by Jody Gehrman
Identities she’s trying on.
Her eyes are always full of secrets,
Green and moody as the sea,
I want to dive into that ocean,
But she never looks at me . . .”
Amber sat there with an expression of equal parts wonder and mortification. As if proving his lyrics true, she didn’t dare look directly at Jeremy; instead her gaze moved from her shoes to me to the room at large, alighting only for seconds before flitting off in another direction like a skittish bird. By the time his posse on the stage kicked into high gear for the chorus, her face had gone so beet-red it practically glowed in the dark.
“Amber, say yes for once,
I know it’s just a stupid dance,
But come on, say yes for once,
All I’m asking for is just one chance.”
After the chorus, the spotlight went out abruptly, and Jeremy disappeared into a sea of black. Then a set of blue lights blazed to life on stage, and Jeremy came running up onto it, seized a black guitar, tossed the strap over his shoulder and plunged into an intricate solo that made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The entire auditorium went ballistic.
Jeremy Riggs: scrawny emo-kid, or rock legend?
Well, he got Amber to say yes for once, so I’m forced to assume he’s a genius.
Wednesday, February 11
3:45 P.M.
Ben just texted me: RU sure abt staying @ SDL’s Sat nite?
Grrrr. This whole Valentine’s dance is turning into an extra-large pain in the butt with a side of humiliation. Not only do I have absolutely nothing to wear (thank you, Sophie De Luca, for making me hyper-aware of my dismal fashion sense) but I also have no idea what to do about this staying-over thing. And why does Ben have to keep bringing it up? Is he so determined to pop my cherry (to use the parlance of our times—disgusting!) that he just has to know right now whether or not I can accommodate? What, is Sophie waiting in the wings, eager to take my place in case I say no?
What’s the big deal, anyway? I mean, jeez, I’m sixteen; I can do what I want! Sure, Mom will call the cops and ground me until I’m forty, but I can still make my own decisions.
Me: Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.
Ben: She actually said yes?
Me: I told U, I don’t have 2 ask!
Ben: Geena . . .
Me: The real problem is I have nothing 2 wear.
Ben: Sophie’s going shopping in Corte Madera tmw after school. Maybe you should go with her.
Oh my God! Is this boy utterly clueless? Doesn’t he realize I’d rather ingest ground glass than go shopping with Sophie De Luca?
Me: Gotta go. Talk later.
Ben: Okay. Just wanted U to know I’m thinking about U.
Yeah, buddy, I get that. Sitting around thinking up ways to MAKE ME MISERABLE!!!
Thursday, February 12
8:45 P.M.
Amber and I went shopping in Santa Rosa after school today. I was in a foul mood, to tell you the truth. The last thing I wanted to do was cram my winter-bloated, blindingly white flesh into one tacky gown after another.
“So, we’re all going to stay at the coast Saturday night?” Amber asked as she flipped through a rack of sale dresses. “Ben told me that’s the plan.”
So far my approach to the whole De Luca Sleepover Disaster has been consistent, if nothing else. I’ve been in total denial about it. If I continue to pretend it’s not happening, it’s not happening, right?
“I guess,” I said vaguely.
Amber held up a white satin strapless dress for inspection. “Your mom’s cool with it?”
Why am I stuck with the only mom on the planet who has a problem with this? Or rather, would have a problem with it, were anyone to mention it. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Can we not talk about this?”
Amber gave me a funny look. She put the white satin back on the rack and pulled out a huge red taffeta monstrosity. “Do you even want to go?”
“Not really. But Ben wants to, I think. Is this cute?” I held up a bright yellow silk dress just to change the subject.
“Hideous. So what if Ben wants to go? Don’t you have any say in it?”
I sighed. Clearly, Amber wasn’t taking any hints. “I had to say yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sophie asked us if we wanted to go and I knew Mom would have a cow, but what could I say? ‘No, my mommy won’t let me’?”
“So you lied.”
