Sass & Serendipity

by Ziegler, Jennifer

  ALSO BY JENNIFER ZIEGLER

  HOW NOT TO BE POPULAR

  ALPHA DOG

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Ziegler

  Jacket art copyright © 2011 by Le Avison/Trevillion Images

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ziegler, Jennifer.

  Sass and serendipity / Jennifer Ziegler. — 1st ed.

  p. cm

  Summary: Unlike her romantic sister, Gabby is down-to-earth and does not put her trust in relationships, but when the richest boy in school befriends her, she discovers that emotional barriers might actually be getting in the way of her happiness.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89681-1

  [1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction.

  4. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.Z4945Sas 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010032349

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For my sister, Amanda

  Acknowledgments

  As it is with all my novels, I had many “birthing” coaches while I labored on this book. Yes, it is my baby, but it would not have been delivered as speedily or safely or in as good a shape if it weren’t for the following people: Stephanie Lane Elliott, who makes me a better writer; my mother and father and my husband, Carl, and our lovely children, who all make me a better person; and Erin Murphy, who so serendipitously came into my life.

  Big thanks and hugs also go to Krista Vitola, Stephanie Moss, Julie Carolan, Lisa Holden, Joe and Louise McDermott, Lisa Clayton, Kate Slaten, Gillian Redfearn, Brian Anderson, Chris Barton, Gene Brenek, Tim Crow, Debbie Gonzales, Cynthia and Greg Leitich Smith, Shana Burg, Bethany Hegedus, Varian Johnson, April Lurie, Margo Rabb, Dorothy Love, and all the members of the Austin SCBWI.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter One - Gene(sis)

  Chapter Two - Antithe(sis)

  Chapter Three - Cri(sis)

  Chapter Four - Per(sis)tence

  Chapter Five - Irre(sis)tible

  Chapter Six - Narcis(sis)m

  Chapter Seven - Analy(sis)

  Chapter Eight - Neme(sis)

  Chapter Nine - Ellip(sis)

  Chapter Ten - As(sis)tance

  Chapter Eleven - Progno(sis)

  Chapter Twelve - Neuro(sis)

  Chapter Thirteen - Parenthe(sis)

  Chapter Fourteen - Telekine(sis)

  Chapter Fifteen - Paraly(sis)

  Chapter Sixteen - Sta(sis)

  Chapter Seventeen - Hypno(sis)

  Chapter Eighteen - Cease and De(sis)t

  Chapter Nineteen - Incon(sis)tent

  Chapter Twenty - Cathar(sis)

  Chapter Twenty-one - Metamorpho(sis)

  About the Author

  I do not want people to be very agreeable,

  as it saves me that trouble of liking them a great deal.

  —Jane Austen in a letter to her sister Cassandra, December 24, 1798

  A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.

  —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  The dress in the window of Shelly’s Boutique was not a tasteful pink. It was an unnatural, overly shiny, shout-in-your-face pink. Barbie-aisle pink. Putrid-antidiarrhea-medicine pink. Slutty-disco-queen-on-LSD pink.

  Or, as the residents of Barton, Texas (population 5,853), would probably refer to it: hawt pank.

  Gabriella Rivera automatically curled her upper lip—making her tilde mouth, as her mother liked to call the expression—and muttered, “God, look at that. When did hooker fashions become formal wear?”

  Mule quit slurping down his sixty-four-ounce Dr Pepper and shrugged. “What do you expect? It’s prom season.”

  “It is not prom season,” Gabby replied. “It is the middle of March. I barely survived the big Valentine’s freak-out without throwing myself off a cliff. Now I have to see this crap everywhere for two months?” She gestured toward the display window.

  Mule considered the dresses while continuing to sip from his near-empty soda cup, making loud squelching noises through the straw.

  “Besides, prom shouldn’t even be a season,” Gabby went on. “Not like a holiday season or flu season. It’s just a dumb party.”

  “So? It’s not like you’re going anyway,” Mule pointed out. He stuck the straw back into his mouth and sucked noisily. Gabby resisted the urge to grab the monster-sized drink out of his hand and chuck it at his head. She imagined the crushed ice scattered about his brown curls, glistening like jewels, and the weak soda residue spattering his white T-shirt with the faded Captain America image on the front.

  She didn’t know why she was so annoyed with him today. His know-it-all tone was getting on her nerves even more than usual. Maybe it was because school had been extra-infuriating that day, with everyone shrieking about prom. Or maybe it was the fact that she had to go to her lame job at the lame movie theater in half an hour.

  Or maybe it was because her dad was coming for a visit at the end of the week, just like he did every third Saturday of the month. A stale routine of dinner and some sort of god-awful bonding ritual in the form of cheap entertainment—like bowling or minigolf.

  Or maybe it was because she knew her younger sister would be an off-the-charts lunatic this weekend. Daphne was usually late and unprepared. But when Dad came she’d spend hours trying on different outfits (tossing her rejects on the floor between their beds) and then sit on the porch waiting for him a half hour early—completely insensitive to their mom’s feelings. It had to sting seeing your daughter make a big gushy deal over your deadbeat ex, but did Daphne care? No. Watching her squeal and bounce over his arrival, you’d think he was rescuing her from the clutches of an ogre.

