by Lara Chapman
She huffs a deep breath, and I think she’s finally getting the point.
“I can’t do it,” I say quietly, casting a quick glance at Mrs. English sorting books on the library cart.
Kristen’s frustrated expression is replaced with pleading blue eyes and a gut-wrenching look of panic. “You have to, Sarah. Please.”
I pull the Dickinson book back in front of me and flip through the pages to find where I’d left off. “I don’t have to do anything.”
She grabs my hands and squeezes tightly. “Of course, you’re right. You don’t have to. But I know you will.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, half laughing.
“We do everything for each other. And besides, it’s not like anyone will ever know except you and me.”
“That’s the problem, Kris. I’ll know.”
“Come on,” she whispers, leaning closer. “I can’t do this without you. Just read what I wrote and help me fix it. I’ll e-mail it myself.”
When she pushes the notebook closer, I finally allow my eyes to wander to the full page of writing. To say I’m surprised at the amount of writing she’s done would be an epic understatement.
Raising my eyebrows, I look up at her. “You wrote this?”
She nods excitedly, knowing she’s got me. Again. “What can I say? He’s pretty inspirational.”
Tell me about it.
Dear Rock,
Before I met you, I thought all guys were the same. They all want the same thing (and we both know what that is). But you are so different. You like to do different things, like talk and read and learn new things. That’s totally cool. Don’t get me wrong, I really liked the way you held my hand and kissed me. Really, really liked it. But I like talking to you and can’t wait to go to the Museum of Fine Arts with you this weekend.
XOXO,
Kristen
A jolt of jealousy shoots through me. They’re going to my favorite museum in Houston.
“Who’s on display at the museum?” I ask. Even though I already know, I’m curious if she has a clue.
“Rock said impressionists, which I thought sounded totally cool. I mean, I love it when Jay Thomas does his impression of Napoleon Dynamite. Hilarious!”
My eyes fix on Kristen’s, disbelieving. “Excuse me?” I whisper.
“Oh, come on. You’ve seen him do that a million times.”
I wave my hand in front of her face. “That’s not what I mean. Think about what you’re saying, Kristen. You’re going to a fine arts museum. To see impressionists.”
Worry wrinkles the taut skin on her forehead. “Oh no,” she says, slapping her hand over her mouth. “Omigod, Sarah. What was I thinking?”
It takes everything inside me to keep a straight face.
“It’s not funny, Sarah! I went on and on about how my parents took me to see a famous impressionist when I was little.”
“What was his name?” I ask.
“Rich something,” she mumbles.
“Rich Little?”
“That’s it!” She smiles happily, briefly forgetting how badly she’s embarrassed herself.
“Impersonator, not impressionist,” I tell her.
She swallows visibly. “I’m going to be sick.”
“You told Rock about seeing Rich Little?” I ask, guessing I’m 100 percent right by the look on her face.
Kristen nods, her angelic face breaking into an adorable, embarrassed grin. “He just laughed like he always does, so I thought he was agreeing with me.”
I can’t stand for her to be so miserable. There is something inside me that makes me completely incapable of letting her stay that way. Reaching across the table, I rub her hand. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure he thought you were just joking.”
“You think?” she whispers.
“Positive,” I answer with fake enthusiasm. “Let’s check out this letter.” Because, let’s face it, there’s no way I can refuse now. I don’t have the heart to back out on her when she needs me so badly.
I scan the words again before taking a deep breath to speak quietly across the table that separates us. “Well, it’s definitely better than the last one.”
She nods, the frown of a few short seconds ago replaced with a self-satisfied smile that would make Miss America proud. “You can say that again.”
I reread the first couple of lines. “I like your first sentence,” I tell her honestly. Grabbing the pencil from my hair, I circle the sentence. “We can definitely keep that one.”
“And the rest?” she asks. I can tell she’s worried I’m going to tear it apart, revealing a rare insecurity, and my heart melts.
“Well, the message is really good, but we just need to reword it a little.”
I pick up the notebook and walk to the computers, Kristen close on my heels. She’s clapping her hands quietly behind me. “Thank you, thank you!” she nearly squeals, drawing a loud “Ssshhh” from Mrs. English.
When I pull out the chair to the only open computer, Kristen slides onto the chair with me. “Hover much?” I ask.
“There aren’t any other seats,” she complains.
After she signs on to her e-mail account, I pull the keyboard in front of me and stare at the blank e-mail filling the screen. I glance at the paper lying on the counter next to our computer and retype the first sentence, then let the words flow.
Straight from my heart.
Before I met you, I thought all guys were the same—shallow and self-centered. But you’re nothing like that. You’re intelligent, considerate, and generous. When you smile at me, it’s like no one else exists and the world is reduced to just the two of us. There’s so much I want to know about you and I’m going to treasure every minute of our time together. I don’t know if it’s the soft lighting or the artistic passion lining every wall, but there is something uniquely romantic about going to a museum together.
I do my best to lean back to study the screen and wind up squashing Kristen. But she’s so completely caught up in what I’ve written she doesn’t even notice.
