“Well,” Molly said, looking sideways at Max, “I think you might feel better if you did. Bottling up this sort of thing isn’t very helpful.”
“Can I just wallow for a little bit, please?” Teddy asked, sounding a little crabby.
“Wallowing is highly underrated,” Max agreed.
Molly looked from brother to sister and blew her overgrown bangs out of her eyes. “Tough week for the McCormack family,” was all she said.
“It’s not like the Berlins are that much better off,” Teddy said, twirling some pasta around his fork.
“What do you mean?” Molly asked, furrowing her brow.
Teddy set down his fork and looked up at her. “Wait, didn’t you hear?” He wrestled his cell from the front pocket of his jeans. “This is probably the first time in the history of the world that I’ve found out about something before you have. But everyone in my senior seminar was talking about it.”
Teddy handed over his phone. Molly and Max put their heads together and looked at his browser. It was set to a blindingly pink-and-purple Tumblr called BabblingBrooke.com.
Max ripped the phone out of Molly’s hand. The site was clearly anti-Brooke, with the tagline “Stupid is the new black” and entries pretending to be written by Brooke that parodied the new OpenBrooke.com. The top entry said simply, “Chewing is neat!”
Molly rubbed her forehead. “Well, I guess it was only a matter of time before the joke blogs started,” she said, almost to herself. “I just hope it doesn’t stress Brooke out more. Last night she ate an entire bag of Cheetos during Lust for Life.”
“Maybe she’ll be flattered,” Max said, adopting her best Brooke imitation to add, “After all, you’re nobody until you’ve been parodied.”
Molly laughed in spite of herself. “Not bad, and also, probably correct.”
Teddy ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. He shook his head. “Can we get a do-over on this week, do you think?”
Unthinkingly, Max pulled over the untouched half of Molly’s club sandwich and picked out a piece of crispy bacon. She popped it into her mouth. “Tell me about it.”
“Excuse me, did you just eat a pork product?” Teddy asked. He looked stunned, then broke into a smile. “Doesn’t that mean you owe me twenty bucks from, like, forever ago? What’s the interest on that?”
Max groaned. “I really hate everyone,” she repeated.
twenty-two
THE REST OF THE DAY passed in a blur. One or two more parodies went up on BabblingBrooke.com. Max considered texting Brooke about it, but it was none of her business, and besides, Brooke would definitely prefer talking it through with Molly. Strange to think that the long-lost half sister who had incited so much insecurity nine months ago was now the most soothing presence in Brooke’s life. Then again, nine months ago Max probably would’ve started that site herself, and now she was stressing about how it might hurt Brooke’s feelings. No doubt about it: The universe was screwing with her.
After the final bell rang, Max trudged down the hallway toward Mr. Kemp’s classroom. She was late for yet another Spring Carnival planning meeting and toyed with the idea of ditching again—especially since Jake and Jennifer would be there.
“… that would be amazing, Emily. If we were farmers,” a voice floated out of the classroom. It was Brie. Max stopped and peered through the open door. Brie was perched on top of Mr. Kemp’s desk, one patent Louboutin hanging from a manicured toe as she swung a very tan leg back and forth. “Anyone else have any ideas? Correction: Any ideas that aren’t totally useless?”
“What if we did organ-shaped cotton candy?” Magnus asked, staring straight at Mavis Moore.
“Ooh, or cheesecakes on—” Jen began.
Brie held up a warning palm. “Raise your hand,” she said. “Respect the process.”
Oh, hell, no, Max thought from her spot in the hallway, and bolted swiftly toward the exit. She’d much rather risk her mother’s wrath than suffer through an hour of Baby Brooke.
Just as she got to the huge double doors at the front of the school, Max heard footsteps on the marble floor behind her. It was Jake, his popped pink polo collar bouncing in step with his feet.
“Wait up, Max,” he called. “We should talk.”
Awesome. First I ruin his Saturday, then he ruins my avoidance plan.
“Okay,” she said unenthusiastically. Jake pushed open the doors and led her to one of the stone benches near the front of the school. On the quad, two freshman boys were tossing around a Frisbee. Never before had Max wished she were part of a Frisbee game rather than doing what she was actually doing.
