A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Oh, really?” That is so great. I have such loyal friends, and— “No, wait! Seriously, if these people here read what I said about them— about their town—I am dead. Don’t hurt their feelings just for the sake of your blog. I’ll send in another post. I’ll write something else.”

  “I came up with this totally cool idea to have the readers write in with their advice to you. You should check it out. There’s some really good—”

  “Delete it!” I’ve created a blogging monster! “You have to get rid of it. Mia, how can you do this to me? I have to live here. These people will run me out of town if they read it.”

  “Oh, will they be wearing their cowboy boots when they run?

  If so, send me a picture to go with the blog.”

  “Why won’t the blog let me on?”

  “Because I have full administrative privileges now. There’s no need for you to have full access. So from now on, please post your letters where reader comments are.”

  I close my eyes and lean on the less-than-clean metal divider.

  “You’re not hearing me.”

  I recap the morning and explain the situation detail by detail.

  Mia laughs. “Bella, you’re overreacting. Do you really think those people you go to school with are going to read the blog?”

  “Yes. No.” I groan. “I don’t know. Probably not. But just in case—”

  “Fine.”

  My heart returns to beating. “Really? You’ll do this for me?”

  “Yes. I guess. I’d hate for my best friend to be hog-tied, or whatever it is they’d do to you. I’ll do it next hour in the computer lab.”

  “Great. Thanks. You’re the best, Mia.”

  “That’s what friends are for. Oops, there’s the bell. Ta-ta. Call me later.”

  God, please don’t let anyone at Truman get to the blog before Mia does. I’ll do anything—I’ll feed Jake’s stupid roosters. I’ll teach Mom how to make toast without burning it. I’ll play baseball with Robbie. I’ll let Betsy lick me in the face. Anything.

  I exit the stall.

  And come face-to-face with Emma and Brittany.

  “Hey, girls.” I slip my phone into my purse. “Thanks again for taking me shopping last night. I—”

  “We wouldn’t know a Marc Jacobs bag if Wal-Mart put them on clearance?” Emma plants herself right in front of me.

  “I . . . um . . .” How? Why me?

  Brittany scrolls through her iPhone. “Nobody understands fashion here?”

  “I didn’t mean you guys. Come on, I would never make fun of you all.”

  “Living in the pit of the country?” Emma shakes her head and looks at me like I’m dog vomit. “You know, it’s kind of like family. When you’re part of the family, you can talk about them. But nobody else can.”

  “I’m really sorry. I’d had this horrible night—oh, not the shopping. Well, the credit card thing was awful, but that’s all because—”

  “And I do happen to know what a Marc Jacobs bag looks like.” Emma holds hers up, a lovely butterscotch number.

  “You have to believe me. I wasn’t including you in that blog.” I push my hand through my hair and force myself to inhale. “Look, I was mad and upset when I wrote all that. My life is totally in the crapper right now. I was lashing out at anything I could. Had I known there was any way someone from Truman would find that blog, I wouldn’t have written it. I still don’t know how that girl from Tiger TV found out about the Web site.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Brittany’s lip curls. “Maybe you should go back to your fancy private school in New York where people know how to dress and talk and act civilized. Sorry we’re not good enough for you.”

  With matching eye rolls, the two swivel on their heels and storm out the bathroom door.

  The fluorescent lights hum overhead. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed like I’ve run a marathon, my eyes wide and panicked. My heart pounds beneath my funky Betsey Johnson t-shirt.

  Oh, God. What have I done?

  I punch a button to redial Mia. I need a status report. Now.

  No answer.

  Redial.

  Straight to voice mail.

  Rounding my shoulders and straightening my spine, I fling open the door and walk down the hall back to class. So two girls know. They have nothing to gain by telling anyone. And the blog should be down by now. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.

  When lunch comes, I’m praying for the rapture. A lightning bolt to take me out. A plague of locusts to carry me off.

  But the only catastrophic occurrence is that all the school knows.

  “I wear Wranglers.” The cafeteria lady hands me my fruit plate.

  “You got a problem with that?”

  I swallow. “No, ma’am.” I throw out some money and leave the kitchen.

  Half the room stares at me. Old conversations stop. New ones begin. The cafeteria is engulfed with talk of my Ask Miss Hilliard blog. Groups are gathered around printed-out copies. They pass it around and fan the flames that are destroying my reputation—my life—by the millisecond.

  I clutch my fruit and all but run out of the building. I fly by tables and hear my name, taunts, threats, my own words twisted and thrown back at me.

  Outside, I keep going until I reach the parking lot. I yank out my phone and call my mom.

  “You have to pick me up.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My life.” I sit down between two cars, out of sight. “My life is wrong.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  My stepdad reaches across the truck and throws open the door. “Climb in. Your mom’s got another job interview.”

  I hesitate, but really, what choice do I have? Go back into the building where the student body is waiting to attack me and use my body for a bonfire, or get a ride home with my non-dad.

  I step into the cab and buckle up. My mom working . . . what is this world coming to?

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, fine.” Great. Wonderful. Could not be better if the parking lot swallowed us whole.

  He guides the truck, now running like a new model, onto the road. “Your mom said there was some trouble at school.”

