by Alyson Noel
“In case you don’t get it mom, I’m not going to college! I messed up my grades so bad that I can’t get a scholarship, and Dad won’t help me because he sunk all of his money into his midlife-crisis kit with his bachelor pad, his Porsche, and his girlfriend’s new boobs! And you certainly can’t help me. So why bother with high school? Why try?”
My mom just looks at me and shakes her head and says, “Because at seventeen your mistakes are not permanent. There’s no reason you can’t turn your life around.” She looks more frustrated than mad.
“Whatever,” I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“You are the only one who can make your dreams happen.” She says it quietly and emphatically and it really pisses me off.
“What’re you quoting Hallmark now?” I give her an angry look.
“I’m serious. If you want to make something of yourself, it’s going to be up to you. Don’t expect other people to help you.”
“Nobody gets it,” I scream.
“Maybe you’re the one that doesn’t get it.” She gives me a hard look and I grab my stuff and I run out of the kitchen. And when I get to my room I slam the door as hard as I can and throw my stuff against the wall and watch it fall to the ground. Then I pick up that stupid Anna K book and rip the cover off and crumple it up and toss it in the trash. Then I throw myself on my bed, and wonder if this is what “rock bottom” feels like.
Chapter 24
The next day at school I’m walking to our lunch tree and I can’t help but notice all the sparkly prom signs hanging all over campus. It’s like Tiffany and her prom crew went a little crazy with the silver glitter, and exclamation points. Apparently this year’s theme is “My Heart Will Go On” and since I’m trying to be more honest I’m just gonna come right out and say how much I despise that song, and don’t even get me started on the person who sings it.
Yet part of me also feels bad about not being able to care about this stuff. It’s like the whole damn school is so into this. I mean, the girls that aren’t going think about it just as much as the girls that are going. And I wish I could be on either one of those teams. Either the excited ones that’re busy buying their stupid celebrity-knock-off prom dresses, or the reject ones who will sit in their rooms on prom night listening to that stupid prom song over and over again and wishing they were important, and popular like Tiffany, or Amber, or maybe even M. And I wish this because if I belonged to either one of these groups that would mean that I care about something that matters to other people. That would make me someone who belongs to something. But like this, I’m totally on my own. I mean, if what they say is true, if these are truly the best years of my life, then I’m totally screwed.
M is waiting for me under the tree, with a big fruit salad her maid packed for her this morning, and just as I figured, she’s totally panicked about snagging a prom date. And there’s no way she’s asking Trevor. I mean, she might kind of like showing him off, but she’s also pretty hesitant about involving him in the more juvenile side of her life. So now she’s in a total state of emergency since she pretty much spent the better part of our junior and senior years blowing off every guy in our school that had the slightest interest in her. So now she’s gonna have to find someone from another school. Only she doesn’t really know anyone from any other school.
“Shit, what am I gonna do?” she asks.
“I thought you didn’t care about going to the prom?” I say, stealing a strawberry.
She looks at me and rolls her eyes and goes, “You know I have to go. I’m a cheerleader for god’s sake, how will it look if I don’t show up?”
“And what will you tell your grandchildren?” I reach for a piece of pineapple.
The warning bell rings but we just continue to sit there. “So what’s going on this weekend?” she asks. “Are we hanging in LA or what?”
“Maybe you are but, technically, I’m grounded,” I tell her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you but I can’t believe what I heard. Aren’t we a little too old for that?”
“That’s what I thought, but my mom has other ideas.” I take another strawberry and hand her the lid to the plastic container.
“You’re not going along with it are you?” M looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Well, actually, I’m thinking that if I’m good today and tomorrow then maybe I’ll get time off for good behavior this weekend.”
“That’s just weird,” M shakes her head.
“Tell me.”
“Have you heard from Connor?”
“No. Thanks for asking though.” I shake my head.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m kind of surprised really. You know he told Trevor that we were underage.”
“And?”
“Trevor didn’t seem to care, he thought it was kind of funny. He likes the idea of corrupting a minor. Pervert.”
I just roll my eyes. “Hey, did anything ever come of that missing stash?”
M starts gathering her things and stands up. “Yeah, my mom found it when she went to wear those shoes,” she says without looking at me.
“And you didn’t mention that until just now? What happened?”
M just shrugs, “It’s really no big deal. I’m not in trouble if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You mean she didn’t care?” I ask.
“Well, we talked about it last night on the phone, but I convinced her that I don’t have a problem and they’re not mine.”
I notice that she still won’t look at me. “What? Did you blame it on the maid?” I stand there staring at her; she’s acting really strange.
She starts walking away, then turns around and says, “No, I just said I was holding it for someone. Listen, I need to get to class. You do too. We’ll talk later okay?”
I just stand there and watch her walk away and wonder what is going on with her.
Chapter 25
So, my mom did not give me the weekend off for good behavior. Apparently she is taking this whole discipline thing very seriously. And even though I think it’s a little late in the game to start all this, the pathetic truth is that other than going to work, I don’t have anything else to do anyway.
