Kiss n Tell

by Suzy McCoppin

  “Sorry? This is amazing! Maybe now, people will finally take me seriously!” she exclaimed.

  I shrugged. “Maybe,” I offered. Although I wouldn’t put it past those vultures to turn the photo into another reason to torture us. But before I could warn her to tread lightly, her phone buzzed. She retrieved it from her bag, scanning the message with an intense, unreadable expression on her face.

  “Anais,” she said, drawing out my name ominously.

  “What? What happened?” I demanded.

  She looked me in the eye, a smile crawling onto her face. “I think we just got our first advertiser,” she said, grinning.

  I scurried over to her, my jaw dropped. “Let me see,” I said, taking her phone.

  It was true. IconTops.com, a silkscreen t-shirt company, wanted to advertise on our site. They proposed a $1,500 per month fee to post a banner for six months. I stood there, gaping at the tiny screen in silence.

  “Should I say yes?” Vaughn asked.

  “Yes!” I squealed, shaking Vaughn’s shoulder violently. It was such a vote of confidence even I couldn’t contain my excitement.

  “Okay! Okay!” she shouted, swatting me away, giggling wildly. She typed with one hand and squeezed mine with the other, as we jumped up and down, shrieking like Twilight freaks on the red carpet of the L.A. premiere of Breaking Dawn –Part 2. She stopped suddenly, squeezing my hand. “Wait, how do they pay us?”

  “I’ll set up a PayPal account,” I said, turning my laptop toward me. I quickly went to their homepage. “It says here they’ll send us a special PayPal debit card, which will deduct directly from our account so we don’t have to use an actual bank or anything.”

  Vaughn’s eyes grew the size of mini pizzas.

  “But don’t get any ideas,” I said sharply, disrupting what I’m sure was a full-scale fashion show going on in her head. “It’s not like it’s a fortune or anything and we can’t overdraw.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’ll charge us.” Vaughn frowned.

  “How so?”

  “I haven’t read the fine print, Vaughn, but I’m sure it’s not exactly kosher if we spend shitloads of money we don’t have.”

  Vaughn shrugged, then started jumping up and down and squealing again. I couldn’t help it. I had to join her.

  15.

  MY 15 MINUTES

  Vaughn

  We arrived at Cranbrook on Monday morning and made our way past the parking lot, joining the crowds on the front lawn warily. We hovered dangerously close to the Shrew Crew at the entrance of the main building, waiting for people to funnel into the building. I braced myself for the berating to commence, but nothing, absolutely nothing, transpired. No bitchy heckling, no derisive remarks muttered in passing, nada. In fact, it seemed like they piped down as we approached, settling into a strange quiet I’d never witnessed before.

  Normally, they’d be gabbing away, especially on Mondays, recapping the epic events of the weekend, driving me crazy with jealousy. I peered at them suspiciously. Stella wore thigh- high Balenciaga boots over textured tights. She tugged them absently, her Cartier bangles jingling. Ava rummaged through her oversized Miu Miu shoulder bag, retrieving a pair of dark Gucci glasses and pushing them over her surgically altered ski slope nose with her middle finger. Odette kept her arms crossed tightly over a slate-gray leather jacket, an orange silk-cashmere scarf wrapped lusciously around her swanlike neck. She cast a quick glance in my direction, narrowing her eyes. My skin prickled as they forged ahead of us silently.

  We headed to our lockers to swap out some books. I huddled next to Anais, paranoid, feeling like a bomb was about to explode. I looked over my shoulder suspiciously. The Shrew Crew was strutting down the halls toward us, chatting and gesticulating, leaving a wake of awed, less-stylish students. As they grew nearer, I noticed them glance right at me, each of them looking me in the eye, and settle down. I grabbed Anais’s forearm as they marched past us, hushed.

  “What’s wrong?” Anais asked.

  “Haven’t you noticed anything … off about today?” I asked.

  Anais shrugged. “You haven’t made much progress on Zac Efron,” she said, nodding to the vandalized sticker.

  “I mean the Shrew Crew,” I whispered. “They haven’t said anything to us.”

