by ALSON NOËL
And remembering my last humiliating foray into alcoholism, I know that won’t be a problem tonight.
I follow him into the main room where we settle into a cracked leather booth, and then I gaze all around, thinking how weird it is that I’ve passed by this place like a bazillion times before, but never once thought about going inside. But now that I was actually in, I was feeling so cool and grown-up to be here. And it’s not like it’s really all that great or anything, because the truth is, it’s not. I mean, the floor is kind of covered in this old, cracked tile, and the tables all seem like they probably have a thick layer of gum stuck underneath (and I say probably because it’s not like I’m gonna climb under and check), and the leather on these seats is kind of old and shabby and ripped in places. But the thing that makes it so exciting and cool is that I never would have come here if I were still hanging out with Sloane, since the only music she ever listens to are songs by former Mickey Mouse Club members. Not to mention how she never wants to go anywhere that hasn’t been declared “hot” by Paris Hilton, InStyle magazine, or the cast of The Real O. C.
So I look at Rey, and go, “This place is so awesome, everyone looks so laid-back and cool. I mean, you’d never see Sloane and Jaci and those guys in a place like this.” I shake my head and gaze around, taking it all in. “You know, because even though it’s obvious how they all think they’re cool, they’re definitely not this kind of cool. They’re like boring, mainstream, mass-marketed, fake cool.” Then I nod and smile and wait for him to agree.
Only he doesn’t agree. He just shakes his head, rubs his eyes, and glances at his watch for like the millionth time in the last five minutes.
And the second I see that, I know I’ve gone too far. I mean, all I have to do is look at his face to know that he’s totally exasperated and completely over the whole Table A thing. So in a lame attempt to lighten the mood and get a jokier feel going, I point at his watch and go, “So, what’s with the clock- watching? Waiting for someone?” And then I laugh, since obviously, he’s not. I mean, it’s just us.
But then he looks right at me and says, “Well, actually, Shay said she’d get here early and save us a seat, but I don’t see her. I hope she’s not getting hassled at the door.” Then he squints in that direction, like he’s about to get up and go check or something.
I stare at him, feeling more than a little shaky. “Um, who’s Shay?” I ask, in a small, quiet voice.
He looks up and points. “That’s Shay.”
I follow the length of his finger, and at the very tip I find this extremely cool, very beautiful girl.
”Hey,” she says, sliding in next to Rey and kissing him on the cheek in a way that’s not exactly intimate but still makes me wonder just who the heck she is.
I mean, obviously, Rey and I are nothing more than just completely platonic, casual friends. And if he wants to have a beautiful, hip, edgy girlfriend who likes to kiss him on the cheek, then that’s totally fine with me. Because, it’s not like I care or anything. All I’m saying is that it would have been nice to be clued into this situation a little earlier. Just as a courtesy, that’s all.
So Rey introduces us and I nod and smile, even though I’m totally scrutinizing her dyed black, china doll haircut, smudgy, smoky eye makeup, perfectly lined red lips, and pale, pale skin. And even though most girls who frequent this zip code spend a ton of time and money striving for “tan, beachy, and natural,” believe me, on her, the opposite look totally works.
“Shay goes to Sage Hill,” Rey says, glancing from her to
me.
Oh, so she’s rich, I think. Well, rich or on scholarship.
“She lives in Pelican Hill.”
Bingo, rich.
I try to smile benignly, even though I’m inspecting her like the key piece of evidence in a particularly gruesome crime scene. “How do you guys know each other?” I ask, watching as she and Rey glance at each other and laugh.
“Shay’s dad optioned one of my mom’s screenplays,” he says. “But that’s just a coincidence. Because we actually met when she came into the café and ordered a smoothie.”
“Purple Berry Haze.” She smiles, exposing the slight distance between her two front teeth, which, so far, is the only flaw I’ve been able to detect on her otherwise perfect face. But still, wouldn’t you know it, on her it looks cool. “I just love the name.” She laughs.
Knowing my mom’s stupid organic café (and cloying, cutesy dessert names), are responsible for Shay’s being here now just makes me even more miserable. But I know I have to say something, I mean, after all, she’s a smoothie fan. So I just nod and go, “Yup, that’s one of our top sellers.”
And then I stare at the stage until the band comes on.
The second the band takes a break, I beeline for the bathroom. And then the second I’m inside, I notice that Shay is right behind me.
“You go first,” she says, ushering me into the tiny, narrow stall. So I do. And then just as I get in position and start going about my business, she says, “So what’s up with you and Rey?”
Okay, first of all, I really hate it when people want to small talk while you pee. It’s just so freaking awkward, full of all kinds of pauses and weird moments. And second, a serious question like that requires eye contact, because I really need to see her face so that I can know just exactly what it is she’s trying to get at. But now that she’s asked, I feel like I have to answer. I mean, I can’t just ignore it, can I? So I sigh and go, “Well, um ...” And then I try to drag out that “um” for as long as I can, without sounding like I’m meditating.