“I’m just tired of Sophie always coming off as the mature one.”
Amber shook her head. “Ben knows your mom. You should just tell him you can’t go.”
“It’s kind of late now.” Still hoping to nip this conversation in the bud, I stepped over to a bunch of mannequins sporting red and white dresses. One of them wore a huge, sparkly, heart-shaped hat on her molded plaster head. I picked up the hat and tried it on.
“What do you think? Is it me?” I posed for Amber.
She giggled. Then she saw something a little distance away and froze mid-giggle. “Oh, God! It’s him.”
“Who?”
“Rex! He’s right over there.”
I turned to follow her gaze and sure enough there he was, gliding slowly downward on the escalator, looking even more gorgeous than usual. Instinctively, I ducked behind a big rack of long dresses, hoping to avoid a conversation. I hadn’t done my Camus essay yet, and I felt guilty about shopping instead of working on it.
“What are you doing?” Amber demanded, seeing me cowering behind the coats.
“Hiding.”
“But why?”
“I don’t want to see him!”
“You don’t want to see him? Look at my outfit! Why did I wear this stupid shirt?”
“Hey, Amber,” I heard Mr. Sands call out.
Amber turned away from me and waved reluctantly. “Hi, Rex. What are you doing here?”
I crouched down, hardly daring to breathe. From my vantage point I could see Amber standing there awkwardly, her hand on one hip.
“Oh, I just came to check out this bookstore I heard about. Thought I’d swing by and pick up some T-shirts while I’m here. Who were you talking to?”
“Talking to?”
“Yeah, when I came over, I thought you were talking to someone.”
“Oh,” Amber said, smiling stiffly. “I was on the phone.”
He seemed to accept this. Very carefully, I peeked out from between two dresses, moving them just enough to see him grinning at her. I still had the ridiculous Valentine’s hat on my head and had to stay crouched down in the tiny space between the dresses and the wall.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are you ever going to post another blog, or do I have to just keep reading that same one over and over?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ve just been busy.”
“I love that part about Heathcliff being—what did you call him?”
“Oh . . . um . . . yeah, what did I . . . ?”
“The original sexy bad boy,” I whispered frantically.
Amber echoed the line word for word, and we were rewarded with a wry, knowing chuckle from Mr. Sands. Ooh, it gave me goose bumps!
“You, uh, here all alone?” He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice slightly.
“No, I’m with a friend—but she’s trying stuff on.”
“I won’t keep bugging you, then.” He didn’t move, though.
Amber grinned sweetly. “Okay then . . .”
“Okay.”
“Nice seeing you.”
“I’ll call you,” he promised, finally moving toward the exit.
She raised one hand and wiggled her fingers. “Okay. Bye!”
When he’d finally disappeared, we collapsed in a fit of giggles. So much for my efforts to dismantle our hopelessly warped love triangle.
We hunted for at least three hours before finally unearthing dresses we could live with at prices that wouldn’t enrage our mothers. I tried to
concentrate on the task at hand, but the whole time I kept hearing Mr. Sands’s sweet, gravelly voice uttering those three syllables: “I’ll call you.”
Is it delusional to imagine the promise was also sort of meant for me?
Friday, February 13
9:50 P.M.
I sat at the kitchen table this afternoon, working on a Valentine for Ben. Amber has turned my room into one big walk-in floor-drobe, which makes it difficult to think in there. Normally, I keep things pretty tidy, but when you’re sharing a room with a redheaded hurricane, it’s pretty hard to maintain order.
Mom walked in all dressed up. She and Mungo were going to the city for dinner and a play. She smelled of lavender and was wearing a pretty pale green dress with sheer stockings and green suede pumps.
“What are you working on?” She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down across from me, killing time as she waited for Mungo.
I had a stack of magazines and old calendars, a glue stick, a pair of scissors, several sheets of construction paper, and a vial of gold glitter spread out before me on the table. So far, though, I hadn’t done much with any of it. Between worrying about tomorrow night and feeling guilty about posting another blog last night to Amber’s page for Mr. Sands, I couldn’t seem to get inspired.
