Mrs. Sealer presses play on the drama club’s stereo and the sounds of Lady Gaga belting “Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah! Romaroma-mamaa!” pump from the speakers.Vi, Missy, and the rest sway and jut their hips. Some girls even close their eyes.
“That’s it girls. Get a feel for your hips. Visualize your inner tiger.” Mrs. Sealer joins the action and actually roars a couple of times.
I stand stiff and watch the rest of the girls move their hips like they’re Beyoncé or something. I’ll walk the catwalk for my BFF, but there’s no way I can jiggle my hips like that.
“Taylor, join us please. Most of these girls have runway experience. You’re a beginner and really need to practice. Now, sway.”
I lift my arms and place them on my waist. Then, I slowly move my hips from side to side. But, instead of looking like Beyoncé, I resemble my grandma doing the hokey pokey at a family wedding.
“No. No. No.” Mrs. Sealer walks toward me. She places her hands on my hips. The rest of the group stops gyrating and gathers around us. “This way.” She rocks my hips back and forth with me like we’re dancing. “That’s it.”
Oh my god. This is humiliating.
Mrs. Sealer lets go of my hips. “Okay. Now that you’ve all got that down, time for those of you who last practiced your struts in flats and for those of you who didn’t get turns”—pausing for a second, Mrs. Sealer looks me in the eye—“to try your hands at doing your runway walk in heels.”
Upon doing a little jump (guess the prospect of subjecting us to more agony is too exciting to contain), Mrs. Sealer shuts the stereo off and pulls out a pair of tiny, sparkly, silver spiked heels from a box. They’re serious Cinderella shoes. “Taylor, you first.”
Think happy thoughts. Think Zach. Think Zach changing his status to “in a relationship with Taylor Thomas.” I walk toward Mrs. Sealer like I’m about to walk the plank.
After I attempt to shove my size-ten flippers into the size-seven heels to no avail, my evil fashion stepmother, Mrs. Sealer, takes over, using all her one hundred pounds to push until my toes crackle and crunch like Rice Krispies in milk.
“I don’t think they fit, Mrs. Sealer.” Missy chuckles, darting her eyes from me to her buzzing iPhone.
“You’re right, Missy.” Mrs. Sealer halts and wipes the sweat off her brow. “Taylor just needs so much work on her walk. I really wanted her to wear the heels.”
“I have an idea,” Vi declares. “How about Taylor just walks on her tippy-toes?” Turning to me, she says, “Tay-Tay, you’d be okay with that, right?”
My chest tightens.
“I really don’t have to go first,” I plead.
“Believe me, you need all the help you can get,” Mrs. Sealer adds. “Now relax.”
Snorts and giggles erupt behind me. Mrs. Sealer presses play on the stereo and Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” fills the auditorium.
I lift myself up, so that I’m standing on the balls of my feet as if I’m doing a calf exercise, and walk gingerly down the runway.
“Sashay. Sashay. Bring out your inner lioness. Your inner vixen. Come on,Teri.”
“Taylor,” I say.
More giggles and snorts.
I stop at the end of the runway and turn around.
“This is an important moment. This is when the flash bulbs go off!” Mrs. Sealer excoriates. “So jut your hip. Strike a pose. Be a cougar.” She stops herself and looks around nervously. “I mean, a tiger.”
Even more giggles and cackles. I guess the rumors about her and the varsity quarterback, Chris Olay, were true.
I resume my walk back to the rear of the catwalk, when Mrs. Sealer shouts, “Practice! Practice! Practice! You need more practice!”
I walk back on my tippy-toes, nearly losing my balance as I attempt to sway my hips. When I finally reach the seats, I come down off my toes and quickly locate a spot far away from everyone else.
Hannah owes me big time.
seven
“How’d it go?” Hannah asks, as I plop down in the cafeteria chair next to her, which just happens to be the only seat in a five-chair radius not covered by sewing supplies.
For a moment, I pause to appreciate having made it out of the auditorium, and then it all comes rushing out. “I stink. I don’t belong anywhere near the freaking runway.”
“Oh, don’t say that! I’m sure you were great.”
