by Robin Palmer
I tried to slide down in my seat, like I had in the pizza place, but because Laurel and I were the only customers in there (it was February and super-cold, after all), I couldn’t exactly hide. Laurel at least could put her hoodie up and her sunglasses on, and that’s exactly what she did.
Then Marissa saw me. There was no going back now. “Omigosh! Look, guys—Lucy’s here! That’s twice in one night!” Marissa announced, loudly, to the group before she came rushing over.
Could this night get any worse? I could feel the ice cream moving up from my stomach into my throat.
“Hey, Lucy! Whatcha doing?” she asked, leaning in close. I just wanted to crawl under the table and hide. “Where’s your dad? Who’s this?”
“Uh—” The ice cream moved up even more.
Laurel tried to duck her head, but Marissa was too fast for her and peered closer. Marissa gave the loudest gasp in the history of gasps. “Oh. My. God. Laurel Moses!” she screeched. “I’d recognize that silver heart necklace anywhere—it’s the one you’re wearing in the Fun in the Sun: Madison on Spring Break movie poster!”
Fifteen heads from over at the ice-cream counter whipped around at the same time. If I threw up in front of all these people, I was definitely going to have to change schools.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside when it’s nighttime?” Marissa demanded. “You know, I heard you can go blind doing that.”
“Um—” Laurel started to say.
“She’s wearing them because she had a really bad allergy attack because by mistake there was a little piece of peanut on her sundae so her eyes got all swollen, and because of that the light hurts them and if she doesn’t keep them on, she might go blind,” I finished for her.
Laurel’s shoulders dropped from her ears as she gave me a grateful smile. She may have been a great karaoker, but being able to come up with really good lies on the spot was one of my talents.
“I didn’t know you were allergic to peanuts!” Marissa said. “It’s not in the One Hundred Random Facts About Laurel section of your website.” She thrust out her hand. “Anyway, I’m Marissa Parini, Lucy’s best friend.” Marissa looked at me and must have seen the expression of horror on my face. “I used to be her third best friend, but when Rachel and Missy—who are right over there, by the way—dumped her, I got to move up. Missy’s the one with braces and Rachel’s the one whose face is kinda shiny because she’s got oily skin.”
Yup, the throwing-up part was probably going to be here any second.
“Anyway,” Marissa continued, reaching into her back pocket, “I’ve been carrying this around for weeks, just in case I ran into you,” she said, shoving a foldedup picture of Laurel from her Official Laurel Moses Fan Club Welcome Kit. “It’s a little warm because I’ve been sitting on it, but maybe you can sign it? Maybe write ‘To my very good friend Marissa. With tons of love from her very good friend, Laurel’?”
“Uh . . . sure,” Laurel said, digging in her bag for a pen as the rest of the girls just stood there frozen like they were in the middle of a game of Statues.
“Ooh, ooh! I know. And because it’s Rachel’s birthday tomorrow, maybe you could write ‘Happy Birthday’ to her!” She grabbed a napkin off the table. “Like on this napkin.” She turned. “Hey, Rachel—come here and meet Laurel Moses! She’s going to write ‘Happy Birthday’ on a napkin for you!”
Because Rachel and Missy traveled only as a unit—always RachelandMissy instead of just Rachel or Missy (or RachelMissyandLucy)—the two of them came over to our table together.
“Guys, this is Laurel Moses,” said Marissa, flinging her arm around Laurel’s shoulder. “Laurel, this is Rachel and Missy.”
“Hi,” they said shyly, not even looking at me, even though I was standing right there.
Even though only minutes before she had been bawling her eyes out, Laurel still managed to put on her movie-star smile and said, “Hi! I’m Laurel! It’s so nice to meet you!” I was great at lying on the spot, but even if I went to acting school for years, I don’t think I’d ever be able to pretend like nothing was wrong nearly as well as Laurel.
Rachel turned to me. “I thought you said the reason you guys couldn’t come to my sleepover was because Sequoia was coming to visit and she was going to hang out with her.”
