Lucky Break

by J. Minter

  “You’re Flannery Flood.” A sales assistant grabbed my wrist. She was pretty, with dark skin and bright pink lipstick, but underneath the expensively made-up face, there was worry. “You’ve got to hurry.”

  I was used to SBB’s little shopping freak-outs—we’d done calming yogic breathing sessions in most of the dressing rooms in Manhattan—so I had to laugh at this girl’s panic. But I let her pull me toward the back of the floor where I could already vaguely hear the shrieks of my high-strung friend.

  When the sales assistant zipped me past the Marc Jacobs dressing room, where SBB liked to try on clothes because it offered the most privacy and best mirrors, I paused.

  “She’s not in there?” I pointed. “That’s her usual—”

  “Keep going,” she ordered, pulling me all the way back toward the windows looking down on Fifth Avenue. What were we doing in the athletic-wear section?

  “She’s in there,” the salesgirl said, but by then, I’d already heard the telltale thumps of SBB wreaking havoc on the dressing room. I nodded thanks at my escort and stepped cautiously inside the danger zone.

  SBB was drowning in a sea of Stella McCartney running pants, zip-up Juicy sweatshirts, and high-end spandex. She was wearing leggings and a sports bra that looked like they were made out of titanium alloy.

  “And what are you wearing, Ms. Benny?” I stepped forward, dramatically mimicking a red-carpet interviewer with a microphone. “Don’t tell me—was that outfit designed by … NASA?”

  SBB crossed her arms over her chest. “You are the only person on the planet I could forgive for making a joke at a time like this.”

  “With that outfit,” I said, “you could probably go into orbit and make friends with a few comedians on other planets.”

  Finally, I got a tiny smile out of my tiny friend. “Thank God you’re here.” She sighed.

  “Where’s Shay?” I asked. Shay was SBB’s personal shopper. She had a tough, no-nonsense exterior that had sent more than a few shopgirls running for the hills, but when they weren’t catfighting, Shay and SBB worked really well together. I assumed in a fashion emergency such as this one—whatever it was—SBB would already have called in all the reinforcements on her contacts list.

  SBB shook her head. “That big-mouthed know-it-all couldn’t keep her piehole shut long enough to make it out of this store. I can’t trust her with something like this.” She turned around and pointed to the series of clasps on the sports bra. “Now help me get out of this trap.”

  “Only if you finally tell me what this is all about,” I said, freeing her from the aerodynamically designed athletic wear.

  When she was comfortably changed into a loose-fitting gray Theory tank and pajama pants, SBB took a good look around the dressing room, got up on a step stool to turn off a camera over our heads—“in case anyone at the security desk can read lips”—and motioned for me to sit down next to her.

  I pushed aside the mountain of tracksuits and took a seat.

  “Okay, formalities first: pinky swear your lips are sealed. I mean, I know you’re good for it, but—”

  I stuck out my pinky to nip her lengthy apology in the bud. “Pinky swear,” I said.

  SBB took a deep breath and said, “Well, it’s finally happening.”

  From her tone, I felt like I was supposed to know what she meant—as if “it” were the world’s only inevitability. I nodded, trying to look like I was keeping up with her.

  “JR is making his directorial debut,” she said slowly, and very proudly.

  JR—Jake Riverdale—was SBB’s boyfriend, and the biggest pop star–turned–movie star (turning director) in L.A. Scratch that—in the world. He and SBB were an amazing match—in fact, they were so unwaveringly supportive of each other’s skyrocketing careers that they were famous in the tabloids for being Hollywood’s most likely to succeed couple.

  “That’s so exciting, SBB,” I said, leaning in to give her a hug.

  “There’s a catch,” she said gravely. “He wants me cast as the lead.”

  “What a jerk,” I joked. “Come on, SBB. Isn’t that some sort of Hollywood pinnacle? You guys might be the youngest couple in history to have that kind of sway.”

  SBB buried her face in a mound of sports bras. “Not when everyone in the industry is expecting me to fail,” her muffled voice wailed.