So Sunday morning I’m sitting at my desk, working on my Tolstoy paper, if you can believe it. I even woke up early to get started on it since I spent last night in front of the TV, and everyone knows that Saturday night network TV is nothing but bad sitcoms, and bad made-for-TV movies starring former stars of bad sitcoms. I mean, you can just picture those overpaid network executives sitting around some big table, drinking mineral water and saying things like, “Just put on any old piece of shit from seven to midnight since only losers watch on the weekends.”
Well, my mom knocks on my door, and when I get up to open it she’s standing there with a strange look on her face. Then she says, “M’s here.”
I open the door wide and find M standing behind my mom and now I know what the weird look was all about. I pull M into my room and quickly close the door on my mom’s curiosity.
I watch her plop herself onto my bed and I go, “So what’s going on with you? You look, tired,” I say. Even though everyone knows that “tired” really means “awful.”
“Thanks a lot,” she says rolling her eyes. “Do you have something I can change into?”
I open a drawer and toss her a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. She strips off a tiny black dress I’ve never seen before and a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals that belong to her mother, puts on the sweats, then grabs a tissue from a box on my dresser and starts wiping off last night’s makeup.
“So you want to hear it?” She looks at me through the mirror.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I tell her.
“Okay.” She sits on my bed with one eye still made up and goes, “Trevor and I had a little argument this morning. We broke up.”
“Oh my god, what happened?” I ask.
She gets up f
rom the bed and walks toward the mirror. She stands in front of it looking at herself and then grabs a tissue and goes to work on the other eye. “You won’t even believe it,” she says.
“Tell me.”
“Start to finish? Or just the good stuff?”
“Whatever.”
“Okay, well, we were out last night having fun at this club, hanging out in the VIP room, which by the way, is so awesome, I don’t know if I can ever not be in a VIP room. Anyway, Trevor goes to the bathroom and some friend of his asks me if I want to dance. So I’m like, ‘Okay’ so we start dancing. Then Trevor comes back and when he sees me he comes over and taps me on the shoulder and says he wants to go home.”
“Why did he want to go home?”
“ ’Cause he’s an ass that’s why.” She’s finished with her eye and now she’s using my hairbrush. “So anyway, I’m having a good time and I really don’t feel like leaving, but I’m not gonna argue about it either, so I wave good-bye to his friend and follow Trevor outside. So we’re in the car driving home and he asks me if I had a good time dancing with Jake. So I go, ‘Who’s Jake?’ And he goes, ‘Jake is the guy you were dancing with.’ And I go, ‘I’m a little lost here, where are you going with this?’ And he goes, ‘I’m going nowhere, we’re going nowhere.’ And I go, ‘Whatever.’”
“What was that all about?” I ask. “That doesn’t sound like Trevor.”
“It sounds like all of them if you think about it, competitive, territorial, caveman! So then we get back to the house and do a little X.”
“You did ecstasy?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Jeez, I still can’t believe you’re doing X.”
“Don’t get all preachy on me. It’s practically easier to do X than to not do X these days. You’re like some, I don’t know, DEA wannabe.” She makes a face at me and pulls her long blonde hair back into a ponytail.
“Whatever.” I grab a magazine and start flipping through it.
“Okay, I’m sorry. Listen, I just wanted to try it. I mean, what’s the big deal? It just makes you feel really really happy. You should try it.”
“I’m already really, really happy,” I tell her.
“Alex, I don’t want to argue with you. I’ve had a long night.”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, we take the pills and we crank some music and get a little wild. You know, just running around, dancing and stuff. At some point we pass out. Then when we wake up this morning we’re rolling around under the sheets when my hand gets caught in something. So I pull my hand out from under the blanket to see what it is and hanging off of my wrist is a pair of little, pink, thong panties. I hold my hand up to the light and just look at them for a minute. Then I put my hand right up in Trevor’s face, really close you know, and I say, ‘You bastard!’ He looks like a deer caught in headlights and he’s trying to say that they’re mine.”
“But you hate pink,” I say.
“Exactly. So then I go, ‘You fucking bastard! You didn’t even change the fucking sheets!’ Then I throw the panties at him and they land on his head!” She starts laughing then. “You should have seen it. He looked like that picture of Monica Lewinsky that they always show! You know the one where she’s wearing the beret? So then I get up, grab my clothes, and go into the bathroom. Asshole is banging on the door all the while trying to get me to come out. He’s got a really good explanation he says. And all I can think of is last night when he blasts me for very innocently dancing with Jake, or whatever his name is. That is sooo typical. It’s always the guilty one who convicts!” She uses what’s left of my Dior Addict sample, dabbing it on each wrist, and lies down on my bed.
