A wavy-haired blonde I think named Tabitha-something emerged from a stall and froze before Vaughn, stunned. I examined her through the mirror, frowning as she gaped at my friend. “You’re Baron Caldwell’s girlfriend!” she blurted.
“Not exact—”
“I just have to say,” she interjected, placing a well-manicured hand on Vaughn’s shoulder, “Wow. Just,” she took a breath, “wow.”
Vaughn smiled at her. “Trust me,” she said, “it’s nothing.”
Tabitha narrowed her eyes. “No,” she said sharply. “Landing the hottest guy at Cranbrook, Harvard Westlake, and Crossroads combined is nothing. Baron Caldwell is not nothing,” she countered, making her way to the sink.
Vaughn shrugged, smirking, as I turned away from the mirror to face her. “Thank you,” I said. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” I breathed, motioning to my date outfit.
She hugged me. “Have fun,” she urged, giving my ponytail a little tug. “If it goes well, you should invite him to Winter Formal!” she added, exuberant.
“You’re obsessed,” I said, rolling my eyes.
* * *
Austin got out of the car when he saw me coming. He met me halfway, a broad smile playing on his face, and gave me a warm hug. I returned the hug, very aware of my boobs pressed against his chest. He lingered for a moment, whispering “Hey you” into my ear. I smiled. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Stella, Odette, and Ava piling into Stella’s Range Rover. They were glaring at us, craning their necks to get a better look at Austin. I pulled away from him gently, nodding to the car. He put his hand on my shoulder and led me over to his parking spot.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “Saturday feels like so long ago.”
I smiled, opening the passenger’s side door and climbing into his Forester. “So, what’s the plan for today?” I asked.
He shrugged, pulling his seat belt over his chest. “Walk around, see if we catch anyone,” he replied, turning on the engine. “Jake Gyllenhaal’s usually there walking his dogs. It’s also a pretty popular date spot for new celebrity couples.” He flashed me a smile as he made his way out of the lot. I held my breath. I knew we were working, but this felt like a date. Even though I had no idea what I was supposed to feel, this felt like what I had hoped to feel on my first date.
A horn blared from the car behind us. Austin frowned, peering into his rearview mirror. I turned around. It was Stella’s Range Rover. They were pulling up next to us at the exit of the lot. I froze, wanting to disappear. Stella rolled down her window, her pin straight, white blonde hair tossing in the breeze. She motioned for us to roll down our windows. Austin did, frowning. I leaned back in my seat, willing myself to blend into the leather upholstery.
“Austin, right?” Stella shouted.
Austin nodded vaguely, squinting out the window. “Yeah,” he replied, confused.
Stella flashed him her perfect, porcelain smile. “Remember me?” she squeaked, cocking her head to the side. “Last year, at Roman Hoffman’s party? Whatever, it’s cool if you don’t remember, you were wasted,” she said, giggling. I frowned.
Austin flinched. “No, no,” he said, putting the window back up, “I remember. Well, um, good to see you.”
“How do you know Anus?” she blurted before he could get the window all the way up.
Odette chuckled in the front seat.
Austin frowned. “Excuse me?” he said
I closed my eyes, mortified. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Stella said. “I meant Anais. How do you know Anais? We call her Anus, because, well, isn’t it obvious?” she said, laughing hysterically.
Austin turned to me, confused. “Do you know them?” he asked.
I shook my head, my face flushed beyond recognition, I was sure. “Let’s just go,” I muttered. He nodded, putting his window up and pulling out in front of them.
* * *
We rode in silence all the way to Santa Monica. I clasped my hands together. They were shaking uncontrollably. I wanted to just explain the whole thing with Stella and the Shrew Crew, but I didn’t know where to begin. Every second that passed and I didn’t say anything, the atmosphere in the car got heavier and heavier, and I worried I seemed weirder and weirder. He glanced at me warily just after we merged onto the Pacific Coast Highway. I pretended not to notice.
