by Amy Spalding
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To my friend Nadia Osman
Every day I C U in the hall
C U drinking coffee @ the mall
Every day I fall and fall
More in <3 with U
But each time I C U passing by
I get tongue-tied cuz I’m way 2 shy
Ur so special and I don’t know Y
I just can’t say 2 U
Want 2 B Ur Boy
Want 2 C U smile
Want 2 hold Ur hand
And hang out 4 a while
Want 2 B the 1
Ur 2 good 2 B true
Hope U want me 2 B Ur boy 2
—Chaos 4 All, “Want 2 B Ur Boy”
CHAPTER ONE
Even though it’s only the second day of my senior year, the routine’s familiar. When a new student starts at Eagle Vista Academy, one of us gives them a quick tour and at least the illusion of a friendly face in the crowd. The school is expensive, so I think the Reception Committee is an attempt to make new kids tell their parents they were warmly welcomed. Parents therefore immediately feel like they got their money’s worth.
I joined the Reception Committee when I was a freshman, so I’ve done this more times than I can count. I’m notified a day in advance to be at the guidance office before first period begins, and when I show up, I get the new student’s schedule.
But this morning is not like any of the other mornings.
To be fair, it wasn’t to begin with. We have our first meeting of the Crest after school, and Mr. Wheeler will announce who’s been selected as newspaper editor in chief. If it’s not me… well, I can’t think about that outcome right now. Needless to say, I’m in no shape to be the best possible liaison a new student deserves.
Much less this new student.
Though maybe it isn’t him. There must be other Alex Powells besides the Alex Powell.
Ms. Guillory, the guidance administrator, clears her throat. I look over to her and realize I may have been zoning out for more than a split second.
“Of course we pride ourselves on all students enjoying an excellent but typical high school experience here,” she says. “But with some students, it’s important we pay special attention to that.”
I know then that it is the Alex Powell.
“I’ll be back on time,” I promise her as I dash out of the office. Luckily my best friend, Sadie, is at her locker when I run up.
“You look panicked,” she says.
“Look at this.” I hold up my liaison packet right in her face. “Look at it, Sadie. Don’t read it out loud, but look at it.”
“Oh my god,” she says. The packet’s still in her face, so she’s a little muffled. “Alex Powell.”
“I said not to read it out loud.”
“Jules, you should know I can’t follow a command like that. Wait, so do we know if it’s the Alex Powell?”
“Stop saying his name,” I whisper. “And, yes. I think so, at least. I don’t have one hundred percent confirmation yet.”
“Can you imagine?” Sadie checks her reflection in her locker mirror and fluffs her violet hair. “One day you’re one-fifth of the biggest boy band in the country, and then—how many years later? Two?”
“Two,” I say. Two years ago, it felt as if you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing “Want 2 B Ur Boy.” Two years ago, everyone knew Chaos 4 All. Two years ago, Alex Powell was famous.
“Jules, this is a big responsibility,” Sadie says. “You are welcoming a teen idol to our school.”
“He’s not a teen idol anymore,” I say. There’d been at least a couple of songs after “Want 2 B Ur Boy,” but they hadn’t been so universally beloved. And then it was like Chaos 4 All had never even existed.
“Mom says once you’re famous, you’re changed,” Sadie says. “For good.”
Sadie’s parents are actors, so her mom would know.
“I have to go,” I say. “I can’t be late to welcome him. I should never be late to welcome someone on their first day, but—”
“But especially not Alex Powell,” she says. “Go.”
I rush back to the guidance office, where I appear to have beaten Alex Powell. I’ve been trying to picture him, but in my head he’s still fifteen with perfectly floppy hair straight out of a photo shoot.
“Welcome back, Miss McAllister-Morgan,” Ms. Guillory says with a sigh, and I think I’m supposed to realize I shouldn’t have dashed off, even briefly. It probably wasn’t the most professional move, but today shouldn’t call for standard operating procedures.
All right, of course today should. That’s why standard operating procedures exist.
“And good morning, Mr. Powell,” Ms. Guillory says, looking past me.
I turn my head very slowly in a calculated swivel.
Alex Powell, the Alex Powell, is standing right inside the swinging doors.
“Good morning,” he says with a little grin.
Great. Just great. He’s still cute. He’s not floppy-hair-straight-out-of-a-photo-shoot cute, but real-life cute instead.
And real-life cute is so much better.
“You’re in good hands,” Ms. Guillory tells him with a little gesture to me. “Good luck on your first day.”
She takes a seat and looks to her computer, and normally this is when I jump in seamlessly. But I’m still marveling that he’s here.
“Hey,” he says to me, and I try to reconcile the famous fifteen-year-old with the person standing in front of me, who seems now like he’d want to be someone’s man, not their boy.
Oh my god, why am I thinking stuff like this like I know him? Seeing someone on TV and the Internet doesn’t equal knowing him. We’re strangers.
