Boy Shopping

by Nia Stephens

  “If you think that’s a date, then it’s been too long.”

  “It felt like a date. Sort of. I mean, we were in his bed.” Sprawling across Mark’s battered old quilt, so faded it was almost white, doodling on his ankle with a Sharpie while he figured out when two trains, hurtling at each other along the same track, would crash—it felt so right. Just thinking about it made Kiki’s chest hurt. How could he not feel it?

  “On his bed. With physics books and graphing calculators. Come on, Kiki—when was the last time a guy took you to dinner, then to a party?”

  “Last Saturday.”

  Jasmine groaned dramatically, like a sick cow. Still, Kiki could barely hear her over the pounding bass of “Gold Digger” thudding from Sasha’s house. They were close enough now to see dancing shadows inside one of the second-floor rooms.

  “Kiki, when your managers take you to dinner to go over contracts, then drag you to a label meet-and-greet, that is not a date! When was the last time a guy—not a manager, not a reporter, not Mark or Franklin—a real guy asked you out?”

  “Guys ask me out every day.” Usually the same guys, every day. The ones who had Temporary Insanity bumper stickers all over their lockers, even though Wentworth fined $100 per sticker at the end of the year because it was so hard to remove them.

  “I said real guys! Stupid loser stalker types who are just into you because of the band don’t count!”

  “This conversation is over,” Kiki said, stepping from the wild lawn to the concrete porch.

  “Kiki, you need to get over it. Mark isn’t the only guy in the world, and if he doesn’t want you like you want him, then—”

  “Hey!” Sasha yelled, kicking open the front door. She had a bottle of Southern Comfort in her left hand and an antique telescope in her right. Her tiny dress was made of black patent leather and her toenails were painted to match, which made her skin look even paler than it was. But her cheeks were flushed from dancing and dimpled by her huge smile.

  “You’ve got great timing,” Kiki said, giving her a hug.

  As always, Sasha’s violet curls smelled like Christmas, a mixture of clove cigarettes and vanilla shampoo. Sasha was the sweetest person Kiki knew, much nicer than Kiki was herself, and gorgeous, too—she was the only goth Kiki had ever met who didn’t need makeup to create flawless skin and blood-red lips. But Sasha had as much trouble with Wentworth boys as Kiki did, and for the same reason: they found her intimidating.

  Boys saw the black clothes, angel face, and purple hair and assumed that Sasha Silverman was wild and dangerous. They all seemed to think that Sasha would only date equally dark, poetic boys in long black trench coats, though Sasha would have been happy to date any of the geeky, quiet boys who were too afraid to talk to her. Instead, her freshman year she went out with a junior named Jake, who was too dumb to be intimidated by her, and a senior named Ben the next, who wasn’t stupid, but wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was. Sasha had put up with each of them for six months, then dumped them when she decided it was better to be single and lonely than lonely in a relationship.

  “Darling, I’ve got great everything,” she said in her mother’s fake old-Hollywood accent, then she cracked up. Her giggles rose above the thudding bass coming from—well, Kiki wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Every room was wired for sound, but she guessed that most people were dancing in the living room, off to the left. Her guess was confirmed when a tall, thin stranger came staggering from that direction with a recycling bin full of empty bottles.

  “Thomas, you don’t have to do that!” Sasha said, whirling around. Jasmine’s jaw dropped, but Kiki had to laugh, and kick herself for not taking Jasmine’s bet. Thomas was gorgeous—gorgeous!—but not at all what Kiki expected. He was black, for one thing, with skin the color of wildflower honey, and dark gold eyes like the harvest moon. And instead of gothic black, he was wearing a rose-red shirt and dark jeans, an outfit that Kiki knew hadn’t come from any mall in Nashville.

  “I don’t mind at all. But where shall I empty it?” This time, Kiki’s mouth fell open. Thomas’s low, velvety voice, which could put Franklin’s to shame, was made even more irresistible by a crisp British accent.

  “I’ll take it,” Sasha said, trying to pull the heavy bin from his grasp without setting down her drink or her telescope. “You’re not supposed to lift a finger. You’re my guest. I order you to go have fun!”