  “SBB,” I said, “why would anyone expect you to fail?”

  She leaned in and lowered her voice. “The film is called Gladiatrix. I have to battle lions. They need me to gain half my body weight in muscle. What if …” Her eyes grew terrified. “What if I can’t cut it?”

  So that explained all the athletic gear splayed out around us. SBB was about as aerobically challenged as I was. (Once we’d put on my mother’s cardio-Pilates video in our home theater, only to make it through the warm-up before collapsing on the beanbag chairs with a big bag of kettle corn.) It almost made sense that she thought she could shop her way into the role of a gladiatrix. I put my hand on her knee.

  “SBB, I’ve seen you go from your city girl self to a singing Bonnie and Clyde, to a French foreign exchange student, to a Moroccan heiress, all without batting a cat eye. You can act any part you put your mind to.”

  SBB turned her lip down. “Really?” she squeaked.

  “What you need is a trainer, maybe one or two sets of workout clothes”—I picked up the scarily heavy silver sports bra—“and to forget this thing ever existed.”

  SBB threw her arms around me—always the key sign that I’d successfully calmed her down. “Oh, Flannie.” She sighed. “What would I do without you? Gosh—trying on all that heavy sportswear really worked up my appetite. Want to grab a milk shake upstairs? JR says now I can eat anything I want, as long as I sprinkle a half a cup of protein powder in it.” She reached into her purse and waved a Ziploc bag of beige powder in the air.

  “Okay, that’s nasty.” I laughed. “But you know I never say no to a milk shake.”

  SBB paid for a comfy pale lavender Theory track-suit and we took the elevator to the top floor toward the airy white café, Snacks at Saks.

  “Well,” SBB said, sidling through the crowded restaurant to look for a table. “Now that my spaz attack is over, let’s talk about your fabulously romantic spring break trip to Paris, shall we?” Her head whipped around. “Oh my God, Amber! What are you doing here?”

  SBB leaned down to air-kiss a beautiful dark-haired girl eating a seaweed salad at the bar. I recognized her as Amber Mobley, SBB’s costar from the romantic country-and-western comedy Holding Merle Haggard.

  “I’m in between sets,” Amber said, accepting the kiss. “So I flew out to visit an old friend. Do you and your friend want to join us for dinner?” She turned to me, smiled, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Amber.”

  SBB put her hand on my shoulder. “This is my very best friend,” she said proudly. “Flan Flood.”

  Amber’s eyes narrowed and she made a very small “huh” noise under her breath. What was that about? It was almost like the sound of my name surprised her. But before I had the chance to ask, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Oh, hi, Flan. What brings you to our table?”

  It was Kennedy Pearson. She slid into the seat across from Amber and jerked her thumb at me. “This is the girl I was just telling you about.” She looked back at me. “We were all at this party at 60 Thompson last night, maybe you heard about it. A benefit for the Maui Hotel.”

  That was the party Alex went to last night. The party I skipped because of my family dinner.

  “It was so fun,” Kennedy continued, something in her voice sounding suspiciously excited. “And so many cute boys there.” She winked at Amber. “Oh my God, I’ll show you guys pictures.”

  SBB and I glanced at each other warily. It wasn’t like Kennedy to delve into party details with me.

  She whipped out her iPhone and started scrolling through her pictures from the night before. “Here’s one of Amber getting hit on by Leo, and
here’s one of me and TZ. Adorable. Oh—Flan, here’s one of Alex. The girl in the picture with him is my oldest friend, Cookie Monsoon. She’s really wild—so much fun. See?”

  She shoved the phone under my nose. I squinted to make out the scene. There was Alex in his yellow Arden B. pin-striped shirt looking studly. He was sitting on a couch talking to some girl I didn’t recognize. Huh. I leaned in for a better look. It was kind of blurry, but I could tell they were sitting really close.

  Wait.

  WAS ALEX KISSING HER?

  Oh. My. God.

  I could feel my knees go wobbly beneath me, and I stumbled back a little into SBB. She caught me around the waist, took the phone from my hands, and shoved it back at Kennedy.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Kennedy said innocently. “You probably didn’t want to see that, did you?”

