The Boyfriend Whisperer
Page 14
“I got it. She liked you. You didn’t like her, or the way she smelled. So?”
“So I was kind of dating this other girl, Maddie, and Lisa got jealous, I guess. She started telling everyone I was … you know.”
“A player?”
“No. I mean, yes, sort of. She started saying I was seeing her on the side. Cheating on Maddie. She came up with these elaborate stories, and everybody believed them.”
“But you weren’t.”
“Of course not. I was brought up to respect girls. Besides, what with the smoke smell and all …”
An image of Jerod fooling around with some girl while trying not to smell her pops into my mind, and I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s not funny. It’s terrible, and I’m sorry she did that to you, and I will do my best to make sure people at Grand View know it’s a vicious, untrue rumor.” Stupid as it may seem, knowing that Jerod is not a player makes me feel better about the fact that he hasn’t kissed me yet. He’s respecting me. That’s it. Maybe I’m not unkissable after all.
“Now that that’s cleared up,” Jerod says, “wasn’t there something else you wanted to ask me?”
“Wow. What’s all this?”
Mom has set out her finest china, and Dad is holding a plate full of steaks.
“I told you she had no idea,” Mom says. “These kids never read their emails anymore.”
Dad sets the plate down and hugs me. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”
“For what? What’s going on?” My stomach churns. It’s true that I haven’t checked my Gmail account in a few days. Now that basketball season is over and Coach Reilly has stopped sending out her reminders, all I get is spam and solicitations from colleges. I have a feeling the huge smiles on both my parents’ faces have something to do with the latter.
“We had to hear it from Coach Reilly. She sent us both a very nice congratulatory email this afternoon.” Mom raises her eyebrows at Dad, and I know she’s silently chiding him for the rather unkind things he said about Coach after the championship game.
I steady myself against the nearest counter. “Hear what? Could someone please clue me in?”
“U Conn. University of Connecticut. Can you believe it?” Mom is practically bouncing with excitement. “It’s a partial, so it’s not a free ride, but hey … it’s U Conn. Of course, we need to find out what their plans are.”
“They’re not going to start her,” Dad says. “Too much talent in that sophomore class.”
“Well, not as a freshman, of course. But if they don’t foresee starting her in at least a few games by the time she’s a sophomore, she might be better off at Tech or one of the other schools.”
I consider pointing out that I’m standing right here in front of them and that it’s extremely annoying when they start talking about me as though I’m invisible, but instead I sit down and busy myself with finding the smallest steak. I’m feeling a little queasy all of a sudden.
“We need to schedule a visit.” Mom sits down across from me. “I was looking at flights for next weekend and—”
“I can’t do next weekend. It’s prom.”
“I see.” Mom slices open a baked potato and sends Dad a meaningful glance. “Hand me the sour cream, dear.”
My face grows hot. I’ll never look at sour cream the same way again. For the millionth time this week, I imagine Chris’s hand in mine and picture his eyes, his lips. My stomach flutters as he leans toward me, his mouth closing in on mine.
“So you plan to go to prom?” Mom pulls me back to reality.
I sigh and roll my eyes. “There’s that analytical mind we all know and love. Yes, I’m going to prom.”
“Don’t use that tone with your mother.” Dad’s voice is sharp.
I know I’m being a brat, so I shove a piece of steak in my mouth and stare into my plate, willing them both to leave me alone. I want to eat as quickly as possible and get back to my room. And think about that Almost Maybe Kiss again.
“Are you going with that Gerald fellow?”
“It’s Jerod, Mom. J-E-R-O-D. And yes, I am going with him.”
“Is this serious?”
I raise my eyebrows at my dad as if to say, See what I’m dealing with here? Do you understand why I resort to sarcasm? but his stoic expression tells me I’ll receive no sympathy from his end of the table. I take a deep breath and swallow the comment I’m dying to make about dropping out of high school to get married and have babies. Instead, I force a smile. “It’s prom. That’s all. Girls and guys go to prom together.”
And some girls go to prom with guys they’re not that into because they need a freaking date and yes I know that makes me a terrible person so how about you leave me alone and let me finish my dinner in peace thank you very much.
Dear Anita:
I regret to inform you that—
I lean back in my desk chair and groan. This is the fifth time in two days I’ve tried to compose this email. What can I say that will make her feel better? A million stupid clichés come to mind, but somehow I doubt Anita cares about all those other fish in the sea. There’s only one she wants, and he’s already been caught, hook, line, and sinker. Speaking of clichés.
The worst part is, she did everything perfectly. She followed each of my instructions to a T. A few days ago she even succeeded in getting herself and Jose locked in a storage room below the theater for two periods before Mr. Murphy found them and fixed the “broken” doorknob. It was an extreme measure, my last-ditch attempt to make something happen, but it didn’t work. Nothing worked. I failed her, just as I’ve failed myself for the past six months.
I kick the leg of my desk, sending my Kobe Bryant bobblehead doll toppling to the floor. Nothing will make Anita feel better. It’s Band-Aid ripping time.
