"Just another one of your vapid magazines," my mother said, disapproval dripping from her voice. "Elle or something?" She sighed. "I really wish you'd consider reading that was a little more...inspiring."
"Elle is inspiring," I defended. "Every time I read, I'm inspired to buy a new pair of jeans or get my bangs cut."
My mother shook her head mournfully, as if I'd just presented her with a lifetime membership to the NRA.
"There's a whole world out there that has absolutely nothing to do with fashion tips and the red carpet," she informed me.
I looked around the room, at the green felt bags and the framed-yes, framed-Greenpeace posters hanging on the walls ( may the forest be with you and save our planet from corporate greed).
"No kidding," I muttered, turning toward the steps. "Listen, I have a ton of work to do."
I stomped up to my room and shut the door with just a little more force than was absolutely
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necessary. After a minute, though, I started to feel sort of bad. It really wasn't my mother's fault I was in such a bad mood. It was Kylie Frank's.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days and, according to my calculator, 504 hours. That was how long it had been since the most popular girl in several zip codes moved in next door to me. And in that time, guess what had happened?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least to me. Kylie Frank, on the other hand, was extremely busy leading her ultrafabulous A-list life.
She was definitely too busy to meet her F-list neighbor, Sam Klein.
It's not like I didn't try. I'd plowed ahead with the baby-steps plan. I'd tried brownies, light chatter and the occasional hanging out in my front yard, with the hopes of triggering a "spontaneous" Kylie Frank run-in.
Nothing worked. Food bribes and banter might've won over Kylie's parents-they always waved and smiled when I saw them-but Kylie was impervious. Or maybe not impervious, just never around.
That was the real problem. The girl used her new house to sleep and change clothes, nothing more. I knew this because, even though I hadn't gotten to know her at all, I'd definitely learned a lot about her.
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For instance, she left for school every morning at around eight-fifteen (and by "leave," I mean she hopped into Tanner Mullins's red Mustang convertible and the two sped off, happily fabulous). She didn't blow her hair dry either. (Oddly, this was the aspect of Kylie's life that drove me most crazy. How could you have hair that perfect naturally'? If life were even remotely fair, Kylie would have flatirons instead of hands.) On weeknights, she got home around eight, driven by Tanner, Jules or Ella.
And don't get me started on the weekends. That was another completely depressing (for me) story.
At first, I tried to stay positive about the whole thing. I told myself that with so much popularity in such close range, some of it was bound to rub off. I didn't need actual contact with Kylie; I could learn through observation alone.
I spent three days watching her float around (have you ever noticed how It-girls don't walk?), memorizing her graceful moves. I really thought I had it down, too. And then I got to school and walked right into a pole. And I mean smacked into the thing. (Really, what sort of idiot architect places a pole in the middle of a school hallway? No wonder everyone's always complaining
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about the state of public education.) I grew a second head for almost a week.
And this morning, I woke up at five-thirty to blow out my hair-long, sleek and straight, just like Kylie's. I thought I did a pretty good job, too.
And then Gwen picked me up.
"What's with the hair?" she asked, twisting around in the driver's seat to open the back door. For some really weird reason, Doug, Gwen's ten-year-old Dodge Neon, only responded to her touch. Whenever anyone else jiggled the handles, the doors stayed stubbornly shut.
Alex and I kept telling her this was a major safety hazard, but Gwen insisted that the car was just being loyal. Like a Dalmatian.
"What do you mean?" I asked, raising a hand defensively to my head. It was definitely straighter than usual, but it felt pretty sticky from the half bottle of "smoothing cream" I'd used. And it was still pretty rough, too. Definitely more burlap than silk. Or burlap with a dab of peanut butter spread over it.
As I climbed into the backseat, Alex dropped his Ant-Man comic and turned around to look at me.
"Ginger has a purse just like that," he said, pointing to my hair. Ginger is Alex's four-year-old sister. "I think it's called faux fur?"
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Gwen burst out laughing.