Then when I finally come out I continue by saying, “Well, we’re really good friends.” And then I head for the sink, thinking she’s gonna go inside the stall and leave me in peace. But she doesn’t. She just leans against the wall and stares at me.
“And. . . “ she says, waiting for more.
“And what?” I ask, grabbing a handful of paper towels to dry my hands with.
“And that’s it? Just friends?” She looks me over like she doesn’t quite believe me.
And even though I guess in a way that’s actually kind of flattering, I mean, for someone like her to think that a guy (any guy) might actually covet me, I’m starting to feel a little weird about all this. Because now that she’s asking, I remember how I felt back at the café, when he came out of the bathroom, looking and smelling so good, and how my stomach went all weird again when I watched her kiss him on the cheek. And it makes me wonder if we really are just friends.
Or if part of me actually wants to be something else, something more.
“Because he talks about you a lot, and ...”
“Yeah?” I say, desperate to hear the rest of this, hoping it will help me decipher my true feelings.
But she just shrugs, leaving the sentence unfinished, suspended.
So I just reach into my purse, grabbing the lip gloss Sloane gave me but that I still use. (I mean, why waste perfectly good lip gloss?), and coat my lips with a thick, gloppy line of peach shine.
Then Shay looks at me and goes, “Okay, so if you’re just friends, then I guess you won’t mind if I ask him out? ‘Cause I really, really like him. He’s just so adorable, and smart, and talented. Sexy, too.” She giggles.
So I giggle, too. But only because I know I’m supposed to. Because believe me, inside my body my stomach’s gone all queasy, while my mind is spinning with thoughts like, Do I mind? And, Would I even be able to admit it if I did? I mean, I never really thought about any of this until she just now forced it on me. And even though I’m kind of leaning toward the fact that, yes, I might, actually, really kind of mind, for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to tell her that. Because I just can’t be sure if I really, truly like him, or if I just now decided I do since recently discovering that not only is he in high demand, but apparently, he’s also mine to give or keep at the drop of a word.
So I compromise, by giving her the wordless shrug. Which, to my understand
ing, has always been the universal sign for taking the fifth.
But apparently Shay doesn’t quite interpret it that way. Because she just smiles and says, “Omigod, thanks!”
And by the time we get back to our booth, she slides in extra close to Rey. I mean, she’s practically sitting in his lap now. But it’s not like I’m watching or anything. I just keep my eyes glued to the band for the rest of their set.
THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY
Weekend of September ??, 2006
12:04 P.M.
Current Mood—Don’t ask
Current Music—Sex Pistols singing “Anarchy in the UK” so loud my earplugs are vibrating.
Quote of the Day-”There is no little enemy."—Benjamin Franklin
Complicated
Um, did I give the impression that this blog would be wholly dedicated to the story of Princess Pink and the ultimate rise and fall of a teenage drama queen? Because if so, I’m here to tell you that I may have to revise that just a little. I may actually be forced to write myself just a little more prominently into my own story. Just like that guy in Adaptation did with his movie.
Not to mention how, since I don’t exactly hang with Princess Pink anymore, the weekend edition could run a little dry from time to time. But that’s where I come in. Literally.
So, to bring you up-to-speed, last night I auctioned off the one guy in the universe who may very well have turned out to be—the potential love of my life.
Though, now that I think about it, auction isn’t really the right word. Since technically, I walked away from that little transaction with even less than I started—with no more to show for it than a bad mood, an aching heart, and what appears to be a permanent pang in the pit of my stomach. So I guess I should rephrase that, as obviously it wasn’t really an “auction” at all. In fact, it wasn’t even a gift with purchase. It was more like one of those gift bags, like the kind you get for attending a really cool party, or for being an Oscar presenter at the Academy Awards.
Only it wasn’t cool.
And it hardly felt like the Oscars.
But the real highlight came when this one particular song came on, that for reasons I cannot disclose (privacy and anonymity issues), induced me to glance at Gift Bag, only to find him involved in a serious game of tonsil hockey with her
And not long after that, I fled.
And The List goes on:
6. For those of you who can still remember that awful day in junior high when the entire school bus was throbbing with the smell of dog crap so bad the driver was forced to open all the windows so we could hang our heads out and gag? Well, my friends, the real culprit behind that dreadful, smelly stank was the smashed-up piece of freshly baked dog turd that was stuck to the sole of Princess Pink’s silver Converse tennis shoe.
7. When: Ash Wednesday, seventh grade
Who: P. P.
What: Pretending to be a devout Catholic, P. P. came to school bearing a rather large ash smudge on her forehead. Only thing is, P. P. is Protestant. Which means she was using Jesus to cover a zit.
8. During the eighth-grade presidential fitness test, right in the middle of performing consecutive elbow to raised knee sit-ups, when the quiet sound of physical exertion and stomach crunch counting was pierced by an unexpected, rather sudden, embarrassingly loud, and smelly fart? You guessed it, that was the work of P. P. and her penchant for breakfast burritos.