“So,” Jake began as they sat.
“I’m sorry,” Max blurted.
Jake just looked at her for a long moment. Max tensed up and winced slightly, anticipating some kind of verbal slap. Instead, he said, “How long have you been into that guy?”
She blew out her cheeks. “What?”
“Bo Brady, or whatever his name was.”
Max was confused. “Wait, aren’t you going to yell at me?”
“That depends,” Jake said. “Were you just using me to make him jealous?”
“No,” Max said, but she could hear the lack of conviction in her own voice. “Maybe? I’m not sure.”
Jake stared into the middle distance, as if something inspiring was happening in the parking lot—which was true, if you counted the two sophomores loosening the lug nuts on Shelby Kendall’s tires. Which Max did. So would Brooke. Max made a mental note to tell her, then revised it to read, Tell Molly to tell Brooke.
“Did you ever like me?” Jake finally asked.
His face was so melancholy that Max burst out laughing. “Jake, you have no idea,” she said. He crossed his arms and slumped against the back of the bench, irritated. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I’m not making fun of you. It’s just that… Seriously, I had a crush on you for years. Years. And so of course the first time you notice me back, it turns out to be too late.”
“Is it too late?” he asked sadly. “I really liked you. I still do. You make me laugh, and you never once waved your finger in my face. I thought things were going okay, you know?”
Max patted his hand awkwardly. “I really liked you, too, and I still do,” she said. “Just as a friend, though, it turns out.”
Jake looked disappointed. “I could tell,” he said. “You seemed kind of tense with me, but when you were talking to Tom Brady, or whatever, you seemed so relaxed and kind of…” He searched for a word. “Happy.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not an issue. I just think our timing was off,” she said. “Besides, he’s an actor, and I’m… me. It’s totally platonic. I might as well be one of his guy friends.”
Jake snorted. “That’s not what I saw.”
“You saw wrong,” Max said firmly, even as her heart did a quick cartwheel. “He’s dating Brooke. They were making out. It’s…” She gulped. “It’s why I ran off. Jake, I promise, I didn’t know he was that important to me until I saw her all over him. I didn’t know what to do.”
“If he’s actually into Brooke instead of you, then he’s an idiot, and you are way out of his league,” Jake said passionately. “Not that Brooke isn’t great and all, but dude, I’m a dude. And if even a dude like me can see that you two kinda had something, then he’s stupid for not seeing it himself. Because it’s totally how I wanted it to be with us.”
Max swallowed hard. “No,” she said. “No, you are not allowed to do this. You are not allowed to be super cool when I acted like an asshat. Don’t you want to swear at me, or tell me I look like a Muppet, or…” She took a chance. “I don’t know, force me to watch your spring scrimmage or something?”
Jake’s mouth twitched. “I could give you a lecture on how to read blitzes,” he said. “No offense, but your poker face sucks. I knew you were faking it about the pistol offense.”
“My poker face does not suck,” she said. “I’ll have you know that when I worked at
Fu’d, I once saw Jennifer pick up a napkin that had been used by that bearded kid from American Idol and put it in her purse, and I didn’t even crack a smile.”
Jake laughed with her, the familiar old twinkle briefly returning to his blue eyes, then turned quiet. “She wants to get back together,” he said, leaning forward and hanging his head slightly so that his blond locks hid part of his face. Despite knowing she was over him, Max still kind of wanted to reach over and brush them away, just to know what it felt like.
“Old habits,” she murmured.
“Maybe. Probably,” Jake said, not realizing her inner monologue was on another topic. “I really wanted it to work out with you, but it didn’t, and… I don’t know what it is about Jen, but it feels like we always have unfinished business or something.”
“More like an unfinished argument,” Max said. “You guys are kinda the Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of our high school.”
“Are they on Glee?” Jake asked.
“They’re… never mind.” Max turned to face him and inhaled deeply. “It’s tough love time, from your Get-a-Grip Friend, which I hope you will let me be for a long time,” she said. “Jake, you have turned out to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. And you deserve way more than being squawked at every ten seconds by someone who is so insecure about her own life that she’s trying to control everything about yours.”