  I stare out the window at pieces of the town. “Yeah, the fact that I’m enrolled there is trouble.”

  “You want to talk about it?” Jake doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

  “Nope.”

  “I know you’re having a hard time adjusting here.”

  Really? What was your first clue? I thought I was hiding it so well.

  “It’s like everything I do here is wrong.” I can’t believe I’m talking to this guy. “You know that story of Midas and everything he touched turned to gold?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m the opposite. Everything I touch turns to poop.”

  Jake laughs, then sobers at my expression. “Ahem. I guess I can see what you mean. It will get easier though.”

  “Your sons hate me.”

  “They don’t hate you. They’re just not used to girls in the house. It’s a huge change for them too.” Jake turns the wheel with one hand, and we’re at McDonald’s. “You got one of these in New York City?” He gestures toward the golden arches.

  “Um, yes.”

  “Well, they don’t serve Häagen-Dazs, but it’s not a bad place to get a hot fudge sundae. Do you want yours with or without nuts?”

  “Without.” I’m maxed out on all things nuts.

  He holds the door open for me, and I step inside. The place is nearly empty except for a group of old men in the corner having coffee and reading their papers.

  We wait at the front while a pregnant girl who looks younger than me throws fries in the basket.

  “You know,” Jake says, “the boys haven’t seen a female in the house since their mom died six years ago.” He shakes his head, and his blond ponytail swipes his shoulders. “And now there are two. They need time to adjust too.”r />
  We lock eyes, and my stepdad waits for me to say something. Something profound. Something meaningful in return. Something that reeks of understanding.

  “I gotta pee.” I disappear into the bathroom, leaving Jake to order.

  When I come back out, Jake is filling a large cup with Coke, his phone at his ear.

  “Hey . . . um . . . no, I won’t be coming in this afternoon. I know, I know. Something’s come up.” His deep voice drops. “I’ll see you when I can see you.”

  I step in closer, my senses on high alert.

  “I know I said I’d be in, but I just . . . can’t. I’ll explain it later. I need to be with the family right now.” He punches his straw in the lid. “Tomorrow. I promise I’ll get away. I will be there. You’re not the only one who has a lot riding on this.”

  His back is to me and I wait a few seconds before I sidle up next to him, as if I hadn’t been there the whole time. “That looks good.” I take a hot fudge sundae off his hands. I smile like the world doesn’t hate me and I didn’t overhear any of that suspicious conversation.

  He studies me for a bit before handing me a drink. “Your mom said you like Sprite.”

  I force another smile. “Very thoughtful of you.”

  A few minutes later we’re back on the road, and I’m inhaling my ice cream like I need it to breathe.

  My life just went public for all the town to see.

  But now it’s time to do a little digging and uncover all of Jake’s secrets.

  Because something smells rotten in the town of Truman. And it ain’t the cow pasture.

  chapter eleven

  Bella, wake up. Your alarm has been going off for forty-five minutes.”

  I cover my head and whimper. “Go away, Mom.”

  “Logan’s leaving in twenty minutes.”

  “Tell him to have a swell day at school.”

  “I can’t take you today, so he’s your ride.” Mom swats my rear and plops down beside me. “Are you ready to talk about this?”

  “Two words,” I say beneath a blanket. “Life. Over.”

  “We got a few random calls last night. People shouting horrible things into the phone then hanging up.”

  “And those are the ones who still like me.”

  “What exactly did you do?”

  “See?” I throw off the covers. “Why is it always my fault? From the moment we’ve stepped foot onto Truman soil, I’m to blame for everything.”

  She frowns. “So you didn’t do anything?”

  “Of course I did. But must we assign blame here?” Sitting up, I stare at my mom with serious eyes. “I’m never going back there. I think I should move back to Manhattan. This isn’t working out for me.” Or the school-load of people I insulted.

  Mother rolls her blue eyes. “Right. I’ll give that some thought.”

  She doesn’t even try to sound believable. “In the meantime, you’re here, so off to school with you.”

  “But you don’t understand. Those people want to—”

  “See you downstairs.”

  If my mother has any small traces of sympathy left, she takes them with her as she leaves. I pull Moxie closer to me and find comfort in her warm fur and rumbling purr.

  “All right. Let’s do this day.” Moxie hops down only to run herself into a chair. I plant my feet on the floor, a total achievement considering everything.

  I slip into some faded jeans, a vintage Chanel tuxedo shirt, and black flats. I leave my contacts in their case and reach for my small wire-rimmed glasses, a total package that says, “Though I am semi-cute, I am hung over with misery.”

  Downstairs, I find Jake has already left for the day, and Budge and Robbie sit at the kitchen table with my mom. The three of them laugh over some shared joke, and the sound jars my already-pounding head.

  I clear my throat. “Hey.”

  The laughter stops and Budge slashes me with his narrowed gaze. “I gotta go.”

  “Wait.” I fall in behind him. “You have to give me a ride.”

  He looks me up and down. “I’m a mutant from outer space, remember? I don’t have to do anything.” And he stomps out the back door.

  Grabbing my bags, I chase him outside. “Budge, hold up.”