“If by ‘great’ you mean that I’m never going to ‘own the catwalk’ or ‘be a tiger,’ then yup, I was awesome.”
Hannah chuckles. “Don’t be so hard on yourself! It was your first time practicing. Think about girls like Vi who do this kind of stuff all the time. And imagine what those girls would be like on the basketball court.”
At the mention of Violet’s name, I can feel the anxiety begin to creep over me again. “I just need to get out of here,” I say.
Not one for negativity, Hannah bounces out of her chair and announces, “Well, I did promise you some vodka sauce.”
Hearing the words “vodka sauce,” the storm cloud overhead immediately begins to lift.
During our walk to Hannah’s house, I spill the deets about my run-in with Zach on the basketball court.
When I’m finished, Hannah lets out a deep breath. “This just gets juicier and juicier. Let’s look at the facts. Zach changes his status. Then you guys play one-on-one together. Then he winks at you, even though he knows Kylie is watching. Plus, he told his sister that he thinks you’re hot. And get this . . .”
“What?”
“You should really be sitting down for this one. . . .”
“What is it????” I ask, unable to contain my excitement.
“He told Nick about you! That totally means he’s into you. If a guy tells his friends about you, then he wants to hook up with you.” She jumps up on the concrete curb, pretending she’s on her skateboard. Hannah’s been a skateboarding fiend ever since she watched Lyn-Z-Adams Hawkins on the X-games two years ago. Naturally, this particular obsession really freaks her parents out. Fashion design, they can understand. Skateboarding, not so much.
“So, what happened after you fell? Don’t leave me hanging!” Hannah may actually be more excited about this whole Zach thing than I am. “Did he scoop you up like a newlywed and slam his lips on yours?”
“Uh. No.”
“Oh Tay, that blows. . . . You know, not because that means anything at this point, but because . . . you know. . . .”
Hannah is the only one at Beachwood who knows I’ve never been kissed. I’m beyond ashamed to tell anyone else. I mean, Hannah has kissed three guys already, including one boyfriend. (In other words: major make out time). That’s three different kissing styles to try out. And I’m way behind.
I shake my head.
Hannah takes a deep, dramatic breath. “Maybe, he wants it to be special.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. . . . Maybe I don’t even really like Zach.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re not true. Of course I like Zach. I might even be in love with Zach. But . . . I hate drama. Especially the Kylie kind. And besides, Zach’s so out of my league.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to be one of those girls who likes guys, but then when they like you back, you’re over them? No offense, but you’ll never ever kiss anyone that way. And if you worry about what everyone else thinks, you’ll end up living all by yourself, with nine hundred cats for company. Just like my Great Aunt Sally.”
I swallow a lump in my throat. “Sooo . . . don’t laugh, but is your Great Aunt Sally tall???”
eight
When we turn the corner to Hannah’s street, my eyes are immediately drawn to her house. Sometimes I forget just how big Hannah’s digs are. You could spend an entire week inside and not realize Hannah’s family was there with you.
After Hannah types in the security code at the gate, we walk up the winding driveway and scale the marble steps to the chiseled-glass front door. I drop my duffel in the foyer, catch a glimpse of the killer ocean views through
the wall of picture windows that line the rear of the house, and follow Hannah up the curving staircase toward her room.
Hannah’s room is my second home. In fact, her mom even added another bed in there just for me. A cute pale blue canopy bed identical to the ones that Hannah and Violet have slept in from the time they were in kindergarten. But, four years ago, when Hannah decided to punkify her room, she sawed off her own canopy, painted the ivory posts black, added a purple comforter, and threw on patchwork pillows she sewed herself, using scraps of material from vintage dresses. She then ripped up her cute pink-and-white bedspread (supposedly so that she could use pieces of it in her designs when she’s trying to be “ironic”) and shoved the canopy décor in her closet never to be seen again.
But no canopy complaints from me. I’m just happy that slumber parties at her house don’t involve sleeping bags. Otherwise, I’d probably end up slathering my entire body in Bengay before attempting any drives toward the basket.