  “The kitchen’s that way,” Kiki told Thomas, waving him toward the back of the house. She and Jasmine each grabbed one of Sasha’s elbows and dragged her to the nearest bathroom for interrogation.

  “So what do you think?” Sasha asked, perched on the sink. She was giggling because she knew exactly what Kiki and Jasmine thought.

  “I think he has a twin brother,” Jasmine said as she checked to make sure the door was locked. “At least, he’d better.”

  “Set of triplets?” Kiki asked hopefully.

  “’Fraid not. One and only. Rarer than a black rose is beauty such as his. A blossom among the thorns—” She suddenly hiccupped, which was a good thing, because Kiki could see that Sasha could probably spout gothic love poetry all night about Thomas.

  “Did you meet him during the summer?” Jasmine’s voice had gone squeaky with amazement.

  “I wish. Touring churches with Grandma would have been a lot more fun if I had known he was waiting for me back at the hotel.”

  “So where did he come from?”

  “London.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean!”

  “Oh, right. He’s an exchange student, over at Carroll Academy.”

  “What were you doing at Carroll?” It was an all-boys prep school that beat Wentworth year after year in football. That annual game was the only time Wentworth students saw the Carroll boys. Carroll had a sister school, called Quincy Hall, that shared Carroll’s dances and drama department.

  “I didn’t meet him at Carroll. What difference does it make how we met?” Sasha was blushing again, and not from happiness. Kiki wondered what the big secret could possibly be, since Thomas was not a member of the mafia or the MuzikMafia, and definitely was not a troll.

  “Um, hello—who is single here? Is it everyone? We need information!” Jasmine pointed out.

  “Oh, I don’t think you’d really be interested in how I met Thomas.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jasmine squealed. “Sasha—”

  All three of their cell phones suddenly beeped.

  “Camille,” they all said, before they even checked to see the text message. Of course it was Camille, asking them, Where y’at?

  While Jasmine tried to explain which of Sasha’s seven bathrooms they were in (in fewer than one hundred and twenty-five letters), Kiki watched Sasha stare at the door. She had never seen Sasha so happy about a guy. Yes, she was drunk, but Kiki had seen Sasha drunk around Jake and Ben, the two guys she had gone out with before, and it wasn’t the same. Sasha was always slightly different around Ben and Jake, a little too quiet, not as giggly, not as confident. Sasha would never have ordered them to go have fun, even in jest.

  “So what’s up with you and Thomas?” Kiki finally asked.

  Sasha gazed down at her, with nothing but happiness in her gray eyes.

  “I am in love. At long last. Sasha, Queen of Loneliness, has found the one.”

  “How do you know he’s the one?” asked Jasmine.

  A loud banging on the door kept Sasha from answering. Jasmine unlocked the door and let in Camille.

  “Thought you could use these,” Camille said, handing around icy cans of Diet Coke. They each poured an inch or two into the sink, then made up the difference with Southern Comfort.

  Anyone at Wentworth would say that Kiki, Jasmine, Sasha, and Camille were the hottest girls in the junior class. People called them the Pussycat Posse, even though that annoyed all four of them, especially Kiki—she’d rather be compared to a band with some musical talent than to the Pussycat Dolls. Still, whether they like
d it or not, the name stuck and the girls managed to make it their own. Sometimes, though, Kiki was curious how Camille got lumped in with them. She was the only one who was pretty in an ordinary, everyday sort of way, so she was the only one the boys felt comfortable with. They might want to sleep with all four of them, but they only wanted to date Camille.

  “So . . . how do you know he’s the one?” Jasmine repeated after taking a swig of her drink.

  “You know the perfect fit when you feel it,” Camille answered for Sasha. “Same with jeans as it is with boys.”

  “You know how they got together,” Jasmine said accusingly.

  Kiki knew Jasmine was right: Sasha must have told Camille the truth about Thomas. Camille was more likely to compare boys to video games (fun when they’re new, uninteresting once you win them) or cake (tasty, but bad for you) than to clothes. Kiki, Jasmine, and Sasha would use the clothes comparison, but not Camille. That had to be a comparison Camille picked up from Sasha.

  Sasha gave Camille a piercing glare.

