by Alyson Noel
“You should do it,” Dougall says when he catches me staring.
“What? No!” I’m embarrassed he caught me.
“Seriously, bro, a picture like that would make your Twitter and Instagram accounts explode! Your fans will go crazy—you’ll break the record for most retweets, guaranteed.”
I try to drag Dougall away and head for the Apple store so I can get a new phone, telling him there’s no way I’m sitting on Santa’s lap, but he’s determined to convince me.
“Who said anything about sitting on his lap?” Dougall screws up his face. “You do the manly thing and stand side by side. Tell him you were named after him. That should make him happy.”
“Since when does Santa need me to make him happy? Being jolly is pretty much his full-time gig.”
“Maybe so, bro.” Dougall laughs. “But it’s still good PR all around. Not to mention how the mall executives will knock themselves out trying to find a way to return the favor, especially if you include them in the hashtag.”
Despite the convincing argument he makes, the potential for extreme embarrassment is dangerously high.
Then again, Dougall really does seem to know what he’s talking about when it comes to this stuff.
The next thing I know, I’m flanked by overexcited elves marching me past a stream of crying kids and annoyed moms toward Santa, who tells me he’s one of my biggest fans as we drape an arm around each other’s shoulders and smile brightly for a cell phone pic. Once that’s done, Dougall and I head to the Apple store, where I buy a new phone along with all kinds of stuff I probably already own, but hey, it’s always good to have backups.
Dougall loads up too, and I just put it all on my credit card. After all, that’s what rich friends are for.
But when we move on to the Nike store, I stop dead in my tracks.
“Is that—”
My hand lifts and my index finger unfolds, seemingly guided by a force all its own.
“Is that…for real?”
I point toward a scene so insanely epic I can’t think of a single word to describe it.
Because there—right there in front of us—spanning the entire floor-to-ceiling window space—is a giant picture of me, performing before a sold-out stadium of screaming fans.
And directly in front of that is a Christmas tree built entirely of white sneakers with metallic red and green swooshes and holographic gold stars, and the best part is—those kicks are named after me.
The sign reads:
Dashaways!
The Christmas Countdown begins with a limited edition—available only for the next 5 Days!
While the Mojo endorsement seemed pretty cool—this—this!—is a whole other level that can only be described as Extreme Epicness.
I can’t stop staring.
I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Yeah, they’re cool.” Dougall shrugs, not nearly as impressed as he should be, even going so far as to shoot me a look, like I’m overreacting, as though he sees this kind of thing all the time. And maybe he does, but I certainly don’t. He pushes his hand against my back and steers me inside. “It’s pretty genius of Ezer to tie it into your show and song and all.”
“We should buy some!” I say. “We’ll get a pair for everyone we know.”
I’m about to go in search of a salesperson when Dougall pulls me back. “Dude, I already have three pairs. And you have about a hundred. I don’t see the point of paying for things you get paid to wear. Why don’t we buy some other cool stuff instead?”
I stall. Despite what he says, I still think it qualifies as monumental to actually buy a pair of sneakers named after myself.
It’s not like Josh Frost ever had sneakers named after him.
But once everyone in the store starts to recognize me, the moment is lost. And while Dougall is free to pick out a bunch of cool stuff for himself, I spend the next hour signing boxes of recently purchased shoes until the pyramid is dismantled, the shoppers are all leaving with at least five boxes each, and the store is completely sold out.
When we leave, we’re escorted by a team of mall-appointed security—all of them talking sideways into their headsets, ensuring our privacy and safety, while pushing carts full of our newly acquired belongings. Even so, every girl who sees me starts crying and screaming and begging me to pose for a gazillion cell phone pics.
“And that is why we usually opt for your personal stylist to do the shopping for us,” Dougall says as we climb into the back of the limo and the security team loads our shopping bags into the trunk.
I have a personal stylist?
No wonder I look so good in my pictures.
But what I say is “Yeah, but sometimes it’s good to be out in the world. You know, be with the people. They get so excited when they see me, I feel like I’m giving them…” I want to say hope, but that’s not it.
“You’re giving ’em a whiff of Dashaway magic,” Dougall says. “A brush with true star power and greatness.”
It would be a really great statement if he didn’t ruin it by laughing the second after he said it.
“Anyway, bro—speaking of greatness, what do you say we head over to Jonah’s party and see if the girls really did honor the luau theme?”
I’m a little miffed by the laughing, but ultimately I decide to let it go. After all, it must be hard for Dougall to hang out with me sometimes, with everyone always screaming my name and not his. I just hope no one at the party asks for my autograph. My hands are maxed out for the night.
HULA GIRLS
“What about us?” I ask. “Are we expected to honor the theme?” We’re on our way to Jonah’s party, and I’m getting kind of nervous. Dealing with fans is one thing—they’re pretty much thrilled with whatever you do. But dealing with celebrities is a whole lot trickier. Or at least I imagine it is—it’s not like I know from experience.
