by Tina Ferraro
“You doing anything tomorrow?” he continued.
“Not really,” I said, thanking God there wasn't widespread use of video phones yet. How would I explain to Jared—how would I explain to anyone—why I was sitting in a pink crinoline gown at six o'clock on a Friday evening? Alone?
“Good,” he said. “I'll pick you up at around noon, all right?”
“Okay, Jared,” I said, just to be sure.
“Bring one of your mother's business cards. And a picture of her.”
“Huh?”
“I'll explain tomorrow.” He paused and sort of laughed. “And it'll give you something to think about.”
I didn't need anything to think about. My brain was already overloaded. What I needed was to get off the phone and out of this dress.
“So, yeah, tomorrow,” I said, looking down at myself, caught in a weird net of fantasy and reality. “Okay, see you then.” I hung up and shuffled toward the hanger on the back of my door, and with a hot face and a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, retired The Dress to its home.
The next morning, I did my usual Saturday sleep-in and long, lazy shower. Then I broke with tradition. I reached under the sink for the blow-dryer. Luckily, Mom was sitting an open house for some other realtor or I would have gotten Twenty Questions from her. She'd grill me about boys, ask me who I was trying to impress.
Ugh.
Anyway, I hated blow-drying my hair. Not only did my arm get achy, but no matter what I did, my hair never looked any better. Tight blond curls turned to yellow frizz. But for some reason, that morning, I felt like breaking new ground. I told myself if I only tried hard enough … But after a good forty-five minutes, no luck. I got the totally predicted result.
I did my thing with a palmful of gel. Then I dug up my favorite clips, pulled back the loose strands from my face, and went to my closet. No dress code to worry about, so I went with low jean shorts and a peachy crop top. I would have killed for a belly ring.
I topped off my look with some mascara and this really pretty pink lip gloss. You'd almost think I was trying to impress someone. I was only going somewhere with Jared, to do something with my mother's picture and her business card—but you never know, right?
I'm not sure why, but my pulse did a little jump when the white Camaro rounded the corner. I locked the front door and moved to the edge of the curb. Only to see a silhouette in the seat beside him.
Several inches shorter than Jared. With longish hair. A girl.
A girl?
He'd never mentioned anything about a girl. A girl friend. Or girlfriend. Alison had never said anything—
Of course. Alison.
God, was I an idiot, or what?
My best friend's face came into view as Jared rolled to a stop. She pushed the door open and leaned forward so I could crawl into the back.
“Hey, Nic,” she said, and smiled.
I felt relieved. Foolish. Embarrassed. But when Alison swiveled around to take in my look, embarrassment won hands down.
“I like what you did with your hair,” she said, and slammed the door.
I shrugged. “I was bored this morning.”
“You should be bored more often. Seriously.”
“Thanks. Hey, I didn't know you were coming today,” I said, hoping to sidetrack the conversation away from why I'd picked this morning, of all mornings, to spiff up. Then realized my comment was exactly the wrong thing to say. It probably seemed like I wanted to spend time alone with her brother.
“Her idea,” Jared said, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.
“Well, someone has to keep Nic company at the mall.”
“I told you,” he said. “Mom could have dropped you off later, after we were done.”
“Okay! I either need a translator,” I said, “or someone's gotta start speaking my language.”
“We're going to the print shop,” Jared said. Our gazes connected in the mirror. No sunglasses this time. Just dark eyes, looking slightly amused.
“My uncle's got tons of extra paper lying around. I thought we'd make some promotional stuff for your mother. Flyers. Notepads. Things she could hand out so people get to know her name.”
“Wow. Great. But how much is this going to cost?”
“Nada. My uncle said we could use the paper for free,” he went on. “And he'd overlook the toner charges as long as we don't go crazy.”
“The thing is,” Alison said, turning around, her green gaze brightening, “at around two o'clock, some rush-rush project is coming in, and Jared's gotta help. So you and I can bum around Fashion Square till he's done.”