"You guys suck," I said, sinking back against the seat cushion. So much for popularity of the DIY variety. "Does anyone have a rubber band?"
That was my morning. And nothing. Happened. All day. And now it was Friday night. I was heading into a weekend where the most exciting thing I had planned was babysitting the Packler twins, Bella and Grace.
Even so, I couldn't stop the excitement from building. It came every Friday, curling through me with absolutely no release. And when I woke up on Saturday morning, I felt completely depressed. My weekends were like sinking your teeth into wax fruit.
There was a whole part of life that I wasn't living.
The A-listers were living it for me.
I groaned. I was sort of tempted to bail, but Mr. and Mrs. Packler were really nice, and they'd never find a replacement so last-minute. Besides, I really didn't have anything better to do. By now, Gwen was probably whipping up a cheesecake, and Alex spent most nights up on his roof staring through his telescope.
I might as well get paid for watching The Frog Princess.
Actually, I thought, maybe I should take notes. I might pick up a few pointers.
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SIX
W hen I woke up the next morning, Alex was sitting at my kitchen table, sandwiched between my parents. There was a huge stack of whole wheat pancakes in front of him.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, suddenly aware that I was still wearing my too-small save the dugong nightshirt.
As if he'd just read my mind, Alex pointed at my chest and smiled. "The dugong. Cousin of the manatee. Glad to know you're a fan."
My parents beamed at him like he'd just shrunk their carbon footprints.
I tried again. "It's Saturday." I watched Alex
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scoop up more pancake pieces and shovel them into his mouth. When he didn't answer, I added, "We don't have school."
"It's a good thing too," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin. He pushed his chair back and stood. "This isn't just any Saturday."
"It's not?"
"No way." He paused for dramatic effect. When he spoke again, his voice was announcer-low. "It's your quarter birthday."
I laughed. "My what?"
"You're sixteen-point-two-five years old today, Sam," Alex announced. His thick dark hair, still wet from the shower, stuck up in little tufts around his head. "It's an unsung milestone in every girl's life."
I grinned and slid into an empty chair. "And here I was, worried you'd forget."
Alex's mouth fell open. "No way. I'm a friend."
"I still remember my sixteen-and-a-quarter birthday," my mother said, faux wistfully. "It was magical."
My dad lowered his paper and rolled his eyes. "You people are crazy," he said, but he sounded amused.
Alex lifted his fork. "Big plans today, Sam. Huge."
I stood, giving my nightshirt a quick tug. "Okay, let me just go get changed."
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"Hurry!" Alex shouted as I scrambled up the stairs. "Once you hit point-two-six it's all over!"
I hopped into the shower. For the first time in a week, I actually felt excited about something that had absolutely nothing to do with Kylie Frank.
It felt good. I needed a little vacation.
Drying off, I slipped into a pair of jeans and a plain, no-message T-shirt and ran back downstairs. Alex was waiting for me at the door.
"Just drive carefu
lly," my mother shouted after us as we left.
Alex looked at me knowingly. "She's right," he said. "Lots of accidents associated with the quarter birthday."
We headed out to his car, a dark blue station wagon he'd rebuilt so many times I doubted any of the original parts still existed. As I yanked the door open, my gaze shifted next door. The curtains to Kylie's room were still drawn. She was probably sleeping off the aftereffects of a crazy night.
I'd returned from the Packlers' at ten-thirty, covered with finger paint and graham cracker crumbs, and was fast asleep by eleven.
I shoved the thought out of my head and turned to Alex.
"So," I said, slipping my arm through the seat belt. "Where are we going?"
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He pursed his lips and tried to look mysterious. "It's a surprise."
"Can I guess?"
"You can try," he said as he eased the car out of the driveway. "But you'll never get it."
"Um, Cape May?"
Alex's face fell. "How did you- Did Gwen say something?"
I laughed. "Lucky guess."