“She does kind of do that,” Jake said, chewing his lip. “I never thought of it that way.”
“It’s way easier to see what’s going on in other people’s lives than it is to see what’s happening in your own.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to see what’s happening in your own life,” Jake said with unexpected wisdom. “Because that’s when things get complicated. Take you and that Roman Brady kid. You like him, I think he likes you, he’s going out with Brooke, and you know you should fight for him.”
“I can’t do that to Brooke.” I’ve done enough to her already.
“But it’s what you want. And since when are you guys even friends?” Jake asked. “Seriously?”
“It’s complicated,” Max said with an apologetic smile. “But as far as Brady is concerned, if I have to talk someone into liking me, then what’s the point? Right?”
Jake slung an arm around her and hugged her. Max let him. It felt way more real than any embrace on their date had.
“I do like us as friends,” he said. “It feels nice.”
Behind them, the school’s doors banged open. “Jake!” Jennifer squawked, barreling toward them.
Max stood up, then leaned down to Jake and whispered, “Friend to friend, if you get back together with her, promise me you’ll make some changes. You deserve better.”
He smiled. “I will get a grip.”
Jennifer came to a halt next to their bench with a mighty pout. “You are missing the entire meeting!” she brayed. “What are you doing out here with Oscar the Grouch? And if you’re coming to the meeting just to sit around and glare, Max, you can save it. No one cares what you think.”
Jake opened his mouth as if to say something, but Max beat him to it.
“Chill out, Jen. I would rather eat toham than go in there with you,” she said. “In fact, here’s a thought: How about any time you have the urge to speak to me at all, you save it? Because I’ve never cared what you think, and I don’t plan to start. And if you keep treating Jake like crap, I will make sure my old coworkers at Fu’d put meat juice in your tofu burger.”
As Max stormed off toward the parking lot, she felt more than heard Jen’s outraged gasp. Peeking over her shoulder, she saw Jake stand up and put his hands on his hips. “Jen, you can’t talk to me or anyone else like that,” he boomed. “Max is my friend, and she—”
With a private grin, Max wrestled open her car door. The engine noise drowned out the rest of Jake’s lecture to Jen, but Max rode the high of having said exactly what she wanted, when she wanted to say it, all the way to her house. Slinging sarcasm was one thing; actually giving Jen a piece of her mind was another, and that was long overdue. After feeling so unmoored the past few days, Max reveled in the sudden surge of confidence that shot through her veins.
Max pulled into the driveway and braked so hard that the gravel was still making crackling noises when she got out of the car. She dashed up to her room and threw her backpack onto the window seat, where it assaulted her hardback of The Eyre Affair and an old careworn copy of Judith Krantz’s Scruples that she’d purloined from her mother’s stash three years ago (clearly, Max’s own camp-loving heart beat beneath Eileen McCormack’s sensibly shod exterior). Digging under her bed, Max pulled out several of her old black-and-white speckled notebooks. There was a poem she’d written about crayons in second grade, and a poem she’d written with crayons the year before, the beginnings of stories about a talking pig, and one about a planet full of blob people. It was all hideously embarrassing, and also deeply, deeply her, from a time when Max hadn’t cared about what anyone thought because being creative made her happy. She’d been writing for fun.
Suddenly, words crowded her brain like people cramming toward the stage at a concert. Max woke up her sleeping computer, opened a new Word document, and began typing as quickly as possible, as if she were worried she wouldn’t ever get this feeling back—this sensation that she had something to say. Something about herself. Something real. And, finally, the writing came easily, pouring out of Max like water from a garden hose. She called it “Diary of a Fake Teenage It Girl,” and she had a complete rough draft in barely twenty minutes. She was proofreading her (hopefully) stirring conclusion when her cell phone rang.
Max didn’t even look at the caller ID. “What?” she barked, wedging the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she tweaked the ending. She probably shouldn’t have answered. It might kill her mojo.
“Max McCormack?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Elena, Kyle’s assistant, from Nancy Drew,” the woman said. Max remembered her as a perky blonde in her early twenties, way less severe than her voice now sounded. Suddenly, Max felt like she really shouldn’t have answered.
“How can I help you, Elena?” she asked with a sinking feeling.
