crowded—not to mention very hot because of all the bright lights. I had learned from the time I went to L.A. with Laurel that movie sets were definitely not the greatest place for people with coordination issues to hang out because of the fact that there were lots of expensive things to bump into and break. Which is why I stayed near the back with my friends until I felt like it was a good time to confront Laurel about inviting Austin without getting permission was totally unfair. Plus, that’s where the craft services table was, which had unlimited snacks…for free (including cupcakes, my favorite food).

  A red-headed, freckled-faced woman with braids wearing overalls and a walkie-talkie strapped to her right hip ran up to us and plucked the red velvet cupcake I was just about to take a giant bite of out of my hand. This was Cricket, the Second AD, which stood for assistant director. I had heard from Laurel—back when we were getting along—that Cricket was a little on the bossy side. (“Honey, that’s not very nice,” Alan had said when Laurel had brought it up during one of our official family dinners. “‘Overenthusiastic’ is a much nicer term.”)

  “Hey! What are you doing?” I cried.

  “Didn’t you hear me yell all extras on set! ASAP?” she barked.

  “But we’re not extras,” I replied, standing on my tiptoes for the cupcake but missing, because although my boobs had missed the no-more-growing memo, the rest of me had not.<
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  “Then what are you girls doing here?” she demanded.

  “Hey, has anyone ever told you look a lot like Pippi Longstocking?” Alice asked excitedly.

  I looked at Alice and gave a little shake of my head. According to Laurel, Cricket was very sensitive about that.

  As usual, Alice just kept right on going. “Your braids even stand up at the ends like hers do!” She leaned in for a closer look. “How does that happen? Do you put wire in there or something?”

  I stepped in front of her. “I’m Lucy B. Parker. Laurel’s frister?”

  Alice ducked her head around. “That’s a combination of friend and sister,” she explained. “Isn’t that neat? Once the wedding happens, then they’ll be stepsisters, but Lucy doesn’t like that word, so she came up with ‘frister’ and—”

  I put my hand over Alice’s mouth to shut her up.

  Cricket’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that’s true? How do I know you’re not some crazed fan who’s going to reach into your pocket and take out a pair of scissors and snip a lock of her hair to then use in some spell you found in a book at a Wiccan bookstore? Because that happened to Miley once. Or would’ve, had I not stepped in.”

  “Um, because I don’t lie since it’s bad for your karma?”

  Cricket took out her walkie-talkie. “Red Earth to Swan Song—possible stalker situation here,” she growled. “Copy.”

  “I’m not a stalker!” I cried.

  “She’s not,” Malia chimed in. “She doesn’t even stalk Blair Lerner-Moskovitz, her unofficial official local crush.”

  I cringed. I loved my friends but they definitely tended to forget that less was more when it came to talking about my personal life to total strangers.

  Beatrice shook her head. “I know I said I was okay with you crushing on my brother, and I’m not going to go back on that, but I just have one question: Why, out of all the boys in Manhattan, him?”

  This was not the time to be having this conversation. “Look, if you could just get Laurel over here, I can explain.” Lucky for me, just then Laurel walked out dressed in a bubblegum pink velour tracksuit—a very Madison-like look. “Laurel!” I yelled. Unluckily for me, she didn’t answer, which didn’t help my case with Cricket. “Laurel!” I yelled, louder. This time, she looked over but didn’t acknowledge me. Then I remembered—she liked to stay in character on set. “Madison,” I called out.