B006K5TA1E EBOK (14 page)

She shakes her head. “It’s one thing to talk to you about it and another to share it with the whole city.”

I notice she’s talking about the event as if it’s going to happen. “Okay, I understand. But you’ll sing ‘Exiled,’ right?”

Solana turns to Izzy. “Is she always this persistent?”

“Unfortunately yes,” Izzy says. “But at least this time it’s for a good cause.”

* * *

There’s a spring in my step as I carry the coffeepot around the diner. After a rocky start, my meeting with Solana went pretty well. Nothing’s definite, but it looks promising, and meeting people like her makes me feel like I’m going places. I’m the Luisa Perez who hangs with celebs in arty neighborhoods.

Paz comes through the door with his posse. Bringing up the rear is Joey, who waves to me.

“Menus, Shorty,” Paz calls, choosing a table in my section. “And make it fast. We’re on a short turnaround tonight.”

His manner would irritate me on another day, but my experience with Solana has convinced me that I won’t have to serve burgers to the chocolate-stained masses forever.

Paz takes the menu but doesn’t look at it. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Shorty.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“About Joey Carella. Grace says you’re into him. Is that true?”

As Joey is sitting directly across from Paz, this is obviously meant to be a performance. I try to stay calm. “Grace says you cried through
The Notebook
. Is that true?”

The posse laughs, but Paz doesn’t fall for the decoy. “Are you saying you’re
not
into Joey?”

He grins across the table, but I don’t have the nerve to check on Joey’s reaction. It doesn’t matter. This is about Paz being a jerk. “Are you going to pretend to check the menu, or order the usual?”

Paz continues as if I haven’t spoken. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Shorty. Women have needs too.”

I scratch notes on my order pad. “Six Rodeo Burgers, coming up.”

“Joey will have his with a side of Lu,” Paz says.

“Paz, just shut up.”

He turns to Joey. “She got bitter after the jock dissed her and Russ ran off with some babe. But she’s all yours if you want her.”

It takes all my strength not to whack him with a menu. “Six Cokes?”

“And one phone number,” Paz says. “Call me an ambassador of love.”

“You got the ‘ass’ part right.”

“Good one, Lu,” Gordo says.

Paz shakes his head. “Do you want me to ask her out for you, Joe?”

Joey speaks for the first time. “No.”

There’s a long pause in which I find myself writing the word “no” over and over on my order pad.

Then Joey adds, “I can do that myself.”

I escape to the counter, my face burning. Paz has embarrassed me times without number, but this is the worst because Joey and I were becoming friends. We had lunch together on Monday after he found me in the stairwell hiding from Mariah. And yesterday he waited at my locker to walk me home because the Understudies were patrolling for me. In other words, he’s a good guy and I don’t want Paz to make him so uncomfortable that he avoids me.

Sympathetic for once, Shirley agrees to take my section, leaving me to serve people at the counter and muse about how to handle this situation.

Since he works for Paz, Joey might feel obligated to do the honorable thing and ask me out. If he does, I’ll have to let him off the hook graciously. He isn’t interested in me, and I’m certainly not interested in him. I’m not interested in
anyone
, because I am on the bench. With most guys being such losers, it’s the safest place to be.

Even if I wanted to get back in the game, it wouldn’t be with Joey. I mean, he’s nice and we share a similar background, but I’m looking for someone who will expand my horizons. Someone who will support me in my ambitions while having ambitions of his own. Someone like Tyler, only with integrity.

Joey is cuter than Tyler, though, I will give him that. His hair is unruly, but in a good way. And his eyes are so dark they’re nearly opaque. As for his physique—

“I think she’s diggin’ you, Joe,” says Paz.

The shout startles me out of my trance. I’ve been staring in the guys’ direction with a coffeepot suspended over a mug.

Gordo adds, “Either Dan’s burning something or I can smell the smolder from here.”

After that I retire to the kitchen, leaving Shirley to handle the dinner rush alone. I’ll owe her big time, but there’s only so much humiliation a girl can take.