“I’m trying to make a valentine for Ben.”
“How’s it going?” She took another sip of her merlot, glancing at the empty page before me.
“Comme ci comme ca.”
I knew I should just bite the bullet and ask Mom if I could stay at the coast tomorrow night. I rehearsed openers in my head: Mom, I know you’re not going to like this, but . . . No, that would set off alarms immediately. Hey, you know how I’ve been so understanding about you and Mungo practically living together? Thinly veiled guilt-inducer—she’d see right through it. Mom, I’m sixteen and should be allowed to go off and have drunken, sloppy sex at someone’s beach house if I feel like it.
“What’s the matter, pumpkin? You look so worried.”
Okay, I told myself, it’s now or never. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, but what came out was, “Are you getting Mungo something for Valentine’s Day?”
She grinned. “Yeah. You want to see?”
I nodded. She darted back to her room and came out with a gift bag covered with tiny cupids. “I got him these . . .” She pulled out a pair of boxer shorts in a bright red heart pattern. “Cute, right? And this …” Out came a silky black T-shirt. Then she started blushing and clutched the bag a little tighter. “That’s all.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “There’s still something in there.”
“Nope. That’s it.” She’s such a bad liar. Guess I know where I get my sucky-with-secrets gene.
I grabbed at the bag and she protested. “Geena, it’s noth—”
I fished the last item from the bag and pulled it free of the tissue paper. It was a hardcover copy of The Kama Sutra.
Auugh! Why had I insisted on looking? I so did not want to think about my mother and Mungo studying up on a variety of Hindi scripture-recommended sexual positions.
“Nice.” I employed a tone that I hoped communicated just how done I was with the conversation.
“Well, you insisted.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Is everything okay?” She stuffed the gifts back into the bag, her brow furrowed. “You seem preoccupied or something.”
Once again, I tried to make myself ask her about staying at Sophie’s, but I just couldn’t force my mouth to form the words. “I’m fine. I want to make Ben a cool card, only I’m not very artistic. It’s frustrating.” This was true, though not the whole picture, obviously.
“Maybe you should concentrate on the message.” She reached over and gently tugged one of my braids. “Tell him something from your heart. You can’t go wrong with that.”
Just then the doorbell rang, and her expression switched instantly from wise and maternal to hyper as a twelve-year-old on too much sugar. She grabbed her clutch. “There he is. We’ll be home sort of late. There are burritos and a salad in the fridge for you and Amber.”
“Okay. Have fun.”
“We will. Be good!” And then she was gone.
I stared at the blank pieces of construction paper before me. Maybe she was right. I should focus on the message first, and worry about making it look good later. When Amber got home from her shift at Floating World she could help me with the artwork, probably.
“Hey, G.”
I looked up and saw Amber in the doorway. I’d been so engrossed in my letter I hadn’t even heard her come in. “Hi. Did you just get here?”
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
I realized suddenly that my stomach was grumbling. “Me too. Mom said there are burritos and salad in the fridge.”
She yanked the refrigerator door open and started taking things out. “What are you doing?”
“Writing a valentine for Ben. Can you help me make it look cool?”
“Yeah. That’ll be fun.” She unwrapped a burrito, set it on a plate, and put it in the microwave. “You ask your mom about staying at Sophie’s yet?”
I groaned. “No. She’ll never go for it anyway, so there’s really no point.”
“Jeremy can’t go either—not that I wanted to spend the night out there with him. Don’t want him getting ideas. They can just drop us off here before they head out, right?”
“Oh, so Ben’s going to stay at Sophie’s without me?” I pulled a face. “I don’t think so.”
She leaned against the counter and looked at me. “You know, G, you’ve got to get over this Sophie weirdness. I really don’t think Ben would ever go for her.”
“They messed around.”