I tilted my head back against the seat. It was January and cold, but the sun was up and it streamed through the car windows, warm and relaxing. I stretched, turning to Alex. "Hey, maybe we should stop by Gwen's and pick her up."
"She's busy," he said a little too quickly.
I sighed. I hated tension between my friends. "Don't be mad," I told him. "She didn't tell, I swear."
"I know." He stuck an arm out of the window, signaling a turn. "But I talked to her last night. She was all excited about going to Reading Terminal. I guess rhubarb's finally in season."
That made sense. The farmers' market was Gwen's home away from home.
"Thanks for doing this," I said after a minute.
"No problem. I figured you could use some cheering up."
I straightened slightly. "Why? I'm not-"
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"Hey," he said gently. "It's okay."
I felt my body relax into the seat cushion. It was okay, I decided. After all, it was my sixteen-and-a-quarter birthday.
We got to Cape May around noon and walked along the chilly, mostly empty beach.
"What are you doing?" I asked Alex as he pulled a tiny plastic tube from the pocket of his jeans.
"Zinc oxide," he explained, squirting a strip of bright green lotion onto his palm. "UV rays are surprisingly strong on days like this. Want some?"
I shook my head as he spread the goo across his face. "You do know that stuff's green, right?"
Alex smiled. "Yeah, I grabbed it from Ginger's knapsack. Do I look like the Incredible Hulk?"
I giggled. "More like a string bean." I leaned over and plucked a small white shell out of the sand. "What's this one called?"
Alex glanced over. "Crepidula fornicata," he rattled off automatically. "Slipper shell."
I ran my thumb over the surface, feeling the bumps and ridges.
Alex bent down and picked up a fan-shaped disk. "Chlamys nobilis," he said.
"Now you're just showing off."
Smiling, Alex pulled his arm back and released. The shell whipped through the air and
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bounced through the surf before disappearing under the water.
I turned to him. "Cool. Show me how to do that."
"It's easy," he said, coming up behind me. He dropped a stone into my palm and lifted my arm gently, extending it against his.
I looked around. The beach was completely deserted. School, Kylie Frank, Tanner Mullins...out here, they were all so easy to forget. It was just Alex and me, alone with the sand and the waves.
If Alex were my boyfriend, this would be really romantic.
I jerked away. from him. Where had that come from?
"What's wrong?" Alex asked, his forehead wrinkling.
I looked at him, at his bright green skin and smart brown eyes. It wasn't a perfect face. Far from it. His features weren't chiseled like Tanner Mullins's and his nose was definitely too long.
Then again, comparing any face to Tanner Mullins's was hardly fair. It was like doing a taste test between a filet mignon and a Big Mac.
Still, Alex definitely had a certain appeal. He was the sort of guy mothers were always saying nice things about, like, "That boy is gonna make some woman very happy one day."
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Actually, my mom said that. All the time.
I looked down at Alex's hand, which was streaked with green grease. Long, wiry fingers fanned out from a wide, round palm. It was, I decided, a goofy-looking hand. Way too goofy for me. I wanted something smoother. More "leading man" than "funny sidekick."
For some reason, the thought made me feel better. I turned toward Alex and smiled.
"Nothing," I said, stepping forward. "Show me."
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SEVEN
" L ooks like someone's having a party," Alex said as he eased the station wagon down my car-lined street.
Every light was on at Kylie's house. Crowds of people were visible through all the windows, and the bricks seemed to vibrate, pulsing with music and excitement.
I straightened. Of course. Tonight was Kylie's party. How could I have forgotten what was sure to be the Woodlawn social event of the year? I'd never managed to wrangle an invite, but thanks to homeroom and my here-but-not-here social
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status, I'd overheard dozens of party-planning tidbits. At this point, I could give a detailed account of what Kylie, Jules and Ella were wearing-wedge heels included-and recite the exclusive guest list by heart.
From the number of cars, though, the list couldn't have been all that exclusive.
It definitely excluded me, though.
I watched a couple of guys roll a keg across the Franks' lawn.