“Are you okay?” he asked. I shrugged, keeping my eyes fixed out the window. He sighed. “Listen, I don’t know how you know that girl, if you’re friends or—”
“We’re not friends,” I said quickly. He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
“Don’t you know her?” I asked. “She seemed to know you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t, really,” he said.
“You don’t?”
He sighed. “Well, I do, but—not well.” He turned to look me in the eye. “I don’t know her that well,” he said.
“How’d you guys meet?” I tried to sound casual but instead it came out sharp and threatened.
Austin glanced in the rearview mirror, swallowing hard. “It’s stupid,” he said, clearly unnerved. “We were at a party last year. There were a lot of freshmen there, including her. It was weird…”
“Why was it weird?” I snapped.
He shrugged, faltering. “Just ‘cause I had never seen these girls before. Anyway, some of the other guys were really excited. You know, fresh meat and all that,” he said, rolling his eyes. I cringed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this story. Not now. Not on our first date. But I had asked and he was answering and here it was. “So they wanted to play spin the bottle. But that girl—” he paused.
“Stella,” I said.
“Yeah. She upped the ante and said, ‘Let’s play seven minutes in heaven.’” Austin paused, shrugging. “So we played, and obviously, I got her.”
“You got her?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to know but now I had to know.
Austin’s face reddened. “Yeah, so we went into the closet together and, like, she wanted to do stuff, but I stopped her.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, Austin. It’s really none of my business and I’m sorry I asked but, I mean, you don’t have to lie, you know?”
“I’m not lying!” he exclaimed. “She was seriously aggressive, and for someone so young, it was just kind of off-putting, you know? I wasn’t into it.”
I smiled, shaking my head. “So what happened? How’d you two end things? She didn’t exactly seem embarrassed earlier …”
“From what little I know of her, I don’t think she’s the type that gets embarrassed.”
I laughed. “You’re probably right.”
“Listen, it was dumb, alright? She started taking her clothes off, trying to act all sexy and stuff, but it was clear she had no idea what sexy even was, you know? She was like, way too young and trying way too hard. I mean, I was the one who was embarrassed. I told her to stop and she called me gay.”
“She called you gay?”
He chuckled. “Well, it was implied. We just sat there awkwardly until the seven minutes were up, then she announced to everyone I should come out of the closet in more ways than one. I guess they all thought it was crazy I turned her down, but she’s just not my type.” He turned to me, his eyes wide. “Did I just blow this date?” he asked.
I smiled, shaking my head. “This is a date?” I asked, feigning shock. He laughed. “So how do you know her?”
I tapped my foot against the floor nervously. “She’s Jack Beldon’s daughter,” I said glumly. “We’re in the same class at Cranbrook.”
“I take it you’re not close?” he said, smiling.
“She calls me Anus,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said. “That’s way worse than gay.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “She pretty much tortures me. Has for years.”
“How? You’re so—” he glanced at me, a bit flustered. “You just seem like the type of person they’d leave alone,” he
said finally. “She must be jealous or something.”
I shook my head shyly. “She’s rich and beautiful and popular. She has nothing to be jealous of.”
“Are you kidding?” he asked, incredulous. “I’ll sound like a dick, but she’s spoiled and skanky,” he said plainly. I shrugged. He turned onto Topanga Canyon Road, raising his eyebrows. “She’s jealous because you have something she can’t ask daddy to buy.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, skeptical.
He smiled. “A soul,” he announced.
I laughed. “That’s the cheesiest thing I ever heard,” I said, grinning. He chuckled.
“But it’s true.”
By the time we pulled into the park, I already felt like the ice was broken. I stepped out of the car, hiked up my skinny jeans, smoothed out my tank, and tried to suck in my gut as much as possible. Even if Austin really did think I was beautiful, that didn’t stop me from wanting to be beautiful for him. He rummaged through a bunch of photography equipment in the trunk, collecting various lenses for our hike, in case anyone famous happened to pop out of the bushes. We headed onto the trail, walking in silence for a while. I caught him stealing glances at me a few times, and I smiled.