“When I finally vacate the bathroom I find him sleeping in the hall next to the door. So just as I’m trying to step over him he grabs my ankle and begs me to just please listen to him. I tell him to let go of my ankle. And he goes, ‘Just please listen to me,’ and I go, ‘Let go of my ankle or I’m gonna kick you.’ And he goes, ‘C’mon M.’ And then I kick him and I go, ‘See I told you I was gonna kick you. I’m not the liar here.’ And then I left.” She looks at me and shakes her head.
“Wow.”
“Tell me about it.”
“All of that happened last night?” I ask.
“Can you believe it?” She sits up and reaches in her purse for a cigarette.
“Don’t smoke that, my mom will freak.”
“Oh, sorry.” I watch her toss it back in her purse.
“So whose panties were they?”
“I don’t care.” She shrugs.
“Are you sure? Because it kind of seems like you do.”
“What am I supposed to do? Take them in for DNA testing?”
I just shrug. “So what are you gonna do?”
“Ignore him and act like I don’t care.”
“So you do care.”
“Of course I care! We were having such a good time together! My god, first my dad, and now Trevor. Chain of pain, it never ends.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. Hey, I’m really tired,” she says. “Do you mind if I sleep here for a little while? I don’t feel like going home.”
“Why? Are your parents there?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I’ve barely seen them all month. I just don’t feel like being alone right now.”
“Feel free,” I say.
She lies down and pulls the comforter up over her head and dozes off immediately. I sit in my chair and watch her sleep and think how weird it is that she doesn’t want to go home. I always thought M was really lucky that her parents were never around. I mean, she just has so much freedom. I guess I never realized that she might not see it as such a great thing.
It’s weird because M’s parents are still married but it’s like she’s divorced from them, and my parents are divorced but I still have my mom. I mean, even though she put me on restriction and stuff, at least I know that she cares about me.
I turn back to my desk and crack open my Tolstoy novel (with the cover still slightly crumpled but taped back on), and get back to work.
Chapter 26
After like, a week and a half of being grounded (which translates to nine days of me being on my best behavior), Friday morning finally arrived and I was praying for an early release from my mother’s sudden and inexplicable totalitarian rule. I was up, dressed, and in the kitchen grabbing a Pop-Tart to take to school when my mom walked in and said, “About this weekend.”
“Yeah?” I look up at her all nervous, positive she’s going to extend my punishment.”
“Would you be all right if I left you here alone?”
Is she kidding? “Sure,” I answer as nonchalant as possible. “Why? Are you going somewhere?”
“Your aunt Sandy invited me down to San Diego for the weekend. I’m leaving after work and I won’t be home until Sunday.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to contain my excitement.
She looks at me very seriously. “You’ve acted very mature this last week, so I’m going to end your restriction now. I hope that I can trust you while I’m gone?”
“Of course you can,” I say.
“Good.” She looks at me steadily. “Have a good day at school. I’ll see you on Sunday.” She goes into her bedroom to get dressed for work, and I can barely wait to tell M the good news.
But I don’t see her until history class since all the cheerleaders were away on some kind of school spirit field trip. So I just walk in and wave at her on the other side of the room and go to my desk. After roll call, my teacher walks up to the chalkboard and starts writing down all these random dates. And with each new one he shouts, “What happened on this date?”
And then everyone gets all competitive to see who can yell out the answer first. I’m just sitting there, staring at the chalkboard, and none of it looks familiar. I mean, the only date I’ve memorized is the one on my fake ID.
I try to look interested and inv
olved, and I even flip through my textbook trying to find an answer, but the truth is, I don’t even know what chapter we’re on. So after awhile I just give up and put my head on my desk and I stay like that until the bell rings and my teacher doesn’t say a word about it. He gives us an assignment right before he releases us but I don’t waste my time writing it down since I know I won’t be doing it anyway.
I wait for M outside the door and we walk toward the student parking lot. “What’s going on this weekend?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t have any plans, but my mom’s out of town, and I’m off restriction.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” I say.
“Wanna go to LA?” She opens her car door and throws her books in the back.
“And do what?” I ask.
“Do whatever,” she says, starting her car.
Something about the way she said that makes me suspicious, but I’m tired of being under house arrest. So against my better judgment, I throw my stuff into the back and climb in.
We’re in this boutique on Robertson when M goes, “I’ve got a plan. I’m going to nonstop shop. I’m going to swipe this credit card until it bleeds. And when the bill comes in, and my dad tries to confront me with it, well I’m just gonna inform him that I saw him with a certain redhead at the Hotel Bel Air and ask him just what he plans to do about that.”
“Uh, that’s called blackmail,” I say.
“I don’t care.”
She’s loading up on all kinds of stuff and trying to convince me to do the same. And while I may be tempted, I just don’t feel right about being part of that plan.
My job in the fitting room is to make stacks of yes’s and no’s as she rapidly works through the piles of clothes. She just sort of throws stuff on the floor when she’s done with it, kicking the piles with her foot. And it bugs me to watch her do that since I work in retail and I’m the one that has to go in later to clean it up, just like I’m doing now.