by Meg Cabot
OTEMPORA: Yeah that’s what I thought. But Geri thinks you re mad. Of Course, she doesn't know exactly how much you've got on your plate. No, Geri doesn't. Because she, like the rest of the world, has no idea I'm Annie.
OTEMPORA: But you would think she'd know you well enough by now to know you aren't the type of girl who gets mad about stuff like that.
No, I'm not. I'm not that type of girl at all.
I told him not to worry about it, then turned to my trig homework. Because even not-that-type-of-girls have to do their homework.
Even girls who, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, are about to become close personal friends with a big star like Luke Striker.
Ask Annie
Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.
Go on, we dare you!
All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School Register.
Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.
Dear Annie,
I only like guys who are taken. You know, guys who already have girlfriends. I flirt with them until they dump whoever they’re dating, and then as soon as they’re available, I start not to like them anymore. What’s up with this? And what can I do to stop it?
Wannabe Ur Girlfriend – Until I Am
Dear Wannabe Girlfriend,
You either fear commitment or get a thrill out of stealing someone else’s guy. Either way, the fact that you recognize that it’s a problem means that you are more than halfway there as far as solving it goes. Make a conscious effort to keep your mitts of your friend’s guys…..because if you don’t, they won’t be your friends for long, and pretty soon you won’t have any friends, male OR female.
Annie
FOUR
I'd expected Luke Striker to show up sometime the next week, or maybe the week after. I certainly didn't expect him to arrive in Clayton the very next day.
But that's exactly what happened. I was just sitting there in Latin, waiting for class to begin and scanning my copy of the newest Register, when all of a sudden the door opened, Ms. Kellogg peeked in, said my name, then crooked a finger at me.
I slid out from behind my desk and went out into the hall to join her and the tall, scruffy-looking person standing beside her.
"Jenny," Ms. Kellogg said, her eyes shining more brightly than usual. "This is Lucas Smith, the new transfer student we talked to you about yesterday."
I'd been so absorbed in Kwang's story about Betty Ann—I have to admit, my layout job looked particularly good: There was a great photo of Betty Ann in her Clayton High cheerleader uniform with the words missing: reward underneath it, just like on the back of a milk carton—that at first I was almost like What transfer student?
Then I remembered. Luke Striker. Luke Striker was coming to Clayton to research a role, and he was going to pose as a transfer student.
And there he was.
Even though nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention to Ms. Kellogg or "Lucas," I felt myself starting to turn beet red with embarrassment. The second bell hadn't rung yet, so most people were still scurrying around the hallway, not even looking toward us. I don't know why I was so mortified.
I certainly hadn't expected to feel this way. I mean, about seeing Luke Striker in the flesh. Or actually not even, since he had way more clothes on than he'd had in his last movie. Someone must have tipped him off about how boys in Indiana dressed, since he had the look down—baggy jeans, oversize football jersey, a pair of those really ugly cross trainers. He'd added to these a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, plus it looked as if he'd been growing his hair out. It was even longer than when he'd played Lancelot. And darker. Apparently, Luke's not exactly a natural blond.
And he was taller than I thought he'd be. The guy standing there in the doorway, this guy who I was supposed to be in charge of "showing the ropes," actually looked no more like a movie star than I did . . .
Except, of course, if you knew he was one.
"Oh," I said lamely, since Ms. Kellogg just kept standing there, looking down at me all expectantly, smiling her giddiest smile "Yeah. Hi."
Luke just nodded at me. I couldn't tell if he was trying to be merciful, on account of he'd noticed my flaming cheeks or was just, you know, naturally cool. In any case, it was clear that I was about as interesting to him as an old rerun of Heaven Help Us.
"Well," Ms. Kellogg said, "I trust you'll help Mrs. Mulvaney find, er, Lucas a seat. And that you'll show him around. Right, Jen?"
"Sure," I managed to croak What was wrong with me? I swear I am so not the type to be impressed by celebrities. All the celebrities I like aren't technically even celebrities . . . you know, like authors, like Stephen King or Tolkien or whoever.