Now I was definitely going to throw up. I’d left that part out of my super-dramatic retelling on purpose. Once Laurel found out I had lied and I’d told Rachel that I’d bring her to the party, she’d totally hate me. Especially since, now that she knew the whole story, she’d know that I was doing it only in order to try to get Rachel and Missy to be my friends again. And once they found out that Laurel knew nothing about the sleepover up until a few minutes ago, that was never going to happen.
I racked my brain for something, anything. But nothing came up. All that came out was “Uhhhh—”
“She was going to come up,” Laurel said, “but then I decided that I’d rather hang out with Lucy than her. If you want to know the truth, Lucy’s a lot more fun than Sequoia is.”
By this time the rest of the girls had sort of gathered around, and, in stereo, all of their jaws dropped. Including mine.
Missy’s eyes bugged out, which because they were buggy to begin with, made her look really weird. “You’d rather hang out with Lucy than another famous star?” she gasped.
“Well, yeah,” Laurel replied, as if Missy had just asked the dumbest question in the entire world. “Wouldn’t you?” she said.
Missy didn’t say anything. Probably because her jaw dropped even more, making it impossible for her to talk.
Laurel turned to me and, without anyone seeing, gave me a little wink. Because of my coordination problem I didn’t risk trying to wink back, but I did smile. I didn’t know how the Academy Awards voting thing worked, but Laurel deserved one for this performance. She made it seem totally believable that she meant every word.
chapter 9
Dear Dr. Maude,
I don’t have a lot of time to write because I’m about to go to the mall with LAUREL MOSES of all people, if you can believe it. Dad’s not done meditating yet, so I thought I’d check my e-mail first (a) to see if you had written back by any chance and (b) to ask you another question.
I won’t go into it now because it’s kind of a long story, but basically, A LOT happened last night. First of all, I found out that Laurel was dumped by HER BFF, too, which made me feel (a) sorry for her and (b) kind-of, sort-of like her. And THEN she completely saved my life when I was about to be totally humiliated by Rachel and Missy in front of all the girls in my class at this ice-cream place which made me like her even more. So because (a) neither of us has plans today and (b) I have this assignment for social studies class where I have to do something to earn good karma, I decided to ask her if she wanted to go to the mall so I could show her what it was like to have a regular day doing regular kid things.
I have a feeling I’ve already started earning karma points, because she was so excited about the idea, you would’ve thought I asked her if she wanted to go to Paris or something. And then after that I blurted out, “Hey, do you think our parents went away this weekend to get engaged, because Marissa says that when people go away for two nights it’s because they’re getting engaged?” Well, she got all pale and then she said, “You know, I hadn’t thought about that, but now that you bring it up, I did overhear my dad talking to his best friend, Larry, on the phone, and he said that things were getting pretty serious with the woman he was dating.”
This is what I was afraid of, Dr. Maude. I don’t listen to Marissa a lot of the time because of the lying thing. But I do find it a little weird that her mother said the SAME EXACT THING—“Things are getting serious”—to Marissa right before she got engaged to Phil, Marissa’s stepdad.
Is this true—that if a person says that things are getting serious, it means they’re going to propose? I really hope not because maybe Laurel’s not that bad, but, still, it doesn’t mean I’m r
eady for her to be my STEPSISTER!!
If you could PLEASE write back and let me know, I’d really appreciate it.
yours truly,
Lucy B. Parker
Before we could go have a normal day at the mall, we had to go through Laurel’s clothes and find her a normalgirl outfit. Because she had two huge closets full, you’d think that would be easy, but it wasn’t. Everything she had was more eighth-grade-formal rather than lunch-at-the-Food-Court-like.
