by ALSON NOËL
“Hey,” she says, pushing my coffee toward me, and taking a quick sip of hers. “You think Jaci will show up in her shoplifted skirt today?” She breaks off a piece of scone and smiles.
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Yeah, what’s up with that?” I ask, sipping my coffee, and looking at her. “I thought her family was supposed to be like, mega-rich or something?”
“Believe me, they are,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “I don’t know how she can stomach it though, ‘cause when I got home, I felt so bad about that stupid eye pencil that I ended up giving it to my mom. It’s like, I just felt way too guilty to actually use it, yet I also couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. So I just ended up telling her it was part of some gift with purchase, and that I didn’t really need it because I already had one. But I gotta admit it’s kind of funny to think about her lining her eyes with a stolen pencil.” She laughs.
And when I look at her, I start laughing, too. Not because it’s all that funny, but because I’m thinking maybe I can start to relax again, now that everything’s finally back to normal.
But by break when Sloane doesn’t show up at my locker, I decide to head for hers. And when I’m halfway there I find her standing in the middle of the quad, talking and laughing with Jaci, Holly, and Claire.
“Hey,” I say, smiling as I join them, doing my best to convince myself that Sloane was right, and that all that weird stuff at the mall was just part of some crazy popularity hazing ritual that I’ve successfully passed, and can firmly put behind me.
But the only response I get is a lazy-eyed glance followed by, “Oh, he-”
I swear, that’s exactly how they say it, like it’s just way too much effort to add that final y for someone as unimportant as me. So I just stand there, feeling my confidence plummet as they completely ignore me and continue right where they left off. And if you think Sloane, my best friend in the whole wide world, makes any effort to fill me in, or at the very least, acknowledge my presence, well, think again.
But when the bell rings, and the three of them scatter off to class, Sloane finally turns and looks at me, rolling her eyes when she whispers, “Omigod, did you see Jaci’s outfit? I think the only thing she didn’t steal was her shoes. But then again, she probably swiped those the week before!” She shakes her head and laughs. “Listen, I can’t be late to English, but let’s go over our cheer at lunch, k?”
And I stand there in the hall, watching as she runs to class, and then I turn around and head toward mine.
By Friday morning I’m in a total panic. During the course of the week I’d already worn every piece of clothing from my collection of knockoffs, in addition to the two items with labels that I was actually proud of, and now I find myself marching dangerously close to the much dreaded territory of retail repeat. Not that anyone would notice, mind you. Because even though it definitely seems like I’m blending in better than ever before, it’s not like any hot guys (or any guys for that matter) are actually looking at me, or like Ginny, Jaci, Holly, or Claire even acknowledge my existence when Sloane’s not standing right next to me.
Still, the ban against wearing the same outfit twice in one week is just one of those unwritten, yet clearly defined, completely understood, universal rules. And with Sloane showing so much promise in her bid to join the social ranks, and with our cheer coming along so well, I’m feeling pretty obligated to do whatever it takes not to become a bigger burden than I already am. I mean, I’m really doing my best to keep my mouth shut whenever I’m feeling unsure what to say (as opposed to nervously yammering on and on about nothing, like I used to do), and am even making a concerted effort to smile all the time. Which makes my jaw ache so bad I think it’s giving me TMJ.
But now, standing before my closet with absolutely nothing to wear, I can feel myself getting worked up to the point of hysteria. And, believe me, I’m fully aware of just how ridiculous that sounds. I mean, last year I never used to worry about stuff like this, because once you’re firmly shut out of everything that matters, you’re pretty much free to do as you please and wear whatever you want.
But now that I’m standing on the threshold, and actually have a shot at getting in, it suddenly seems like every little nuance, every minor detail, is not only amplified, but also put right out there for everyone to see and/or judge. And I know that if I somehow get it wrong and mess up this early in the game, then the repercussions may very well affect my social standing for the next three years!