The instant we walk into her room, Hannah and I each fall onto our respective beds. As I’m just about to close my eyes (I shouldn’t be tired, but today was an especially crazy day), I hear a “tschhh” sound. Looking over at Hannah, I see that she’s started violently tearing out pages from a magazine.
“Whoa. Way to take out your frustration on something that can’t talk back,” I say, completely confused by what’s going on.
“Not frustrated,” Hannah answers. “Just really need to get cracking on your garments for the show.” Stopping for a second in the middle of her magazine-shredding frenzy, Hannah looks down. “Oooh, wait. This is perfect!”
She folds the page into an airplane and tosses it to me. I catch the page easily, unfold it, and am shocked to see what all the fuss is about. In my hand is a photo of a model dressed in a barely-there mini. What the???
“What do you think?” Hannah asks.
“Huh?”
“For the show. What do you think of wearing something like that for the fashion show? Of course, I’ll have to alternify it. But something along those lines . . .”
“Do you really think I can pull off this look?” I ask. The model in the photo is rail-thin. I wouldn’t last a minute on the court if I were that tiny.
Hannah grabs the pic back. “Of course you can. You’re my inspiration.”
“Can you really make it in my size?” I crinkle my nose and hug my legs to my chest.
For a second, I feel a twinge of pain from bending my busted-up knee. Then, a horrible scenario flashes in my mind. What if Hannah spends all this time working on my outfit and it rips? Or worse, what if I walk the runway and I trip? AKA exactly what happened on the basketball court this morning.
“Of course. You’ll look fab.” She grabs a textbook from underneath her bed, lays the page out flat, and begins drawing on the pic. I guess this is what she means by “alternify.”
Meanwhile, as she’s working, I meander over to her computer. Sitting down at her desk, I prop my feet up and open her MacBook. Time to check in on the latest Beachwood gossip.
“Voila!” Hannah says, sitting up. “My masterpiece is complete.”
While I’m typing in her password, Hannah’s bronzed mother, Celia, peeks in. “Hey, Taylor.” She smiles, showing off her super-shiny bleached white teeth. I grin back and gently close Hannah’s computer. I mean, it’s one thing if Hannah knows I’m checking up on Zach, but it’s another if her mom does.
“Are you staying for dinner, Taylor?” asks Ceila, clutching a copy of the Beachwood Sun.
“I promised Tay her favorite,” Hannah responds, impishly grinning at me.
“Penne vodka sounds perfect tonight! I’ll tell Jacques.” Tripping over Hannah’s bedazzled, army-green skateboard, Celia shakes her head. “How’s basketball?”
“Great,” I say, leaving out the fact that our win/loss record depends on Kylie’s love life, that we lost our head coach today, and that the biggest club scout in all of Los Angeles told my dad she’ll be at our game next Friday. Call me crazy, but I assume that a woman who spends her time painting the ocean and perusing boutiques doesn’t care about hearing how my whole basketball career is on the line.
“Do you think you guys are going to win the division this year?” She sits down on Hannah’s plum couch in front of the window.
“Yup,” I say and then pause. “Well, I hope so.”
“I’m sure you guys will do great. We all remember your being named MVP twice in middle school.” She delicately crosses her legs and looks over at Hannah. “Hannah was so proud of you. She could hardly stop talking about how well you did.”
I glance over at Hannah to telepathically communicate how worried I am about living up to my reputation as a basketball all-star, but she appears to have become engrossed in the magazine on her lap and is busy folding and unfolding the corner of a page.
Oblivious to whatever’s going on with Hannah, Celia continues. “So what’s on the agenda tonight? Beach? Boys?” She giggles, absentmindedly swinging her dainty foot.
“Mom,” Hannah says, looking up from the photo in front of her and dramatically rolling her eyes.
“I get the hint.” Celia stands up, pinching Hannah’s cheeks on the way out. “I know you girls always think you’re too cool to tell your mothers the dirt.”
“Whatever,” Hannah says, rolling her eyes once more just in case her mom missed out on the full effect the first time around.