“You’re needed at the studio,” Elena said. “Brick Berlin has requested your presence personally. He said to tell you… wait, I wrote it down… ‘Stress commits brain murder.’ Huh, that seems… Well, whatever—the point is, he thinks Brooke needs you on set to keep her calm.”
“But I’m not…” Speaking to Brooke anymore, her mind finished for her. “… currently employed by the Berlins,” she said instead.
“That’s immaterial to him right now,” Elena said. “How soon can you leave? Now?”
It didn’t sound much like a question.
After they hung up, Max gave her blessedly finished essay one more glance before hitting Print. It was still warm from the printer when she clipped it to the NYU application and stuck it into her backpack. She could drop it off at school on the way back from the studio—someone would be at the main office until at least seven.
And yet, even though things were looking up—her writer’s block was finally smashed—Max still felt a bit queasy. Not because of her essay, or even because she’d been summoned to help repair a psyche that she might’ve helped break. No, she was uncomfortable because she knew going to set meant seeing Brooke. And Brady.
twenty-three
BROOKE RUBBED BLEARILY at her eyes and glanced at the clock on her trailer’s microwave: 4:04 PM. She bolted upright in her chair. Could that be right? Two hours ago, when she’d been handed the pink pages that signified last-minute script adjustments, she’d only meant to rest her eyes for a minute before studying her lines for the rewritten scenes. Now her call time was in half an hour, and she still had to touch up her hair and makeup. By Brooke’s estimation, this gave her ten minutes to learn everything.
She felt a sticky wetness on her cheek. Apparently she had dozed off with her fa
ce resting on the table on top of the script, and then drooled on it. A visit to her bathroom mirror revealed a pinkish stain stubbornly clinging to her skin. Brooke rubbed it, to no avail, then scrubbed and scrubbed until her face turned red but the dye was gone. She rechecked the clock. Great. Five minutes to learn everything.
Brooke smacked her cheeks and shook her head, willing her brain to work. She tried to focus on Brady, and the kiss so epic that it made one of the inside pages of OK! magazine, but the warmth she’d felt in her extremities that night had faded over time. Now she just felt uneasy around him. Brooke had thought he was considering asking her out again after their date, but once Max quit, Brooke had found herself spread so thin that they’d barely spoken—and when they did, Brady always seemed sort of concerned, even confused. Brooke suspected this was because of her blog.
That stupid, stupid blog.
It had been a rough week. Her fight with Max last Wednesday had left Brooke feeling prickly yet optimistic. The blog was already in full swing, so she’d figured keeping it up would be easy: Max had found it simple enough to pose as Brooke Berlin; surely Brooke would have an edge due to actually being Brooke Berlin. But panic had set in when she wrapped shooting at exactly midnight—God bless child labor laws—and slumped through her bedroom door, dying for sleep but feeling obligated to post something before she crashed. She’d spent the next three hours pacing in front of her picture window, chewing on Twizzlers she’d stashed under her mattress, and watching infomercials (the one where Jennifer Parker posed as a Yoga Booty Ballet pupil was running on the CBS affiliate at 2:30 AM; delirious by that point, Brooke decided sitting through it made her a better friend). In the end she’d banged out something she wasn’t even sure made sense, hit Publish, and passed out on top of her comforter.
This kicked off a chain reaction of late nights, flubbed lines, inability to focus on her work or her blog, paranoia, stress-induced insomnia, and finally outright exhaustion. After yet another bout of writer’s block—it turned out Brooke had slipped into Max’s shoes as easily as Max had slipped into hers—Brooke determined, with the help of WebMD, that she was probably about to start losing her hair, and also that she most likely had leukemia. This meant that not only were her looks and her career threatened, but she might kick it before she could star in her own Lifetime movie. Even Brick had noticed something was awry; last night he’d come up to her room and asked very seriously if she needed her Chaka Khans realigned, which led to a very strange ten minutes in which Brooke snacked on the vegan flaxseed brownie he’d brought her (a recipe he’d found on GOOP) while Brick called his meditation specialist and clarified that, in fact, Chaka Khan was fine, and it was Brooke’s chakras that were in doubt.
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