B006K5TA1E EBOK (17 page)

Rachel turns away. “A secret that all your closest friends know about. Your soul mate might feel left out.”

“You said Joey wants the kind of relationship where you tell each other everything,” Izzy adds.

“I left it too long. Joey and I have already confided in each other about so many other things that it’s going to be really awkward when I tell him. He might wonder what else I’m hiding.”

“But, Lu, he’s going to find out,” Izzy says. “
Everyone
is going to find out.”

“Yeah, but that’s still a couple of weeks away, and by then Joey will like me even more, and he’ll have to forgive me.”

“Look how well that worked with Jason,” Rachel says.

Izzy plucks a gray dress off the sales rack. “I don’t see why you’re so worried. Tyler’s the one who’s in trouble. When Ella finds out she’s Lady Scoop, the easiest girl on campus, she’s going to kill him.”

Rachel takes the dress out of her hand and replaces it with a blue one. “Yeah, but Joey might not be too thrilled that Lu’s been painting him as a prince.”

Spinning another dress to figure out which plunging side is the front, Izzy says, “But a prince is good—isn’t it?”

Again Rachel takes the dress and replaces it. “The prince is already catching flak from Scoop. How about when the rest of the school finds out Joey’s the guy in the golden loincloth?”

Izzy seizes a third dress and holds it out of Rachel’s reach. “That’s just Scoop’s take on it. He’s an idiot, whereas Joey is a reasonable guy.”

I inspect what appears to be a blouse but turns out to be a very short dress. “Aren’t we overthinking this? Will anyone even remember what Scoop or Newshound said after the column ends?”

Rachel exchanges the dress I’m holding for a shirred number. “People have long memories for this type of thing.”

“So I said he’s sensitive and romantic. It’s a compliment.”

“Even good guys get stupid about their image, Lu. Think about what Paz will say.”

My stomach sinks. Paz will definitely take Scoop’s view, and Joey works with these guys thirty hours a week. “Oh, no. He’ll be laughed out of Donner’s.”

Izzy offers me a black dress covered in metallic sequins. “It’s not that bad.”

I shake my head at the sequins and counter with a pink sheath. “It’s pretty bad.”

Rachel dismisses the sheath and passes me a white combo with wispy layers. “Like you always say, the column is the real you. If he doesn’t like it, maybe he’s not your soul mate after all.”

The thought gives me a pang. Joey
is
my soul mate. I felt it, and I don’t want anything to ruin that. Peering at Rachel through the transparent outfit, I say, “And like
you
always say, it’s a persona. Hopefully Joey will understand a little poetic license.”

“He’ll try harder if he sees you in this,” Izzy says. She displays a purple satin halter dress. “The color is perfect, and exposure is minimal.”

I perk up a little as I take the dress. “What if I minimize exposure by not writing about Joey in the December columns?”

Rachel nudges me into the change room. “That might help. But
can
you stop writing about him?”

“Of course I can stop writing about him,” I say, slipping into the dress. “I can write about lots of other things. I’m practically a journalist.”

Izzy gasps as I fling open the door. “You look beautiful!”

“That’s definitely the one,” Rachel confirms. “It’s
beshert
.”

I step in front of the three-way mirror and smile. The halter gives the illusion of a bigger chest but doesn’t show too much skin. Best of all, it’s fifty percent off. After tax I’ll still have enough to buy us all lunch.

“You can borrow my black suede T-straps,” Izzy offers, twisting my hair up and pinning it.

“And my crystal earrings,” Rachel says.

My smile fades a little. I look like a million bucks, but strangely I don’t feel half as good as I do when I’m wearing Joey’s old hat.

“Do you think Joey’s ‘the one’?” Izzy asks later, over a pepperoni pizza.

Since we’ve already established that he’s my soul mate, I have to assume she’s moving on to less spiritual connections. “I guess so. Someday.”

“But you’re already thinking about it,” Rachel says.

“Just thinking about it,” I say. “Like I’m sure you thought about it with Jason. It’s inevitable.”

“What does that mean?” Izzy presses.

I grin at her. “It means I want him to be ‘the one’ when the time is right.”

“When do you think that’ll be?” she persists.

“Depends if he’s still around after the gala,” I tease.

Rachel and Izzy exchange a look, and I know what they’re thinking: I was supposed to be the last to take that step. We all believed that Rachel, the most intrepid of our group, would be the first; Izzy, the most extroverted, would be second; and I, the most timid, would follow only when I got good and tired of sitting on the sidelines.

It’s been that way since we met in kindergarten. Rachel and Izzy bonded almost instantly over hopscotch, while I sat nearby, admiring Rachel’s natural skill and Izzy’s determination. After a few days of this, Rachel called me over, but I was too shy to join them. Izzy had to march across the playground and drag me over to play with them.