“No worries. It’s handled.” Dougall reaches into a bag by his feet, only to unearth the two most hideous Hawaiian shirts I’ve ever seen. One red, one blue, but both of them covered with similar images of hula girls, flowers, surfboards, rainbows, and dolphins wearing sunglasses. “I picked ’em up while you were signing at the Nike store. And don’t worry, they’re supposed to be ugly—it’s kind of the point. We’re being ironic.”
I button the shirt over the T-shirt I’m already wearing so that if Dougall’s wrong and it turns out to be not ironic at all but mortally embarrassing, I’ll be able to whip it right off and pretend it never happened.
“Figured we didn’t want to go overboard with the theme, since it’s better to think of this as the starter party. You never know where it might lead.”
We’ve barely climbed out of the limo when I motion toward a pretty girl wearing a grass skirt and pink bikini top just a few feet away. “Dude, is that—” I start to say, but before I can finish, Dougall is yanking on my sleeve and pulling me toward the limo.
“Change of plans.” He gestures frantically at Sparks, whistling loudly for him to return. Kind of like you would for a dog, which makes me feel embarrassed for all of us. “Trust me,” he says. “You definitely do not want to go there.” He glances over his shoulder and shoots me a serious look that has me more curious than concerned. “You need to steer clear. Ever since you dumped her for her now-former best friend, she’s been gunning for you. Just because you have selective amnesia doesn’t mean she does.”
As hard as it is to imagine a world where that could be true, apparently Dougall is right. The second she sees me, her eyes go all squinty and her mouth gets pinched, and after whispering something to the girl beside her, she marches straight toward me just as Dougall opens the limo door and shoves me inside.
“Thanks for having my back.” I peer through the tinted window, disappointed to find she’s given up the chase and settled for scowling instead. I was hoping to experience what it’s like to be the perpetrator of a big romantic drama—or any drama involving an angry girl who isn’t my sister.
<
br /> “That’s what I’m here for.” Dougall settles in beside me. “Think of me as your best bro−slash−social director.”
I stare at him, more than a little stunned by his words. That’s exactly the kind of friend I’ve always wanted—exactly the kind of friend I wanted the Greentree Dougall to be. Someone who truly understands the value of popularity and exactly what it takes to maintain it.
“So what do we do now?” I peer through the back window, watching as crowds of people head for the house, sorry to be missing out on my first big celebrity bash. Though it’s probably best to let Dougall take the lead. He seems to know his way around these things so much better than me.
“Whatever we want.” He sprawls along the bench seat. “Sky’s the limit. Seriously, when was the last time anyone said no to the ‘Dashing Nick Dashaway,’ as the tabloids call you?”
“Um, how about a few hours ago, when Plum Bailey said I was a sellout?”
At the mere mention of her name, Dougall’s face softens. “Yeah, well, that’s the great thing about Plum. She’s special. She’s not like the other girls who hang around your house. For one thing, she doesn’t even like hanging around your house. For another, she’s impossible to impress. That’s what I love about her. She’s so…”
While Dougall’s busy singing Plum’s (apparently numerous) praises, Sparks brakes for a handful of girls who look like supermodels—the kind you see wearing angel’s wings in Victoria’s Secret commercials—heading straight for the limo.
“Nick, you in there?” One of them taps on the glass and peers inside.
I look to Dougall, unsure what to do. I narrowly escaped one angry ex, and for all I know she could be another. When he nods his approval, I lower the window.
“I thought I recognized your ride. Not many limos out there with your name on the license plate.”
She fixes her gaze on mine as she smiles shyly. Well, maybe not shyly. She really doesn’t seem all that shy. Flirtatiously is probably a better word. I’m just not used to using those descriptions in relation to myself.
“That is one seriously ugly shirt. Then again, if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.” She flips her blond hair over her shoulder the way I’ve seen Tinsley do countless times for Mac Turtledove, and all I can do is sit there and gulp as I try not to stare at her tiny grass skirt and coconut shells.
“Are you leaving already?” one of the brunettes asks. She’s wearing an outfit that’s pretty much an exact replica of the blond girl’s, only her grass skirt is shorter.
“That party’s lame.” Dougall’s tone is so disdainful it makes me feel bad. I mean, we never actually made it inside, so there’s no way to be sure. “I wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”
The brunette checks with her friends before returning to us. “Do you know of any better ones?” Her gaze settles on mine.
“There’s always a better party.” Dougall grins. “And if there isn’t, we’ll start one—right, bro?” He bumps his fist against my shoulder a little harder than necessary, then gives me a look that says our future happiness pretty much depends on my going along.
I take a deep inhale and meet her gaze just like Josh Frost would, only better, because in this world Josh Frost doesn’t exist. I’ve taken his place. “Plenty of room.”
I prop the door open and slide across the seat, watching as they all pile in. Figuring that since there are no consequences in dreams, I might as well play along and see where this leads.
PINHEAD
At my suggestion, we end up at a bowling alley, and not a single person complains.
It’s not even one of those cool, modern, loud-music-and-black-lights rock ’n’ bowl kind of places either. It’s a normal, standard-issue bowling alley, which is just how I like it. Though the surprising thing is everyone else pretends to like it too.
Then again, why wouldn’t they? It’s like Dougall said: no one says no to the Dashing Nick Dashaway.