“Before he ever got together with you,” she reminded me. “That doesn’t count.”
“Hmm,” I said, not convinced.
“Seriously.” She picked a piece of celery out of the salad and popped it into her mouth. “You should just trust him.”
I put my burrito into the microwave, set the time, and watched it slowly rotate. “Easier said than done.”
Saturday, February 14
2:30 P.M.
This morning at work, our boss showed up for the first time in a while. He’s been in Maui for two weeks, sunning himself and drinking mai-tais, or whatever people do in Maui. It must have been something good, because when he drove up in his racer green MINI Cooper he looked so tan and relaxed I barely recognized him.
“Hey, Lane!” I called when he drove up to the window. “Long time no see. You look fabulous.”
“You’re too kind.” He tilted his Wayfarers down and studied me over the rims. “You Bettys staying out of trouble? Did Joe keep everything stocked? Are you maintaining sanitary conditions in there?”
“Pretty sanitary. We shooed most of the rats out and made friends with the cockroaches.”
“Hardee-har-har. You know what to do, Geena. Work your fairy magic on a double cappuccino, will you?” He handed me his fancy to-go mug.
“Aye, aye, captain!”
Lane likes us to look busy, no matter how slow things get, so Amber got up off her stool and started wiping down everything in sight. She even tried to run her rag over me, but I slapped her away.
“Be good, girls,” Lane called, “or you won’t get your treats!”
When I handed back his to-go mug, Lane tucked it into his cup holder, then handed over two small containers of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, each with a little heart attached, our names printed out on them in Lane’s curly cursive.
“Oh,” Amber said, seizing hers. “Thank you!”
“Yeah, thanks, Lane.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Another car drove up behind him and he shifted gears. “I think it’s a perfectly hideous holiday, but if anyone should enjoy it, it’s my two favorite Bettys. Tah-tah!”
6:40 P.M.
Oh. My. God.
Mother Nature gave me perfectly workable eyebrows. I
have worn these eyebrows for the past sixteen years and they’ve never let me down. Now, though, in the clutches of Sophie De Luca fever, I’ve defiled them! Oh, good Lord, what possessed me?!
It started with a little innocent grooming. Amber and I were getting ready for the dance, experimenting with different hairstyles and makeup effects. Mom and Mungo went hiking in Saint Helena, so we had the whole house to ourselves. After work, we turned the place into Spa Geember. It was fun, to tell you the truth. We cranked up the music as loud as it would go and gave each other oatmeal facials with a recipe we got online. We even did the full-on manipedi routine, helping each other choose the perfect shade of polish to go with our dresses. We don’t really indulge in such hyper-girlie activities that often, so it was fun going all out.
The whole time, though, in the back of my mind, one thought haunted me: I still haven’t asked Mom about staying out at the coast tonight. What’s the point? Obviously, she’ll say no. Once that happens, I’ll either have to admit to Ben et al that I completely lied and come home by my curfew like a preteen brat, or I’ll have to defy her commands openly and face house arrest until I’m forty. Excellent choices. Thank you, Sophie De Luca, for wedging me between this rock and proverbial hard place.
Oh, and if that isn’t bad enough, now we’re actually going to the dance with Sophie and PJ! Quelle horreur. I’m sure my red jersey wrap dress is going to look so infantile next to whatever she wears. Let’s not sugarcoat it; Sophie is Satan, plain and simple.
Underneath, though, I’m wearing the camisole and underwear Ben gave me for Christmas. Not that he’ll see them, necessarily. Still, they’re under there, secret reminders that—back in December, anyway—he cared enough to give me custom-made lingerie.
But I digress. Ben and the others will pick us up in ten minutes, so I’d better get this down. My eyebrows! My God, my eyebrows!
All I wanted to do was shape them a little, like Sophie’s. I mean come on, I’ve got a 4.0 GPA, how hard could it be? While Amber was blow-drying her hair I nabbed Mom’s tweezers and got to work.