  Basically everything in Gabby’s life sucked right now. So she really didn’t want to hear Mule’s actual sucking sounds.

  “But don’t you hate all this romantic bull?” she went on, hoping to drown out the noise with her own voice. “It’s even worse than Valentine’s Day. Instead of cheap, five-dollar crap everywhere, there’s like chintzy, three-hundred-dollar crap everywhere.”

  “I don’t know,” Mule said, making a neutral half smile, half grimace. “It doesn’t bother me too much. I figure, as long as they don’t make me go, I’m okay with it.”

  Gabby sighed. Of course he would just accept it. Mule accepted everything stupid and horrible in life. Including his rotten nickname.

  Seventeen years ago, for some strange reason, every woman who gave birth to a boy in Fayette Memorial Hospital had named her son Samuel. Four boys—all in the same grade. By the end of elementary school it was all sorted out, though. Samuel Milburn got to be Sam, since he was the biggest and coolest—and he basically claimed it first. Samuel Farnsworth,
the next coolest (and most spastic), got to be Sammy. And Samuel Moore got to stay Samuel. That left a skinny, half-Jewish wiseass named Samuel Randolph with nothing but the second syllable to set him apart from the others. Thus the moniker Mule was bestowed upon him, and since none of the other Samuels had had the decency to move away, die, or get a sex change, he’d had to keep it throughout his school career.

  “What’s the theme again?” Mule asked.

  “What?”

  “This year’s prom theme. What is it?”

  Gabby made her eyes big and dumb-looking. “A Walk in the Clouds,” she said breathily.

  Mule snorted. “Sounds impractical. Why not call it Bird Crap on My Tuxedo? Or Bugs in My Teeth?”

  “A 747 Ruined My Hair!” Gabby mock screeched, grabbing her long, dark waves.

  The two of them laughed and pantomimed some more, hooking elbows and flapping their free arms. It was supersilly and totally juvenile, but Gabby didn’t care. At least she got a good laugh in before work.

  Mule was always good for that—when he wasn’t being annoying.

  Ms. Manbeck was going to lose it.

  Daphne Rivera raced down the corridor from the gymnasium, through a pair of squeaky metal doors, and up the stairs to the 200 wing. The skirt of her JV cheerleading uniform swished rhythmically about her legs and her ponytail swung in an almost complete circle.

  She was dead. Ms. Manbeck would surely kill her in some slow, torturous way. This would be Daphne’s third tardy this grading period, and her teacher was going to shriek nonstop. She’d probably do that weird twitchy thing, the one that made it look as if her face were being sucked backward into her left eye socket. She might even call Daphne’s mom.

  That was all Daphne needed. Her mom had been so stressed lately about the bills and her job. If she got a screechy phone call from Ms. Manbeck, she’d start handing out punishments as if they were Halloween candy—a you-should-know-better-young-lady lecture … grounding … cell phone confiscation … and … Oh, god! She might change her mind about letting Daphne go to prom this year! Just the thought made Daphne tuck her head for better aerodynamics and put on a burst of speed on the next flight of steps.

  It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to take so long in the bathroom. It was just that cheerleading practice had been extrahard that morning, what with the JV finals coming up. And then Sheri Purnell had told everyone that a new guy was starting school that very day—an amazing-looking new guy. So Daphne had figured she should wash her sweaty face and redo all her makeup. She had to make a good first impression, right? Some things were more important than calculating the volume of a cylinder.

  Only, what did it matter, if she ended up dead and buried with old Ms. Manbeck cackling over her grave?

  Almost there. Just a few more steps to the landing, a hard right, and a quick sprint down the hall. Daphne stared down at her tennis shoes, concentrating on propelling them as fast as they would go.

  She hit the top step and swerved right. But just as she was making the turn she collided with something big and solid and instantly bounced back. Her arms flew out to brace herself—only, there was nothing to grab. Just air. Meanwhile, all the stuff she’d been carrying scattered. Her purse plummeted out of sight, pens and papers shot everywhere, and her Cherries Jubilee lipstick soared over her head.

  It occurred to her, in a vague, oddly detached way, that she was plunging backward into the stairwell. And that she would very likely get hurt.

  Maybe Ms. Manbeck won’t be so hard on me now was her next thought.

  Then, all of a sudden, she was being yanked forward. Someone had grabbed her right arm and was pulling her with both hands. She felt herself reverse direction, her head whip-lashing slightly … until the someone lost balance. Then, just as suddenly, she was falling forward, watching helplessly as the scuffed vinyl floor came zooming into view.

  She didn’t hit the floor. Instead, she landed on a pair of khaki trousers. With legs in them.

  She glanced up at the someone. It was a male someone—a cute male someone—sitting half stunned in the empty hallway with Daphne sprawled across his thighs. His backpack and all its belongings were strewn for a couple of yards behind him.