“Oh. My. God.” She squeezes me in a way-too-tight hug from behind. “You are freaking amazing, Sarah.”
Shrugging my way out of the hug, I shake my head. “Not so much.” If I’m so amazing, why can’t Rock see it?
“How’d you know exactly what I was thinking?” she says, but doesn’t wait for my answer. “Maybe I should study famous impressionists before our date.”
“You’ll be fine,” I insist. But I wonder if I’m subconsciously setting her up, when she’s so out of her element. Then I remember their meeting in front of the cafeteria and realize the museum will only serve as a beautiful backdrop for their unfolding relationship. Nothing more.
People like Kristen and Rock don’t discuss art. They are art.
“Want to add anything else?” I ask, cursing myself for falling into this disaster again. The warm and fuzzy need to protect Kristen has been replaced by pity. Not attractive.
“Just my name,” she says, reaching over and typing in the XOXO before her name.
I can’t watch her click Send, knowing I’m just as deceitful as Kristen in this absurd scheme, so I make my way back to the table where I left my books.
If Rock ever finds out, we’ll both be booted from his world.
My cell phone is ringing when I walk into the house after school. I drop my backpack and purse on the floor before answering.
“Hello?”
“Sweetie, it’s Mom. Can you do me a favor?”
“Depends,” I say, wishing I’d let the call roll to voice mail. Mom’s favors are never simple. The last time she asked me for a favor, I wound up standing in line at the DMV for over an hour.
She heaves a sigh of frustration, like I’m a total pain in her size-two pants. “What kind of answer is that?”
“An honest one,” I reply, pulling a soda from the fridge.
“Very funny,” she says, stern-mother voice piercing the phone line.
“What do you need?” I
ask.
“Can you deliver dinner for me and Jen? And bring something for yourself, too. We’ll eat together after the six o’clock.”
“Late night?” I ask.
“Filling in for Lisa on the ten o’clock.”
“Sure,” I say, glad I don’t have to cook. Normally, I wouldn’t mind cooking, but this has been one of those days where I could totally use a break. “What do you want?”
“Cobb salads from Mama’s Café.”
“Dressing?”
“Just some lemon juice,” she says. Mom says eating a salad with dressing is like having a Diet Coke with your double-patty burger and extra-large fries.
“On my way,” I say, grabbing my purse from the floor and opening the front door as I end the call.
By the time I make it to the station, Mom’s already in her seat behind the news desk and Vic has started the ten-second countdown. Mom gives me a small wink, then focuses her attention on the camera.
I quietly set down the bag containing our salads and cruise to my usual spot, ready to watch Mom in action. Just as Vic counts down from three, Jen blows through the door, grabbing everyone’s attention. She offers an embarrassed wave and sits next to me as Mom assumes her newscaster persona on cue.
Jen leans close, hooking her arm with mine. “Call me crazy, but I love watching the news live.”
I keep my eyes on Mom, a warm smile lighting her face. Feel-good story time. “Me, too.”
“Especially your mom. She’s amazing.”
I nod, appreciating her recognition like a proud parent. “There’s nothing like seeing her in action.”
We watch in comfortable silence as Mom and David deliver Houston’s headlines with a precision most often seen on the national news level.
“So, she’s never been married?”
Instead of answering her, I put my finger to my lips in a useless attempt to quiet her.
“What about your dad?” she continues, eyes focused on me.
“He’s never been around,” I say, easily regurgitating the excuse I’ve used for seventeen years.
“That’s too bad. She must get lonely.”
My eyes move from Mom to Jen. “She doesn’t have time to be lonely. You know what this job’s like.”
Jen shifts her attention back to the anchor desk, a serious look marring her beautiful face. “You’d think she’d want to move to a smaller market. Less hours, less stress.”
I give Jen a look that lets her know exactly how insane that statement is. Mom would go nuts in a smaller market. I’ve asked Mom why she never got married, but she says she married her job decades ago. There was never any room for a husband.
Jen squeezes my arm still looped in hers, sitting forward in her seat and dragging me with her. “My piece is coming up,” she says excitedly.
I turn my attention to the big screen behind Mom and David, where Jen’s Vogue-worthy face appears. The caption “Overcrowded Animal Shelter” is visible at the bottom of the screen.
“Oh my God, I look—” she begins, her face contorted as she studies herself.
“Amazing? Spectacular?” I softly fill in the blank with the obvious adjectives.
She looks at me like I’ve just told her I was naming my firstborn after her. “You’re too sweet.”
Jen watches herself on the screen, eyes drawn together critically. How in the world could she possibly think she looks anything less than gorgeous? It’s obvious the camera loves her all-American looks, and her accent is just right for Texas. Not too northern, with a hint of southern charm. It’s easy to see how she got tapped for a move from Texarkana to Houston after six months. She was born to be on-screen. In fact, she kind of reminds me of an older, brunette Kristen.
When the news wraps, Mom unclips her microphone and practically skips to where Jen and I are sitting. “My two favorite girls,” she gushes. “Awesome piece today, Jen.”
Jen smiles at Mom, clearly flattered. “Thanks, Beth. But I think you might be right. It’s time to add some highlights. My hair looked completely drab.”