So, knowing there’s just no way I can scale this peak alone, and that I’m in desperate need of a savvy Sherpa, I grab my cell phone with the full intent of calling Sloane, figuring that not only will she be able to calm me down and walk me through this, but also will help me piece together something really cute to wear. But then just as I’m about to press Talk, it suddenly dawns on me that it’s probably better if I don’t talk to her about this. Because even though she’s my best friend (which pretty much means I should be able to call her whenever I want about anything I want), the truth is that things are starting to feel a little unsure and fragile lately. And I just don’t think I’m in any position to ignore the voice in my head that’s urging me to just snap my phone shut and drop it to the ground, nice and easy. Because if I can keep myself from calling her, then she’ll never have to know just how panicky and insecure I feel. Then maybe she’ll stop all the glaring, head-shaking, and acting like I’m some kind of major liability.
It’s like, over the span of the last four days, I feel like I’ve been standing on the sidelines, watching how easy it’s been for her to assimilate. And even though she swears they were just as mean to her that day at the mall, it’s not like I actually witnessed it. So excuse me for wondering if maybe it’s not even true. Like, maybe, buried somewhere deep down inside her Louis Vuitton purse, was a receipt for that Chanel eye pencil, and that she actually just made the entire story up for the sole purpose of making me feel better, and less like a loser.
Yet I’m also starting to notice how lately, it seems like the only time she’s ever nice to me is when Jaci, Holly, and Claire aren’t around. And how the second they show up, she starts totally ignoring me, judging me, and eye-rolling me again. So I guess I’m feeling pretty unwilling to do anything that might encourage that.
“I just don’t get what the problem is,” Autumn says, lounging on her bed in an outfit that looks more like pajamas than school clothes.
“Whatever,” I say, turning to scowl at her. “It’s not like I asked you anyway.”
But unfortunately she’s used to being scowled at by me, so it’s not like it even fazes her. “Why don’t you just wear those jeans you paid way too much for, you know the Rockin’ Republicans? You can wear them with the white ribbed tank top, under that kind of billowy, gauzy, blue tunic top, and those three-inch cork wedge heels that you also overspent on.”
I just stand there and stare at her, wondering when she became Rachel Zoe. “It’s Rock & Republic, you big dork,” I finally say, even though she’s just given me the perfect solution. I mean, hello? Mix ‘n’ match, why couldn’t I see that?
But she just smiles. “I was making a joke,” she says, apparently so accustomed to my bad attitude that she’s able to ignore it now. Which, I gotta admit, makes me feel so bad about being such a mean, older sister, that I make a real effort to soften my tone and ask her about school, while I change into her suggested outfit.
“School is awesome.” She shrugs, continuing her sketch.
“Any cute guys?” I glance at her.
But she just laughs and makes a face. “Crosby told Marc to ask Sage to ask me if I liked him. But I said no.”
I button my jeans and stare at her. This is freaking unbelievable! “You don’t mean Crosby Davis? Cash Davis’s little hottie brother?” I ask.
But she just nods.
“Why don’t you like him?” I ask.
“He’s not my type. Besides, I don’t want to get all tied down.” She laughs.
/> “Not your type?” I gape at her. I mean, how can she be serious? He’s like a Cash Mini-Me!
“He doesn’t even know who Jimi Hendrix is!” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“Um, Autumn, I hate to break it to ya, but Mom has turned you into a freak, because most kids don’t know who Jimi Hendix is,” I inform her, as I slip my feet into my shoes.
But she just shrugs. “Their loss.”
I just stand there, staring at her in shock. I mean, the hottest sixth grader in Laguna Beach likes my art-fart baby sister, and she rejects him because he doesn’t worship a guy who’s famous for playing the national anthem—on his electric guitar—with his teeth!
I shake my head, grab my bag, and head out the door. I swear, life is so freaking unfair.
Since I’m the first to get to Dietrich’s I just go ahead and order our usual, two coffees and a chocolate chip scone, then I carry it over to our usual table.
”Hey!” Sloane, says, rushing through the door. But this time, Claire is trailing right behind her.
