“I don’t think any of us want what you have,” Langley said.
“What’s that?” Ollie asked. “Charm? Charisma?”
“Crabs?” Kate said, still sugar sweet.
“Always a delight to chat with you, Ollie,” Langley said, revving the engine. “But for now, please move your Ralph Lauren-clad ass so Jane can get into the car.”
“You’re slipping, angel. It’s John Varvatos.”
Langley raised an eyebrow at him. “Freals, you’re slipping if you think I care.”
Ollie laughed, said, “Touché,” and sauntered over to a dark-blue Mercedes with a driver waiting for him at the curb.
I got in and we touched pinkies, our friendship salute. Langley started to say, “Okay, lovelies, let’s—” but interrupted herself to look at Kate. She sighed.
“You know what you need to do.”
“No.” Kate shook her head and made her eyes very wide. “That is why God created windshields.”
“So you can crash your head through them?” Langley asked. “Put on your seat belt.”
Kate sighed. “With the way you drive, Safety Officer Langley, it’s hardly necessary.”
“It’s very simple,” Langley said, holding up a finger. “The first rule of Langley Motors is: Don’t talk back to Langley. The second rule of Langley Motors is: Don’t talk back to Langley. The third rule—”
“Let me get a pen so I can take these down?” Five bangles tinkled on Kate’s wrist as she pulled her seat belt across the faux-fur vest she was wearing over a cotton minidress. “It’s sad that you have to lord this over me when I have no other options.”
“You had the option to not run the second Mercedes your parents bought you this year into the front of Madame Yong’s. There is such a thing as delivery, you know.”
“That’s brilliant,” Kate said, clapping with mock enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you could do impressions of my father. Do another one! Oh please?”
Langley shook her head. Her pale-blue eyes moved to me in the rearview. “Jane?”
“I’m locked in, ma’am,” I assured her with a little salute, tugging on the seat belt strap that crisscrossed my ruffled T-shirt.
“Kiss ass,” Kate said, rolling her eyes.
“No, just a law-abiding citizen,” I countered.
Langley went on. “Here’s the plan. We’ll go to my house to get the costumes, then—”
My cell phone started to ring, interrupting her. I glanced at the caller ID, winced inwardly seeing the same number for the second time that day, and sent it to voice mail. Langley didn’t like being interrupted and I didn’t feel like talking to that particular caller anyway. “Sorry. Go on.”
“After we get the costumes, we’ll change at Kate’s place on the beach and then walk over to the party so no one has to worry about driving. Joss is going to make everyone leave their keys at the door and I don’t want anyone touching my baby.”
A horn blared behind us. Turning around, I saw Nicky di Savoia leaning out the open window of her lemon-yellow Karmann Ghia. Nicky was David’s ex-girlfriend and not a huge fan of mine. I waved.
She sneered. “Could you please discuss lip gloss or whatever hugely important issue you’re debating elsewhere, vapid bitches?”
“Takes one to know one,” Langley shouted pleasantly. Nicky kept honking, but Langley ignored her. She buttoned her red-leather driving gloves with care, signaled with her turn indicator, and slowly steered out of the driveway.
Nicky sped past us, flipping us off.
“Tsk-tsk, that’s no way to drive,” Langley commented. “DJ Kate, will you please do the honors?”
Kate flipped on the stereo and it started blaring Blondie. With “Heart of Glass” screaming from the speakers, I closed my eyes and pictured what we must look like. In my mind I framed the shot, the two of them with two different colors of blond hair up front, me with my dark hair fanned against the cream leather of the backseat of the red convertible, blue sky and green trees a blur in the background. It was a perfect image, the perfect snapshot of three popular girls embarking on a great weekend. I was happy, happier than I could ever remember feeling. I wished I could freeze the moment like that forever, click, to assure myself that it was real.
Because I still had trouble seeing myself in the snapshot. Kate Valenti and Langley Winterman were the top of the social pyramid. Even after two years I could hardly believe I was friends with them. Being popular wasn’t something that came naturally for me. I’d worked at it. And paid for it.
