by Meg Cabot
"Yes," Trina said. "And it's all good stuff. I mean, I was going to dump my boyfriend just so I could have a shot at going out with a movie star. How heinous was that? You not only kept that movie star's identity a secret—when you know anyone else would have been running around going, 'Luke Striker! Luke Striker!'—but you tried to keep the rest of us from, you know, objectifying him when we finally figured it out. And that thing you did with Cara—I mean, I'm not saying I like her or anything. Cara, I mean. But you took the time to show her how not to be such a wannabe. And now way less people want to kill her."
"Well," I said, not sure this was a compliment. "I guess. . . ."
"And now Betty Ann?" Trina shook her head at me. "Don't try to deny it. It's all over school. You just walked into Kurt's house and took her?"
"Well," I said, wondering how I was going to bring up the subject of Scott. Or if I even wanted to. It was all still so new, what I was feeling about him . . . Besides, I knew exactly what Trina was going to say about it, if I told her "Not exactly—"
"So really, how could I go with those guys to Luers?" Trina said, shrugging. "I mean, after you left, things just went from bad to worse. Hall was trying to get us all to call you and talk you into coming back. But not because—no offense, Jen—you're such a good singer or anything, but because he realized he'd lost his one claim to fame . . . the fact that Luke Striker's girlfriend was in his choir. Yes, I know you're just friends, but whatever. I was just like, This is bogus. So I didn't get on the bus this morning. It's like Ask Annie says."
I was a little surprised at hearing my secret pen name invoked in such a manner. "Like Ask Annie says? About what?"
"You know. Life's short If you don't try new things, you'll never know what you're best at. And you can only make time for new things by quitting the things you know don't work for you."
"Huh," I said, like I'd never heard that one. "I guess that's true."
"What do you mean, you guess that's true?" Trina picked up her pencil. "Of course it's true. Annie said it. Do you even read her column? You know, it might do you some good."
It felt good, having my best friend back. I guess, in that way, Mrs. Mulvaney and I had a little something in common.
Except, of course, my best friend can actually speak.
It wasn't until the bell rang and Trina and I picked up our books and started to head down to the cafeteria that the librarian stopped us.
"Pardon me, Jenny," she said with an apologetic smile. She knew me because I check out books so often. I'd read every single thing she had on the sci-fi shelf. "I have to ask . . . do you or your friend here have passes? Because otherwise, I'm afraid I will have to report you for skipping class. I don't have either of you down for study hall this period. . . ."
There it was. Busted.
"Go ahead and mark us down," Trina said excitedly. Really. She was excited about being caught skipping class. "Catrina Larssen, with two s's. And you know Jen, of course. We've quit Troubadours. You know, the show choir? I suppose they'll try to make us go back. But if they do, I'll have my mother call the school board, because Mr. Hall is trying to crush this poor girl's spirit." Trina threw an arm around me. "That's not right, is it? For a teacher to become abusive to a student, just because she can't get her jazz hands right? I mean, Jen can't help it if she's dance challenged. Her talents he in other arenas."
The librarian stared at us with her mouth a little open. Then she said, "I see. Why don't you two, um, go on down to lunch right now, and I guess we'll . . . we'll just deal with this on Monday."
"Thanks," Trina said, with her biggest stage smile, the one you could see all the way to the last row of the auditorium. "See you then."
I was so, so glad Trina and I were friends again.
Especially when, later that day, it wasn't just Scott and me making the long walk across the parking lot to his car after school. We had Trina there, as well, since Scott had said, "Sure," when I'd asked him if it was okay if she hitched a ride with us after her play rehearsal, since she and Steve were broken up—and he, in any case, was away at Bishop Luers.
Trina hadn't looked a bit surprised when I'd told her Scott had been driving me home from school all week She seemed to take it for granted that he would and that it was no big deal.
What I don't think Trina quite realized was that it was a big deal. It was a very big deal. Because Scott and Geri were broken up. So it was just me and Scott in the car. Alone.
But I guess Trina just thought Scott and I were friends. Which we were. So being alone together in his car was perfectly fine. Which it was.
So why was I feeling so relieved that Trina was tagging along with us? Relieved and yet . . . well, a little bit disappointed?
Whatever. I'd given up trying to analyze my feelings. There were just too many of them lately, for some reason.
We were strolling toward Scott's car, just the three of us, talking about how we couldn't wait for summer vacation and what we were going to do during it—Trina, theater camp; Scott, internship at the local paper; me, baby-sitting (of course)—when something totally unexpected happened. This giant bus pulled into the parking lot. Not a school bus or a Greyhound bus or anything, but, like, a tour bus. It pulled up to the back of the school, and the motor stopped.
Trina, arrested by this sight, froze in her tracks.
"Oh my God," she said, staring at the bus. "Why are they back so early? They shouldn't be back so early. Not unless . . ."
We heard the sound of the bus door opening. Then, a second later, I recognized Mr. Hall's voice, shouting at everyone not to leave until they were sure they had all their things from the bus.
". . . they didn't make the finals," Trina said.