I emerge when the coast is clear, only to find Joey coming back into the diner. “I wanted to apologize for the guys,” he says. “They get carried away sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” I say, rearranging sugar dispensers on the counter. “It’s just Paz.”

“Look,” he begins. I know where he’s going and cut him off. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah, I do. Paz was right: I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while.” A sugar dispenser drops out of my hand and rolls off the counter to shatter at his feet. “Oh, no!”

“That’s not the answer I was hoping for,” he says, taking a crunching step backward. I glance up at him. “I meant the sugar.” He smiles, and I see it’s not just his hair and eyes and shoulders that are perfect. It’s everything. While I’ve been searching elsewhere, the Perfect FB has been sitting in my section all along. “So,” he says. “Will you?”

When a guy is willing to walk on broken glass for a girl, what is she to do but haul her butt off the bench and get back into the game?

Thanks for the tips in your last column, Scoop. Too bad no one’s going to take advice from a guy who can’t tell the difference between multitasking and being rude. I’m big enough to admit I may have been guilty of guy-bashing in previous columns, but is it any wonder when I have your columns to inspire me?


I’m sure the men of Dunfield were insulted by your last column. Under the guise of giving tips to the ladies, you’ve actually said that guys have the attention span of gnats, are totally insensitive to women, and care about nothing but sports.


Newshound refuses to believe that. In fact, she’s met some smart, considerate guys lately—or one, anyway—and it’s enough to restore her faith in mankind.


My advice is meant to bridge the gap between the sexes, whereas Scoop’s widens it. But I actually agree with him about one thing: no one should get a friend to do his or her dirty work. It’s best to face a problem head-on and leave the grapevine to elementary school.


That’s certainly how Newshound intends to handle the ups and downs of her new relationship. Not that I’m anticipating any downs, because the guy I’ve met is perfect. He listens, he shares his feelings, and he values an intellectual connection more than a physical one. And when he asked me out, there were no games. It was straightforward and romantic—the kind of thing a girl replays in her mind forever.


I wish you luck with your new girl, Scoop, however hard up she must be to date a guy like you. Maybe she’ll be able to transform you into a decent human being. I just hope her expectations are low, because otherwise she is going to be very disappointed. A less romantic guy has never graced Dunfield’s halls.


Which brings me to an important point… While Scoop has been trying to get his needs taken care of, Newshound has been doing something constructive to secure the extra two weeks off we all deserve. I’ve landed a special guest for the literacy gala: rising star Solana G. After a chat with Mrs. Alvaraz this week, Solana has agreed to perform two songs—one of them my own special request, “Exiled.”


So, Scoop, if you’re not too busy telling the world how great you are, maybe you could do a little something for your school and find a celebrity guest of your own.


“One more reason to love Fridays,” Mariah says, slamming her locker shut with the heel of her boot. “Newshound is my hero!”

“She’s brilliant,” says Understudy One.

“Beyond brilliant,” says Understudy Two.

I think about adding my agreement to the chorus, but while Mariah’s boot print has faded from my sternum, it’s still very much imprinted on my psyche. Only by giving up all my usual habits have I managed to avoid her until now. And for the moment my locker door is providing adequate cover.

“I’ve seen Solana’s video,” Mariah continues, “and she has some pretty good moves.” Mariah demonstrates a few of them, causing a three-guy pileup in the hallway. “But I could teach her some new ones.” Mariah does a fancy spin and slashes her arms in the air—a kung fu dance combo that would probably leave Solana speechless, but not with admiration.

“What are you going to do?” Understudy One asks.

“Introduce myself at the gala and offer to work with her. I’ll give her a few pointers in exchange for a role in her next video. How could she say no?”

Solana is quite capable of putting Mariah in her place, but I still don’t want my guest being harassed. Closing my locker door, I say, “But, Mariah, you were on
The Right Moves
.”

“I’m aware of that, Coconut,” she says, glaring at me. “
Everyone
is aware of it—probably even Solana.”

“A credit like that will only intimidate her. And she’s doing us a favor.”

Mariah stares at me, deciding which way to go. “Don’t waste my time with the nice act, Coconut. I know what lies beneath that hairy shell: Jell-O.”