Dear Anita:
I’m afraid it’s over. I’m sorry I was unable to whisper Jose for you. Please know you did nothing wrong. It didn’t work out, but I don’t believe there is anything you could have done differently to change the outcome.
I know this hurts. No doubt it will stop hurting someday, or at least hurt less, but that’s probably not much consolation right now.
Want to know a secret? I think I get how you feel. You feel as though someone has taken part of your heart—a part that you usually keep hidden and safe and protected so well that sometimes even you forget it’s there—and they’ve thrown it against a wall. You wonder how you ever let such a thing happen, and you want to tuck it away again, deeper and farther and maybe forever. I get that. The pain is real, and it sucks.
I also know this: You are a wonderful person—smart, pretty, funny, resourceful, and kind, and I understand you make a hella good brownie. I say all of this not to try to cheer you up, but because it’s true and because even though it might not seem like it right now, it’s important. Really important.
Thank you for placing your trust in Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises. Please see Abi Eisenberg Monday morning and she will provide a full refund.
All the best,
The Boyfriend Whisperer
Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises
www.boyfriendwhispererenterprises.com
“This place is amazing. I can’t believe you found it. And I can’t believe your mom let you drive us all the way up here.” Abi squeezes my arm as we survey a seemingly endless sea of satin, lace, rhinestones, and shimmer.
Actually, when I told my mom Abi and I were going dress shopping, I failed to mention the fact that Lila’s Bridal Shop and Formalwear is in Baltimore, almost two hours from Sterling. She no doubt would have insisted we go to one of the dozens of stores in Northern Virginia, which would have meant risking being seen by one of our classmates hanging out together. No way could I take that chance.
“Let’s find yours first.” Abi’s eyes shine brightly. “Remember: open mind.”
I brace myself and fol
low her toward a rack two-thirds of the way back in the store. I have no idea what distinguishes these dresses from all the others, but Abi seems to have a plan. My palms are so sweaty, I’m afraid to touch the delicate fabrics. I haven’t worn a dress since the fourth grade, much less the heels, jewelry, and makeup Abi chattered about on the way here. What if I can’t pull it off?
“This one seems pretty.” I hold up a navy blue dress with a gray stripe across the top. “Though I don’t know if I want to wear Pine Bridge’s colors. Seems kind of disloyal.”
Abi grins. “This is a dance, not a tournament. No one will be thinking about school colors. Still, that dress is all wrong for you. You need something sleeveless, to show off those amazing arms.”
“I have amazing arms?”
“Um. Yes? Every girl at Grand View would kill to have your arms. You need a gown that reminds them of that.”
Abi picks out dress after dress and helps me try them on. I feel ridiculous in all of them, but Abi insists I’ll look great once I have the right shoes and accessories and hair. Of course, she’s never seen me in heels. Pretty sure that’ll amp up the ridiculousness factor by at least a power of ten.
Just as I’m about to pull an eeny-meeny-miny-mo on the huge pile of dresses we’ve amassed, Abi appears at the fitting room door with a silver strapless number. It’s glittery and super fitted and has a slight mermaid thing going on at the bottom.
“Um. No. Put that back where you found it.”
“Now, now. Open mind.”
“I promised you I would go to prom. I didn’t say I’d be the disco ball. I feel like I need sunglasses to be in the same room as that thing.”
Abi purses her lips and shoves it toward me.
“Fine.” I grab the gown from her. I’m tired and cranky and wish I’d never have to slither into another dress as long as I live. “I’ll humor you. Then I’m going to close my eyes and point at that pile and buy whichever one my finger lands on.”
I try to step into the dress but can’t get it over my hips. “Oops. Doesn’t fit.”
“No worries,” Abi says. “Slip it on over your head.”
I glare at her as I step out of it and hand the dress back. “It’s too fitted. No way am I wearing something this tight.”
She offers a dramatic sigh as she takes the dress and starts to forcibly pull it over my head.
“What? Hey! What are you—” I flail blindly at her as she tugs the dress down over my face. Both of us topple into the pile of dresses, tulle prickling at my legs and arms and head as I try to surface for air.
Abi squeals, and a sharp rap sounds at the door.
“Ladies, may I help you?” The saleswoman’s tone is sharp.
Abi and I look at each other, eyes wide, and she starts giggling uncontrollably.
“We’re good,” I manage. “Thank you.”
We lay back into the dresses and laugh silently until I have tears streaming down my face and Abi is gasping for air. I’m still tangled up in the silver monstrosity, so she has to help me stand. She pulls it down over my shoulders and hips, shakes out the mermaid frills at the bottom, and steps back.
“Whoa.”
“What?” I turn to the mirror and blink. Who’s that rock star staring back at me?
I stumble and grab onto the edge of my trophy case. Brilliant. If I don’t twist an ankle in these things, perhaps I can break an arm or leg beneath an avalanche of trophies. Wouldn’t Mom love that?
“You’re doing fantastic,” Abi assures me. “Keep your chin up and your focus ahead. Try not to think about it so much.”