He’s tall—I’m bad with guessing heights, but I think over six feet—and he’s filled out. His dark hair used to be styled very precisely. Now it’s grown out just a little, and a wavy chunk falls over his forehead in a way that makes me want to lean over and brush it back.
Oh my god, Jules, no! Do not think of touching Alex, his hair, or his forehead. You’re a professional. Professionals keep their hands to themselves, even inside their brains.
“Miss McAllister-Morgan,” says Ms. Guillory, and now I wonder if I was just standing there gaping at Alex Powell.
When you live in LA, people being famous isn’t the biggest deal. There are Sadie’s parents, of course, and a few kids show up only toward the end of the year when their TV shows aren’t shooting, and Nick Weber was on a Disney show as the annoying little brother back in grade school. But the TV kids only talk to me if they’re talking to Sadie, and I’ve barely spoken to Nick at all.
And yet now I have to speak to Alex. I have to speak to Alex with authority. Because I’m on the Eagle Vista Academy Reception Committee. I’m the vice president of the Eagle Vista Academy Reception Committee.
“Hi, I’m Jules McAllister-Morgan. I’m your Eagle Vista Academy Reception Committee liaison. What’s your name?”
Obviously the question is not one I need to ask.
“Alex,” he says with a broad smile that takes over his entire face. “Alex Powell. Thanks.”
I ta
ke that in like new information.
“Nice to meet you, Alex.” I pause to beam my practiced welcome smile. I’ve learned from mainlining America’s Next Top Model marathons with my friends that the giveaway of a fake smile is not involving your eyes, so I make sure mine crinkle up a little.
In general—not just with my expression—I think it’s incredibly important to project the right image. Since today I was on liaison duty and I’m awaiting the newspaper editor announcement, I made sure to wear one of my more professional outfits. My structured gray top goes perfectly with the subtle floral pattern on my A-line skirt, and because my black flats are brand-new, there’s not even the hint of a scuff on them yet. My blond hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, not only to keep it out of my face but also to give the impression I don’t care about frivolous things like my hair.
“I’ll take you around so you’ll know where your classes are,” I continue. “It can be a little confusing with a few in different buildings.”
“Okay, cool,” he says, even though nothing having to do with the Eagle Vista Academy Reception Committee could realistically be taken as cool. “Here’s my schedule.”
He starts to hand it over, but I hold up my copy. “Part of the job.”
“You’re very prepared,” he says in a voice that almost sounds like flirtation. So I remind myself of who I’m dealing with here. This is Alex Powell. Alex Powell probably has developed flirtation superpowers. Maybe Alex Powell was born with flirtation superpowers.
The voice has nothing to do with me.
“So you’ve got calculus first hour—that’s in Maywood Hall, the main academic building, through the courtyard. Most of your classes are in there; let me show you.”
He falls into step beside me as we walk out of the tiny administrative building and into the open courtyard. People make fun of the cliché of Los Angeles weather, but if you lived anywhere else, you’d have to feel jealous at least sometimes, wouldn’t you? The sky is clear, and the sun shines down in golden rays, and it’s as if the whole city wants to welcome Alex.
I do not blame the city.
“What year are you?” he asks.
“I’m a senior too. So Maywood Hall is the middle building; you just have to make a right and follow that path.” I take a couple of steps ahead of him while pointing it out. “We can go in, but we have to stay pretty quiet.”
“I can manage that,” he says.
I hold open one heavy front door for him. He kind of brushes against me as he walks in, and while it’s not the most boy contact I’ve ever had, it’s close. It feels like a lot out of nowhere. Maybe it’s why I forget to keep moving, and that’s definitely why the hem of my skirt gets sucked in as the door swings shut.
“No!” I shout, even though it’s too late.
Alex cocks one of his eyebrows. The move pulls his whole face into a smile. “What about staying quiet?”
I try to pull away from the door, but the door is stronger, and I can feel the waistband doing its best to pull down away from my waist. And I definitely do not want Alex Powell to see my underwear at all, but especially not today because tonight is Laundry Night. That means I am wearing my least favorite pair, which are pink-and-black leopard print, like my butt is a 1980s rock star. I only own them because Mom still holds out hope I’m secretly as cool as she is.
I think both Mom and I know the truth by now: I am not.
“Don’t move.” Alex swoops back in and throws open the door. My skirt does get displaced, but I’m almost positive I fix it in time to keep him from seeing even the tiniest sliver of hot pink and black.
Almost.
“You didn’t warn me how dangerous it is here,” Alex says.
“There’s actually nearly a zero percent crime rate on school grounds,” I say.
“I was kidding,” he says with a smile.
I check that his eyes are crinkled to see if it’s a real smile, and they are, so it is. I can’t believe Alex Powell is smiling at me. Technically, I guess Alex Powell is smiling at my dorkiness in the face of my Great Skirt Emergency, but it’s still a smile of his directed at me.
“Sorry, I know, I mean, I should have known.” I hear my voice and how I just sound like Regular Jules now, not at all like Eagle Vista Academy Reception Committee Vice President Jules. Time to reset. “There’s a stairwell at each end of the main corridor. For some reason, freshmen clog up the right one, so I’d suggest using the left one when you can. Let’s head back out so I can show you the other main academic building.”