“Oh, sorry, I only got two coffees, I didn’t know you were coming,” I say, smiling even wider for Claire’s benefit and shrugging apologetically.
But she just shakes her head and waves it away. And then, gaping at my scone with her eyes practically bugged-out of their sockets, she goes, “Omigod! Don’t tell me you’re really gonna eat all that? That’s like a trillion calories, not to mention all the fat grams and carbs!”
I gaze down at my scone, curious to see if maybe it’s tripled in size since I last looked at it, but it looks pretty much the same to me. Then I glance at Claire’s face, noticing how it’s all scrunched up and judgmental, like she just smelled something truly awful and suspects I’m to blame. “Well, usually Sloane and I split it,” I finally say, feeling totally ridiculous for having to defend my breakfast.
Claire gapes at Sloane, while Sloane rolls her eyes at me, and goes, “Please. I’m so off the carbs. One more bite of anything and I’ll totally explode out of these jeans!”
I look at Sloane, watching as she pats her perfectly flat belly, feeling pretty awful and depressed to hear her say something as stupid as that. Because the truth is she looks amazing in her stovepipe Earnest Sewn jeans, striped T-shirt, and little ballet flats. I mean, she looks just like that picture of Sienna Miller she ripped out of InStyle and hung on her wall. And even though I know how a lot of girls like to whine about imaginary cellulite and pockets of fat that don’t even exist, seeing Sloane acting like that is really starting to freak me out.
It’s also making me wonder if maybe I only wanted to be popular in a theoretical way, but not in a real way. Like, I had fun with all the planning and shopping and decorating but now that it’s time for the big move, I’m suddenly realizing that I might not actually want to live there. Because if this is what’s required of us, phony smiling ‘til our faces ache, avoiding food while our stomachs growl, and putting aside all of our opinions just so we can pretend to like and dislike the exact same things as everybody else—well, it’s starting to feel like way too high of a price. It’s starting to feel like the ultimate sellout.
But since I can’t exactly say that, much less ignore the ominous look Sloane is giving me, I just break off a miniscule piece of scone, pop it in my mouth, and throw the rest away. Wondering how on earth I can possibly make it to lunch without fainting from hunger.
During the ten-minute break, Sloane shows up with Claire again. And by lunch I can hardly believe it when we’re promoted to Table A. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re sitting in the center, or anywhere near the top (which is the absolute most coveted spot because then practically the whole school can see you), but we’re definitely securely perched on the far outermost edge. And even though I don’t really say anything, and even though nobody says anything to me, and even though I don’t really like anyone here (other than Sloane), I gotta admit, it still feels pretty amazing.
After school we’re all (and by all I mean, me, Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire), standing in the school parking lot, talking and laughing while waiting for our rides when Cash Davis strolls by.
And the second he’s out of earshot, Jaci puts her hand over her heart and goes, “Omigod, have you ever seen a more perfect specimen?”
And then Holly and Claire immediately agree and mumble something about his rock-hard ass and major tight abs. And then Sloane looks at me, who up until now, everyone has pretty much been trying to ignore, and goes, “Well, you guys, Winter actually talked to him.”
They all stare at me, their faces bearing a skepticism that’s impossible to miss.
”Seriously.” She nudges me in the arm. “Tell them.”
I glance at Sloane, wishing she wouldn’t do this, even though I know she’s only trying to help, and then I look at everyone else and sigh. “It was nothing,” I say, trying to affect what I hope comes off as a jaded, world-weary demeanor. “So not a big deal.”
“Oh, please,” Sloane says, nudging me even harder this time. “Tell them how he picked up your books and stuff.”
She’s smiling, but her eyes are cold and hard, warning me not to say something stupid, begging me not to blow this. And just as I open my mouth so I can resurrect my lie about Cash bumping into me, Jaci, rolls her eyes, stifles a yawn, and goes, “Uh, excuse me; but the last time I saw you anywhere near Cash Davis was when you were freaked-out and covered in head-to- toe smoothie. So, whatever. Anyway, my ride’s here. So kiss-kiss, everyone!”