Our trio never looked back, but our approach to life is pretty much the same. Rachel was the first to get her ears pierced, the first to buy a bra, the first to kiss a boy. Izzy followed shortly afterward. And I… got around to things in my own sweet time.

If their relationships with Jason and Carson had worked out, our lives would have unfolded as usual. In fact, they still may if Rachel and Izzy meet someone new before long.

Life is full of surprises. Who would have guessed that the Perfect FB was a guy I saw all the time and never noticed? And who would have guessed that I’d be courting trouble by writing about him in my very own newspaper column? So much has changed this year. I guess it would be nice to be a leader instead of a follower for a change.

In Newshound’s opinion, there is no better hobby than shopping.


• First, it’s social. Nothing cements a friendship more than bargain-hunting.

• It’s creative. I seek inspiration on the Magnificent Mile and try to replicate those styles at the outlet mall.

• It’s educational. I’ve learned to stick to my budget, or suffer the consequences when I can’t afford fries at lunch.

• It’s competitive. It takes smarts and agility to battle the crowds at the best sales.

• It’s physical. A walk through the Loop gets anyone’s blood pumping.

• It’s enlightening. Some of my most treasured possessions came on the advice of my BFFs—items I would never have chosen on my own.


Shopping has always been the ideal escape from Dunfield life, so I was surprised to find myself stressed and grumpy during a recent trip to the Water Tower Mall. The purpose of the mission was to find an outfit worthy of the Literacy Gala.


When the veil of anonymity lifts, I want to be wearing the right outfit—something that makes me look dignified and mature, even if that’s not always how I come across on the page.


It was a tall order, especially with a modest budget. I wandered with my friends from store to store, all of us increasingly discouraged. Even my favorite shops let me down. I discarded one outfit after another, like a modern-day Goldilocks. Some were too tight, some were too short, some were too low, others too flimsy. None were just right.


Now, I’m fine with showing a little skin, but there’s a huge difference between sexy and overexposed. Clothes tell the world about the person you are, and I, for one, don’t want to tell the story all at once. I mean, who’s going to sit through the whole movie if someone’s already given away the ending?


So thank you, fashion world, but you can keep the microminis and transparent blouses.


If you ask me, a little mystery is where it’s at.


“Luisa,” Mr. Sparling says, directing me to the seat across from him. “What happened here?” He holds up the draft of my column.

I expected congratulations on my newfound restraint, not disapproval. After all, Scoop did suggest I poison myself in his last column. “What do you mean?”

“It’s flat. You’ve danced around the issue instead of getting to the heart of it.”

“But you and Mrs. Alvarez thought we were getting too personal, so I took a different approach.”

“It’s too late for that now. You’ve made a contract with your readers.”

“A contract?”

“I mean, people like it, and they come back every week expecting the same thing. That’s why we’re running an extra edition of the
Bulletin
for the first two weeks in December. Your fans want all ‘The Word’ they can get before the big reveal. Plus, I’m putting it online.”

“Online? That means it’ll be around forever.” And I’ll
never
escape what I’ve said about Joey.

Mr. Sparling taps the column with his pencil. “What’s really going on, Lu?”

I squirm uneasily in my seat. “Well, I’ve kind of started seeing someone.”

He smothers a smile. “So I gathered.”

“I realized he may not appreciate my…
interpretation
of events. He doesn’t know about Newshound.”

“Lu, any guy smart enough to hold your interest is going to recognize a literary persona when he sees one.”

Mr. Sparling should not be giving me romantic advice. It’s just wrong. And yet I really want to buy what he’s selling right now. “His friends will tease him. Look at how Scoop reacts.”

“Scoop is a persona too,” he says.

“Yeah, most people would never guess it’s Tyler Milano.”

The pencil drops out of Mr. Sparling’s hand. “Nice try, Newshound. I’m not revealing any secrets.”

He doesn’t have to; the pencil said it all. “I know it’s Tyler.”

He smirks. “Why so sure?”

I smirk back. “I’m not revealing any secrets.”

“What I
can
tell you is that the person behind Scoop is a pretty decent guy.”

“He’s an idiot. His ideas about women are so backward he must be walking through the world butt-first.”

Mr. Sparling laughs out loud. “
That’s
the Newshound who keeps people reading. So I want you to revise this. Talk shopping if you must, but dig a little deeper. And dig fast. I need this back on my desk by morning if we’re going to make the deadline for the new Wednesday edition.”

If you ask me, a little mystery is where it’s at.


It’s the same with relationships. People like Scoop may want to cut straight to the reveal, but it’s so much better to discover someone’s personality layer by layer. By the time you’ve stripped to the core, you’ve built a solid relationship that may actually stand the test of time.


