A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  Or a maze of cow dookie to step around.

  Robbie glares at me all the way up the stairs as I head toward my room. I grab my cell phone and call Hunter.

  “Hey, you! How’s my little Oklahoman?”

  I start at the beginning and fill him in on every detail. “And then this evening . . .” I sigh. “I had to launch a one-girl search party for a—” A female giggle in the background stops me cold. “Who is that?”

  Hunter laughs. “Oh, that’s just Mia.”

  “Mia?” As in my best friend, Mia?

  “Yeah, she’s helping me with my algebra. Here, she wants to talk to you.”

  When I get off the phone with Mia, all my worries evaporate like snow in California. It’s the same old Mia, same old gossip, same best friend.

  The only one who’s different is me.

  chapter eight

  So what do you think of Tulsa?”

  I suck on my second Frappuccino, ignoring the brain freeze and relishing the long-lost flavor. It is cruel and unusual punishment to force me to live somewhere without a Starbucks. I mean, come on. I think there might be three cities in the world that don’t have Starbucks, and Truman is one of them. What are the odds?

  “Not bad.” In fact, I kind of like the outside shopping center. In Pottery Barn I grab two sets of sheets, a comforter, an armload of throw pillows, and some curtain panels for my room, all centered around an organic Asian theme. Anything beats the garage sale motif of my room now.

  I reach for one more pillow. Then drop everything in my arms.

  “Let me get that for you.” Jared Campbell steps out from an aisle.

  “Jared!” Brittany throws her arms around him as he picks up the contents of my new bedroom.

  He hands me a package with a lopsided grin. “Your Egyptian cotton sheets, madam.”

  I smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “So the guys and I decided to crash your shopping trip. Are you girls ready for dinner yet?”

  I walk to the register with my goods, already envisioning a new paint job for the bedroom.

  “Let’s take Bella to Sparky’s Diner downtown. What do you think, Brit?” Emma asks.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  The cashier gives me the grand total, and I hand over my Visa.

  “I’m sorry, but your card has been declined.”

  I flinch as if she’s just insulted my mother. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have another one we could try?”

  “Um . . . sure.” I laugh. “I can’t imagine what the problem is.” And hand her the MasterCard. I smile and roll my eyes at my friends.

  “Nope, I’m afraid this one is declined too.”

  My fragile grip on politeness slips. “That’s impossible. Try them again.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. In fact, I’m going to have to cut them up.”

  I turn away, unable to watch this horrific display. “Let’s go. Something is really wrong. It’s got to be their machines. Or maybe my identity has been stolen. Some sixty-five-year-old man in the Philippines is probably posing as me and ordering boxes of frilly underwear online to his heart’s content.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Emma pats me on the shoulder.

  “Let’s go eat. The guys and I are starved.” Jared steps in beside me. “I’ll buy.” He holds up a hand when I open my mouth. “I won’t take no for an answer. It will be my welcome-to-Truman gift to you.” Jared gives me a quick side-hug. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  Sparky’s Diner is nothing but a hole-in-the-wall burger joint.

  And aside from the fact that someone’s having to pick up my tab, it’s perfect. The walls are covered with black-and-white pictures of Sparky, the owner, and various celebrities who have been here through the years. Sparky and Donald Trump. Sparky and Chuck Norris. Sparky and *NSync before Justin left them to bring sexy back.

  “Brittany, scoot down a seat so I can sit by Bella.” Emma puts her purse down beside me and waits for her friend to move.

  Brittany’s eyes narrow as she slides across the booth. “So, Bella.

  Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, in New York.” I smile. “Hunter.”

  “How’s the long-distance thing going?” Jared asks, swiping a fry off my plate. A plate he paid for.

  “It stinks.” But what about this move doesn’t totally reek? “I left a lot back in Manhattan. I left a school I loved. A huge group of friends. A writing gig as an advice columnist.”

  “What? How cool,” Emma says.