All I have to do is declare bowling cool, and it is.
Sparks escorts us inside, and it’s a good thing too, because the second all the other bowlers see me, his bodyguard skills are the only thing that keeps me from being trampled to death. Luckily, it’s not long before the manager ushers us into his office for safekeeping while he clears the crowd and closes the place to the public. Exactly the kind of perfect solution that never would’ve occurred to me, even though it seems really obvious once it’s done. I mean, while it’s nice having fans and all, there’s really no point in being famous if you don’t take advantage of the kinds of perks that allow for a little privacy and peace.
When I offer to pay for the inconvenience, he’s quick to brush it away. “Just take a pic with me and post it on Twitter,” he says. “And make sure to hashtag the name of the bowling alley. That’s all the compensation I need.” Then he throws an arm around me, and we each break into a grin as Dougall takes the pic. It’s seriously that easy. He even offers the girls a bunch of logo T-shirts to wear in case they get cold bowling in coconut shells and grass skirts. Though while they’re all quick to take one, not a single one of them changes.
After we swap our regular shoes for bowling shoes and I help everyone choose a ball, we divvy up into two teams of three, and Blonde #1 volunteers to go first. (I know it probably sounds bad to call her that, but I’ve already forgotten their names, and I’m too embarrassed to ask.) She cradles the ball at the center of her chest (a typical amateur move) and awkwardly trots toward the foul line with her fingers practically death-gripping the ball. By the time she releases it, her swing is so off, the ball makes the world’s slowest journey down the lane. A total creeper if I’ve ever seen one.
I have to admit, it’s kind of funny to watch. Especially the way her face goes all sad and droopy when the ball flops into the gutter well before it gets anywhere near the pins. I mean, she looks like she’s truly surprised, like she actually expected an entirely different outcome. Which only makes it funnier.
Dougall immediately swoops in to hug her. A move that’s meant to seem like a show of support, even though he’s clearly taking advantage of the moment to hug a pretty girl.
At first I’m annoyed by the way he’s always scheming to get what he wants, but when she pushes Dougall away and comes at me with arms spread wide, saying, “Hey, Nick—can I get a hug from you too?” well, it makes me sad that Dougall always has to angle for the things that come so easily to me.
Before she can reach me, Blonde #2 plops onto my lap, circles her arms around my neck, and says, “Back off, Tiffany. He’s all mine.” Then she kisses me smack in the center of my cheek, leaving a sticky lip-gloss tattoo as if to prove that it’s true.
The redhead (I think her name might be Kayla, but it’s not like I’m willing to risk saying it out loud in case I’m mistaken) laughs and snaps a pic of Blonde #2 and me; then, when Blonde #1 slithers up to my side and the redhead moves in beside her, Dougall joins in and snaps a bunch of group selfies that he instantly posts.
It’s funny to think how I spent most of last year complaining about being invisible to girls, and yet now that I have four superhot girls practically fighting over me, I’m annoyed by the way they keep plucking at my hair and my clothes and telling me over and over again how cute they think I am.
Maybe it’s just that I’m not used to having girls pay me so much attention (other than Plum, but like I said, Plum doesn’t count). All I know for sure is that it leaves me feeling awkward and weird. It’s not normal behavior. Or at least, it’s not normal where I’m concerned.
I disentangle myself and head for the ball rack, determined to impress them with a skill I can actually claim in my Greentree life too. Even though I know this is all just a dream and I should try to enjoy whatever attention I get however I get it, I can’t help wanting them to admire me for who I really am, as opposed to who they think I am.
Thing is, I’m a good bowler. And by good, I mean really, really good. I’ve been bowling since I was a little kid and was considered one
of the best in my league. I’ve even got the trophies to prove it. Though it’s not exactly something I’m used to advertising about myself.
Back in Greentree, Dougall and Plum are the only kids at school who know about my mad bowling skills. Mainly because none of the popular kids would be the least bit impressed. All they seem to care about is sports involving smaller, lighter balls, like football, basketball, and baseball. Not a single one of them would appreciate the fact that, in the world of bowling, I’m what’s known as an anchor. Which means I’m the one who always bowls last so I can anchor the score. But tonight I decide to shake things up and go next.
Only, as soon as I’m standing at my start line, ball poised and ready, I’m overcome by this horrible urge to faint, hurl, or both, which pretty much makes it impossible to move.
They’re all looking at me, waiting to see what I’ll do. But here in this strange dreamworld I have no way of knowing if I can still pull this off.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That even if I totally blow it and end up with a gutter ball, they’ll still act as though I did something brilliant. That’s just how it is when you’re famous. No one ever tells you like it is. But for once in my life, even if it’s just my dream life, I want to know what it’s like to have a beautiful girl, or in this case several beautiful girls, cheer for me in a way I deserve.
“Come on, Nick—you can do it!” the brunette shouts.
“You got this!” Tiffany cheers.
Dougall looks on with the same kind of skeptical face the Greentree Dougall made right before I took the stage in that unfortunate talent show.
I take a steadying breath and center my focus. I’ve got a lot riding on this moment, no matter how silly it seems.