  “What the hell is your problem, Kennedy?” SBB hissed.

  Kennedy shrugged. “Look, maybe it’s better that Flan know Alex is cheating on her. Imagine getting all the way to Paris only to be embarrassed in front of all your friends when he finally confesses.”

  I was reeling. The white restaurant was starting to look spotty and red, and I could tell I was going to faint if I didn’t get out of there fast. Kennedy was still talking a mile a minute, but it was all starting to sound fuzzy in my ringing ears.

  “We’re getting out of here,” SBB said, grabbing my hand.

  It was the last thing I heard before everything went black.

  Chapter 5

  FRONT STOOP FACE-OFF

  Get me smelling salts, mineral water, and a Gray’s Papaya with relish. NO KETCHUP!”

  A hazy voice was shouting orders somewhere over my head. I blinked. Where was I? I could feel myself moving, but I wasn’t sure how. I tried to sit up, but a cool hand pressed down on my forehead.

  “Shhh,” the voice said. “Help is on the way.”

  Then, a whiff of the most pungent odor I had ever smelled infiltrated my nostrils. I wheezed and covered my face with my hands, coughing.

  “And she’s back,” SBB said, smiling a very small and sad-looking smile at me. “Here’s your revival cocktail.” She handed me a bottle of sparkling Vittel water and a hot dog with a thick clump of relish down the middle, just the way I liked it.

  “Where are we?” I asked, taking a bite.

  “Getting you home,” she said. “You really scared me in there, Flannie. Luckily, Roderick was in the neighborhood and swung by Saks to pick us up.” She pointed at the driver’s seat of the Escalade that was speeding south down Fifth Avenue. That was when the awful truth came back to me. For the second time tonight, my stomach dropped down to my Derek Lam boots.

  “Did I dream it?” I asked, trying to blot out the memory of that awful picture glaring in my brain.

  “I don’t think so, sweetie,” SBB said. “But we’re going to figure this out.”

  She was being so good to me, with her smooth hand stroking my forehead, but even though her words were confident, I could hear doubt in her voice. We’d both seen the evidence, clear as a Neutrogena model’s skin. What was there to figure out?

  “You have to talk to him,” SBB said, as the car turned right on Houston Street. We drove past the Angelika theater, where Alex and I had gone to his friend’s movie premiere party. We stopped at the light at Lafayette, in front of the twenty-four-hour pool hall where Alex recently taught me that there was more to the game than just the cool clicking noise the balls make when they knocked together.

  No—I couldn’t think about the good things at a time like this. My mind spun back to last night, when I’d texted Alex because I had to back out of the party. He’d let me off the hook so easily. Now I wondered: had he already had Cookie Willderwhatsit waiting in the wings? The thought was too horrifying to bear.

  SBB was right. Maybe there was a logical explanation behind all of this. Maybe Alex had a twin brother I didn’t know about …

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said, trying to convince myself with every word. “I just need to talk to him.”

  “That’s right,” SBB said, biting her lip. I had never seen her look so serious before. “The sooner you talk to that Jerk of New York—er, Alex, the better.”

  When the car turned west down Perry Street and came to a stop in front of my brownstone, I realized with a shock that I wasn’t going to have to wait very long. Alex was sitting on my front steps. He looked like he’d been there a while.

  I whipped around to face SBB, my eyes wide.

  “Do I look okay?” I asked. I couldn’t believe the words even escaped my lips. Alex knew me so well, he didn’t care if I just rolled out of bed or if I was walking down a runway. But suddenly, I felt pressure to look my best.

  SBB pinched my cheeks. “There,” she said. “Now you’ve got your color back. You look great.” She held my hand. “Flan,” she said, looking deep in my eyes. I nodded. “Don’t let him off the hook too easily. I know you care about him, but—”

  I nodded again and started to open the door of the car.

  “Flan,” she whispered loudly. “Do you want to take the smelling salts? Just in case?”