The Understudies laugh up a lung apiece.

“Whatever,” I say, wishing I could do better.

“By the way,” Mariah calls as she starts down the hall, “Russ is an
incredible
kisser. Too bad you never had a chance to find that out.”

“But I thought you said he was a terrible kisser,” Understudy One says.

“Shut up and get him on the phone,” Mariah commands.

The Understudy pulls out her cell phone and begins to dial. “Do you want me to tell Russ he’s history?”

Mariah snatches the phone out of her hand. “We’re not in grade school anymore. From here on in, I do my own dirty work.”

I couldn’t help noticing that while Newshound has often referred to Scoop as a braggart, she has no trouble tooting her own horn. However, I agree that Solana G. is a good score, and she’ll make a nice warm-up act for my guest, Chicago Bulls point guard Jordan Peters.


That’s right, Jordan Peters. Not a newcomer, but a bona fide superstar. Sorry to trump you again, Newshound. You can enjoy some humble pie when we meet at the Washington Library Center in six weeks.


In the meantime, I’ll just have to take comfort in the admiration of my number-one fan. Scoop’s lady is all that he hoped: smart, spunky, gorgeous, and best of all, completely undemanding. Unlike so many girls who take on a guy as a makeover project, this one is satisfied with Scoop as he is. And she is far from hard up. She’s had plenty of quality Dunfield guys at her beck and call, but she’s proven her genius in choosing me.


As for my co-columnist’s “perfect” guy who “values an intellectual connection more than a physical one”? I’ve got news for you, Newshound: your boyfriend’s gay. No straight guy within the walls of this school values the cerebral over the physical when it comes to women. Check your science textbook under “heterosexual” and cross-reference with “teenage male,” and you’ll come up with a synonym for “excitable” that can’t be printed here (I did try).


Don’t get me wrong—enlightened guys like Scoop do value a nonphysical relationship, but never more than the physical one. Making our priorities clear can only help to bridge the gender divide.


Something tells me even Newshound doesn’t buy her story, because if her gay boyfriend were that perfect, she’d be spilling her guts to him instead of in a newspaper column. We get it, Newshound: you’re lonely and misunderstood. What you really need is a diary, where you can let it all out privately, and spare us from your overwrought ramblings.


Fortunately, Scoop doesn’t have to settle for fantasy. While you’re busy connecting with your so-called boyfriend intellectually, I’m connecting on a much more satisfying level. As predicted, the lady wants a Double Scoop, and since a gentleman always keeps his lady happy, I intend to give it to her.


Meanwhile, you just keep making notes in your diary, Newshound. It’ll make a great romance novel someday.


The
Bulletin
hits the wall and drops behind the couch. I was an idiot to let Tyler’s glasses fool me into thinking he was an arty, civilized guy. If that’s how he thinks about women, he’s worse than Mac Landis. At least Mac is honest about his primitive attitudes.

Obviously Tyler is the one living in a fantasy world. I assumed he was writing about me in his previous column, but this time he can’t be. Not after I didn’t return his call or e-mails, or track him down at school. His “lady” must be a figment of his imagination. Either that, or he’s met someone new and they’re moving incredibly fast. If the girl is real, I hope she discovers in time that there are great guys out there and she doesn’t have to settle for Scoop.

As of today, however, I’m hoping there will be one less great guy on the market. Joey Carella is picking me up at noon. That means I have exactly five minutes to erase the evidence that I’ve been making far too much effort for a first date.

Flying around with armloads of clothing and makeup, I mutter a silent prayer of thanks to my friends. Rachel agreed to cover Dunfield’s hot dog–eating contest for me, and Izzy did something even nicer: she took Keira for the afternoon, thereby freeing Grace to do whatever she does for fun, now that she’s given up body art. The last thing I needed was my sister sitting here making me more nervous than I already am.

With Grace gone, I’ve been able to change outfits as many times as I like, which happens to be lucky thirteen. Not entire outfits, of course, but with various combinations, it amounts to thirteen looks. Joey probably won’t care that much. There’s nowhere to go but up from a spider costume covered in Jell-O, but I still want to look nice.