I wanted to buy flats, but she insisted on this stupid pair of strappy sandals with two-inch heels. Prom is a mere five nights away, and while everyone else will be hip-hopping around, I’ll be trying to master the art of walking. I can see it now. At five-eleven, I’ll tower above almost everyone in the room—a silver skyscraper careening precariously across the dance floor. I’ll give the Wobble a whole new meaning.
“I can’t wait to see Chris’s face. He’s going to love you in that dress.”
“You mean Jerod.”
Abi smirks. “If you say so.”
“I do.” I pace the length of the room and back again, as slow as a turtle through a pool of molasses at first but picking up speed as I go along. “Seriously, I refuse to spend the whole night thinking about Chris. First of all, it’s not fair to Jerod. I’m already basically using him to go to prom for you. I won’t diss him by trying to flirt with another guy while we’re there. Whoa.” I lean against my desk and sink into the chair. I slip off my left shoe and rub my toes. “Second of all, it wouldn’t be fair to Chris. This is his Junior Prom, and he deserves to have fun. He doesn’t need me making waves when he’s there with someone he really likes.” Though maybe doesn’t love.
“And what about you? What’s fair to you?”
I shrug. “Same. It’s my Junior Prom, too. I intend to avoid drama.”
“In that dress?” Abi grins. “Good luck.”
A rap sounds at the door, and my dad’s voice calls in to us. “Lexi, dinner’s almost ready. Your friend is welcome to stay if she wants.”
Abi smiles and shakes her head. We both know that wouldn’t be wise. It’s been months since Chris has stopped by unexpectedly for dinner—ever since Lindsay entered the picture—but it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Wouldn’t do to have Abi sitting at the table.
“Before you go, how did Anita seem this morning? Was she upset?”
Abi shrugs. “She seemed okay, actually. She was a little quiet, but then, she’s not much of a talker. She told me to thank you for trying.”
“She said that? How sweet. So she’s not pissed?”
“Why would she be? We gave her money back.”
“So?” I turn and lift my hair so Abi can unhook my dress. “A lot of good that’ll do her Saturday night when she’s sitting home dateless. Or worse, when she goes to prom alone and has to watch Jose dance with Maria all evening.”
“Lexi, it happens.”
I turn back to face her. “Not to my clients. My clients end up with boyfriends.”
“When I broke up with Roland, the first thing you said to me was, ‘A girl doesn’t need a boy to be happy.’”
“It’s true. She doesn’t. We don’t. I believe that, one hundred percent. But still … if a girl has a boy she likes, she’ll be even happier with him.”
“Maybe.” Abi’s tone is wistful. “Maybe not.”
I give her a hug, which is kind of awkward because my dress is half falling off, so I let go quickly and step out of the gown. “It’ll be different this time. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right, but even if you’re not, I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve done. The whole Grease thing and agreeing to go to prom and … all of it. It means a lot to me.”
“That’s okay. You’re going to pay me back Saturday afternoon, remember? With the hair and the makeup and the nails?”
“Definitely.” Abi claps her hands together. “That’s not payback; that’s icing on the cake. I cannot wait to glam you up.”
I pull on a pair of sweats and some slippers and we head downstairs. As we reach the landing, Abi gasps and turns to me. “I almost forgot. Did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“About Ty and Alicea.” She makes a slashing motion against her neck.
“They broke up? They can’t do that. They’re my biggest success story.”
“They were your biggest success story. He ended it yesterday.”
“Ugh.” Less than a week before prom? Nice timing. “Weren’t they up for Prom king and queen?”
Abi nods. “Apparently, they’re both still planning to go, though not as a couple.”
Oh, my. I follow her to the front door and see her out. “Sounds like there will be drama a-plenty,” I call after her. “My dress will be the least of everyone’s concerns.”
A pop quiz? No way. How was I supposed to review my lesson on the Electoral College when I had thirty-one prom dresses to try on? Not that I was counting.
Mr. Grawley flashes an evil grin as he passes the test sheets down the aisle. “Pens and pencils down until I say you can start.” I swear he stares straight at me. “Some of you have seemed a bit distracted the past few weeks. We still have more than two months of school left and a lot to cover. This quiz will count for ten percent of your final grade.”
A collective moan from the class reassures me I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand how the electoral system works. Then again, my dad says it doesn’t, so maybe this is some sort of trick lesson.
“Okay, class, you may begin.”
I flip the page and skim the questions. Two multiple choice and three essays. This sucks. I’ll be lucky to get a D. I narrow the first multiple-choice question down to two possible answers, and as I eeny-meeny-miny-mo my way through the two options, a miracle happens. The fire alarm.
Sweet! My classmates and I jump out of our seats and rush toward the door as though flames are licking at our heels. Chris and I bump fists as Mr. Grawley scowls and yells at us to proceed in an orderly fashion. His attempt to sabotage our afternoon has been thwarted, and I can’t help but flash a smile as I walk past him and into the hallway.
As we wind down the nearest staircase, I spot Carmella a few steps ahead of me. “Yo, Mel!” I call to her, and she waits for me. “We just got out of a pop quiz in civics. How about you?”
Carmella shakes her head. “I swear you are the luckiest person on earth. I had study hall, and I really needed it. I have a paper due sixth period that’s only half finished.”