“Call Zander. Just tell him I sent you and he’ll fit you in.”
When I grab the take-out bag of salads, Mom wraps a thin arm around me, pulling me close in a way that I love. “How was your day, Sarah?”
“Fine,” I say, giving her my usual nondescript answer.
She sighs impatiently. “That’s all I get?”
“It was school, Mom. It’s not like I went to the Grammys.”
“Very cute,” she says with a playful bump of her hip to mine as the three of us reach her office.
I place the bag on the large coffee table and unload the trio of salads, two with lemon juice, one with fat-free Italian. Settling into the overstuffed burgundy chair, I pull the lid off my salad and pour on the dressing. Lots of it.
“Sarah,” Mom warns, hating that I won’t jump on the lemon-juice-or-bust bandwagon.
“It’s fat free,” I say through a mouthful of salad.
Jen and Mom sit in the chairs opposite me in impossibly proper positions, like they’re eating with the Queen of England.
“Don’t you want to change clothes?” I ask.
“Still have another newscast,” Mom says before turning her attention to her newest protégé. “Jen, tell Sarah about the scholarship.”
“Oh yeah!” she says. “A while back, your mom told me you like to write. I love to write, too. That’s what got me turned on to journalism in the first place. Anyway, I was researching a story on the rise in college tuition and the limited academic scholarships available to graduating seniors. That’s when I found out another affiliate right here in Houston offers a five-thousand-dollar scholarship to journalism majors.”
My eyes pop out in surprise. “It must be a new one, because I’ve never heard of it and I’ve done tons of research.”
“It is; this is the first year,” she says, salad still unopened. “I’ll get you the forms. You have to write an essay. It should be a snap for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful that someone like Jen is around. Not just for me, although I completely adore her, but for Mom.
Because it looks like she’s finally got a friend she can trust.
Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.
—KAHLIL GIBRAN
Chapter Twelve
My phone signals a text message while I’m brushing my teeth the following morning. Mom is already back at work, so in the quiet of the empty house the bird-chirp tone is hard to miss, even with the water running.
I don’t have to guess who it is, and I almost ignore it altogether, but curiosity gets the best of me.
Got a FB message from R. Do your thing.
I stare at the screen and consider my options. I can either log on and get it over with, or ignore the message until she guilts me into doing it two hours from now. Either way, I’m cornered. I click Reply.
You owe me.
Pulling my laptop from the nightstand, I bang my fingers on the keyboard to release some pent-up frustration. But if I’m totally honest, I’m anxious to see Rock’s reply to my question. I realize he thinks he’s talking to Kristen. Still, it’s a brief, guilty glimpse into what it’s like to be her.
I log on to Facebook and open the message from Rock to Kristen.
That was the best answer ever. I’ll give you the flight time as long as you take me with you. I’ve never been to Hawaii but it’s on my list of places to see before I die. I think my last day to live would be spent doing something similar, but it would definitely include fishing with my dad. I know some people would rather go skydiving or something equally dangerous, but where’s the thrill when you know you’re going to die in twenty-four hours? No, I’d rather spend that time with the people who mean the most to me.
Now for your question … You think I ask tough questions? Yours made me do some thinking about things I was trying to forget. Thanks for nothing. JK. The worst thing anyone has done to me has to be the time my best friend
in Atlanta decided the only girl worth dating in our school of two thousand people was the girl I happened to be seeing. It destroyed our friendship. That’s why I envy your friendship with Sarah; it’s obvious she would do anything for you. That kind of friend is hard to find. Until my friend put me through that last year, I thought he was that kind of friend. But it just goes to show you never really know someone until things get tough or, in my case, you both want the same thing.
Next question: What is the first thing you notice about people?
See you tomorrow, gorgeous.
Even after I’ve read Rock’s message three times, my pulse is sky high. The fact that he was hurt by someone stealing his girlfriend drives home the fact that I’m not near the friend he thinks I am. Or even the kind of friend Kristen thinks am I. That she deserves. If Rock—or, God forbid, Kristen—knew the reality of what I was actually feeling, I’d never be able to face either one of them. Add to that this deceitful little scheme Kristen’s talked me into and I’m in full self-hate mode.
But at this point, I’ve gone too far to back out now. And in a totally twisted way, I love the chance to “talk” to Rock like his girlfriend, no matter how impossible that is. So with a healthy dose of disgust, I click Reply and, as Kristen puts it, do my thing.
It’s hard to imagine you being vulnerable. For what it’s worth, I think you’re better off without the friend and the girlfriend.
Did I really just type that? I’m freaking talking about myself, for crying out loud! Ugh, I’m scum. Still, my scum-covered fingers get back to work.
The first thing I notice about people is their eyes. That’s definitely the first thing I noticed about you, along with every other girl in the room. Especially when I saw you face-to-face. There was something in your eyes that captivated me … the color was definitely part of it, but it was more about the spark in your eyes. I could just tell you’d be someone I’d like, and I was right. Most people don’t notice that about me, of course. It’s hard to get to the eyes when there are much bigger things to notice about my face.