And sure enough, one of the first people to come out from behind the bus, the garment bag containing his tuxedo thrown over one shoulder, was Trina's ex-boyfriend Steve. He didn't notice her right away, standing there staring at him, because he was digging in the pocket of his jeans for his car keys.
Then, as Scott and I stood there watching, Trina did the most surprising thing. You know, considering she and Steve were broken up and all, and she'd just been telling me how murderously angry with him she was for dumping her the way he had, just a few days before the most important dance of the school year. Except, of course, that because of his dumping her, she'd realized Steve was her soul mate and that she would never love anyone as much as she loved him. Not even Luke Striker.
What Trina did was say his name.
That's all. Just his name.
But it carried, you know. Across the parking lot. Because she'd been practicing her projection so much, at night in her bedroom.
Steve looked up and seemed to go immobile with shock. Trina was clearly the last person he'd been expecting to see.
He wasn't too happy about seeing her, either.
"Oh, great," he said, when he saw her. Steve's projection isn't too shabby, either. Well, it has to be good, you know, for him to play her leading men. The Clayton High School Drama Club can't afford a sound system with microphones and stuff. "There you are."
"Steve," Trina said again. But Steve wouldn't let her go on.
"Oh, no," he said, holding up a hand—the one with the car keys in it—to stop her when she took a step toward him. "No, you don't. Do you have any idea what I've been through for the past ten hours? I had to get on that bus at six in the morning. Six a.m., Trina. With a bunch of sopranos singing 'Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.' In two-part harmony. At dawn."
Scott and I watched, fascinated, as Steve stabbed an index finger in Trina's direction. I had to admit, this was good. I had never seen Steve's Adam's apple bob so much.
"And why?" Steve demanded, seemingly of no one in particular. Or maybe of all of us. "Because my ex-girlfriend begged me to. Begged me to join her stupid freaking choir. So I did. And then I find out—too late, of course, because I'm already on the freaking bus—that my ex-girlfriend didn't even bother to show up. So then I have to sit
on that bus for three hours before going onstage and standing there in a rented tux, like a total jerk, singing about my buckle shoes in front of freaking Miss Kentucky. Who thought we sucked, by the way. Well, you know what, Trina? I quit."
And to emphasize his point, Steve threw the garment bag containing his tuxedo onto the asphalt. Then stomped on it.
"I quit," he yelled. A lot of the other Troubadours had come out from behind the bus and, hearing all the commotion, were standing there staring at Steve and Trina, just like we were. I saw Kwang with his Palm Pilot and Jake Mancini with his tuba and Karen Sue Walters, looking sort of stunned by the whole thing, with her red sequined dress dangling limply from its hanger.
Mr. Hall was there, too, an expression of undisguised horror on his face as he watched his best baritone mangle his Deluxe Tux rental.
"I quit," Steve yelled. "No more plays. No more musicals. And no more show choir, Trina. It's over. I'm sick of signing up for this stuff just to make you happy. I'm going to do what I wanted to do in the first place." He stopped stomping on the tux and glared at her, his chest heaving up and down. "Next year, I'm joining the baseball team."
Every head in the parking lot swiveled toward Trina to see what her reaction would be. Including mine.
Trina's performance did not disappoint. She hadn't been Steve's leading lady in all those plays for nothing. She tossed her long, silky hair back, then held out her arms.
Then she said, "Anything you want, baby. I love you."
And Steve, with a muffled cry that appeared to be filled with as much frustration as it was adoration, snatched her up and covered her mouth with his . . .
. . . to the satisfaction of everyone in their audience . . . with the possible exception of Mr. Hall, who turned around and stormed off to his Jetta without another word to anyone.
It was pretty obvious after that that Trina wasn't going to ride home with Scott and me. Which was just as well. I was a little stunned by the display of unbridled passion I'd just witnessed. I hadn't seen kissing like that since . . . well, never.
I suppose it hadn't been as shocking to Scott. You know, given all the hearts in Geri Lynn's date book. Because he still seemed capable of human speech.
"So, Jen," he said, as we turned on to my street. "About you and Luke . . ."
"We're just friends." That, at least, I could say. I mean, I'd had enough practice at it.
"Yeah," Scott said. "I know that. I mean, I know that's what you tell the media. But, I mean. This is me."
"We're just friends," I said again. But I said it differently this time. Because I'd turned my head to look at him. And I could tell this hadn't been just a casual question. Scott really wanted to know.
"I know," Scott said. He looked . . . I don't know. For a second, I thought he looked kind of . . . angry.
Only why should Scott be angry at me? What did I do?
"But . . . it's true," I said, not knowing what else to say.
"Yeah," Scott said, in a different voice. "I know."
And at that moment, we pulled up in front of my house. And the usual flock of news reporters descended upon Scott's car, all pointing microphones toward the passenger side window . . . my window.
"Miss Greenley? Miss Greenley, is it true that you're going to co-star with Luke Striker in his next film?"
"Scott," I said, again, worriedly. What was wrong with him?
But maybe I'd just imagined the whole mad-at-me thing. Because a second later, Scott smiled at me and said, "You better make a run for it while there's still only thirty or forty of them out there."
I laughed at his joke. A little weakly.
