Boy Shopping

by Nia Stephens

  “Hey,” Kiki said, heading straight for him. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged, shyly, she thought. “You were so intense about the whole Pink Floyd thing. I saw in the paper that they were doing this, so I decided to see what’s so great about them.”

  Kiki could feel herself blushing. She had assumed that his whole “felt a real connection” thing just meant that he hadn’t had a chance to get in her pants yet, and he didn’t want to quit seeing her until he had. Maybe they did share a deep connection—she felt like they did—but then she remembered how different they actually were.

  “If you want the real Pink Floyd experience, you have to see The Wall.” Kiki said. “It’s this movie they did—very strange. The soundtrack, though, is completely amazing.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Josh admitted.

  “Yes, you have.” She sang the “We don’t need no education” chorus, which he recognized instantly. It was one of those songs everyone had heard somewhere, even if they didn’t know who wrote it.

  “What section of the video store is it in?”

  “Musicals, probably.” She laughed. “At least, I think so.” There was a world of difference between the vaginas on legs in The Wall and the dance numbers in Oklahoma! and Annie, but it was mostly music.

  “Tell you what,” Kiki said, slipping her arm in his. “I have it on DVD. Want to skip this and watch it at my place?”

  “Are you sure?” he asked warily.

  “Sure I’m sure,” she said. “‘Watch a movie’ is not code for a drunken sexual rampage. I really am inviting you over to watch a movie.”

  “Cultural education?” he asked.

  “Riiiiight.”

  But once they got in the car, Kiki remembered the whole might-be-a-criminal thing. She wouldn’t want to introduce her mother to someone she’d already met in the courthouse.

  “So, uh, I heard something weird at the party,” she said as they pulled out of the parking lot. “About how you once got busted for heroin?”

  He snorted at that. “Yeah, I got busted for heroin. Except that it wasn’t actually heroin, and I didn’t exactly get busted.”

  “What happened?” Kiki asked, impressed that he was willing to admit to it outright.

  “I did get arrested,” Joshua explained, “but not because they thought I had drugs. I got arrested because I was driving home from a team party and I was pretty wasted. I pulled over to sleep it off. A cop knocked on my window about five in the morning. I had sobered up by then, but apparently you’re not supposed to sleep in cars on the side of the road. I got a little angry, because I’d pulled over so I wouldn’t endanger anyone, and here’s a cop hassling me for it. We kind of got into it, so then they decided to search the car. They found a bag of creatine powder that I had because I was trying to bulk up, and assumed it was heroin. They eventually dropped all the charges, but that was about the worst hangover of my entire life.” Josh laughed at the memory.

  “So you didn’t get sentenced to community service?”

  “Of course not. Is that what you thought? That I had to do volunteer work?”

  “Well, yeah, I wondered.”

  “I won’t say that I’m only doing it out of the goodness of my heart. I’ve got some selfish reasons for doing it too. It will look great on my college applications. But no one makes me do it.”

  Kiki smiled. “Good to know.”

  Kiki’s phone beeped, indicating an incoming text message.

  “Oh my God! I forgot to tell Mark and Franklin that I’m not coming.”

  “So you guys are really close, huh?” he asked while she typed.

  “Sometimes. It’s like being a family. We fight a lot, but we’re stuck together, so we have to work things out sooner or later.”

  “Like being on a team,” he grinned.

  “Exactly. Well, not exactly,” she added. “If Franklin got wasted we would never let him drive anywhere.”

  Josh laughed, although Kiki wasn’t kidding. “You don’t understand,” he explained. “I was probably the least toasted of the entire party. We were all really, really drunk.”

  “I figured.” Kiki shared a few of her own Bad Things That Happen When You Drink stories, most of which involved her and Mark trying to save Franklin from fistfights with bouncers and angry boyfriends. They laughed all the way to Kiki’s house.