And here I was blushing because Luke Striker had nodded at me.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Great," Ms. Kellogg said. The second bell rang. Behind the lenses of his glasses, Luke winced, as if the sound hurt his head.
"Well, I'll just leave you here, then, er, Lucas," Ms. Kellogg said. People were starting to stream into the classroom—or trying to, anyway. It was kind of hard, with us blocking the doorway the way we were. "All of your teachers should be aware that you're, uh, here. We sent around a memo late yesterday."
"Great," Luke said. From behind him, I could hear Mrs. Mulvaney crying, "Eo! Eo!" which means go, or in this case, Get out of the way.
We got out of the way. Mrs. Mulvaney finally made it into the classroom. I noticed that she didn't look at Ms. Kellogg or Luke, even though they'd been blocking her way. At least, not right away. Instead, her gaze went directly to the spot where Betty Ann had been.
Seeing that the doll was still gone, Mrs. Mulvaney turned her attention to the newcomers . . . but not before I saw her face twitch, just a little. I was more sure than ever that she missed Betty Ann. I mean, really missed her.
"Mrs. Mulvaney, this is that new pupil we spoke about, Lucas Smith," Ms. Kellogg said. "The one Jenny will be student guiding?"
"Oh, of course," Mrs. Mulvaney said, showing no sign that she'd guessed Luke's true identity. Probably because she hadn't. Latin teachers aren't usually all that in touch with popular culture. "Let's have everyone behind Jen move back a seat—there's an empty desk over by the pencil sharpener. That's it."
Luke sank down into the seat behind me. I had to hand it to him. He even had the whole I-am-so-not-thrilled-to-be-here walk thing down. His posture and gait were indiscernible from those of Kurt Schraeder and his friends, when they came strolling in a few seconds later, just before the third and final bell.
Mrs. Mulvaney introduced the new pupil to the rest of the class—in Latin—and we all dutifully greeted our new amicus. Luke raised one hand and went, "Yo," in a bored voice.
Even his voice, I was mortified to note, made me blush!
As soon as Mrs. Mulvaney turned away, Luke stabbed me in the back with his pencil (eraser-end first, thank God) and whispered in my ear, "You seriously have class this early every day?"
It took a few seconds for the meaning behind his words to sink in. That was because chills were going all up and down my spine. Having a movie star like Luke Striker whisper in your ear? I'm telling you, my mom would have gotten chills.
I was trying hard to act cool about the whole thing, though. I whispered back, "Um, yes."
"But it's, like, eight," Luke said with some incredulity.
"I know," I whispered back. Then, trying to be encouraging, I added, "But we get out at three."
"Three! That’s seven hours from now."
Luke's breath tickled my cheek. It smelled like he'd just downed a Listerine strip. I wondered if all movie stars walk around with such minty fresh breath. Maybe that's what sets them apart, you know, from the rest of us. Naturally nice-smelling breath.
"Um," I said, trying to keep my wits about me. But all I could manage to come up was a witty, "I know."
Luke sank back in his desk in disbelief.
"Holy—"
Mrs. Mulvaney, who heard this last part, turned around and asked Luke and me, in Latin, if there was a problem. I told her there wasn't.
But there was Oh, yes, there was. Because I wasn't expecting Luke to be such a complete and utter hottie in real life. Not, you know, that I'd thought his on-screen hotness had all been special effects, or whatever . . .
Except that I guess maybe I had.
But it wasn't.
And I wasn't the only girl in school who noticed. Seriously. Luke followed me everywhere—to my locker, to class, to the water fountain. And though nobody recognized him—nobody even went, "Hey, you know who you look like? Luke Striker"—I noticed that the gazes of the female population of Clayton High School seemed glued to the guy. He couldn't lift a hand to so much as smooth away a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes without causing half the people in my English class to catch their breath.
The guy was hot. There was no getting around it. I didn't blame Angelique for the tattoo one little bit.
The only thing I couldn't figure out was why she'd dumped him.