At one minute past noon, someone knocks at the door.

“Hey,” Joey says as I open it. “Some lady with a poodle let me in downstairs.”

Mrs. Ortiz from the third floor. She has a weakness for cute guys, and Joey is definitely that, in his dark jeans and bulky navy blue sweater.

“Have you got your hat?” Joey asks, leading me to the elevator.

I pat my purse, although there’s no hat inside. I’d rather freeze than mess up my hair.

“So where are we going?”

“To the train station.”

“Could you be more specific? My last mystery date didn’t turn out that well.”

“Trust me,” he says.

Normally I wouldn’t, but there’s something about Joey’s quiet confidence that makes me believe him. Besides, all the signs are positive. He’s opening doors and working hard to keep the conversation going.

“So what do you think about Sparling?” he says. “Is he still going on about mythology being the greatest source of literary inspiration of all time?”

“Surpassed only by the Bible,” I say. “But it’s hard not to like him, isn’t it?”

“Not so hard for me. He rides my ass.”

“I didn’t think he taught senior English.”

“He doesn’t. I’m doing some independent studies to atone for some, uh, transgressions last year.”

“Attendance?”

He nods. “Also late assignments. And a missed test or two.”

Maybe Joey is a risk after all. He has brains, but what good are they if he’s not going to use them?

Reading my expression, he adds, “Could be worse. At least I didn’t plagiarize, unlike a certain Dunfield athlete who got caught lifting ideas.”

“Mac?” I ask, aghast. “I didn’t think he was that stupid.”

“He’s not that stupid; he’s that lazy. So he’s doing penance too. We’re both lucky that Sparling believes in second chances. I’m doing pretty well this year.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Any guy who’s trying to turn his life around is worth thirteen wardrobe changes.

We get off at Madison/Wabash, the station closest to Millennium Park. I should have known that’s what Joey had in mind, because he mentioned it last week and was surprised I’d never been there.

He seems happy to play tour guide, despite teasing me about my ignorance of my own city. Except for window shopping at the Loop and the Magnificent Mile, I haven’t explored very much. Somehow there never seems to be enough time to wander. Joey probably makes the time because he’s interested in architecture.

We check out “the Bean,” a sculpture called
Cloud Gate
that’s shaped like a kidney bean and is longer than a city bus. Joey points out how the sculpture reflects the sky and the surrounding buildings, and then leads me beneath the arch of the bean so that we can stare up at our reflections.

“What’s our next stop?” I ask. “Sears Tower?”

“Better. But slippery.”

“No Jell-O involved, I hope?”

“Relax,” he says. “This’ll be fun.”

We’re standing before an ice rink, and I am quite sure what he has in mind will not be fun at all. I haven’t been on skates since… Well, it only happened once, and back then I didn’t have far to fall. Putting skateboard wheels under my feet ended in disaster, and blades are sharper.

“I like to come as soon as they open for the season,” Joey says, walking toward the rink. “It’s sort of a tradition. My mom used to bring my sisters and me.”

I abandon my plan to wait on the sidelines. When a guy brings his absentee mother into the equation, who could say no?

“I’m an excellent teacher,” he assures me.

That’s exactly what Russ said moments before I found myself flying toward a busy intersection. “But I’m a lousy student. I have gravitational challenges.”

Joey ignores this and gets in the line for skate rentals. “In an hour, you’re going to look as happy as she does,” he says, pointing to a smiling blonde returning her skates.

The blonde in question turns out to be someone I know from my Spanish class: Ella Robinson. And she’s standing beside none other than Tyler “Double Scoop” Milano.

Ella spies me first, and her wave causes Tyler to turn in my direction. He glances from Joey to me, and the expression on his face is nearly as chilling as the prospect of taking a face plant on the rink.

“Lu?” Joey says. “The lady needs to know your size.”

I turn back to the clerk, and Joey collects our skates. Trailing after him, I sneak another peek at Tyler. Now he has his arm coiled around Ella’s shoulder. She must be Scoop’s new lady. It’s a shame because she seems nice and deserves better. Maybe I should drop an anonymous note in her locker to tip her off.