  “Yeah, I had an advice blog. Students at Hilliard would write in with their problems, and I would answer them as Miss Hilliard. I still write in some and update my blog fans on my life. Though anymore it consists of entries like, ‘Life is awful—just like last week.’”

  Brittany lifts a brow. “Truman isn’t the place for you?”

  “Are you kidding? This is the last place on earth I want to be.” I hold up my hands. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s charming in its own way. I just need the culture and pace of New York, you know?

  Not to mention I have a demon-possessed stepbrother.”

  “Budge Finley.”

  “Yeah.” I stare at Brittany. “How did you know?”

  “Your stepdad works with mine.”

  “At the paper plant?”

  She nearly chokes on her Coke. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  My eyes narrow. Aha. I knew Jake Finley wasn’t on the up-and-up. He left at the crack of dawn again this morning, yet he was at the table for breakfast. Something strange is brewing. “What do you mean? They don’t make paper at the Summer Fresh factory?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all.” She laughs. “You’ll have to ask your stepdad.” She picks up her purse.

  “Let’s head back to Truman.” The group stands up at Jared’s command. “Some of us have homework to do.”

  “Hope you get your credit card situation fixed,” Brittany says as we exit. “I’d hate to see you suffer any more than you already have here.”

  I slam the door and rush through the foyer.

  “Wait a minute.”

  Mom and Jake sit in the darkened living room, the closing credits of Letterman on mute.

  “Later—I have to call the credit card companies.”

  “In here. Now.”

  My foot halts on the first step. I sigh and walk in to join them. “Yes?”

  Mom consults her watch. “First of all, you were supposed to be home an hour ago. It’s a school night.” She waits for my excuse.

  I shrug and give her my sweetest smile, a face that has always worked on Mom but would never work on my nanny.

  “Jake says when Budge, er, Logan is past curfew, he gets grounded.” She holds up her latest parenting guide, No Means I Love You. “This book would agree.”

  Maybe you skipped the chapter where it talks about exceptions for daughters whose lives have been ruined.

  Mom gestures to an empty seat and turns on the lamp. “Bella, your credit cards are no good.”

  “You’re telling me! I tried to shop at Pottery Barn tonight and—” I sit up straighter. “Wait a minute. How did you know that?”

  “I had your dad cancel them today. I forgot to tell you.”

  “You forgot?”

  Mom looks to her husband then back at me. “We’re a family now. And we all will live under the same roof, under the same rules. Jake and I want all of you kids to live equally—it’s not fair for you to have an unlimited credit card and Logan to have to work at the Wiener Palace for extra money. So any money your father gives you for child support will now be put into a trust fund. And your credit cards are gone.”

  I stand up. “That’s insane.” It’s like cutting off someone’s life support.

  “This is our new life, hon.”

  “Well, I hate our new life.” I stomp past them and pound up the stairs. “I hate this town! I hate . . .” Think, think. What else? “Cows! And those stupid roo
sters that wake me up every morning!” Stomp, stomp. “And sheets that don’t match!” The walls shake when I shut the bedroom door.

  Moxie hops off my bed and greets me, wrapping her white body around my ankles. I pick her up and she purrs into my neck. Outside my window, an overgrown oak tree taps on my window. Trying my best to ignore it, I sit down at my desk with Moxie. She paws at an imaginary bug as I turn on my Mac.

  Dear Hilliard Sisters,

  For those of you who pray, I need it. Your former Ask Miss Hilliard is living in the pit of the country. Nobody understands fashion here. They wouldn’t know a Marc Jacobs bag if Wal-Mart put them on clearance. The school colors are a hideous green and black. The school parking lot looks like a Ford truck dealership. My stepbrothers are mutants from outer space, the oldest driving a vehicle he purchased at a funeral home’s garage sale. The cheerleaders wear bows in their hair like it’s 1985. And yesterday someone asked me if my Rock & Republic jeans were a new style from Wrangler!

  I could go on and on, ladies. I know you feel my pain, and there is some comfort in that. So this is your former Miss Hilliard . . . asking you for advice. Short of hopping the red-eye back to my beloved NYC, what can I do?