Although I can't say I noticed that Luke was much of a conversationalist. He barely spoke three words to me all morning. I couldn't figure out if it was because he's just by nature a quiet guy or if he was mad at me or something. Except that I hadn't done anything that I knew of to make him mad. It wasn't until, trailing after me to second period trig, I got a clue as to what the problem might be when he asked blearily, "Look, is there someplace around here I can get an espresso?"
"Espresso?" Can I just say that espresso is not a word you hear a lot in Clayton? I tried to be nice about it though. "Well, there's a Starbucks downtown."
"You mean I gotta drive somewhere if I want to get a coffee?" Luke's blue eyes—so gorgeous on screen but in real life (even when hidden behind glasses) even more impressive, like twin swimming pools, they were so blue—widened. "What is with this place?"
"Well, nothing, really," I said. "I mean . . . it's high school."
Luke pretty much slept through trig and French. He didn't start waking up, really, until around fourth period. Which was good, because that's when I had Troubadours. Luke was going to have to be on his toes around Trina. Because if anyone was going to see through his "disguise," it was Trina.
I warned him about her on our way to the music wing. The more time I spent around him, the less tongue-tied I was becoming.
But that didn't mean I was, you know, exactly at ease in his presence. Because I still hadn't exactly figured him out. Which is weird, because I'm usually pretty good at that sort of thing.
"If you really want to stick with this anonymity thing," I said to him, "you're gonna totally have to watch your step around Trina, She's got theatrical aspirations. And she has every episode of Heaven Help Us memorized, practically."
Luke wasn't even paying attention to me. He'd finally opened his eyes wide enough to spy the soda machine.
"Caffeine!" he said, and practically threw himself on it. Then his face fell. "I don't have any change!"
I fished a dollar out of my jeans and handed it to him.
"I'm serious, Luke," I said, as kids poured into the band room behind us. "Trina's my best friend. I know what I'm talking about."
I've never seen anyone drink an entire can of Coke without pausing for breath. But Luke Striker managed it. When he was done, he let out a gentle burp and tossed the empty can over his head—backward—at the nearby trash can.
And made it.
"No problem," he said in the most animated voice he'd used all morning.
Then he smiled. And I felt my insides give a lurch. Not a good sign.
After the soda, Luke perked up a lot. And when we entered the choir room, which is like this sunken pit of carpeted risers in slowly descending steps, he even visibly brightened at the sight of his reflection in the wall of mirrors on the far side of the room, where we're supposed to watch ourselves breathe. Or at least, those of us whose views aren't impeded by Karen Sue Walters's hair.
It was right then that Trina came in. I could tell she must have already heard about the new guy I was student guiding, since she looked all around the room and then, when her gaze fell on me and Luke, she got a very determined expression on her face and came barreling down the steps toward us, going, "So, Jen, aren't you going to introduce me to your new friend?"
"Trina," I said quickly. "Hi. This is Lucas Smith. Lucas, this is my friend Trina."
It was at that point that Luke turned around and said to Trina, "Hi. You're the actress, right?"
Trina looked up at Luke—he was pretty tall, over six feet—and practically melted into a puddle right in front of him.
"Why," she said, in a voice I'd never heard her use before. "Yes. That's me."
"Nice to meet you," Luke said. "So what's the theater department like here? Is it any good?"
I wanted to elbow Luke and be all, Cool it on the theater stuff, because I was afraid Trina would make the connection—Lucas Smith . . . theater . . . Luke Striker.
But I guess I overestimated Trina's obsession with the guy, since she just started going off about how it was a shame he'd transferred too late to audition for the spring musical and how the local paper had called her portrayal of Auntie Mame "inspired" and how lucky Lucas was that Mr. Hall had let him into Troubadours at all, that the audition process had been really arduous. . . .
Which made me wonder how Dr. Lewis had worked that—talked Mr. Hall into letting a guy who hadn't even auditioned into his precious show choir, I mean—and if Mr. Hall had maybe been let in on the truth. Although it's true that Mr. Hall is pretty exasperated with the tenors. Kind of like he is with my dancing.