  I forced a smile. “No thanks,” I said. “Hopefully I’ve maxed out my blackout potential for one night. I’ll call you later?”

  SBB held up both her hands with her pointer and middle fingers crossed, our secret sign for good luck. I returned the gesture, and with that, slid down from the car and went to face Alex on the steps.

  He was wearing his Diesel jeans with the rip in the thigh from when we’d hopped that fence to get into the Knicks game a few weeks ago. His dark hair was still damp, probably from the shower he’d taken after lacrosse practice. He smelled so good, like pine needles and—no. I couldn’t get all swoony again. I needed my wits about me.

  “Hi,” I said stiffly.

  “Hi,” he said. He didn’t stand up to kiss me, like he always did, so I just took a seat next to him. But just as I was sitting down, he started to stand up and moved in for a kiss, which missed my lips and landed awkwardly on my nose.

  Normally, we would have cracked up about that. But neither one of us seemed to think it was funny tonight.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a weird pause, and then Alex asked, “Excited about Paris?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, not looking at him. “Are you?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him nod. We stared out at the empty street and watched a pigeon waddle by. This was awful—and so not us.

  Finally, Alex turned to me.

  “Look, Flan, there’s something I think we should talk about.”

  Oh my God, oh my God. He was going to bring it up. He was going to tell me that he’d fallen in love with a girl named Cookie, and that he was spending spring break with her on a deserted island, and that both of them were Team Kennedy now. I was so mortified and so hurt. I knew right then that I couldn’t even stand to hear his explanation.

  “I have something I need to say too,” I said quickly.

  “You do?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I know what happened last night,” I said.

  “You do?” he said, sounding shocked. “And?”

  “And I’m appalled,” I said. “I thought things were going so well with us.”

  “Me too,” he said. “But then—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” I said briskly, cutting him off. I was surprised that I was on such a roll. Usually I’d have crumbled by now, but I just held my ground and said, “I think Kennedy already told me everything I needed to know.”

  “So you and Kennedy have already talked about it,” he said. He sounded disappointed. “I wanted to be the first—”

  “Too late,” I huffed. “Kennedy’s not exactly the person I wanted to hear
it from either. But when she showed me that picture—”

  “Picture?” Alex asked.

  At the mention of the picture of Alex and—shudder—Cookie, I felt my throat start to constrict. I was not going to cry. If I cried, he would put his arms around me—or worse—he wouldn’t. Either way, I couldn’t handle it. I needed to stay strong.

  “I don’t want to get into it,” I said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Alex looked confused, but nodded. “So what do we do?” he asked.

  “You haven’t left us with much choice,” I sniffed. “Obviously we have to break up. I can’t be with someone who’s not committed.”

  “What? No. We don’t have to break up.”

  I couldn’t believe he was going to cheat on me and then argue for us to stay together. That was just plain insulting.

  “Are you kidding? I can barely stand to look at you right now. I can’t be your girlfriend after this—much less go to Paris with you.”

  Alex’s mouth dropped open. He shook his head. Then he stood up and started pacing the sidewalk. “I can’t believe this. All because of one little—”

  “Believe it,” I said.

  “So it’s over?” he asked. I could have sworn his eyes looked moist. “Just like that?”

  This was my chance—to make him grovel and apologize and swear I was the only girl for him. But deep in my heart, I knew, I’d never be able to get that picture out of my head. And I’d never forgive Alex for acting like this wasn’t such a big deal. I looked at his tortured face in front of me. I did get a little bit of solace that at least he looked half as broken up as I felt inside. I was about to do the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I took a deep breath and met his eyes.

  “It’s over,” I said. “Just like that.”

  Chapter 6

  PASSING THE TORCH

  The girls and I had agreed to meet at Candle Café for breakfast before school on Friday. Originally, the plan had been to go over the final details before the red-eye flight that night. But since my whole world had come crashing down on me twelve hours ago, things were looking slightly different. When my Betty Boop alarm clock went off at six-thirty, I groaned, rolled over, and buried my face in my pillow. The sound was so unwelcome, I wanted to throw Betty against the wall.