Chapter 2
It started the summer before freshman year. I still remember the day I told my best friend in Illinois, Bonnie, about my plan.
Bonnie and I had been best friends since my family moved in next door to hers when we were both seven and my pet turtle, Amerigo Vespucci, slipped through a hole in the fence and discovered her cat, Rolo. Like the man he was named for, Amerigo was a relentless explorer, always going off on his own and unafraid of anything despite being small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. He’d disappear for a day or two at a time and come back trailing leaves of unknown origin or strange splotches on his shell. I admired his courage and sense of adventure even as it mystified me.
Amerigo and Rolo became fast friends and so did Bonnie and I. Soon we were inseparable, planning elaborate funerals for the dead mice Rolo dragged in and making our own radio show and staying up late outside reading and giggling, then reading and gossiping, and later talking about boys.
We didn’t have much luck with them. Which was why I decided, the summer before freshman year, to use my earnings from my summer business doing photo portraits of people’s pets to go to Chicago and get a haircut and makeup and a new wardrobe.
Bonnie was saving all the money she made from her summer job as a junior lifeguard for the school spring trip to Spain. She thought I was crazy. “There’s nothing wrong with you the way you are. Why would you want to be one of the Stall Sisters?”
Stall Sisters was Bonnie’s name for the popular girls in our class because they seemed to spend most of their time in the restroom either fixing their makeup or crying. “Or both at the same time,” she noted. “Which shows how stupid they are.”
But I knew she was all talk. “It’s a new year and a new school,” I pointed out. “We can be anyone we want. Don’t you want to be popular?”
“Why?”
Because popularity meant being accepted. Belonging. Never being alone. Because it was what everyone wanted.
“Not me,” Bonnie said positively. “I’m not that crazy about the girls’ bathroom.”
“Do you want to die without being kissed?”
“You think popularity is going to get you kissed? Good luck with that, dream walker.”
But it did. My makeover worked. People who had never spoken to me before started saying hi in the halls, and I managed to say hi back, and one day a group of popular sophomores came and sat at my table at lunch and I couldn’t eat because I was so worried about spilling, but it was worth it. I got Bonnie and myself an invitation to a party being thrown by one of the most popular seniors. Bonnie hadn’t wanted to go, but I convinced—okay, begged—her, and she finally gave in.
At the party Liam Marsh kissed me and like Sleeping Beauty, I was brought to life—social life. As his girlfriend, my popularity was guaranteed. So six months later when my mother announced we were moving to New Jersey so she could run a mayoral campaign and put herself “on the East Coast political map,” I was devastated. Not just because of the popularity—by that point, Liam had become my whole world, the only solid thing I had. We said goodbye. I cried. He told me not to worry, we’d always be together.
The night before the first day of school in New Jersey, I got a text from Liam saying he wanted to be just friends. I took a bottle of vodka I found in the kitchen—Liam had introduced me to vodka the way he’d introduced me to all his friends—and a pair of nail scissors into the bathroom. When I woke up the next morning, I felt bad but not
as bad as I looked. I’d hacked off my bangs and left myself with a strange fringe sticking out. So not how you want to look on your first day at a new school, but I was beyond caring. Or so I told myself.
Livingston High was smaller than my other school but more labyrinthine and scary. I endured lunch alone, studiously not looking at anyone, until the bell rang for fourth period. As I got up to go, my tights caught on the bottom of the cafeteria table and I got two huge runs in my right leg. Perfect.
Out in the hallway I watched as girls went by, arm in arm, or paused to touch pinkies with one another. Couples strolled along, guys staring straight ahead as their girlfriends nuzzled their necks. That had been me once. I realized I’d spent most of my freshman year with Liam’s arm around my shoulders, his Irish Spring-scented neck near my cheek, and knowing I would never have that again made my stomach lurch. I felt too light, insubstantial, like I almost didn’t exist. I was used to looking up at him, turning to him to decide what came next, what we wanted to do. We. I ached for we, hated I. I was lonely and untethered and abandoned and unloved. Unlovable.