  For a big boy, he can move quickly. I don’t catch up with him until he’s in the garage.

  I move to the passenger side and fling open the door. “Please stop.” He starts the car, but I talk over the loud roar. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’ve read the blog.” Though Mia assured me last night my posts were deleted, it had been too late. They had already been copied into e-mails and Facebook and permanently branded into people’s brains.

  “I don’t care about your opinion of me. You’re nobody to me.”

  My heart pings a little at that. “You don’t know what my life has been like.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “I mean my life now . . . it’s hard.”

  Budge cranks up his radio but yells over it. “I guess we mutants from outer space have it easy.” He looks up, his curly hair covering his eyes. “Get out of my car—you know, the car I got at a funeral home’s garage sale.”

  “Budge, I hurt your feelings, and I’m sorry. I was mad when I wrote all that.”

  “Whatever, Bella. I’m out of here.”

  He revs the engine, and I dive into the seat, barely shutting the door before he clears the garage.

  Budge growls. “This is the last day I take you to school. I don’t care about you—couldn’t care less if your spoiled butt had to walk every day.”

  “Thank you.” I lay a hand on my racing heart, grateful all my limbs made it into the car with me. “I really appreciate that—”

  “Shut up. Just don’t even talk.” He turns the music up even louder and the bass vibrates the windows.

  Ten minutes later Budge pulls over on the side of the road. The radio goes dead. “Get out.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “You’re two blocks from school. It’s not a long walk.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  He reaches across me and opens my door. “I don’t want anyone to see me with you. Just because you’ve ruined your reputation doesn’t mean you’re going to jack up mine.”

  I open my mouth. Then close it. “But these are two-hundred-dollar shoes.”

  “Then watch where you step.” He points to the road. “Out.”

  With as much dignity as I can muster, I heave my purse and backpack over my shoulder, slam the hearse door, and get to stepping. “I said I was sorry!” I yell. These people around here do not understand the word forgiveness.

  Two blocks later and I’m standing in the school parking lot.

  I stare at the building, unable to move any farther. God, please help me. I don’t even know how to pray in this situation, but I need some holy intervention.

  With the weight of the planet and every other galaxy on my shoulders, I enter the building and head toward the English hall. I keep my gaze on the linoleum floor as I squeeze through the masses of students.

  “Hey, rich girl!”

  And the verbal game of darts begins.

  “Can I get the numbers of your friends at your old school?”

  “I got a one-way ticket back to New York for you right here.”

  I duck into room 104 and take my seat in AP English.

  Nobody says anything to me, but there’s really no time. As soon as the bell rings, Mrs. Palmer passes out The Scarlet Letter and goes into lecture mode.

  She gives us a little background on the time period, then the characters. “Hester Prynne was a marked woman. She had committed a huge sin.”

  The blonde in front of me turns around and glares.

  “Hester was an outsider . . .”

  Three more students look my way. I feel my cheeks burn.

  “She had offended the entire community and was a constant reminder of shame.”

  So basically Hester and I could be twins. Could the teacher no
t have chosen something like Death of a Salesman? Huck Finn?

  “She wore a scarlet A on her clothes at all times—A for adulterer.”

  I turn to the gawking boy on my left. “I don’t know what you’re staring at, but my similarities with Hester just ended.”

  When the bell rings, I all but run to art class.

  My head snaps up when a shoulder connects with mine.

  Brittany Taylor.

  “Hey,” I say weakly.

  Though her mouth doesn’t move, the rest of her face says, Drop dead.

  This is going well. Can’t wait to come back next week and do it all again.

  When I get to my assigned seat in art, a big glob of wet clay is waiting for me. A girl beside me snickers, but without so much as a flinch, I scoop up the wet mess, throw it away, and clean up the seat.

  Mrs. Lee flutters into the room, stands in the center, then spends the next fifteen minutes discussing the joy of drawing an apple. She then places an apple on a table at the front of the room, claps her hands, and says, “Draw what you see!”

  There are four of us at my table, and every single student surrounding me knows who I am.

  “Hey, you—rich girl.”

  I keep my eyes on my sketch pad.

  “I drive a Ford F-150. You got a problem with that?”

  No, in fact, I’d give my entire purse collection for one of those myself.

  “She thinks she’s something, doesn’t she?” Ford boy nudges a tablemate, who joins in the conversation.

  “I got a pig farm I’d like to show you, Miss Hoity-Toity.” He laughs. “You don’t mind a little mud, do you?” He and Ford boy proceed to see who can oink the loudest.

  “Leave her alone.” This from a tall girl with a Lady Tigers t-shirt.

  “Students, I need to see you working!” Mrs. Lee circulates through the room, checking for progress. “And cease the barnyard noises.” The teacher tsks as she nears our group. “Bella, you’ve drawn a poodle with gigantic teeth. I need to see the fruit. Be the fruit, my dear. Be the fruit.”

  “Maybe if she had a pair of Wranglers on, it would help.” The whole class dissolves into giggles at this random comment.

  “Students!” The teacher claps her hands, but the room doesn’t quiet. “We need silence for the inspiration to flow! Concentrate!”