"I wonder if the cops will shut them down?" Alex mused. His tone was completely neutral, like he didn't care either way.
And he didn't. Alex didn't care about Kylie's party. He didn't care if the cops came, and he definitely didn't care that he hadn't been invited. That last thought would never even occur to him. Not in a million years. In just a few minutes, he'd pull out of my driveway and leave the whole scene behind, without even a backward glance.
He was lucky.
I tried to force myself to think about the day. We'd stayed at the beach until almost nine. Alex had taken me to dinner at a restaurant called the Mad Batter, where we'd stuffed ourselves with huge bowls of clam chowder, crab cakes the size of tennis balls and, because Alex had been
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sure to tell every patron and employee about my "special day," chocolate cake with a candle stuck in it. Much to my mortified delight, he even sang "Happy Birthday," his animated face glowing bright green above the flame. It had been great.
Only now it was ruined. How could I enjoy anything when, in each and every single over-populated room in Kylie Frank's house, Woodlawn history was being made?
And I wasn't even a tiny part of it.
Alex was talking, I realized suddenly. I hadn't heard a word, but his lips moved and now he was staring at me, waiting for some sort of response. Maybe a thank-you for the perfect day. Or a new joke about this being the best quarter birthday any girl could ever wish for.
I stared at him. At his still-green face and the too-long mop of black curls, the tips of which were now tinged with zinc oxide.
And that's when the anger hit-suddenly, inexplicably and almost painfully. It spread over me, poisoning the sweetness of our day.
Why?
Why was nothing the way I wanted it to be? Why had I never even come close to breaking my lame eleven o'clock curfew? Why were my friends quirky and offbeat instead of stylish and blond, with sleek cars and the right sort of
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clothing? Why didn't they care about sleek cars and the right sort of clothing?
Would it have killed Kylie Frank to invite me to her party? Of course, to do that she'd first have to acknowledge my existence, but given the fact that we shared a
street and a homeroom, you'd think she'd figure it out.
It wasn't fair.
I turned my head away from Alex, back toward the party. Beside me, I felt him tense.
"Sam," he said softly. "Did you hear me?"
"Huh?" I asked. "Sorry. What did you say?"
Alex blinked. "Nothing. I just wished you a happy quarter birthday, that's all."
I'm a terrible person, I thought. I'm sitting next to one of the best friends I'll ever have and all I can think about is trading up for an Abercrombie & Fitch model.
"Thanks for today," I said. "It was perfect. Really."
Alex smiled as I pushed open the car door. "Talk to you tomorrow? Remember, you have a geometry test Monday."
I groaned. "Thanks for reminding me."
Alex shrugged. "Call if you need help."
I waved as he pulled out of the driveway. Turning slightly, I took a hesitant step toward Kylie's yard.
I could walk in. Just like that. So what if I
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wasn't on the guest list. What could they do? Call clique control?
My eyes swept over the house, stopping on the second floor. Through the window I could see Tanner and Kylie standing together, his arm draped across her back. Jules stood on Kylie's other side, smiling adoringly.
They all looked so comfortable, which made sense. The party was their natural habitat.
For the first time that day, I considered--and instantly regretted-my outfit. It didn't help that I was also covered with sand and my hands and face were sticky from the cake.
I took an involuntary step backward. Then another. Before I knew it, I was in my house, heading for the safety of my bedroom. I could hear music playing in the distance, low and teasing.
I got into bed and shoved my head underneath the pillow with so much force I hit the bedpost. It hurt but I didn't care. I was still mad. Mad at Kylie Frank for not wanting to share even a little of herself with me. Mad at my parents for sticking me with socially inferior genes that guaranteed a lifetime of nights identical to this one. And mad at myself for being the sort of person A-listers didn't notice.
And for being the sort of person who cared. Deeply.
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"I'm a terrible, shallow person," I said out loud to my empty room. I closed my eyes and fell asleep. And even though I really wanted to dream about the day at the beach, I'm pretty sure I didn't.
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