Celia gently clicks the door shut behind her. A second later, Hannah hops on her skateboard and rolls across the beige carpet. (Hannah may be creative, but it’s difficult to punkify carpeting.) “Perfect,” she says, taking off toward her door.
I open Hannah’s laptop again and sign in. I type Zach’s name into the search box. Relationship status is still single. Yes! For further confirmation, I click onto Kylie’s page and scroll down. And then I see it. Her relationship status is also single. Since she and Zach first started dating, Kylie’s never been listed as single. Not once. Not even during the many times that the two of them broke up. This must be the real deal. My stomach flutters. Maybe Hannah is right. . . .
Hannah returns from her design room with a piece of apricot fabric and skateboards across the carpet toward me. “So, what’s up tonight?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.
I click back to my home page and scroll through the updates. “Jessica’s hanging out at the beach courts. And so are Nick and Missy.”
“Awesome.” Hannah skateboards over to her bed, grabs her phone out of her bag, and furiously types. Her status pops up on the computer screen in front of me with the words Skate Park tonight. So that’s what she has in mind. The skate park and the beach courts are right next to each other at the rec center. Instantly five comments appear. Hannah tosses her phone back in her bag. Unlike me, she never worries about replying.
Having accomplished my recon mission, I’m about to log off when something catches my attention. I rub my eyes. It can’t be. Zachary Murphy—the Zachary Murphy—just wrote on my wall.
I stare at the words. Hey, how’s your knee?
nine
Violet’s high-pitched voice interrupts my wall-post bliss. “Han, where are my Prada clutch and my Versace cream silk top?” She stomps toward her younger sister’s closet, throws the double doors open, and begins tossing articles of clothing behind her.
“I don’t have your stuff, Vi.” Hannah jumps, attempting a trick on her skateboard. “And if I did, I would have already stripped it.”
Hannah may love her sister, but she doesn’t have any patience for what she calls “Vi’s theatrics.” But that doesn’t seem to matter to Violet. She knows she can have any guy she wants. Whenever she wants.
As Violet continues to fling items out of Hannah’s closet, Hannah flips her board up and catches it. Turning her attention toward me, she says, “I love it when boarders do that. You know, flip their boards at the top of the half pipe and then catch them? You know what I’m talking about? Tony Hawk does it all the time.�
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“Yeah, uh . . . Banana,” I reply, unsure how to respond without giving my best friend license to land herself in the hospital. “Tony Hawk has his own video game empire.”
“Where. Are. They?” Violet’s normally, perfectly toned skin is beet red when she looks up from the mountain of clothes she’s created.
“I told you I don’t have your stuff. Geez.”
Violet’s phone screeches The Black Eyed Peas’ latest. “Urgh . . .” she says, before pulling her iPhone out of the back pocket of her jeans. Then, she looks at the text. Immediately, her face relaxes.
“Who’s that?” Hannah looks over Vi’s petite shoulder.
“No one,” Violet answers, quickly texting back before shoving the phone in her pocket.
“Aren’t you running out of Beachwood guys by now?”
Violet ignores Hannah.
Turning to me, Hannah’s eyes light up. “So what do you want to wear tonight?” Hannah hearts dressing me.
I shrug my shoulders, playing with the keys on Hannah’s MacBook.
“I would love to dress you, Tay-Tay!” Violet offers, eyeing me up and down. “I mean, you totally need a makeover. And I have so many ideas. To begin with, you’d look AH-mazing in skinny jeans. Not many people can pull off skinny jeans and red heels, but I bet you can.” She picks up a silk, red tank top from Hannah’s pile of clothes and holds it up just below my face. “And red is definitely your best color. It brings out your pale complexion, dark eyes, and brunette hair.”
“You think?” I crinkle my nose. It’s hard to avoid being pulled into the swirling winds of Tornado Violet.
“Totally.” The Black Eyed Peas plays again and Violet grabs the phone from her pocket, a smile crossing her face as she sees who the text is from. Looking up, she remembers her reason for being here. “I swear to god, Hannah. If I find out you destroyed my clutch and dress like you did my Chloe top last week, you’re so dead.” She points at Hannah.
Head Games Page 4