Best wishes,
Eleanor Rigby
Fourteen
Monday morning when I stopped by Dietrich’s I wasn’t sure just what to expect. I mean, first of all, I couldn’t be sure if Rey would even be there. And second, I had no idea how he’d act toward me if he was. Not to mention how I might inadvertently act around him.
I mean, I’d just spent the entire weekend poring over his blog, looking for clues as to how he might feel about me (um, there were no clues), and dissecting my conversation with Shay, going over it again and again, and each time coming to the same lame conclusion—that I’d accidentally, unintentionally, yet wholeheartedly, given my sincere permission, and signed- on-the-dotted-line consent, for Shay and Rey to hook up and make out directly in front of me.
Only now I want to take it all back.
And not because I want to be the one making out with him or anything remotely like that. I mean, I’m pretty much existing in a state of emotional limbo, still feeling completely undecided on all that. But the one thing I do know for sure is that I want Rey to sit back and wait, abstaining from all romantic and physical female contact, while I take my time deciding.
“Hey,” he says, waving at me from our usual table, like everything’s totally normal. “I already got our coffee and scone.” He smiles.
Our coffee and scone? I wonder how Shay would feel about that?
I slide onto the opposite stool as he pushes my latte toward me. And I gaze at him from over the top of my cup, noticing how happy he looks today. Maybe even too happy.
“So,” he says, breaking off a piece of frosted maple oat scone, and leaving the rest for me. “You left early. You missed out.”
Missed out on what? I think. Overtime in tonsil hockey?
“Your friends got busted.”
My eyes bug out, as I drop the scone and stare.
“Well, they got container checked. They were all lined up on Main Beach. We saw them when we were leaving. I guess the cops stopped them for questioning, and then decided to check their water bottles for a suspicious substance.”
“Serious?” I ask, hoping the story will get even worse than this, and somehow involve handcuffs, billy clubs, a permanent stain on their permanent records, maybe even an extended stay in juvenile hall.
“Yeah, but apparently it was nothing since they just ended up emptying all the bottles and letting them go.”
“But who was all there?” I ask, desperate for every single detail, but only because of the blog. I mean, other than that it’s not like I really care or anything.
But Rey just shrugs. “Who knows? They all look alike to me. I can’t tell the difference.”
And as we walk out the door and head for school, I’m wondering if this is maybe something Eleanor Rigby should write about. I mean, since she wasn’t actually there to witness it I’m not sure if that goes against like, the laws of journalistic integrity or something.
But when we arrive on campus, I see Sloane surrounded by students. And I watch from a distance as she stands before them, her glistening blond hair reflecting the sun, as she recants the whole sordid tale for a scandal-hungry crowd. And even though I can’t exactly hear what it is she’s saying, I can tell by the look on her face that she’s using only top-shelf adjectives and adverbs to embellish her starring role in her fictionalized version of “Busted on the Beach! A Cheerleader’s Story.”
And as I vacate the scene, I’ve already decided not to write about it. I mean, somehow that whole mess has just made her even more popular, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything to help that along.
THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY
Wednesday, finally October, 2006
4:15 P.M.
Current Mood—Mostly unhappy
Current Music—None
Quote of the Day-”I love treason, but hate a traitor.”
—Julius Caesar
You Oughta Know
Okay, so apparently, not only is Princess Pink too good for me, but she’s also too good to acknowledge me. I was in the bathroom at the beginning of lunch when I vacated the stall only to find her practically canoodling with her own reflection as she leaned in really close to the mirror and painted on a shiny, thick, sticky layer of DuWop Lip Venom (that she probably stole), while pretending she didn’t see me, even though it’s pretty obvious that she did.
Me: “So.” Okay, try not to judge me. I mean, I felt like I had to say something and this was the best I could do on such short notice.
P. P.: “____.” She says nothing. Just sighs, and removes a stray eyelash from her derma
tologist-tended cheek.
Me: “That’s it? You can’t even say hello anymore?” Followed by penetrating, malevolent glare.
P. P.: Still not breaking from her mirror-gazing love fest. “Jeez, Eleanor, what do you want from me?” This was followed by a classic headshake-deep sigh combo (at her own reflection, yet meant for me). Like she’s Paris Hilton and I’m some jilted Greek shipping heir who won’t leave her alone.
Well, P. P. since you asked, here’s My List:
I Want
1. An apology for your sudden defection after eight years of friendship with no explanation or final note.
2. My Black Eyed Peas CD, which you’ve had since the beginning of last summer and have yet to return.
3. A simple thank-you for the countless hours I spent tutoring you so that you wouldn’t face the humiliation of flunking out of English for Dummies.
4. A little acknowledgment for when I put everything on hold so that I could help you through a really rough time when you discovered that your real dad is not out of the country like your mom said, but that he’s actually locked up in some Nevada Federal Prison for Men where he’s serving time for tax fraud and evasion.
5. Author credit for the cheer you stole, plagiarized, and used without my consent.
6. A smidgen of gratitude for helping you through yet another rough time when you discovered that your mom was having an affair with a married man (and father of two), who also happened to be her boss, and who she eventually got knocked up by and married (in that order).