“So why do you think she gives you shit?” he asked, out of the blue.
I frowned. “Stella?” I asked, slightly out of breath. He nodded. “Do I have to answer that?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” he said, shrugging.
I sighed, peering into the distance at the sand-colored rocks prickling out of the brush. “Because I don’t wear expensive clothes or have a body fat index below sixteen percent,” I said, a twinge of bitterness seeping into my tone. “Because I basically have ‘loser’ tattooed on my forehead,” I added.
Austin frowned, gazing at me. “Weird. I never noticed,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Well, you’re more open-minded than most people,” I said. “Or you’re not a loser at all,” he countered, patting me on the back as we reached a plateau. He squinted at the canyon before us, shading his eyes. He brought his camera to his face.
“See anything?” I asked.
He twisted off the lens and replaced it with a longer, telephoto one. “Maybe,” he said. He looked through the new lens and handed it to me, smiling. “Take a look,” he urged. I brought the camera to my face and there, about a half mile away, Candace Lopez, Forbes’ highest paid female actress of 2012 who had just suffered a high-profile divorce from her significantly less famous husband, Brock Dylan, lumbered toward us, hand in hand with a mystery man. I quickly passed the camera back to Austin. “Hop to it!” I urged, punching him playfully on the bicep.
He got into position, snapping what must have been a hundred pictures of Candace and this hot, buff, dark-haired fella laughing and holding hands. At one point, he tugged her toward him and they kissed, wrapping their arms around one another as the wind whipped around them. Austin took my hand and squeezed it lightly. As they drew nearer, Austin dropped his camera.
“They’re gonna come by in about ten minutes,” he said, “We should get into position.” I nodded and he ushered me behind some shrubbery.
We crouched behind a bush, our breath shallow with nerves. I pulled my knees into my chest and rested my head on them. Austin gazed at me. My chest quivered. His hand grazed the length of my back. I bit my lip. He brought his palm to my cheek, cupping it around my neck.
My eyes widened as he pulled my face to his. My heart pounded. He pressed his lips to mine and for a moment, it felt like the rest of my body had dissolved, evaporated into the atmosphere. He dropped his camera, letting it collapse in the dirt, and brought his other arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him, so that our chests pressed against one another. Some part of me heard footsteps approaching on the path. I jerked away from him.
“They’re coming,” I whispered. “You should—” I motioned to the camera.
He shoved it to the side. “Forget it,” he said, breathless. “I got the shot.”
He dove toward me, wrapping his arms around me, kissing me. I pushed my fingers through his hair. Candace and her new flame’s footsteps drew closer and closer, ultimately lurking around us, hovering quizzically. They’d obviously spotted us, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to kiss Austin until it was too dark to see the space between us. He pinned me to the ground, rolling me onto his stomach. I never felt more beautiful in my life. My throat clenched with emotion.
I vaguely heard Candace giggle and whisper, “Now that’s what I call sucking face…” The sun receded behind a boulder, but I ignored it. It seemed like a dream, all incoherent and hazy. But when we reviewed the shots, huddled together in his parked car, scanning through dozens of Candace and her man, the screen suddenly filled with our strawberry and sandy blonde heads, entwined in the perfect kiss.
17.
WINTER FORMAL
Vaughn
By Thanksgiving break, I felt like a different person. Everyone in band looked up to me.
Everyone else just looked at me, trying to see what Baron Caldwell saw, like I had never been Francis or Mancis or Vag. Everyone was talking about me like I was someone special. Even though I knew it wasn’t entirely positive, and even though I knew it was based on practically nothing—that Baron never really liked me, that he was in fact a total asshole—it felt great just to be noticed. And I became obsessed with living up to their new expectations.
