The Crush Dilemma (Dear Aubrey Book 1)

by Hatler, Susan

  She scratched her temple. “Huh?”

  “There are more newsworthy happenings going on at this school than Amber and Jake’s break-up.” And, ahem, the hot new boy, but I wasn’t going to say that last part. “What about the new recycling program? That will save a lot of trees. Gossiping about the It couple—well, former It couple—like it’s world news is just . . . superficial.”

  She leaned forward, her brows coming together. “Clearly noted, Poppy Rose Pinkleton.”

  My cheeks heated. “You know I hate it when you use my full name.”

  “Then don’t use mine.”

  “Deal,” I relented. Why had I reverted to The Pact anyway? Habit, no doubt. I sighed, dropping my napkin next to the remains of my fruit cup, and giving up on the pink smear. “At least you have a normal name instead of one that belongs in a garden. I mean, Poppy Rose Pinkleton? What were my parents thinking?”

  Thank goodness my alter ego had an awesome name.

  “I like your name.” Beth sighed, then peered over at the It table. “Besides, having a common name doesn’t carry much weight with the It crowd.”

  “What? They’d be lucky to be friends with you,” I said, firmly. Although I doubted they’d have a single thing in common with Beth. Or with me, for that matter. I glanced over at Daniel Baker again and saw Trish Benson—cheerleader and all around party girl—flirting shamelessly with him. Not that I could blame her. “Anyway, you and I have a lot of fun together on our own. Our choices of entertainment are more goal-oriented, but that will pay off in the long run.”

  Or, so my mother claimed.

  “That’s true.” Beth sighed, sounding far from convinced as she gazed over at the It table wistfully. Just when I dared to hope that Beth was feeling as out of sorts with our long-term plan as I was, she sat up straight and held out her right index finger. “Let’s recite The Sacred Pact.”

  Oh no, not again. But I only had myself to blame for bringing it up.

  Her eyes danced, making me wonder how to end this juvenile ritual without hurting her feelings. With a strained smile, I hooked my index finger with hers. Although we were alone at the table—Mason must be volunteering in the library again—we hunched together to be sure nobody could overhear us as we recited quietly, “Parties, boys, and drinking . . . do not help our thinking. We gladly pass and study for class, to keep our grades from sinking.”

  While my stomach turned, Beth’s smile radiated. Ah, well. At least reciting the oath seemed to take her mind off the It table she seemed so interested in lately.

  The school bell shrilled, signaling that our lunch hour—which was technically only fifty minutes—was over. I glanced down at my pink boob, wishing I’d brought a jacket with me today to hide the splotch. “I’ll meet you in class. I have to run to the restroom before this stain sets.”

  “I’m really sorry about that,” she said, grimacing.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reassured her, then stood, and gathered my belongings.

  As I headed out of the cafeteria, I caught sight of Jake, who was sitting a bit away from the group, a pained expression on his face. A weird feeling washed over me. I’d unwittingly contributed to Jake and Amber’s break-up, which made me feel bad.

  Having a secret alter ego to speak my mind was one thing, but knowing I had the power to affect the lives of the It crowd was quite another. It suddenly occurred to me that if Aubrey’s advice could cause Amber to break up with Jake, then there was no telling what else my column could do.

  ****

  Having no desire to attend class with a pink, yogurt-stained boob, I dashed for the cafeteria’s exit door as the throng of students shoved past me as if I hadn’t been there first. Total chaos. Why the school didn’t have a proper exit line was beyond me. I’d written down the idea and dropped it into the Suggestion Box weeks ago, but our principal had never responded.

  I suddenly remembered having passed Jake’s locker on the way to that Suggestion Box. Newly single, gorgeous Jake. I shook my head to clear that thought. Shouldn’t waste my time thinking about Amber and Jake’s break-up again. Single or not, he was never going to date me. Neither was that hot new boy on the basketball team. Wait, why was I still thinking about him?