As I ix-nayed every item she held up (a fake furcollared sweater, a suede skirt) and she told me a little bit about her very not-normal life, I started feeling even more sorry for her (which seemed to make it so I hated her less and liked her more). Sure, she got to do very cool things like go to the MTV Movie Awards, but a lot of her life was just plain sad. First of all, she didn’t have any pets because she was as weird about pet hair as she was about germs (“But you like Miss Piggy! And you could have a fish—they don’t have hair,” I suggested, even though I knew from the one time I had had a fish that they were pretty boring). And I was right about the bowling thing. Well, almost right. She had been bowling, just once, but it was at the White House before the president got rid of the bowling alley and replaced it with a basketball court. I didn’t ask, but I bet they had a whole supply of new shoes that had never been worn there.
“So where do people have their birthday parties in New York?” I asked as I gave a thumbs-down to a pair of jeans with rhinestones on the butt pockets. Jeans were fine for the Holyoke Mall, but just plain ones. “Ice-skating rinks? Miniature golf?” I asked, even though as soon as the words came out, I realized the idea of a miniature golf course in the middle of a city was weird.
“Well, last year for Jaycee’s birthday, I took her to Two Bunch Palms in California,” she replied, holding up a long leather jacket that, when I touched it, I found was as soft as butter. Jaycee was her assistant.
I shook my head no as I took the jacket from her and threw it back on the bed. “What’s Two Bunch Palms?”
“A spa with massages and facials and stuff.”
That sounded like the most boring place in the entire world to spend a birthday. “But what about your real friends?” I asked. “The ones you go to school with.” I knew from her website that since kindergarten, Laurel had gone to this place in New York called Professional Children’s School, where all the kids there were dancers or other actors. Not that I was stalking her or anything.
As she held up a pink cashmere sweater, I nodded. I had a red cashmere one that I was only allowed to wear on special occasions, but by this time the choosing-a-normal-girl outfit was getting boring, so I decided it would have to do.
“Sequoia was pretty much my only friend. Because of the show, I’m barely at school anymore,” she said. “If I’m not taping the series, I’m away shooting a movie or recording an album.”
“That’s a lot of work,” I said.
She shrugged. “I guess. But because it started when I was six, I’m just used to it by now.”
I knew from a documentary Dad had once rented that kids in other countries started working when they were really young because they were so poor, but this was America and Laurel was rich.
“And when I am at school, everyone treats me weird,” she went on.
“But how come? I mean, if the other kids are actors, too.”
She shrugged again. “Because I’m really famous and the other ones mostly do commercials or maybe a soap opera here or there.”
Looking through one of her closets, I found a pair of nonsequined jeans and threw them on the bed next to the pink sweater. It would’ve been a little better if they had had a pen mark or a ketchup stain somewhere on them, instead of having creases down the leg because they had been ironed, but they’d do. “Okay, but who do you eat lunch with when you are there?” I asked. Everyone at least had a lunch friend. Even after the friend-dumping, I had Marissa. It wasn’t saying much, but it was something.
“I know you’re going to think I’m a total loser when I tell you this,” she replied, “but I usually just bring my sandwich into the girls’ room and eat there. Luckily it’s really clean.”
That was one of the saddest things I had ever heard. “But you’re still a teenager,” I said. “You have to have some fun. Don’t you have any hobbies or anything?” I just hoped she didn’t say African drumming because I had decided the other night that that was something I might want to try out, and I didn’t need her being better than me at that, too.
She thought about it. “I like to read.”
Eating in the girls’ room? Spending her free time reading? It was like she had the same exact life as Maeve O’Connor, the least popular girl at Jefferson.
“Well, that sounds . . . fun,” I lied. Maybe Laurel wasn’t as stuck-up as I had originally thought. Maybe she was just shy or didn’t have a lot of social skills because, when you took away the big-star part, she was just . . . lonely. You didn’t read that on the blogs.
And, since being dumped, loneliness was definitely something I knew about.
Yet another thing we had in common.
Even in the pink sweater and jeans, Laurel still looked too Laurel, which is why as a last resort we ran down to the hotel gift shop and bought her a pair of sweats and an oversized blechy gray Northampton sweatshirt. But even with that she still needed more of a disguise so there wasn’t a stampede if people recognized her. Because someone getting trampled and crushed to death in front of Target would not have been a typical Saturday afternoon at the mall.
It was time to call in the big guns—Roger and Maya.