  My cat and my memories of Hilliard are all that get me through.

  Oh, and my iPod.

  And my Wii.

  Okay, and my new Chanel bag.

  But still. You understand my pain. Keep me in your thoughts during my dark hours of suffering.

  That which does not kill us . . . is probably not in Truman, Oklahoma.

  Your former Ask Miss Hilliard

  chapter nine

  Bella, I have a giant favor to ask.”

  I put down my cereal spoon and glare at my mother. She and I haven’t said two words to each other since last night.

  “Oh, let me guess, you want me to go out back and get the eggs out of the henhouse?” Do we even have one of those?

  Mom takes Robbie’s oatmeal out of the microwave, slams it on the table, then all but jumps into the seat next to me. “I’ve had enough of this.” She pushes her blonde bangs out of her eyes. “You think this isn’t hard for me too?”

  “You signed up for this! I didn’t.” But I would totally sign up for a stepfamily refund right now.

  “All of this is just as new to me. I’m having to learn how to cook, take care of a house by myself, be a mother to two boys, and live on a factory worker’s income. This is not easy.” Mom’s chin quivers, and I see her brave mask slip.

  “We don’t belong here. We’re like two Paris Hiltons stuck on Planet Wal-Mart.”

  My mother places her hand over mine. “Yes, we do belong here. I do love Jake, and you need to accept that even though this is not a day at the Ritz, we’re not going anywhere. Bella, this is all very, very difficult.” Lines crinkle on her forehead. “But I need you on my side—not fighting me every step. We’re in this together.”

  “Then why cut off my credit cards and totally humiliate me in front of my new friends? I wanted to die. Why leave me carless in my new hometown? I get why your life has to change—you’re not connected to Dad anymore. But I am. Surely he can’t be supportive of me living this second-rate life.”

  “Actually, he is.”

  “He’s not! He’s just too caught up in his own life to care what’s going on in mine.” The man has yet to call me. “You know he doesn’t have time for any family discussions, so he just agrees with whatever you say. And you’re using that to your advantage.”

  “You are my daughter, and I love you. But being here has made me realize that we led very shallow lives in New York.”

  “Yes. And I liked it.” I mean no! I wasn’t shallow. I was involved in my church youth group in Manhattan. I did mission work. I was a Big Sister. I took my Little Sis to Barneys every season. I dedicated my time to advising the hurting and downtrodden at Hilliard. That’s shallow?

  “Well, if you’re not so wrapped up in material things, you won’t mind catching a ride with Logan this morning.”

  I choke on a bite of Corn Pops. “No way.”

  “I have a job interview this morning and can’t take you to school. Please?”

  “I am not riding in that death mobile. It’s ugly, it’s a sign of your stepson’s mental imbalance, and it’s embarrassing.”

  Budge chooses that exact moment to raid the fridge. “Too bad you don’t have a car.”

  I toss my hair and snarl. “I’m going to have a fabulous car very soon. Ever heard of a BMW?” If there’s any perk to living here at all, it’s that I get to drive.

  He shuts the door and looks to the ceiling as if deep in thought. “BMW? I hear you’re getting something of the used clunker variety like the rest of us poor Truman teens.”

  I suck in air. “What? That’s a lie.” Daddy promised I could pick out anything I wanted. I have this sporty little black one totally customized online. I turn to Mom. “Would you do something with him?”

  “Logan, do mind your own business, please.” Mom’s eyes drop to her lap. I’m instantly suspicious.

  “Mother?”

  “Well . . . your dad and I have been talking. And a new car is not in the cards for you right now. It’s not fair to the family for you to drive a new sports car and Logan to drive his . . . his . . .”

  “Sign of my mental imbalance.”

  I stand up. “What’s not fair is you and Dad pulling the rug out from under me! What’s not fair is forcing me to move here and leave everything and everyone I love behind. What’s not fair is expecting me to give everything up just because you want me to blend in here. Well, I’m not like Budge and Robbie. My dad doesn’t work in a paper factory. He’s a plastic surgeon to the stars, and he promised me a new car!” Sure, it was his guilt talking, but I’ll take it.