  “Argh!” I burst into the ladies’ room, hurried to the mirror hanging over the sink and stared at my makeup free face. My hazel eyes were dancing and my cheeks were flushed from thinking about those hot basketball players. I pointed at my reflection. “That kind of focus is not going to get you into Stanford. Grow up. Concentrate on your future,” I commanded.

  “Are you talking to me?” a female voice squeaked from behind me.

  “Ahh!” I shouted, jumping backward, and bumping straight into Amber Glass. As in, Amber and Jake. Make that formerly of Amber and Jake. How had I not seen Amber standing behind me in the restroom? And why had I babbled in front of the mirror like an imbecile? I dropped my chin to my chest. Total mortification.

  “Hello?” Amber’s baby-blue eyes widened as she tossed her blonde mane over her shoulder. She tapped her pointy-toed shoe against the tiled floor. “I asked you a question.”

  What had she asked me again? Oh, right. . . “No, I wasn’t talking to you. I was just reciting my, er, homework.”

  “Okay . . .” She raised her brows, which brought my attention to the puffy, swollen skin around her eyes. Although it looked obvious she’d just been crying, she still managed a very clear “you’re a freak” look on my behalf. Points for making me feel two inches tall. Her gaze dropped to the pink spot on my chest and my cheeks flamed. “I’m Amber. And you are . . .?”

  Great, now I felt one inch tall. She didn’t even know who I was?

  “I’m P-Poppy.” Magnificent, my voice was shaking. I needed to get out of here but not with a pink boob. I grabbed a paper towel from above the sink, drenched it with water, and rubbed the yogurt spot on my chest with serious vehemence.

  Why couldn’t I talk to the It crowd normally like I could any other person in school? Probably because I knew they couldn’t care less about me. Sure, there were around two thousand students at San Felipe High, but come on. Amber and I had attended the same schools since we were five years old. Aubrey would’ve told this snob off, but instead I concentrated on my scrubbing, even though my hands were shaking. Stupid nerves. Could this day get any worse?

  “You’re totally blitzing me,” she exclaimed, then blew her nose into a tissue. “You’re Poppy-corn Pinkleton from Brown Elementary?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, noting my day had just gotten worse. Tears burned my eyes. Hearing that denigrating nickname from childhood brought back humiliating memories of kids teasing me about my name. Why couldn’t I be a Jennifer or a Kim or an . . . Aubrey? But, no.

  My parents had met in a garden and thought it would be romantic to name me after the flowers that had surrounded them. Obviously they had no regard for how that name would affect my social life. Thanks, Mom and Dad. On a side note, their romance didn’t last and they divorced six years ago when my dad decided to move to Florida.

  “You go to this school now?” Amber’s penciled-brows quirked upward and she stepped closer, towering over me in her pink high heels.

  “Yes,” I answered, wisely not adding that I’d never gone to any school other than the ones she’d attended. The final bell shrilled, alerting me that I was late for class. My belly churned at the impending tardy, but I couldn’t leave the restroom with a wet boob. Averting my eyes from Amber’s blue-eyed stare, I hurried to the automatic dryer and dipped under it awkwardly. Why-oh-why wouldn’t she just leave me in peace? Didn’t she have a class, too?

  “Wait a minute . . .” Amber turned around, stretched her lips in front of the mirror, and glossed them with pink. Then she snapped her fingers. “I know who you are. You write for the school newspaper, don’t you?”

  The dryer blared near my ear, but I knew I hadn’t heard her wrong. Every muscle in my body stiffened. “Uh, why would you ask me that?”

&
nbsp; “I recognize you from the newspaper staff’s group photo.” She smacked her lips together, then gestured at my face. “Your red-rimmed glasses and tight ponytail? You’ve got that whole Clark Kent thing going on. But you know, with lighter-brown hair. And you’re a girl.”

  I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and my mouth dropped open. Did I really look like a female Clark Kent? Huh. A shorter version, maybe. And yeah, with boobs. Clark Kent was a hero, so I took that as a compliment. If only I could change into a cape and fly out of here.

  “Since you write for the newspaper, maybe you can help me. I need to know how to get in touch with Aubrey of Dear Aubrey.”