"Okay," I said. "Um. See you."
"Right," he said. "See you Monday."
See you Monday. Right. Because I was going to the Spring Fling tomorrow night with Luke. And Scott wasn't going at all. So I wouldn't be seeing him again until Monday. Why did this realization make me feel like someone had stuck a hand in my chest and ripped out my heart?
I was still feeling that way when the phone rang later that night, and it was Trina, gushing about how she was going to the Spring Fling after all, and that I should see her dress—she'd finally managed to talk her mother into letting her wear black.
"Huh," was all I could think of to say.
Trina didn't appear to notice my lack of talkativeness.
"So what's up with Scott, anyway?" Trina wanted to know.
My chest suddenly felt tight. She'd noticed. Trina had noticed. That I think I might like Scott. Oh, no. She'd noticed.
"What do you mean?" I asked anxiously.
"Well, who's this girl Geri says he likes?"
My heart did a somersault in my chest, proving it hadn't been ripped out after all "Girl? What girl?"
"You know. This mystery girl Geri thinks Scott likes. Well, you've heard her going on about it."
It was true, I had heard Geri But I had been trying very hard to tune her out. Because I don't want to hear about Scott liking some other girl.
Some girl other than me.
"God," Trina said "Wouldn't it be funny if it turned out the girl Scott's in love with is you?"
"Yeah," I said, squeezing the phone so tightly I was surprised it didn't shoot out of my hand and go flying across the room.
"No, I'm serious," Trina said. "I mean, he's been giving you rides every day. And you guys like the same books—you know, those end-of-the-world books. Wouldn't it be wild if the girl it turns out Scott's secretly in love with is you?"
"Scott's not in love with me," I said sadly. See you Monday. Yeah, not what a guy says when he's in love with you.
"Yeah, you're probably right," Trina said dismissively. "Besides, you've got Luke."
"Luke and I are just—"
"Oh my God, I get the picture," Trina said.
Except that she didn't. No one did.
Least of all, I was starting to think, me.
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 read your column every week, and I think you give terrible advice. You told that girl whose stepmother was only looking out for her immortal soul not to worry about hell, that she was already in it.
Annie, high school is not hell. High school is supposed to be the best years of a persons life. And for anybody who attends church regularly and stays away from sex, drugs, alcohol and rock music, they can be.
It’s just people like you, Annie, who ruin high school for everyone by espousing free love and Satanism.
Outraged Teen
Dear Outraged,
How do you know I worship Satan? You don’t know anything about me.
And I happen to agree with you about the drugs and alcohol, and – with the exception of safe sex – the sex thing too.
But rock music? No way, dude. Rock rules, and always will.
Annie
SIXTEEN
They say the second most important day of a woman's life, after her wedding day, is her junior-senior formal.
Well, okay, probably the birth of her first child is up there somewhere, too.
But you get what I mean.
I spent mine—the day of my junior-senior formal—doing all the prom-y things every girl does. You know, the manicure and pedicure, the waxing (ouch), the blow out at the hair salon.
Of course, I was the only girl in America who, while getting ready for her prom, had a phalanx of reporters following her around, trying to get photos of the girl who was going to the prom with America's sweetheart getting her upper lip bleached. Thanks for that, guys. No, really.
It was kind of annoying, but, hey, I'd promised a friend I'd go to the Spring Fling with him. I owed it to him to look my best.
And when I'd slipped into my dres
s—a blue satiny number, covered with a layer of chiffon, with little poofy chiffony sleeves and little chiffony forget-me-nots all around the hem . . . the girliest dress you ever saw—I felt like I actually looked my best. The hairstylist had clipped back my not-fully-grown-out-yet bangs with a barrette that even had real live blue forget-me-nots on it, just like the fake ones around my feet.
Trina had called me and arranged for the two of us to meet in my front yard so that we could pose for photos together for our parents. The fact that every entertainment program from Access Hollywood to Rank had a van parked outside my house to capture the moment Luke pulled up in his limo didn't seem to faze Trina a bit.
We met, as planned, by the huge oak tree in my front yard, and commenced to admire each other, even as all around us cameras—and not just the ones belonging to our parents—whirred.
Trina had been able to convince her mother to let her go Village Goth for the Spring Fling. She'd forgone the black lipstick, but she'd still managed to hunt up black fishnets, which she wore with black Converse high-tops. Her dress consisted of a gauzy black thing straight out of the pages of the Seventeen prom issue . . .
. . . but she'd fastened a black silk bustier over it, so her not-unremarkable bosom swelled to impressive heights over the neckline.
I couldn't tell who was more likely to have a heart attack when he saw her, Steve or Dr. Lewis.
"I cannot believe," I said, "that you talked your mother into letting you wear that."
"I cannot believe," Trina said, "that you let your mother talk you into wearing that."
"Hideously traditional," I said. "I know."
"Still," Trina said. "You look nice."
"So do you." Because she did. I was gladder than ever that we were friends again.
We heard the limo coming long before we saw it, because photographers who'd climbed trees around our street, hoping to get an unimpeded shot of Luke pinning on my corsage, started shouting excitedly to one another, "Here he comes! Here he comes!"