  Anais slammed her locker. “Well, shit, Vaughn. Why don’t you go ahead and jinx it?” She took out her Blackberry, checking the time. “Jesus, it’s 8:15,” she said. “I’ve gotta go to French. Message me later? We should meet tonight after band and Film Society to work on the site.” I nodded, still pretty weirded out. She squeezed my shoulder and headed down the hall.

  I walked to class slowly, pondering the variables that could make this day different than every other. Is it possible they know about Baron and me? That word has spread that quickly? Winter Formal was a few short weeks away. There was this week, Thanksgiving the next week, the week after that, and then Winter Formal on the following Friday, December 15th. Maybe they had started their annual vegan juice cleanse and were completely drained of energy?

  I arrived at Room 305 for History and took a seat in the corner near the window. Stella was in the back, playing with her hair. Ellis Leachman was her only other friend in the class, and she had saved a seat for him at the desk next to her, using her quilted Chanel as a placeholder. I caught her observing me strangely, and she quickly looked away, turning toward the window, which overlooked the parking lot. I whipped around, frowning, as Mr. Bender shut the door, dropping a pile of careworn books littered with post-its on his desk. He mumbled something in greeting and started marking up the chalkboard. The low hum of chatter swelled in the room as we waited for him to start the lesson.

  “Hey,” a voice whispered, tapping me. It was Chloe Filion. I think this was the first time she’d ever spoken to me. Her dad was some kind of media tycoon and her mom was a C-list actress back in the 90s. Unfortunately for Chloe, she inherited her dad’s genes and virtually nothing from her gorgeous mom and wound up looking like a blowfish. She compensated for her bug eyes, bloated cheeks, and blueberry-shaped figure with a relentless sense of humor and had a reputation for being truly in the know. She wasn’t officially a Shrew Crew associate, but they were friendly. I blinked at her. “So is it true?” she said.

  I frowned. “Is what true?”

  “Is it true that it’s you in those pictures with Baron Caldwell? Everyone’s talking about it,” she whispered, her face arranged in a particularly unattractive grimace.

  I froze. They knew. What was I supposed to say? On the one hand, revealing the truth to a big mouth like Chloe Filion could seriously blow my cover, jeopardizing the site. On the other, she’d spread the word, obliterating my loser status forever. I had to find a way to reveal the truth without authoritatively revealing the truth. I considered this. An A-list celebrity would have their publicist release a vague and appropriately cold statement. I tried to envision every speculative post Perez Hilton had ever written. Then it hit me.

  I turned to Chloe, looking her directly in her bugged-out eyes. “I can neither confirm nor deny any association with Baron Caldwell,” I said, turning to face Mr. Bender. Chloe’s jaw dropped.

  “Holy fucking shit …” she marveled. “It was you! How the hell did you pull that off, Vag?”

  I shushed her, frowning. “I’m trying to pay attention, here,” I snapped, motioning to Mr. Bender. Chloe raised her eyebrows, leaning back in her seat. I smirked, pleased with myself, as Chloe instantly whispered something to Diana Westwick. Diana cast an awed look my way and gasped, stunned. The seed had been planted.

  * * *

  I met Anais at our usual spot in the cafeteria. She came over carrying a tray of vegetables. I guess she was trying to diet again. Every now and then she’d decide she’s fat just because she’s not a stick figure and only eat veggies and plain yogurt for days. This time around, I’d be willing to bet it had something to do with her date with Austin on Thursday. She placed her t
ray on the table.

  “Hey,” I said, tearing off a piece of grilled cheese and shoving it in my mouth. “If you can get away from Pam, I was thinking we could go to the Rose Bowl Flea Market over Thanksgiving break. There are supposedly amazing deals there and pretty decent celeb spottings. I was hoping to find a dress for Winter Formal and get our next story.

  “Whattaya think?”

  She leaned forward, looking over her shoulders suspiciously. “People are talking about you,” she whispered.

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I was just in the bathroom. Chloe was telling the Shrew Crew that Baron Caldwell’s your boyfriend,” she urged.

  I shrugged. “I guess they recognized me from the photo after all,” I said lightly. Anais shook her head disapprovingly. I frowned. “What?” I said.

  Anais shrugged. “I just think this is bad news,” she murmured, snapping into a baby carrot. “I don’t trust them.”