  Alarms shrilled throughout my head at a deafening octave. I stood frozen, unable to verbally respond coherently. “Errr . . .”

  She rolled her eyes, then removed a cotton swab from her purse, squeezed clear liquid on the end and dabbed away the black smudges under her eyes. “Aubrey writes that online advice column for the school?”

  “I’ve read Dear Aubrey,” I said. Not a lie.

  “Oh, good! How can I find her?”

  My heart rate sped up. “Dear Aubrey is written anonymously. Her identity is a secret.”

  “I know that.” She stalked toward me with a predatory gleam in her baby-blue eyes. “But you have faculty connections, right? You could get her number for me, couldn’t you?”

  I shrugged noncommittally, hoping she took that for a no.

  “Look, if you know who Aubrey is, just tell me. I need to talk to her.” Amber inhaled deeply and her eyes watered. She took a step back, and her shoulders drooped as she stared vacantly past me into the mirror. “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, but I took her advice and broke up with my boyfriend today. Now, I feel horrible. I have to call her so she can tell me what to do next to feel better.”

  Chills vibrated through me at her confirmation of what I’d already guessed. Amber was Confused. I still couldn’t believe she valued my opinion so much—especially since she didn’t seem to think enough of me, in real life, to remember my name. “What makes you think Aubrey’s advice was right in the first place?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.

  She turned to stare at me full-on. “You can totally tell by the confidence in her advice that she’s been through break-ups like this before and knows what she’s talking about.”

  “Oh, really.” My belly danced at her praise, even though her assumption was far from accurate. Try no break-ups for me ever because I’d never had a boyfriend. Not even a first kiss, which would’ve violated The Pact. Luckily for Beth, she’d smooched Mason about a month before we’d written The Pact. Not that I needed the distraction of boys. Look what it was doing to poor Amber! “If you need Aubrey’s advice so badly, why don’t you post another question on her column?” I asked, proud that I hadn’t stuttered at all this time. Progress.

  She paused—her perplexed expression letting me know the idea hadn’t even occurred to her—then she reached out and grabbed my shoulders. “You’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that myself?”

  “I, uh . . .” I pressed my lips together, feeling a bit sorry for her. I mean, how was she ever going to fill out her college applications? Or get a high score on the SAT? And, um, why was she still gripping my shoulders? I debated how to break free of her grasp.

  She squeezed her fingers into my flesh. “I’ll go write Aubrey a post right now.” She nodded, then gave me a nervous look. “Don’t tell anybody what I told you about Aubrey and her advice. Okay?”

  “I won’t,” I assured her. Like anyone would believe I’d had a private conversation with Amber Glass about her personal life, anyway. Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for her to release me. Touching someone you hadn’t spoken to since elementary school seemed totally inappropriate. Not to mention invasive.

  “You rock, Poppy-corn.” She let go of my shoulders, smiled brilliantly, then sailed out of the restroom, looking perfectly made-up—and not at all like she’d just been crying her eyes out in the bathroom. Amazing.

  I, on the other hand, looked frazzled. Oh, and I still had a faded pink boob.

  My nerves were wrought and my breaths were short as I fought to gather my bearings in the silent, fluorescent-lighted restroom. The most popular girl in school had just spilled her guts to me and wanted my advice on relationships. Well, Aubrey’s advice, which secretly came from me. Thank goodness nobody knew that or they would blow off my column, for sure.

  Suddenly, a woosh-woosh sound filled the room as a toilet flushed. Then I heard a squeak as the stall door to my right swung open. Heart pounding, I flipped my gaze to the dark-haired girl who strode out in her designer skirt with a matching cropped top. . . .

  I immediately recognized Trish Benson. Her dark-lined eyes and pale skin reminded me of that heroine, Bella, from the Twilight movies once she’d been turned into a vampire. Striking, but menacing. Her dark-eyed stare wracked my nerves way worse than Amber had.

  Trish was another cheerleader from the It crowd, and the girl who’d been flirting the most with the new boy, Daniel Baker, in the cafeteria. She held my wide-eyed gaze and the corners of her mouth curved upward, forming a wicked grin that gave me the heebie-jeebies. “I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye than eavesdrop, but did I hear that right? Amber asked Aubrey of Dear Aubrey for relationship advice?” she asked, using a demanding tone.