  “You will live within the same means as everyone else in this family. Anything else just wouldn’t be right.”

  Who cares about everyone else!

  I shake my head. “Is there anything more I need to know? Any other grenades you want to lob my way?”

  “No, I believe that’s it.” Mom purses her lips as Jake enters the now-quiet kitchen.

  “Something wrong?” he says, and I nearly leap out of my chair and tackle him.

  Except that would be like trying to tackle a giant redwood.

  I rinse my bowl out in the sink then turn around, a memory surfacing. “Jake, what is it you do at the Summer Fresh paper plant again?”

  He coughs. “I’m an assembly line manager of a department.”

  My brown eyes lock onto his. “Really?” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “I hear there’s more that goes on at that plant than making some wide-ruled. Did you know this, Mom?”

  Budge laughs as he unwraps a Pop-Tart. “Dad, didn’t you tell her about the military arsenal that’s stored there?”

  “What do you really make there, Jake?” I ask. “My mom and I have a right to know.”

  “Bella—,” my mother warns.

  “Something is going on here, and I want the truth. Mom, I believe this could be something illegal. Drugs, smuggling, weapon manufacturing—”

  “Dad is chief of operations on the feminine product assembly line.” With a smirk, Budge grabs the keys to his hearse then walks out the door.

  My world tilts and I grab the counter again.

  It’s worse than I thought. My stepdad is a cow-raising, truck-driving, chicken-feeding craftsman of maxi-pads.

  Life could not get any worse than this.

  chapter ten

  Happy fourth hour, Truman Tigers! I’m Bailey O’Connell here to read your morning announcements.”

  Truman High’s morning news show blares to life on the classroom TV.

  The perky brunette spouts off the announcements like they’re the juiciest Hollywood gossip.

  “And that’s all you need to know for today, Truman High. But before we sign off, we here at Tiger TV would like to personally welcome our newest students.” A PowerPoint
follows of the new kids, using their school ID photos. Great. Mine looks like a mug shot. Maybe God will grant me a favor and they’ll skip me.

  “. . . And welcome to junior Isabella Kirkwood, who comes from the prestigious Hilliard School for Girls in New York City. Did you know Callie French, lead singer of the Killer Petticoats, is a famous Hilliard alumna?”

  People in the class murmur and turn to stare in my direction. I smile bravely.

  “And according to a reliable source, Bella is known for her advice-giving skills and has a super-fun blog you’ll want to check out on the Hilliard Web site. I can’t wait to look at it myself ! Get to know this new Truman Tiger. Next we have senior Lance Denton . . .”

  The breath lodges in my throat.

  The voice on the TV becomes a buzz in my head.

  No.

  They can’t go to the Ask Miss Hilliard blog! They’ll read all the horrible things I wrote! I was mad. I was sad. I was hurt. I didn’t exactly mean all that stuff.

  Okay, calm down. What are the odds someone will actually Google Hilliard and locate the blog? Hardly anyone even knows me here. Just Emma, Jared, Brittany, and that group—and they’ll probably just agree with it. Don’t freak out. This is not a big deal.

  I take the hall pass and escape to the girls’ bathroom. Shutting myself in a stall, I pull up the blog. It won’t accept my password! I call Mia, knowing this is lunchtime at Hilliard. She answers on the second ring.

  “I’m locked out of the blog. You have got to delete my last post to Ask Miss Hilliard!”

  “No way. That was good stuff. The Pulitzer people ought to be calling you any day now. It was better than anything J. K. Rowling’s ever written.”

  “This is not funny,” I hiss. “By some freak twist of fate, everyone at Truman High could be pulling it up after school today. Mia, you have to remove the post. It’s easy to do, you just—”

  “I know how to do it. I’m just not.” She snaps her gum. “Transitioning to a new Miss Hilliard has been hard. My readership took a total dive when you left. But everybody’s been reading your entries.”