“Cool,” I said, because it was. Though I felt kinda weird leaving Jared to do all the work, and kinda curious and thankful that he'd go out of his way to help me at all—shouldn't I maybe stay with him and offer to help?
But something told me to keep my mouth shut. That giving off the impression that I preferred to be with Jared—even just out of gratitude—wouldn't sit well with Alison.
Or maybe Jared, either?
•
Their uncle's shop was in the back of a minimall just a couple of blocks from the sprawling Fashion Square—where everybody in and around our school chose to shop.
Jared fired up the computer and found a layout program while Alison scanned in my mom's picture and her logo. On top he typed “EVERYTHING I TOUCH … TURNS TO SOLD!” which he said he'd dreamed up while bored in class. My contribution was a line across the bottom calling Mom “Thurman Oaks' Top-Selling Realtor,” which we all agreed had a real ring to it. Then we printed it out on eye-catching neon-pink paper.
By the time their uncle came in with the do-or-die project, we'd printed a huge stack of flyers—like five hundred or something.
Now, if that didn't generate some business for Mom, what would? I couldn't wait to show them to her.
Alison and I headed out the door, although leaving Jared to do all the work tugged at me like the last bit of Chunky Monkey in the freezer. But he didn't seem to mind, just said he'd call Alison on her cell phone when he was done.
Soon we were pushing through the doors of Macy's, and Alison, whose parents were the opposite of mine— meaning rich—was stopping to admire an adorable purse with outside compartments and a designer name etched into its leather.
“I love it,” she said, and hiked the straps over her shoulder. “But it's so small. I don't think you can get a wallet and cell phone inside at the same time.”
“That's because the kind of person who can afford it brings a servant along to hold her things.”
We laughed as she put the purse back on the rack.
That's when we saw them. Cherry and Natalia, two of Kylie's chief hangers-on. Sitting on high swivel seats at the makeup counter, applying blush and glaring at us.
Or was it just at me? If I'd been reading the squinty eyes of their fair leader correctly, Kylie had recently upgraded me from totally insignificant to number one on her hit list.
I looked right past them.
“Don't look now …,” Alison said, in a small voice under a big, fake smile.
“Yeah, Pretty Parade alert,” I said, covering my mouth with a nose scratch.
“Seriously.” She picked up another purse, a hideous royal blue thing, and held it up, just below her eyes. “Think that means Kylie's nearby?”
I turned my back to the girls. “Only if this is the worst day of my life.”
“And you already had that day, right? When you had to see your dad.”
Actually, Jared had done the proverbial “make lemonade out of lemons” thing with that day for me. But this was not the time to say that.
“It's safe to say,” I responded instead, “that every day with my dad is a new low.”
Alison laughed, too loudly, to show Cherry and Natalia we were not interested in their presence or intimidated. She put the purse down and glanced their way. “Cherry's on her phone now, talking furiously.”
“Calling their queen, probably.” I s
earched Alison's face. “What's our game plan? Stay here? Go to Bloomie's?”
She shrugged. “We go about our business as if we didn't see them. I don't know about you, but I could really go for an Ice Blended Mocha right now.”
I nodded. Especially since the coffee place was a good thousand footsteps away. Was Alison a friend or what?
Minutes later, we were sucking gobs of frozen coffee and whipped cream through straws, strolling past clothing shops, shoe stores, and places that sold upscale gadgets.
“Omigod, look at that skirt.” Alison had stopped dead in her tracks and was pointing to a mannequin in a doorway. “Seriously. Of course, baby pink is so not my color, but if they have it in green or blue …” She handed me her drink. “Give me a minute, okay?” she said, and rushed past the no food or drink sign posted beside the store entrance.
After standing in the doorway feeling slightly stupid, I moved to a nearby bench and plopped down. I couldn't help thinking about Jared back at the print shop, and whether we should have stayed to help. But then a voice gave me a swift kick back to reality.