I felt like I was going to be sick.
The bell rang for fourth period, but I couldn’t face it. So I did the only thing I could think of: I went and sat in the girls’ bathroom with my feet up on the toilet.
I’d been there about a minute when I realized that there was someone else doing the same thing next to me. Only it sounded like she was hyperventilating.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
There was a startled gasp. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
“No one is.”
“Um, you are? You’re someone?”
“Not here.” I’d meant to say it to myself, but it came out of my mouth instead. It was the kind of mistake, saying the wrong thing and seeming too insecure, that I dreaded.
There was shuffling next door and a tanned hand with two gold rings, attached to a fine-knit gray-cashmere-clad arm, appeared over the top of the stall. It was followed by a perfect oval-shaped head and a mane of wavy hair the color of fine brandy pinned back in that perfectly tousled way only people on television and the naturally gorgeous manage to achieve. The kind of girl who’s never even realized she was popular because she always has been. I’d noticed her in English class earlier that day, surrounded by a group of other girls all clamoring for her attention. She was wearing a gray tunic with a leather-and-bone belt I’d seen in my mother’s copy of September Vogue.
“I’m Kate?” she said, almost like it was a question. I’d come to learn she nearly always phrased things that way. She held out her hand. “Who are you?”
I stood up on the toilet and shook it. “I’m Jane. We have English together.”
“Do we?” Her eyes went toward the ceiling like she was trying to summon a memory. “I don’t remember seeing you.”
“I just mov—” I stopped because the girl called Kate’s lip started to tremble and she blinked like she was on the verge of tears. “Are you oka—”
Suddenly she started to cry. Without thinking, I reached my arms around to hug her.
She went stiff and sucked in her breath. I pulled back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
She swatted the tears on her face. “No, I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.” She blinked. “I’m just going to get down”—gesturing with her fingers toward the floor—“and then go?”
“Right. Me too.”
We both climbed off the toilets. I reached over and flushed even though I hadn’t done anything and then I felt like a huge moron because what if she thought I’d done something? And I’d been like standing over it the whole time? Exactly the kind of thing a loser did.
I opened the door and went and stood at the sink next to her. At least I could look like I cared about hygiene. As I washed my hands, I thought maybe Bonnie had been right about popularity. Maybe it was all basically in the toilet, maybe—
“I’m guessing they’re clean?” Kate said, nodding at my hands. She was about a foot taller than I was even though her brown knee-high boots were flat.
“Oh, right. I was just—”
And then she burst into tears again. Only this time she threw herself against me. My arms came up to hug her and she didn’t pull away. She cried like that for a few minutes, then the heaving of her shoulders slowed down, stopped.
She stepped back. Suddenly the navy-blue puff-sleeved sweater dress with tights and ankle boots I’d thought was so cool when I put it on that morning now looked over-thought-out and dated. As I looked from my face—pale oval, blue eyes, pink lips, smudgy shadows under my eyes from the vodka, unfortunate hedge of dark short bangs—to hers—perfect despite the fact she’d just been sobbing—I felt a rising wave of panic and insecurity. Which wasn’t helped by her saying, “Why didn’t you leave?”
This time it definitely was a question, and not a friendly one. Her eyes were glittering and her jaw was set. “I mean, I didn’t want anyone to see me like this?”
I was kind of surprised by her change in tone. “I told you, I’m not anyone,” trying to make a joke.
In a flash her hardness transformed into confusion. She turned from looking at me in the mirror to looking me directly in the face, her brow furrowed. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because you seem sad?”
She turned back to the mirror. “You mean weak.” She grabbed a paper towel and started drying the tears off her cheeks. Only it was more like she was trying to rub them out.
“No, I mean sad.”