  “I didn’t say anything!” Camille squealed in self-defense.

  “You know you’re going to tell us sooner or later, so spill it,” Jasmine said.

  Sasha pursed her lips, but Jasmine’s icy glare finally got to her.

  She threw her head back, took a sip from her spiked soda, then exploded. “All right! I met him online!” She finished off her drink, then glared at Kiki and Jasmine. “Go ahead! Laugh!”

  Kiki met Jasmine’s eyes in the mirror and raised her eyebrows. Jasmine’s jaw had dropped. Kiki knew just how she felt. She had always thought that online dating was for old maids desperately searching for someone to marry, not gorgeous teenagers like Sasha and Thomas.

  “We’re not laughing, Sash,” Kiki said thoughtfully. “I mean, yeah, we wouldn’t want you going out with some old perv you met on MySpace, but Thomas . . . Thomas . . .”

  “Thomas is hotter than a biscuit! You met him online?” Jasmine squealed in amazement. “Where?”

  “There’s this site, called HelloHello. These girls I know from the gym told me about it. It’s not like MySpace. You have to be invited to get on by two people who’re already members . . . that keeps the pervs off. Most people on the Nashville site are in private schools, which makes sense—most of us have been going to school with the same seventy-five people since kindergarten, and it’s hard to meet people outside of school. But it’s not just a dating site. You can post what you want—pictures, profile, whether you’re just there to connect with people in your area, or if you’re looking for love or whatever. And you just shop, sort of, for what you’re looking for. It’s fun.”

  “I think it’s awesome,” Camille said, sliding her arm around Sasha’s waist. “Can you and Thomas invite me?”

  “Of course!” Sasha said.

  Jasmine gaped at Camille. “Why would you need to look online for a guy? Everybody wants to go out with you!”

  Camille shrugged. “I’ve already gone out with everyone datable at Wentworth.”

  They all laughed, though it wasn’t strictly true.

  “What about Franklin?” Kiki asked. “He’s hot.” Kiki knew that Franklin would go out with Camille in a heartbeat.

  Camille’s nose wrinkled. “Franklin is probably crawling with disease. Definitely not Franklin.”

  “You haven’t gone out with Mark,” Jasmine pointed out, grinning evilly at Kiki in the mirror.

  “Kiki’s Mark? Are you kidding?”

  “Yes, she’s kidding.” Kiki punched Jasmine in the shoulder. She screeched as if Kiki had stabbed her.

  “What’s the holdup with Mark now?” Camille asked. That was a sign of how drunk she was—they had had a million conversations about Mark’s inability to see Kiki as anything other than a bandmate and a friend.

  Kiki, Jasmine, and Sasha all sighed.

  “No, I know all about Judy the tour-bitch and how you can’t get together on tour, and how he somehow failed to notice that you’ve turned into a total hottie over the years.” Camille rolled her eyes. “But what’s stopping you from marching into the game room right now, dragging him away from the pool table, and telling him what he’s missing? Why don’t you just ask him out?”

  “What do you mean?” Kiki said. “I ask him out all the time!”

  “Not out for coffee at that greasy, all-night place you like,” Camille said. “Out out. Ask him to a show, no Franklin, no groupies, no us—ask him to take you to the movies! Anything! Just make sure he knows it’ll be a date.”

  “But then he’ll say no.”

  “No, he won’t. He’ll kick himself for being so stupid for the last three years.”

  Kiki shook her head. “No way. I know him a lot better than you do. He has to feel like everything is his idea. It’ll weird him out completely if I make the first move.” It was one of the very few things that annoyed her about Mark, along with his unwillingness to notice her as anything other than a best friend.

  “Then you can go out with Cowboy Troy,” Jasmine pointed out.

  “Huh?” Sasha asked.

  Camille waved her soda can at Jasmine. “Jazz, you need to call Cowboy Troy. You’ve been talking about him for months. And Kiki, you need to either ask Mark out or get over it. He’s getting in your way.”

  “He’s not stopping me from going out with other people. I went out with Jason Wrightman for most of last year.”

  “You know you never really gave him a chance.”