I just stand there, unable to speak, as I watch Jaci, Holly, and Claire trot off toward their “ride,” which is actually just Jaci’s angry-looking mom, hunched behind the wheel of her highly accessorized black Range Rover, yelling into her cell phone.
“What the hell? How come you never mentioned that to me?” Sloane asks, looking pretty angry just as her own mom pulls up in her shiny, new Lexus.
I just look at her, nervously dangling my backpack from two, outstretched fingers, and wondering how I’m going to explain this. Then finally I take a deep breath and say, “Well, I started to, but-” But then I just stop and shrug, suddenly unwilling to finish my own sentence. I mean, I really don’t like the way this is starting to feel. And I really don’t like how, lately, I always have to defend just about everything I say and do around her.
But Sloane just exhales loudly and gives me this totally annoyed look. “Well, are you coming or not?” she asks, opening the car door, not even trying to hide her frustration.
And even though it would be nice to get a ride home, the last thing I need is to be in a confined space with her and her disapproving mom. So I just shake my head and watch as she climbs inside.
And just as I start to walk away Sloane slides down her window, hangs her head out, and goes, “Kiss-kiss!”
And I smile as I turn to face her, knowing she’s trying to make up for all the tension by totally making fun of Jaci, just like we used to, before we were trying so hard to be her friend. But when my eyes meet hers, I realize she’s serious. And I remain on the curb, staring after the Lexus, until I can no longer see them.
On Friday nights I usually work in the café. Which basically means that my mom is totally taking advantage of my nonexistent social life, as well as possibly flaunting some very serious child labor laws. Sometimes, I even go so far as to wonder if she’s intentionally sabotaging Autumn and me, determined to raise two social retards with no life, just so she can save on overhead.
Not that Autumn’s a social retard. I mean, to me she may be a major dork, but ever since learning about little Crosby Davis’s crush on her, I’m starting to realize that other people don’t necessarily view her in quite the same way.
I pour two Strawberry Fields smoothies into two tall glasses, reminiscing about the time when I changed all the names, updating the signs to reflect more current titles to songs that people actually listen to. Like, “Don’t Phunk With My Heart Tart,” “Crumbs From Your Table Crumble,” and my very own person
al favorite, “As Ugly As I Seem Smoothie.” But needless to say, my mom was not amused. And by the very next day everything was back to normal again.
After delivering the smoothies, I head to the back, where I grab two totally overstuffed and very heavy trash bags, which I proceed to half drag and half carry all the way outside to the Dumpster, totally cringing when I see the unmistakable red glow of skinny dude’s cigarette, bobbing in the dark, at the end of the alley.
“Nice out,” he says, taking another drag as he approaches, nodding at me like we’ve been hanging out and chatting for years.
“Yup,” I say, struggling to heave one of the mammoth bags into the bin and failing miserably.
“Here, let me get that.” He clamps his cigarette between his lips and lifts the bag with surprising ease for someone with no visible muscle tone. “So how’s school treatin’ ya?” he asks, reaching for the other bag and tossing it in as well. “Learning anything?”
“Not really.” I say, feeling anxious to get back inside and far away from him.
“What grade ya in, ninth?”
“Tenth,” I say, feeling totally offended he thought I was a freshman.
“Yeah, well, they don’t really teach you anything ‘til college.” He nods, blowing two perfect smoke rings, and watching as they dissolve into the night.
“You went to college?” I ask, immediately regretting the amount of surprise in my voice, but still, I didn’t expect to hear that.
“ ‘Course I went to college,” he says, shaking his head at me. “What? You think I’m some philistine lowlife, working in a liquor store?”
“Um, no, absolutely not,” I say, gazing toward our back door, longing to be on the other side of it.
But he just throws down his cigarette, smashing the smoldering tip under the sole of his old, beat-up Doc Marten. “I thought you were different from all those other spoiled brats,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But apparently you’re just like the rest of them.”