“Uh, hell-oh?”
I looked up and into Kylie's hard blue eyes.
Cherry hovered at one side. Natalia closed in on the other.
I waited for my life to flash before me and thought of all the hours I'd wasted practicing volleyball when I could have been perfecting something constructive, something that could have helped me at this very moment. Kickboxing. Karate. Projectile vomiting.
No, wait! Time out!
I was in Fashion Square. On a Saturday afternoon. With moms and dads and kids passing by. And security … well, men in uniforms were around somewhere, I was sure. Besides, these three weren't cold-blooded killers. They were just popular.
“Hi,” I said, for lack of anything better to say.
When none of them answered, I tried a smile.
Then I tightened my hold on the Ice Blended Mochas.
Just in case.
We need to talk,” Kylie said, waving for me to make room for her on the mall bench.
She threw looks at her mascaraed bodyguards, who obediently backed off. But I remained on high alert, my hands anchored around the frosty drinks. (Palms losing sensation—but one crisis at a time, if you don't mind.)
“We'll be in A and F if you need us,” Cherry said, leading Natalia away.
Kylie sank down, eye level with me. I looked at blond hair so exquisitely streaked that no two strands were the same shade. Perfectly smoky eyeshadow under finely penciled brows. And lip liner etched around a pretty coral gloss.
She probably spent more time on her face every morning than I would have for the prom.
Had I gotten to go.
“Okay, girl to girl,” she said, actually meeting my eye. “Let's get this thing ironed out.”
I didn't have to be a genius to realize she meant Rascal's sudden, renewed interest in me. It wasn't like she and I had a friendship to fix. Or that we'd spoken since she'd spread those lame rumors about me food-poisoning her.
And actually, it kind of surprised me that she'd go so far as a face-to-face with me about Rascal. I mean, did she really find me threatening? Her boyfriend was just a flirt. And didn't the snitch who told her I was going to be Rascal's prom date give her the 411 on how he'd asked me out of the blue, and how, even then, we'd barely spent any time together?
“Look, Kylie,” I said, now resting a mocha on the bench and warming my frozen-tundra palm against my shorts. “There's nothing between Rascal and me. I was just a substitute prom date.”
She sniffed, her body arching like her marionette strings had been pulled. “I know that.”
“Okay. Well, he and I hardly ever talk. I mean, sure, outside my Spanish class sometimes, but that hardly counts.” Then I took a sip of my mocha (or maybe it was Alison's), thinking it was probably a good time to shut up.
She tapped perfect nails on the bench. “I'm here about our boyfriends.”
Our … Hello?
“Rascal and Jared are at each other's throats,” she said, and frowned so hard that actual wrinkles creased her forehead. “I'm afraid they're going to throw punches and Rascal will get suspended before the homecoming game. We have to do something.”
I just sighed.
First of all, Rascal might be spectacular to watch in those tight pants and padded jerseys, and his performance on the field was good and all—but the football team was undefeated. They could most definitely win without him.
But, more importantly, she'd really gotten things twisted. Jared was too pigheaded to be swayed by anything I had to say. Meanwhile, Rascal had slipped that note into my locker, had been talking and pretty much flirting with me. He'd even kind of offered to fight Jared for me.
Kylie flipped a handful of hair back off her forehead and continued. “I think, as their girlfriends, we should try to find a way to help them burn the hatchet.”
“Bury,” I choked out.
“What?”
“Bury the hatchet, not burn.”
She frowned.
I put down the other mocha. As well as my guard. There was no reason to be nervous about this. “Look, I'd love to help, but I'm not Jared's girlfriend.”
Her gaze narrowed. “That's not what people are saying.”
People … who? People like Keith and Mitch from the Senior Bench? The ones who thought that I was putting out for him to drive me around? Or Rascal and his friends in Burger King? Yeah, real in-the-know people.
“Sorry to break this to you, Kylie, but I know a little more on the topic of my love life.”