It was at this point that Steve—the baritone who is so in love with Trina that he willingly sits through whole romantic comedies at the mall's cineplex just so he can be close to her for ninety minutes—came up to us.
"Hey," he said. Steve is kind of on the skinny side, with a sticky-outy Adam's apple. When he gets nervous, that Adam's apple bobs up and down. It was bobbing like crazy as he came up to Trina and Luke. "What's up?"
"Oh, hi, Steve," Trina said in an offhand way "This is Lucas "
"Hi," Steve said to Luke.
"Hey, man," Luke said back, outcooling Steve with just two words and a nod. Poor Steve!
"All right, people!" Mr. Hall came out of his office, which was attached to the choir room, and clapped his hands. "Seats, please. Take your seats!" Then his gaze fell on Luke. "You. Who are you?"
It was kind of funny to see him meet Luke Striker. It was obvious now that Mr. Hall had no idea who he was being introduced to.
But I mean, here was this guy who was a real actor—had made millions at it—and then here was Mr. Hall, who had told us that he used to work on Broadway, but who now directed a high school choir in southern Indiana.
And yet the choir director was acting way snottier than the actor. Mr. Hall immediately started going off about how he'd gotten the memo about Luke and all, but that he really resented the assumption on the part of the administration that just anybody could be a Troubadour, and that Luke (Lucas) should have had to audition like everybody else, and that Mr. Hall didn't see why he should let him in without one, just because it was so late in the school year.
Luke didn't so much as blink an eye. Probably because he's used to directors and their absurd demands and all. He just went, "Oh, don't worry, sir, I'll just observe until I catch on."
I think it was the sir that really did the trick. Just like Trina, Mr. Hall was instantly charmed. He even let Luke sit by the accompanist and turn pages.
I have to admit, I was pretty impressed at how Luke had buttered up Mr. Hall.
But I didn't have a whole lot of time during fourth period to think about Luke. That's because Mr. Hall made us run through our Luers program three whole times. I mean, we had to stand up and do the arm movements and everything. It bummed me out that I couldn't hide behind Karen Sue Walters's hair and read
anymore. It bummed me out even more that the arm motions were really complicated and hard to remember, and that I kept messing up and Mr. Hall kept yelling at me.
"You're behind, Miss Greenley!" and "Stop sloughing off, Jenny!" was all I heard all class period.
Trina was really making me sweat it for those extracurricular points, let me tell you.
We altos don't have it as bad as the sopranos, though. They actually have to DANCE. With HATS. Seriously. They have to do like a hat-and-cane routine to "All That Jazz" from Chicago, only without the canes. Which is actually fine by them, because the sopranos are all good dancers. But we altos have to pass them the hats from this stack hidden behind the risers. It's super hard . . . you know, for somebody like me with no sense of rhythm. By the time the bell rang for lunch, I was exhausted.
But Luke, it turned out, was just starting to get revved up.
"You guys actually get school credit for that?" Luke wanted to know, as we were leaving the choir room.
It's kind of funny that he figured out show choir was lame so fast I mean, I'd been in the choir for three whole months before I figured it out. It's not just the padded bras "All That Jazz" is the coolest number we do. The rest of our program consists of what Mr. Hall calls Broadway show-stoppers, which include "As Long as He Needs Me" from Oliver (we altos especially like the line "As long as he needs me/I'll cling on steadfastly." We sing it as "Klingon." So far Mr. Hall hasn't noticed) and "Day by Day" from Godspell.
No, the lamest part is that Mr. Hall makes us travel around and perform in elementary schools and at Kiwanis meetings and stuff. I'm totally serious. I was horrified when I found out. I wanted to kill Trina But by then it was too late; there were no more spaces open in any other classes for Ms. Kellogg to switch me into.
In a way show choir isn't that bad, though, because it gives the school's most sensitive artist types a place where they can feel safe. A bunch of Troubadours actually eat lunch in the choir room, just so they don't have to face the Kurt Schraeders of the school down in the caf.