  Her mother had finished trimming the shrubs in front of the house, which meant she was tending to her precious rose garden in the backyard, getting the rose bushes ready for the winter. She always left the back door open when she gardened, just in case the house line rang, so Kiki elbowed Josh in the ribs when he practically screamed, “Where’s the liquor cabinet ?” as soon as they walked in.

  “Shh,” she hissed, jerking a thumb towards the kitchen. “My mom’s around here somewhere.”

  “Where’s the liquor cabinet?” he stage-whispered, wandering around the crowded living room curiously.

  “My parents just drink wine.”

  “Wine rack?”

  “In the kitchen, but they know how many bottles they have.”

  “I’m going on a beer run, then. What kind do you like?”

  She shook her head in amazement. “Josh, it’s one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Why are you in such a rush to start drinking?”

  He looked equally confused. “It’s Sunday afternoon—why wouldn’t I be drinking?”

  Kiki sank onto the couch. She couldn’t believe she was having this discussion. She had just told him that her mother was there, and he wanted to go buy a six-pack? “If you go out that door to buy beer, don’t bother coming back.”

  “What is your issue? The drink in your hand didn’t bother you last night.”

  “There’s a difference between drinking and being a drunk! I’d never drink so much that I would force a friend who didn’t know anyone else at a party to find a ride home in the middle of the night. And I don’t drive drunk either—even Franklin has never been that stupid. There is such a thing as drinking responsibly!”

  “Fine,” he said, heading for the door. “If you’ve got to judge everybody from your high-and-mighty point of view, be my guest! You’re such a snob, Kiki. See you later.”

  Kiki was tempted to chase him out the door and explain exactly what it meant to be a snob, but it didn’t seem worth it.

  “So who’s your friend?” her mother asked, popping her head into the living room.

  “He’s not my friend,” Kiki said, closing her eyes wearily. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Everything from ‘Wine rack?’ on, I think.” Kiki felt her mother settling onto the couch next to her.

  “Am I grounded?”

  “For drinking last night? You probably should be. You know how your father and I feel about that.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you guys never drank at all before you were legal.”

  Kiki’s mother raised one carefully plucked eyebrow.

  “Aunt Josephine told me about the night you two got trashed at Aunt Meredith’s cotillion,” Kiki said.

  “All about that night?”

  “Everything. Including the part where you disappear with Aunt Meredith’s escort after drinking an entire bottle of champagne by yourself.”

  “That was your father,” her mother said, blushing.

  “Nope. You met Dad at Aunt Josephine’s cotillion.”

  “You know that drinking is against the law, and that it would be very embarrassing for me if you were caught drinking. Not to mention bad for you,” her mother said sternly. “On the other hand, I’m proud of you.”

  “Really?” Kiki examined her mother’s face carefully to make sure she wasn’t kidding. She had an odd sense of humor. But the smile on her face seemed to be all about love. “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t take a ride with someone who had been drinking. Because you called your friend out on what certainly sounds like some very problematic drinking habits. Because you actually know what it means
to drink responsibly.”

  “So I’m not grounded?”

  “No, you’re not grounded.” She slung an arm around Kiki’s shoulders for a little half hug. “But if I hear you’ve been drinking again, I’ll tell your father. And he doesn’t need to hear about Aunt Meredith’s cotillion, either.”

  Dumping Josh was definitely the right decision, even if Kiki doubted her choice. Turn to page 181 to find out what would have happened if Kiki had decided to stick with Josh, or to page 57 to choose another boy.

  Chapter 4

  Michael

  “Online dating just isn’t for me,” Kiki announced, leaning past Sasha to turn off the screen. “It’s not like I really have time to date anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” Jasmine shrilled. “What are you so busy with now?”

  “Physics,” Kiki said, plopping back down on her bed. “And I have rehearsal at Franklin’s in half an hour.”

  “Kind of late, isn’t it?” Sasha asked, turning the screen back on to check the clock.

  “Franklin had a doctor’s appointment right after school.”