Roger, her hair guy, and Maya, her makeup woman, were used to making her look beautiful and glamorous, but making her look like just one more Holyoke Mall–goer on a Saturday afternoon was harder.
“What do you think?” Roger asked Maya and me, after he adjusted the short red bob wig on Laurel’s head. I was sitting at the piano picking out a not-very-good version of “Chopsticks” and trying not to stare at Roger’s arms too much. His arms were completely covered in tattoos, to the point where you couldn’t even see any skin. “Chopsticks” was easy, but because of my coordination problem, and the staring thing, I kept hitting the wrong keys.
Maya sat on the sofa, chugging a disgusting smelling green drink from the health-food store that she said kept her really healthy. I bet she and Sarah would get along really well. “Still too glamorous,” she said, shaking her head.
Roger threw his hands up. “Girl, you are working my last nerve! This is the fifth wig you’ve had me pull out.” I thought at first that Roger didn’t like me, but when he was in the bathroom, Maya told me not to worry—that he was a total drama queen and just came off as sarcastic and almost a little mean. He turned to me. “And you are hurting my eardrums.”
I stopped. “Sorry,” I said. “What about that one?” I asked, pointing to a long brown wavy one. It reminded me of my hair before I burned it all off, but with pretty curls instead of frizz.
He exchanged the bob for the curls and turned Laurel to us again. “Better?”
We nodded. “Much,” said Maya.
“But if you want her to look more like a normal girl, I’d brush it a little so it doesn’t look so perfect,” I suggested. “Maybe give her a little hat head or a rat’s nest or something.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed. “There will be absolutely no rat’s nests on my watch,” he announced. “I know—we’ll add a hat!” he said, reaching over and plucking the Boston Celtics baseball hat off my head and plopping it on Laurel’s.
“Omigod!” Laurel gasped as her hands flew up, batting the hat away as if it were a bug.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” I yelped, clamping my hands on top of my head. Maybe they were used to seeing weird-looking people in New York City, which is why, unlike the crowd outside the bookstore that day, Roger and Maya weren’t staring at me like I was an alien, but still—that kind of behavior was just plain rude. “I need my hat back!”
Roger didn’t even apologize or listen to me. He turned to Laurel and said, very calmly, “Laurel, sweetheart, the germ-phobia stuff is getting a little tiresome. Just keep the hat on long enough to get some hat head. It’s not even on your real hair.” Then he turned to me and raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So that’s why you’re wearing a hat,” he said. “Honey, who gave you that haircut?”
“My godmother, Deanna,” I mumbled as I stood there with my arms and legs wrapped around myself as if, instead of just being hatless, I was completely naked.
“You. Sit here.” He pointed at the chair next to Laurel, who, with her eyes shut, was holding her breath while she waited for the hat head to cook while Maya took some tubes and brushes out of what looked like a piece of carry-on luggage and started painting some fake pimples on her forehead. He reached over and started messing with my hair, making the tsk-tsk sound my grandmother made whenever she saw Mom leaving the house without lipstick. “Note to self: this is why a person should always go to a trained professional.”
“She is a trained professional,” I replied. “She’s got her own salon and everything.”
“Maybe with a degree from Supercuts,” he muttered. He reached for a comb and a pair of scissors. “May I?”
Roger was a little intimidating. I was too scared to say no, so I looked at Laurel, who nodded. I nodded, too.
Finally, Laurel exhaled. “Huh. This isn’t so bad,” she announced. “I don’t feel like I’m going to have a panic attack or anything.” She didn’t? If that was what “normal” looked like for her, I’d hate to see how she acted when she was having a panic attack.
Roger combed and snipped, and Maya and Laurel made lots of “I like that” and “Oh, that looks great” comments, which made me less nervous. When he was done, he turned my head to face them. “Okay, peanut gallery—what do you think?”
“I love it!” said Maya. “It’s utterly and completely rad.” Coming from a person who had streaks of pink in her hair, I wasn’t sure it was a good thing that she loved it so much.