I got into the habit of spending all four of my free periods each week scanning images of the beautiful girls on Perez, Just Jared, and PopSugar, hoping to inherit their effortless good looks by cyber-osmosis or something. There was Kate Moss with her skinnier than skinny jeans, wayfarers, and shaggy fur coats. Miranda Kerr with her rosy cheeks and legs for days. Rachel Bilson with her tousled, wavy hair and boots made for walkin’. Kate Bosworth and Zoe Saldana in breezy Calvin Klein. And, of course, my favorite: Sienna Miller looking cool as a cucumber, sporting the hottest trends before they were even trends. I’d just stare and sigh, studying their outfits, how they carried themselves, how they did their hair, what shade of lipstick they were wearing. I imagined I was just like them and tried to exude that kind of confidence as I stalked the halls of Cranbrook.
I knew, though, deep down, that this visualization crap wasn’t going to get me there. I knew I was no better than every other idiot in L.A. who had read The Secret. I knew it would take a lot more than my usual morning makeup and hair routine—and the budget accessories I wore to jazz up the hideous Cranbrook uniform—to even exist in the same ballpark as Sienna Miller and Kate Moss. I started fantasizing about our first paycheck for KissnTell and how I would spend those first 1,500 big ones. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for me to crunch the numbers and realize that after deducting Austin’s ten percent share for the photos, then Anais’s half, I’d be left with $675 per month before taxes, which wouldn’t even buy me a pair of last season’s Louboutins marked down on Bluefly.com.
“Francis, dear? Francis?” My grandmother’s voice jolted me back to reality. “Pass the yams, dear,” she croaked, lifting a shaky hand toward the tray of gooey canned yams dotted with mini marshmallows. “And welcome back to earth,” she added, a smile slinking onto her face.
I grudgingly held the tray out for her as she shook a glob from the orange plastic serving spoon onto her plate. “It’s Vaughn now, Grandma,” I corrected. “I no longer respond to Francis.” My entire family rolled their eyes as they chewed my mom’s mediocre cooking, except for my brother Matty, who shoveled forkfuls of greasy turkey into his mouth, oblivious.
Every Thanksgiving, we all gathered in the wood-paneled dining room. The entire house used to belong to my dad’s parents, who now sat to my left, until we moved in and put them in an assisted living facility in Encino.
“What kind of parents let their child change her God-given name?” Grandpa muttered gruffly.
My mom dropped her fork. “She hasn’t changed it legally, Fred,” she assured him. “It’s ju
st a phase. She’s a teenager,” she offered.
I balled my paper napkin, clenching it in a tight fist. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t talk about me like I wasn’t here,” I snapped.
“Watch that tone, Franny,” my dad seethed, pinning me with a look.
I inhaled. “It’s Vaughn,” I said quietly. My family was so annoying. It was like they refused to see the epic and major changes in me. Everyone else did. Why were they acting like I was still Francis Vaughn, awkward loser who played the flute, when I was so obviously so much more? I tossed my napkin onto my half-eaten meal.
My grandma flashed me a look. “What’s with you?” she spat.
I crossed my hands over my chest. “I’m not hungry,” I said softly. My mother sighed, pleading with me with her eyes. My father glared at me.
Grandma scanned my lanky arms, concave tummy and bony elbows. “You’ve gotta eat, child!” she exclaimed, nudging me. “Your clothes are hanging off of you!”
“That reminds me,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my jeans. “I have my Christmas list for this year.” I pulled out a tiny, folded piece of paper marked with detailed instructions, including links to Gilt Groupe sales and embedded images from ShopBop and Kitson. My mother reached over the table to accept it, exchanging a look with my father.
“Franny, aren’t you a little old for Christmas lists?” my father asked through a mouthful of stuffing.
I balked at him. “Well how else will you know what to get me? It’s not like either of you are, like, clued into my life in the slightest, so—”
“Alright, alright,” my mother said, unfolding the paper.
“I was just trying to make it easier for you,” I muttered, folding my arms over my chest once again. There was a moment of silence while my mom scanned the page, her lips pursed. My father looked up at her, fork frozen in the air.
“What?” he asked.
My mother refolded my list primly and tucked it under her plate. “We’ll discuss it later,” she said quietly. My fist inadvertently pounded the table. Everyone jumped. “Francis!” my mother exclaimed.
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