  I crossed my arms, leaning back in my chair. “Can I ask you a question?” I asked. She looked up at me blankly, nodding. “Have they bothered you today?”

  “The Shrew Crew?” she asked. I nodded. “I guess not,” she said lamely.

  “Can you even remember a day they didn’t torture us?” I pressed. Anais shrugged, shaking her head. “Exactly,” I said. I saw her glance nervously at their table. I did, too, taking in their evil little triangle of plates piled with nearlyuntouched beet salad. Ava scraped the bottom of an organic yogurt cup.

  “I just have a bad feeling about it,” Anais murmured.

  “You have a bad feeling about everything, Debbie downer,” I retorted. Anais threw a piece of raw broccoli at my face. It bounced off my forehead and landed on my lap. “Fuck you!” I chuckled. She laughed. “Anyway,” I said, brushing broccoli particles from my uniform, “even if you’re right and this is, like, the calm before some kind of shit storm, I can’t think about that right now. Winter Formal’s coming up. All I can think about is my outfit,” I announced, sighing. “I envision myself in something long and slinky …” I trailed off as the Shrew Crew passed us with their trays, their cool, slanted eyes boring into me.

  A chill trickled down my spine. Part of me felt kind of empty, like I was nothing if they didn’t pay attention to me, even if that attention was totally cruel and bitchy. I watched them leave, wiping my palms on my uniform skirt. They carelessly dropped their trays on the conveyor and sashayed out the door, a smug school of fish. I knew my photo with Baron had gotten a rise out of them, but somehow that wasn’t enough. I wanted more.

  * * *

  When it started to get colder out—well, cold for L.A., which was, like, 65 degrees—band met in the auditorium, as opposed to on one of the sports fields. At exactly 3:45, I was spewed out on the other side of the auditorium’s heavy double doors. I stumbled forward onto the navy carpeted aisle between the 150 rows of stadium seating, catching a glimpse of my bandmates congregated on stage. A cacophony of tune-ups, overlapping melodies, and chatter filled the room. Until the double doors closed behind me with a loud crack, and the room went still. Every set of eyes settled on me. I froze.

  My new friends, Angie Ryu and Lucy Sung, scampered up the aisle to greet me, huge grins plastered on their porcelain faces. They each grabbed one of my arms and started jumping up and down screaming. I shuddered, my eyes wide, trying to take in the meaning of their hysteria. Was all this because of one little photo with Baron Caldwell? I mean, I knew there were murmurings between the Shrew Crew and their cohorts, but I couldn’t believe it had already trickled down to the lower decks of us band losers, no offense to Angie and Lucy. They regained control over their vocal chords and started firing off questions faster than I could answer them:

  “What’s he like?”

  “Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “Was he different up close?”

  “Does he smell like wood chips? I always imagined he smelled like wood chips.”

  “Do you think he’s really a serious actor, or is he, like, playing himself? I mean, not himself himself, because that would imply he’s an actual vampire, but you know—the essence of himself?”

  I shook my head, blinking, as Angie and Lucy braced for my response. “First of all,” I managed, switching my peach nylon flute case to my other hand and pushing past them toward the stage where everyone was congregated, “Who told you about me and Baron?” I asked.

  Angie and Lucy exchanged bemused expressions. “Baron!” they shrieked in unison.

  Lucy tapped my shoulder. “You’re, like, on a first-name basis with him, it’s so cool!” he exclaimed, stomping his feet ecstatically.

  I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, who told you?” I pressed, curious.

  The girls frowned, shrugging. “Someone sent me a link,” Angie ventured. “It was to this new site, um, Kiss n’ Tell?”

  I suppressed a smile. “I’ve heard of it,” I said, downplaying my familiarity. “So come on, tell us,” Angie urged.

  I looked around. A crowd had gathered: Angie and Lucy in the first tier, backed by the rest of the string section, the basses, and Luke Belfry, the keyboard player, to the right, then the horns clustered to the left, with Teddy Fisher on the end, looking pretty glum, poor guy. All eyes were on me. Whatever I said in this moment would shape who I was to all of Cranbrook in perpetuity.

  I took a breath, trying not to seem too overwhelmed by the attention. “Baron and I—” I started, pausing to find the right words.