  Daphne couldn’t talk or move. For one thing, all her breath had been pushed out of her—possibly by his knees. For another thing, her mind was having a tough time catching up with what had just happened. One moment she was tumbling toward certain bone-breaking injury, and the next moment she was lying on top of a gorgeous guy.

  This is the new kid, she realized. Sheri was right about how yummy he was. Tardy or not, Daphne was grateful she’d taken the time to get fixed up.

  The cute guy gave a somewhat cartoonish shake of his head. He blinked hard a few times and focused on her. “Whoa. Are you okay?”

  “I’m …” was all Daphne managed to say. After that her lips moved soundlessly. It was all the air and all the thought she had in her. Was she okay? She had no idea.

  “Let me help you up,” he said. He wriggled slightly and broke into a sideways grin. “Uh … then again, I guess you need to get up before I can get up.”

  “Right.” She wanted to laugh, but all that came out was some shallow panting. By now she’d regained feeling in her limbs, and she made herself crawl backward off him, carefully minding where she placed her hands.

  “Watch the stairs,” he said, grasping her forearm.

  Sure enough, her right foot was already dangling off the top step.

  “Don’t move.” He let go of her, slid his left leg out from beneath her hands, and scrambled to his feet. “I’ve got you,” he said, reaching down for her.

  Daphne, still a little dazed, slowly grabbed hold of his hands. Soon she felt that familiar yanking strength and she rose from the floor.

  “There,” he said, as he grasped her shoulders and steadied her. “All safe.” He gave her a final pat and took a step back. His mouth crooked into an awkward smile and he glanced up and down the empty hallway, as if suddenly embarrassed.

  Daphne felt as though she should say something, but she was too woozy from all the yanking and falling and handholding, and from finding herself abruptly in the arms of someone so good-looking. She studied him closely as she wavered on her feet, trying to regain her senses. Nutmeg-colored hair that swirled around his forehead and ears. Light teal eyes. Matching clefts, like tiny cleave marks, on the tip of his chin and between his nostrils. And not only was he handsome, he seemed nice, too.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “You just came around the corner and bam! It all happened so fast.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I was hurrying because I was late. I wasn’t paying attention.” She glanced back at the very deep, very solid-looking stairwell. “I can’t believe I almost fell down that.”

  A new thought occurred to her, one that slammed her almost as hard as their collision: he’d rescued her. He’d practically saved her life! It was so … romantic. Just like in the fairy tales. Just like Westley saved Buttercup in The Princess Bride. Like Superman saved Lois Lane. Like James Bond saved … well … everyone.

  She stared up at him with newfound awe. “You got me just in time.”

  “I just … you know. Reflexes. I play tennis.” A peachy-pink shade spread across the tops of his cheeks, and his eyes broke from her gaze.

  He was even kind of shy. How adorable.

  “I’m Luke, by the way. Luke Pascal. I just started here today,” he said, offering his right hand.

  Daphne stifled the urge to giggle. It seemed so formal—silly, even—considering they’d just been tangled up together on the floor. “I’m Daphne Rivera.”

  “Nice to meet you, Daphne. Again, sorry about the bruises. Can I help you pick up your stuff?”

  Before she could protest, Luke started scurrying about, snatching up her purse, her book, her notebook, and a few errant papers. Daphne managed to retrieve her lipstick and her purple gel pen, but mostly she watched him as he kept
bending over, fetching her things. She marveled at his broad shoulders inside his pale blue polo shirt, and she tried to recall the feel of his legs underneath her. He said he played tennis, so she imagined they were probably quite muscular. And tanned.

  “Here you are,” he said, holding out her things.

  “Thanks.” Daphne felt a little sad and panicked as she took the items. She didn’t want this encounter to be over yet. “Let me help you with your stuff,” she said, setting hers down. Death by Ms. Manbeck could wait.

  “No, no. I can—”

  She held up a hand to silence him. “I insist. It’s the least I can do since you saved my life.”

  He flashed her a shy grin. “All right.”

  They moved about the hallway, silently retrieving his scattered belongings. Daphne tried to prolong the moment as much as possible, allowing pencils to roll away from her and papers to slip from her fingers. Eventually she came to the last stray object: a thick, battered paperback.

  She picked it up, wiped some grime off the cover with the hem of her sweater, and stared down at the title. Sudden and severe prickles spread up her arms and over her face, concentrating in her scalp, as if each thick black hair stood wriggling in its follicle.

  “You … you’re reading Jane Eyre?” she stammered. It was a sign. It had to be. Why else would Fate drop her on top of a beautiful boy who just happened to have her hands-down alltime favorite book in the world in his possession?

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I am. Or … I was. It was required reading at the last school I went to.”

  “Oh my gosh. Don’t you just love it? It’s so …”

  “Romantic, right?” He smiled wide, and his dimples looked just like single quote marks around his mouth. “That’s what my mom always says about it. She’s crazy about that book.”