  My mouth went dry. “Uh . . .” I said, noncommittally.

  “Wow! Oh, wow.” She reached down to adjust a designer shoe buckle and leaned against the stall door, which flew backward since it was no longer locked. Her reflexes must be sharp from flinging those pom-poms, though, because she grabbed the sides of the stall just before her toosh hit the floor. “Oopsie!”

  I brought my hand to my chest and stood gaping, feeling thankful I didn’t have to put my CPR skills to the test or call the school nurse in here. If I’d known stopping in the school restroom would cause this much stress, I would’ve gladly accepted my pink boob.

  Trish regained her composure, strode to the mirror, and fluffed her long loose waves. “You know, I thought of writing Aubrey, but I figured she was probably just a geek writer. And what kind of advice could a dweeb from the newspaper have for someone like me? No offense.”

  I glanced at her cropped shirt and wanted to say I’d advise someone like her that her top and her skirt were too short and violated the school’s dress code. Seriously, if the rest of us had to follow the rules and dress in a manner the school thought appropriate, why couldn’t the cheerleaders? But I couldn’t say that because, well, it would be rude.

  Aubrey would’ve laid the truth out there, though.

  “Well, if Amber Glass is taking advice from Aubrey, then the advice columnist can’t be a geek. The column is brand-spanking new so maybe they got a celebrity to do it. Can you imagine getting advice from an actress or a singer?”

  I watched her light up as she spouted her musings—as if Hollywood actors or Grammy-award winners would volunteer to write a column here for free. “The column’s affiliation with the newspaper requires that it be written by a student at San Felipe High,” I pointed out.

  She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “Who cares?”

  I blinked. “I thought you did.”

  She jabbed her index finger at me. “Hey, if Aubrey’s good enough for Amber then she’s good enough for any of us. Got that, Poppy-corn?”

  My stomach knotted. But I didn’t respond.

  “Wait a minute. I still need help with my problem . . .” She tilted her head, then glanced at the ceiling as if deep in thought. “Gotta run. Gonna go do . . . something.” She bolted from the bathroom, leaving me staring in disbelief.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Trish was going to write Dear Aubrey about her “problem.” The column had been up less than twenty-four hours and already Amber Glass and Trish Benson were scrambling to get advice from Aubrey! From me. Incredible.

  I stared into the mirror and
saw my eyes sparkling again. I couldn’t wait to see what Trish and Amber asked Aubrey next. Thank goodness for my secret identity, though. The It girls would keel over if they knew Aubrey wasn’t a celebrity at all, and they were really getting advice from Poppy-corn Pinkleton.

  Chapter Three

  http://www.dearaubrey.com

  Dear Aubrey,

  You were so right about not trusting my boyfriend. I broke it off with him immediately. He can copy homework from whatever sleaze he hooked up with. Even though I know he’s not worth my time, I still feel like garbage. Is that normal? What should I do now to feel better?

  Confused

  Dear Confused,

  I’m not big on what’s “normal.” What you really want to know is how to get over him, right? I say: Get back in the game, girl. Ask another boy to hang out . . . go see a concert and have a blast. He might not work out either, but at least you’ll have moved on.

  Stay real,

  Aubrey

  HYPOTHESIS: It hurts to break up.

  PURPOSE OF EXPERIMENT: Will moving on heal the pain faster?

  CONCLUSION: To be determined.

  After hitting “post” to publish my best advice for Confused, who I knew was secretly Amber, I glanced around the nearly empty computer lab and then rubbed my temples. I was still late to class, but I couldn’t resist checking my column first.

  Amber’s sadness over her break-up made me feel guilty for having a long-time crush on her ex. But I couldn’t control who I liked. Actually, a small part of me hoped that since Jake was single now he’d realize what a great couple we’d make. Long shot, maybe, since we ran in totally different social circles. But the prospect was possible. Well, possible in my imagination, but stranger things had happened.