Scoop will mock this philosophy, but we all know that ridicule is a sign of discomfort. Maybe he’s worried that if his lady gets a good look at what’s under his exterior, she’ll run screaming. Or maybe he’s just afraid of connecting with anyone on an emotional level. There’s a word for that, Scoop: immaturity.


You made your relationship sound as tacky as the clothes I saw at the mall the other day, which means you’re no gentleman. I know the difference because I happen to be seeing a real gentleman. He knows how to take his time, and he realizes that intimacy and mutual respect are a major turn-on.


Best of all, he accepts that a slow burn is ten times hotter than a flash in the pan.


“Someone grab a hose.”

It’s the sound of a bubble bursting. Joey and I are saying good-bye at the front door of my building. Not that we’ve done much talking. Standing on tiptoe, I look over his shoulder at Grace. “What do you want?”

“Are you done yet?”

“No.” I don’t plan to be done kissing Joey for a long time. Nor do I plan on letting my sister tell me who I can kiss anymore. Grace’s reign is over.

Joey turns and gives Grace a sheepish wave, which she ignores. “I need you upstairs, Luisa.”

“Unless something has happened to Mom or Keira, you don’t need me upstairs.”

“There’s an important phone message. But if you want, I could tell you about it right here.”

That gets my attention. Solana G. must have called. Grace is worried about her pulling out of the Literacy Gala. I guess she really wants to meet her.

I kiss Joey once more before following Grace inside. She starts in on me as the elevator doors close. “I can’t believe Paz didn’t tell me you actually hooked up with that loser.”

I keep my cool because it’s the only way to win any battle with Grace. “Joey isn’t a loser. He’s amazing, and I’m lucky to be with him. And Paz probably doesn’t know. We haven’t gone public yet.”

Grace circles me like a shark trying to decide which limb to sever. “What do you call making out at the front door? No one should have to see that. Where’s your class?”

I have to laugh at this. “You and Paz used to make out there all the time. You should try it again: it might bring the spark back.”

“You’re giving
me
relationship advice? You and Joey won’t last a week.”

The elevator door opens, and I saunter down the hall. “It’s already been more than that. He’s going to be around for a long time too, so you might as well get used to the idea.”

“What do you know about guys?” she asks, following me inside the apartment.

“Enough not to listen to you.” I sit down on the couch and start pulling things out of my backpack. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a column to write.”

She glares at me. “What about Solana?”

That’s it? The end of the attack on Joey? I expected so much worse. In fact, I developed mental scripts for several near-violent scenarios, and I’m almost disappointed I won’t get to use them. “I’ll listen to her message later.”

“She wants you to call her.”

I unfurl the new issue of the
Bulletin
. “Then I’ll call
her. Like I said, I have a column to write first.”

Scoop’s steaming pile of beauty came out today, and I want to read it and respond while my indignation is fresh.

How old are you, Newshound? Since our editor insists that you really are a Dunfield student, I can’t help but wonder if your grandmother wrote your last column. Please tell me you don’t believe that “slow burn” garbage. One day, when you live in a geriatric condo, a slow burn will be all you can handle. In the meantime, why don’t you enjoy life while you’ve still got your original body parts?


Obviously you’re only writing that drivel to disguise the fact that you’re not getting any and I am. But whose fault is that? You’re the one who decided to date a eunuch. Dunfield is full of red-blooded guys who’d show you a good time—especially if you managed to keep your antiquated ideas in your diary. Assuming you’re at least marginally attractive, by my calculation you could be seeing one of hundreds of marginally attractive straight guys in our school. Instead, you chose someone who’s either gay or simply not into you.


Wake up and smell the smoke, girlfriend, because there’s a big difference between a slow burn and cold ashes.


Grace pushes the newspaper down to stare at me. “Solana wants you to come over to her place to look at the itinerary for the gala.”

The gala is the last thing I want to think about at the moment. How can I attend now that Tyler has called Joey a eunuch? Maybe if I go to Mr. Sparling and beg, he’ll let me remain anonymous forever. He was young once. If he can remember back that far, he might understand.

“Lu,” Grace tries again. “Did you hear me?”

I raise the paper again. “Relax, I’ll call her.”

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but someone has to be honest, and your friends are probably as misguided as you are. If you spent less time shopping and more time getting out in the real world, you wouldn’t be in this position. You might have a closet full of clothes, but are you happy, Newshound? I am, and if that’s immaturity, I’m all for it.


Lady Scoop seems happy too. In fact, so many sparks are flying that we have to keep a fire extinguisher handy at all times. Ignition has been achieved and liftoff is imminent.


You have no idea how freeing it is to have all the benefits of a romance without any of the drama. And I mean that. You clearly don’t know what you’re missing, Newshound. Lucky for you that ignorance appears to be bliss. Still, I urge you to not to write yourself off too soon. While your eunuch doesn’t want to touch you with a ten-foot pole, someone else might, especially if you can fix your personality flaws.