  “Okay my little cherubs!” boomed Mr. Waters as he glided down the aisle toward us. The auditorium doors snapped closed behind him and everyone begrudgingly scuttled into position on stage. Angie and Lucy groaned. Mr. Waters cast them a sideways glance as he pulled sheet music from his satchel. “Whatever dramas, tragedies, and revelations floated into your little lives today, please leave them outside. Or, better yet, channel them into the music,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  He arranged his papers on the conductor’s podium, scanning the room for attendance. His eyes met mine. He relaxed his shoulders, placing a hand on his hip, taking me in with admiration. “Vaughn Francis, I know I told you last week how much that haircut suits you, but I must say, you are positively glowing!” he remarked. My face flushed as the whole orchestra peered over at me, but I was freaking loving it.

  “She’s in love!” Lucy exclaimed. I shot her daggers as Mr. Waters’s jaw dropped happily. “Well isn’t that just wonderful,” he said earnestly. “There’s nothing like a good romance to spice up one’s technique.” I smiled lamely, removing my flute from its case. “Okay!” he said, turning to the others. “Let’s start with the Lady Gaga medley.”

  I brought my flute to my mouth, wanting so badly to obsess over this new attention, what it all meant, to be the subject of such a juicy rumor, a name on everyone’s lips, wanting to relish it, worry about it, consider what it might bring, but as we played the first few bars of “Bad Romance,” all those thoughts scattered and a calming fog settled on my mind. That’s what always happened when I played, and that’s why I loved it so much. When I played, it didn’t matter if I was Vaughn Francis or Francis Vaughn, if I had a bowl cut, if I was wearing makeup, how much my shoes cost or that I took the bus to school. The only thing that mattered was the music. Everything else faded away.

  16.

  FIRST DATE

  Anais

  The Shrew Crew continued to keep their distance. They avoided eye contact, whizzing past us with their noses in the air. It was as though we didn’t exist, although it was clear they were making a show of pretending we didn’t exist while basically everyone else flooded Vaughn with inquiries about the man behind the Bloodletting star, which made me suspect we were more visible than ever. I actually think Vaughn was right—they really were intimidated by her association with Baron Caldwell. I couldn’t believe it, but it seemed that douche really was our ticket out of hell. I was almost too scared to speculate, as though my thoughts might telepathically set them off.
I couldn’t afford any hassle today, Thursday, November 21st, the day of my date with Austin. The day of my first date ever.

  Okay, I wasn’t entirely certain the date was an actual date. Vaughn seemed to think it was. She analyzed every message he ever sent me, breaking them down based on length of message (the longer the better), punctuation (ellipses are apparently very flirtatious) and, of course, content, which was murkier. She said his attention to detail (no abbreviations, acronyms, etc.) and the frequency at which he contacted me indicated romantic interest. Then she said that even if he never got in touch at all, she would still think it was a date because of the way he looked at me “like he wanted to rip my clothes off.”

  Still, I wasn’t convinced. He was picking me up from school to go scouting for celebrities in Topanga State Park, which didn’t really sound like a date in the conventional sense. It sounded to me like work, or at best, like he was killing two birds with one stone, which wasn’t exactly romantic. But I dressed for a date as Vaughn advised, packing a bag of cool yet casual, canyon-friendly clothes to change into after school.

  “Here, let’s put your hair into a ponytail,” Vaughn said, wielding a hairbrush in the busy girls’ room. “You’re gonna be hiking in a freaking canyon! You’ll want it off your face.”

  I let her take to my mane, as I eyed my outfit suspiciously in the mirror. “Are you sure about skinny jeans?” I asked. “Aren’t I too fat?”

  Girls filed in and out of the stalls, flushes went off, and Vaughn rolled her eyes. “You look hot,” she insisted. She had paired my skinny jeans with a black racerback tank, a cozy cardigan, and my Converse. I shrugged as she snapped an elastic band around my hair.

  “There,” she said, admiring her work. She had applied minimal but sufficient makeup so my skin looked flawless and my eyes and lips “popped.” I have to admit, I did look pretty good, considering I had only six hours of sleep and spent the day darting from class to class.