  “Checking on his venereal diseases?” Jasmine leered.

  “You want to know the truth?” Kiki asked, putting her homework away.

  “Well, duh!” Jasmine exclaimed.

  “Franklin’s at the dermatologist’s.”

  The girls all gasped.

  “But I’ve never even seen him with a pimple!” Sasha said.

  “Not anymore. But apparently when he was in the eighth grade at Kenwood, they called him ‘Spongeface.’ ”

  “Well, what do you know?” Camille said, with a strangely thoughtful expression. Kiki had a bad feeling that Camille might actually give Franklin a chance.

  “Don’t start feeling sorry for him,” Kiki warned her. “He’s still a man-slut.”

  “But if he’s only like that because kids used to make fun of him . . .”

  “Don’t be a doofus, Cam. Franklin isn’t some tortured soul walking around in the body of a rock star. He’s about as deep and complex as a sock puppet,” Kiki pointed out. “But he is a nice guy.” It was odd but true. Franklin had put his dweeby past behind him in a way that Mark never had, and probably never would. “And he’s usually a lot of fun.”

  “Like Michael?” Sasha asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Yes, like Michael. But I never said I wanted to date Franklin either.”

  “Of course, Michael isn’t riddled with disease,” Sasha said. “Hopefully.”

  “Not that I’m ever going to find out. Seriously, guys, I can’t go out with someone who—” Kiki was interrupted by her cell phone. “That’ll be Mark. Time to roll.”

  “Can’t,” Sasha said, typing fast. “I’m working on an e-mail.”

  “You can e-mail Thomas from your house. I’ve got to run. Jasmine, what are you looking for in there?”

  By the time Kiki had pried Sasha from the computer and Jasmine from her closet, Mark was waiting downstairs.

  “Hello, Mark,” Jasmine said, smirking. Kiki was beginning to wonder if telling Jasmine that Mark was going to ask her out had been a good idea.

  “Uh, hi, ladies,” he said, turning a strange shade of red. “Kiki, you ready?”

  “Sure. Everyone’s leaving. Goodbye.”

  Kiki almost shoved the Pussycats out the door, not wanting to meet Camille and Sasha’s curious stares—they were also trying to decide if Mark was actually interested in Jasmine.

  The ride to Franklin’s house wasn’t comfortable. Mark was fidgeting with the steering wheel again, but he was talking, at least—this time, about their next album. They were going to spend Christmas break in the studio, two weeks of eighteen-hour days. They had to make every second count, since their next chance to do a major recording would be spring break, and the album was supposed to hit shelves in early May. They had done most of the writing over the summer, and they were already putting together scratch recordings for the label, but every song had to be session-ready by December 20. That was why Franklin had flipped out when Kiki skipped practice earlier that week, and why this was the worst possible time for the band to have relationship issues.

  “Mark, try to chill,” Kiki said when they arrived at Franklin’s house. “Rock isn’t supposed to sound uptight.”

  “It isn’t supposed to sound bad either, which it will if we don’t get in some practice time.”

  Franklin was noodling on his guitar when they walked into the music room, working on “Foxfire,” which they also called “the song that never ends.” They had been playing with it for more than six months. Everyone—the bandmates, A&R, even their managers—agreed that there was something there. Franklin’s melody line was haunting, and the time signature—9/8, compound triple time—was more than weird enough to keep Kiki interested. But they had never come up with an arrangement everyone liked.

  Halfway into this practice, Franklin started playing around with the lyrics to “Foxfire”—lyrics Mark had written—just to try something new. They played through to the end of the song, and instead of taking it again from the top, Mark stalked over to Franklin’s music stand and ripped the battered notebook from it.

  “Problem, Mark?” Franklin asked warily.

  “I’m trying to see where that line about pale green eyes came from. I don’t remember writing that line.”

  Kiki tucked her drumsticks into her waistband and sat back on her stool; she could tell this was going to take a minute.