She kept rubbing, her eyes avoiding mine. “Well anyway, thank you?”
“It was nothing. I’m sure you’d do the same thing for me.”
She dropped the paper towel in the trash can and stared hard at her reflection. She might have perfectly symmetrical features and be model beautiful, but the expression on her face when she looked at herself was like she was looking at trash.
“In all honesty, probably not?” Now she smiled, but it was mirthless. When she spoke again, it was in a southern drawl, harsh and staccato: “I’m a spoiled bitch with a perfect life who’s not even half grateful and never thinks of a thing but herself. At least that’s how my daddy would put it.”
It was my first encounter with Kate’s amazing ability to imitate anyone’s voice, and it was disconcerting. Between that and the anger beneath her words, I didn’t know what to say. I can’t even guess how long I would have stood there like a moron, nervously fingering my dark, short bangs, if the door to the bathroom hadn’t slammed open then.
A blonde girl with the kind of confidence that came from always having been popular exploded through it into the room. Wearing shorts made out of some kind of brocade over lace tights, a sweater with ruffles down the front, and platform pumps with her mass of light-blonde hair tied into low pigtails with two satin bows, she looked more ready for a catwalk than a walk to class. She didn’t even glance at me, just rushed to Kate, put a maternal hand on her cheek, and said, “Are you okay, Kit Kat?”
The Kate that turned to face her friend was nothing like the falling-apart girl I’d seen. She smiled like she was amused by the shorter girl’s concern and said, “Yes, Mother Langley, I’m fine. I just had bad cramps.”
The girl called Langley tilted back and put her hands on her hips. “Want fries with that?”
Kate’s brow wrinkled. “Fries with what?”
“That whopper you just told.”
Kate looked wide-eyed taken aback, but I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh. Langley’s eyes came to me then. “I like an appreciative audience. Who are you?”
“That’s Jane,” Kate told her. “She’s new here? She gave me something to kill the pain.” She winked at me.
Langley tilted her head to one side and studied me for a moment like I was a bio slide she had to correctly identify. Then she nodded, having located the right classification. “I’m not going to lie, you’re cute, but the bangs are a bit extreme. Freals, did you do that yourself?”
&nb
sp; I nodded. “My boyfriend from back home broke up with me.” I couldn’t believe I was admitting that. How pathetic did I look?
She came over and tried to push the bangs to one side. “Yeah, not going to work. Your tights, though, those are cool.” She stepped back and assessed me again. “Do either of you have a pen?”
I fished one out of my bag and handed it to her. She immediately stuck it into her black lace tights and started to rip through them.
I was shocked. “What are you doing?”
“One for all—” Langley said.
“—And all for one,” Kate finished, smiling not at me but at her friend. It was like a secret message passed between them.
A message I only understood a little later when, after having put a second run in her lace tights, Langley said, “Okay, I think we can debut this.” Kate and Langley each took one of my arms and together we left the bathroom.
“Watch what happens,” Langley said as we paraded down the hall. “We’re about to make your year.”
They introduced me to Elsa, the third member of what they called the Three Must-kateers because whatever they did, everyone else must follow. And it was true. By the end of the day, five other girls had runs in their tights. The next day most of the sophomores, three quarters of the juniors, and even a handful of seniors did too. And four girls had hacked their bangs off with nail scissors.
I’d arrived. Whatever the Mustkateers put their stamp of approval on—wearing sunglasses to class until the faculty banned it, wearing candy necklaces, wearing globs of red nail polish on the knees of your jeans because I was trying to paint Langley’s nails at lunch and made a complete mess—everyone else approved of too. And that included me. I would never be lonely again.
Within weeks I was hanging out with Langley and Kate and Elsa all the time. And then came the morning when Elsa was found by the school custodian on the roof wearing nothing but a pair of anklets, after which she disappeared for a month to “relax” at a special hospital in Aspen. When she got back, I’d taken her place as one of the official Three Mustkateers. “Because there can only be three,” Langley had explained.
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