“Be careful this time,” he says as I open the door. “This building clearly wants to feed on your clothes.”
“Ha-ha,” I say. Ha-ha? I meant to actually laugh!
“Hey, Jules? That’s your name, right? It’s Jules?”
“It’s Jules, yes.”
“Anyway.” Alex stops walking for a moment and shrugs. Because he’s so tall, I have to look up to watch the shrugging. “You can go ahead and say it if you want.”
“Say what?” I ask, even though of course I know what he means. How would I even do that, if I deemed it polite? Hey, didn’t you used to be famous? Hey, do u still want 2 B anyone’s boy?
He exhales audibly. “I—never mind.”
“Changing schools must be hard,” I say, even though Ms. Guillory says we should never emphasize the bad parts of switching schools, only the fun ones, and even though I’m nearly positive that isn’t what Alex means.
“I’ve done it a few times,” he says. “It’s not that big a deal. It’s still the first week, only Tuesday. Could be worse.”
“You’re brave,” I say without thinking. It earns me another real smile, though.
“Thanks for the tour,” he says, “Jules.”
Really and truly, I know this isn’t actual flirting. But also really and truly, I like it anyway.
I show him Fair Park Building and the Mount Royal Building for the Arts, then walk him into the cafeteria. I explain where the various lines—entrées, salad bar, grill, smoothies—are, and then I circle him back to the administrative wing and explain how he can go to his advisor for anything he needs. This is always the last step of the tour—and usually by now I’m feeling that twinge of I should get to class so I don’t miss anything else—but right now I wish the tour had several more attractions.
“So I hope that you’ve gotten an idea of how the school’s laid out, and where to find anything you need,” I say with my practiced smile. “And, again, you can always contact your advisor or any Eagle Vista Academy Reception Committee liaison.”
“Like you,” he says.
“Like me,” I say, dismissing the warmth or whatever tone his voice sounds washed in. “I’m vice president, so I’m always available to help.”
“That’s a big responsibility,” he says. The tone is still there. “If the president dies, you’ve got to step up.”
I already barely know how flirting works unless I’m observing others, but then throw Alex Powell into the mix? I literally just stand there, again, staring at him.
I do decide, however, that it’s marginally better than saying ha-ha again.
“Thanks for the tour,” he tells me.
“Part of the job,” I say, again, and even though I think I’m just going to inwardly cringe, I outwardly cringe a little too. Get it together, Jules! “Good luck.”
CHAPTER TWO
The spot next to Sadie in women’s history is, of course, open for me, and I slip as quietly into the room as I can manage. I don’t know why I bother, because I’m still getting out my textbook and notebook when she throws her pen at me.
“Was it him?” she whispers, if you can call it that. Sadie’s volume only seems to turn down so far.
I nod and keep my attention on my desk, even though I can’t wait to share everything with her.
“What was he like?”
“Miss Sheraton-Hayes.” Ms. Cannon doesn’t even bother to hide a sigh. “If you’d like to talk to Miss McAllister-Morgan
, might I suggest after class or at lunch?”
“Great ideas,” Sadie says, somehow not sounding sarcastic even though no one else could pull off that feat. “Sorry, Ms. Cannon.”
I wait until we’re in the hallway after class to broach the subject. “He was actually—”
“Hang on.” Sadie’s attention is completely on her phone. “Everyone’s texting. Did you get a picture of him?”
“A picture?”
“With your phone?”
“I couldn’t take a picture of”—I stop myself and drop my voice to a whisper, a real whisper, not a Sadie-style one—“Alex Powell with my phone.”
“Jules!” She swats me on the arm. “What good is it having my best friend on the Reception Committee if it doesn’t benefit me in any way?”
“It’s really not supposed to benefit you in any way,” I say.
“He’s in Em’s calculus class,” Sadie says. “Imagine being in calculus, doing calculus stuff, with Alex Powell.”
I check my phone as well, even though that’s against Eagle Vista Academy rules. There’s nothing about today that doesn’t feel like an exception. “Em just texted. She says that no one is making a big deal out of him being here. Maybe people don’t really remember.”
“It was only two years ago,” Sadie says. “Wait! Why am I checking in with Em? I haven’t even debriefed you yet!”
“I have to get to class,” I say. “I haven’t even been to my locker yet.”
“This is totally worth being late for,” Sadie says, but I fear tardy slips far more than Sadie does, so we split up for now. Em’s in my Latin class, which is my next class, and she raises her eyebrows at me as I sit down.
“You heard, I assume,” she says. “Or you checked your texts for once.”
“Yes and yes,” I say. “I was his liaison this morning.”
“He seems normal,” she says.
“Completely. He was really nice.”
“And hot,” she says. “Very hot.”
“I didn’t notice,” I say for some reason, and Em’s eyebrows find new heights. “No, I noticed. Obviously I noticed. I don’t know why I said I didn’t.”