  “I just made it up, dude. The break is too boring without any vocal.”

  “You may think that your voice is necessary for every single measure, but some things sound better when you just shut up.”

  Franklin rolled his eyes in Kiki’s direction, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. She had no desire to get involved.

  “Dude, the break is boring. Either it needs some vocal, or something real interesting needs to happen in the melody line, or we should just cut it. But it’s still not working the way it’s written.”

  “Kiki, what do you think?” Mark asked in the false, sugary voice he sometimes used when he was trying not to scream.

  “I think that I’m having some issues with the rhythm section. I don’t like how the lead in—”

  “I asked you about the break.” He was squeezing his lyrics notebook so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

  “And I am not going to fight with you two about it, unless you decide to make it a drum solo.” Kiki shrugged and slumped farther back on her drum stool.

  “Thanks for being so helpful. Do you realize we’re supposed to be in the studio—”

  “Yes, Mark, I do. But refusing to consider the possibility that Franklin might be right and you might be wrong, won’t get us into the studio any faster.”

  “You would take his side,” Mark growled.

  “I’m not taking a side—I really don’t know what to do to this song. I’m just suggesting that you listen to Franklin for once.”

  “If Franklin had one shred of musical theory to back up—” Mark paused when he noticed that Kiki was not only ignoring him but had actually gotten up to walk away.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’m going upstairs to check my e-mail,” she said, carefully clambering around her drum kit. The music room wasn’t small, but the drums were crammed into a corner, and Kiki never got around to moving them. “Come and get me when you’re ready to play.”

  “Kiki, this is no time to throw a temper tantrum.”

  “I’m not the one who’s having a tantrum, Mark. I’m being serious. I don’t know what to do about the song’s structure, and I don’t really care, beyond working out better beats. When you two have an arrangement you like, give me a call, then we can work on the percussion. But I am not going to be a part of another stupid argument.”

  Mark continued to whine, even as Kiki shut the door behind her very carefully, so that Mark couldn’t accuse her of slamming it. After breathing deeply for thirty seconds a
nd shaking the tension out of her shoulders, she wandered through arctic-white hallways and staircases to Franklin’s filthy bedroom. Ignoring piles of clothes large enough to make her look like an infrequent shopper, she picked her way across the chaos to Franklin’s desk. It was actually pretty clean, because Franklin rarely sat there longer than it took to check his friend requests on MySpace.

  Kiki logged into her e-mail, and was surprised to see a message from someone called mvideostar@telalink.net. She assumed it had something to do with the video they did for “Friday Night Special”; otherwise she wouldn’t have opened it.

  “Hey,” it began.

  Thanks for e-mailing me. I know my profile says that I’m looking for more party buds, not a girlfriend, but when a rock star like you says hello, a guy reconsiders. If you need some good times, I’m your man. Are you busy tomorrow night?

  —Michael

  Kiki had speed-dialed Sasha before she finished reading the second sentence.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Sasha said, instead of hello.

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure you don’t know half of what I’m going to say, since I’ve learned more bad words from roadies than you picked up visiting churches with your grandma, but I think you’re going to get my point,” Kiki said through clenched teeth.

  “Please don’t be mad, Kiki. You know I don’t like to meddle—”

  “Then why did you?” Kiki screeched.

  “Because sometimes the last thing you think you’d ever want is exactly what you need.”

  “So you think Michael and I are going to ride off into the sunset? Do you see marriage in our future?”

  “No, but I think you’ll have a good time with him. Don’t you ever get tired of being serious all the time?”

  “I’m a drummer, Sasha, not an executioner.” She paused, then added, “I’m not Mark.”

  “Not yet. And don’t tell me that you don’t get tired of his all-work-no-play thing. I know you do. In fact, since you’re reading e-mail in the middle of practice, my guess is that they’re already driving you crazy. Let me guess: Mark thinks Franklin’s being stupid, and Franklin thinks some rodent crawled up Mark’s ass and died?”