Tyler turns to stare after us, but Ella puts one hand on either side of Tyler’s face and pulls him toward her. The kiss that follows proves she’s a very willing victim, which takes away my guilt. I’m free to enjoy my afternoon with Joey, at least the part that comes after the skating.

Sitting on a bench, I unzip my boots and ask, “Can you get cooties from rental skates?”

“Cooties can’t survive at this temperature,” Joey says. “It’s the fungus you have to worry about.”

“Fungus?” I inspect the inside of the skate.

“You can’t see the spores, but by this time next week your toenails will turn yellow and fall off.”

I drop the skate. “Gross!”

“Oh, come on… Think about how much you’ll save on pedicures.”

I nudge the skates toward him with my boot. “Take them back.”

“I’m kidding,” he says. “No one gets fungus from skates.”

“Especially if she doesn’t put them on.”

Kneeling before me, he takes my boot off and puts a skate on my right foot. I’m too stunned to resist.

In no time at all he has me laced up and ready to go. “There you go, Cinderella,” he says, sitting beside me again. “A perfect fit.”

I’d prefer the glass slipper, but every prince has his own style.

As soon as his skates are tied, Joey helps me to my feet, and I follow him reluctantly to the ice. Stepping on the smooth surface, he turns to face me.

“I don’t think I can,” I say, clinging to the rail.

“Take my hand.”

It’s an offer I can’t refuse. No sooner do both blades hit the ice, however, than they shoot out from under me at perilous angles. Joey grabs me under my arms seconds before my butt connects with the ice. My scream startles him so much that he almost drops me.

After getting me balanced again, he lets go. This time I stay upright, if only because I refuse to budge.

A big guy brushes past me and says, “Get your girlfriend out of the doorway, buddy.”

Joey glares after the guy. “Idiot.”

I barely have time to wonder whether it’s the guy’s tone or the word “girlfriend” that irks Joey, before he turns around in front of me and takes both my hands in his. Skating backward slowly, he begins to pull me around the rink.

After the first lap I exclaim, “I’m skating!” and Joey has the decency not to point out that being towed doesn’t quite qualify. Instead he takes me around again before letting go and suggesting that I try moving my feet.

“It’s not like walking,” he says, after my first flailing attempt. “Keep your blades in contact with the ice. Lean on your left foot and push off with the right.”

I follow his instructions and move forward a few inches. Repeating the process with my other foot, I move forward a few inches more. Joey continues to skate backward in front of me, cheering me on. With my ankles turned in, my butt stuck out, and my arms outstretched, I’m far from hot, but at least I’m moving.

“You’re working too hard,” he says. “Just glide.”

Some girls glide through life, but unfortunately Lu Perez is not one of them. I thrash and flail and flounder.

A group of guys whizzes past, and Joey turns to watch them with a look of longing.

“Why don’t you do a few laps on your own?” I ask, releasing his hands.

Joey’s eyes light up. “Are you sure?”

I nod, knowing that skating with me is like walking down the street with Keira. It takes twenty minutes to cover half a block, and by the time we’re done, I’m exhausted.

Joey takes off, and I continue my awkward shuffle around the rink, ankles aching and toes going numb. Every time he passes, Joey gives me a cheery wave, and I wave back just as cheerily, all the while plotting my escape.

Before I can accomplish it, Joey skates up behind me, puts his hands on my hips, and starts pushing. At first I’m nervous, but as we pick up speed and the wind lifts my hair, I start to feel like Kate Winslet on the ship’s prow in
Titanic
—only less cheesy.

As it turns out, with the right person behind her, sometimes a plodder gets to fly.

Joey’s eyes widen as I wash down a chocolate-chip cookie with hot chocolate.

“Most girls I go out with don’t eat,” he says.

I wipe whipped cream off my lip with a napkin. “They’re
alive
, right?”

“Usually. And obsessed with calories.”

“Think about how many I burned on the ice today.”

He snickers. “You barely moved.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” It’s a dangerous question for a first date, but he had his hands on my hips earlier, so there’s not much left to hide.