  Kiki couldn’t argue with that. The lead singer of Beautiful Youth was cute, smart, and hilarious, and he understood the demands of a musician’s schedule perfectly. But between his gigs and Kiki’s, they barely managed to see each other, and when they did Kiki always wished that Mark liked her half as much as Jason did. Kiki even slept with Jason a few times, mostly because she hoped making love would make her fall in love, but it never happened. They never even broke up, not really—they just drifted apart, Kiki with the Wasted tour, and Jason heading to the European festival circuit. She missed talking to him on the phone, but that was all she missed.

  “You can do it,” Jasmine told Kiki firmly. “You can ask Mark out. And if he says no, forget him. The Internet is full of Thomases.”

  “There’s only one Thomas,” Sasha corrected her. “But the Internet is full of boys. We’ll find the right one for you.”

  “But I don’t want some random boy!” Kiki wailed. “I want Mark!”

  “Then go and get him.”

  Jasmine took the drink from Kiki’s hand and replaced it with lipstick: Hearts Afire, Kiki’s signature red. Jasmine always kept a tube in her purse for Kiki, since Kiki could never remember to bring a purse of her own. Kiki applied it carefully, fluffed her dreads, and took a deep breath.

  “Okay, that’s it. I’m going to find Mark, and when I do, I’m going to ask him out for real.”

  “Go, Kiki, go!” her friends chanted.

  Kiki set off down the hall, which seemed to be heading downhill. That was weird, because it was pretty level on the way to the bathroom. Drinking on an empty stomach was bad enough, but after a show she was always a little dehydrated, which made any drink seem twice as strong.

  “Dutch courage,” she mumbled to herself, wondering what was with the Dutch. Dutch courage. Going Dutch. Double Dutch. What did it even mean? Mark’s mom was Dutch. She liked Kiki—she gave her a pair of wooden shoes when she was eight. What was wrong with Mark?

  Kiki careened into the game room. It was packed with people, mostly guys, and strangely quiet—a lot of Wentworth guys were serious about pool. Crowded as it was, Kiki knew immediately that Mark wasn’t there. It was like a super power: Mark-sense. She would rather be able to fly.

  “Seen Mark?” she asked Charles Anderson, who was standing closest to the door. When they were in the first grade, Charles had tried to cut off one of Kiki’s pigtails. He told their teacher that he was trying to do her a favor—that maybe her hair would grow back “pretty.” Straight was what he meant. But now h
e was as awed by Kiki as everyone else. He turned purple before he managed to stutter out the news that Mark had gone home right after Camille beat him at Seven Shot.

  “Great,” Kiki sighed, and turned back to the door.

  “Do you need a ride somewhere?” piped a voice somewhere behind her.

  “No thanks.” Kiki headed for the first empty guest room she could find and crawled into bed. She would see Mark at noon the next day for a recording session. They were covering an old David Bowie song for a tribute album, but she couldn’t ask him out in front of Franklin, Franklin’s mother, their managers, the sound technicians, and everyone else at the studio. And that night, she would be locked in her bedroom, finishing a paper on The Scarlet Letter. She always saw Mark after homeroom, when she was headed to AP English and he was going to Calc.

  “I’ll talk to him on Monday,” she promised herself before falling asleep.

  Chapter 2

  Temporary Insanity

  Kiki dressed carefully on Monday morning. Wentworth didn’t have uniforms, but it did have a dress code, and it banned almost all of her clothes. She chose skinny jeans long enough to hide her four-inch-high boot heels, and a black turtleneck made of a shiny, stretchy material that clung to her curves. There wasn’t a bare inch of skin from neck to toe, once she added black lace gloves she had inherited from her grandmother, but it was a decidedly sexy outfit.

  “You’re pushing it, sweetheart,” her mother said, dropping her off at school. “What’s Dr. Eckhart going to say about that top?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got the dress code memorized,” Kiki promised. “Have fun in court!”

  Her mother made a face that kept Kiki giggling until she got to homeroom. Her mother had been a judge since Kiki was twelve, one of the first black women to win a seat on the bench in Nashville. Kiki always worried about someone she knew being arraigned in her mother’s courtroom, but it had never happened. When you were in the music business it was nice to have a mother who knew contract law like some mothers knew brownie recipes.