She seemed to look right through me. “Well, I was thinking if the four of us got together, had pizza or something—”
“No,” I said, standing. “No four of us.”
“Nicolette,” she whined.
“Look, can you talk Rascal into this sit-down?”
“I figured we could sort of trick them. Maybe pick a time to meet at the same pizzeria.”
“Yeah, well, nothing I can do.” Or even wanted to do.
“If you could just talk to Jared …”
“I hardly know the guy, okay? He's, you know, my best friend's brother.”
Alison emerged from the shop, a cell phone to her ear. “Nic!” she called, then froze for a heartbeat while acknowledging me and my unusual companion. “Uh, Jared's on his way to pick us up!”
I waved in recognition and turned to see Kylie standing up. She dwarfed me in both height and social stature. “Promise me you'll talk to him.”
I twisted my ring.
“Promise me, Nicolette. This one thing. When have I ever asked anything of you?”
Something inside me exploded. I wanted to find the mall intercom and respond in front of everyone:
Ask anything of me?
YOU are the reason I missed out on the most astonishing night of my high school life.
Ask anything of me? MUCH?
But staring into her Hello? Anyone home? eyes, I bit back those words to give her what she wanted. I had a feeling that making her wish come true might be more fun than denying it. “Well, okay,” I said. “I'll ask him.”
Smug satisfaction settled on her face. “Great. We'll talk Monday before geometry.”
Talk? At school? In front of people? Wow, Chunky sure was anxious for her man to play in the homecoming game.
“Can't wait,” I said, going so light on the sarcasm I doubted she'd pick it up.
I caught up with Alison, and soon we were heading across the mall, toward the parking lot, recounting the past few minutes.
“You settle this thing between Jared and Rascal,” Alison told me, “and Kylie will be eternally grateful. At least as long as she remembers. She might even invite you to a party at her house or something.”
I laughed scornfully. “Now, that's my idea of heaven. A whole night of watching the two of them make out!”
Jared was idling at the curb outside Macy's. Sunglasses sat over his eyes, making him look oddly GQ
-esque.
Alison opened the door and slid into the back. I knew it was only so I could have Jared's full attention about the Kylie thing, but still, I appreciated her giving me the front.
“So, Jared,” I said, moving the stack of flyers from the floor to my lap. “I had a heart-to-heart with Kylie in the mall.”
“Kylie?”
“Yeah. We ran into her.”
“Or it could be Cherry called her when she saw us,” Alison piped up.
I gave him a moment to let this sink in, knowing the guy brain didn't have the same ability to process rapid-fire, random information as the girl brain. “Yeah, anyway, she wants you and Rascal to make up so he doesn't get suspended before the homecoming game.”
I held my breath.
“Tell Kylie Shoenbacher,” Jared said, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, “that she can kiss my ass.”
Alison poked her head through the opening of the two seats, and together we burst out laughing.
“I can't wait,” I said.
•
Mexican seasonings woke up my senses when I cruised through the front door.
Uh-oh. Mom's enchiladas were to die for. But since Dad had left, she'd only labored over complicated dishes when she was upset.
I plopped the flyers upside down on the coffee table and followed the aroma. “Smells good,” I said, instead of hello.
She looked up from a saucepan. “Hi, honey. Where were you?”
“At the mall with Alison.”
“Buy anything?”
I shook my head and saw relief flash in her eyes. Slipping into a kitchen chair, I asked about the open house.
“A few Looky Lous. That's all.” A huge sigh seemed to rise from deep within her. In a scratchy voice, she continued, “But remember the couple from Nevada? Whose whole office was transferring out here?”
Worry balled in my stomach. I knew she hated being a realtor, but I hated the fact that she was failing so miserably at it.
“Yeah?”
“They bought through another realtor.” She stirred the enchilada sauce furiously. “I was counting on their commission. And all the future sales from their coworkers, too. I thought things were turning around for me.” She blew some loose hairs off her face and then let out a laugh, sad and hollow.