None of us want to listen to you whine anymore, but there are plenty of support groups out there that do. So grab your cane and your bifocals and get on it before it’s too late.


Grace hands me the phone as I lower the paper. “Call now.”

I’m not going to call when Grace is eavesdropping. I pull out a yellow highlighter and start flagging items in the column that I need to refute. “I’ll call later.”

“But it’s Solana. You shouldn’t keep her waiting when she’s doing you a favor.”

Suddenly it strikes me how oddly Grace is behaving. First she dropped the whole Joey issue and now she’s hovering over me as if I have something she wants. “What’s up, Grace?”

She hesitates. “I want to come with you to Solana’s.”

“You’re not exactly my biggest supporter. Why would I take you?”

“Because sisters do nice things for each other?”

“What’s the last nice thing you did for me?”

“Hmmmm…” She pretends to think. “I didn’t tell Paz about your stupid column, because you asked me not to.” Oh, right. That. I apply a little more yellow to Scoop’s column. “I’ll think about it.”

Grace takes the newspaper out of my hand and scans it. “Think fast, because if you don’t take me along, I may have to tell Joey who’s behind his getting called a eunuch in a certain syndicated column.”

Obviously Grace’s reign isn’t quite over yet.

* * *

Grace hangs her leather jacket on a hook and shakes Solana’s hand.

“Great art,” Solana says, examining Grace’s rainbow-colored arms.

“Thanks,” Grace says, offering a rare smile. “Kai at Cherry Bomb.”

To me this is an unintelligible fragment, but Solana nods and points to a tattoo on her own forearm. “Kai.”

Grace spots a framed concert poster on the wall over an old, upright piano. “I went to that one.”

“That was years ago. You couldn’t have been more than fifteen.”

“Fourteen,” Grace admits. “I knew the bouncers and they used to let me in if I promised not to drink. Our mom works nights, so it was easy.”

“Mine too,” Solana says. “That’s how I got my start in the clubs. She didn’t even know I was performing until someone showed her a review. But she did know I was having trouble at school.”

“Ditching?” Grace asks, perching on the edge of the brown velvet couch. My sister has hijacked my meeting, but it’s interesting, so I keep quiet.

“Ditching. Also taking creative license with report cards and letters from my guidance counselor.”

My sister’s face lights up. She had a talent for forgery herself. I witnessed her altering Dunfield notices many times, but she coerced me into silence with a variety of threats, some involving her body piercer.

“You can get away with murder in a school as big as Dunfield,” Solana says. “No one can keep track of you. If it weren’t for music, I don’t know how I’d have ended up.”

“Probably pregnant and working in a diner,” Grace says, her voice sounding a little wistful.

Solana studies Grace for a moment. “Well, we all do the best we can with what we’ve got, right? And it’s never too late to try something new. I got help with my learning disability, and I’ll be graduating soon.”

Her phone rings, and she apologizes as she answers. “It hasn’t stopped all day. I’ve a got a couple projects heating up.”

After Solana hangs up, Grace asks, “Are you going to talk about your learning disability at the Literacy Gala?”

“No. Too personal.”

“But your story would inspire a lot of people,” Grace says. She pushes herself as far back in the couch as she can. “Like me.”

Solana hesitates, switching the phone from one hand to the other and back. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Luisa can help you. She’s a great writer.”

I stare over at my sister incredulously and then back to Solana. “I’d love to help you.”

Solana ponders for a few more moments and finally says, “Okay. Maybe I should, if it will do some good.”

The phone rings again. Before Solana can answer, Grace reaches over and takes it from her. “Why don’t I handle your calls while you guys work?”

Solana sets Grace up in the dining room with her schedule and rejoins me. We listen in on a call, and she says, “Your sister is very persuasive.”

By the time Solana and I have come up with an outline for the speech, Grace has rearranged about ten appointments and mapped them out on a grid. “Nothing starts before noon on the days after you’ve performed.”

Solana is clearly more impressed with Grace’s efforts than mine, which causes my constantly simmering sibling resentment to bubble up. I couldn’t get Solana to speak about her problem, and Grace did. And then she upstages me even more by playing personal assistant. Why couldn’t she let me have my moment without stealing my thunder?

At the elevator, Solana turns to hug Grace. I expect my sister to recoil because she barely tolerates displays of affection, even from Keira, but she actually throws her arms around Solana.

Hugging me next, Solana says, “Thanks for your help. I couldn’t tell my story half as well without you.”

As the elevator doors close, Grace says, “That was cool.”

“Very.”

Neither of us looks at the other, but I sense we’re both smiling. As it turns out, there’s plenty of thunder to go around.

The dart flies out of my hand and punctures the red balloon with a satisfying pop.

“Your girl’s got quite the arm,” the guy behind the counter tells Joey, who’s standing beside me holding my purse and cotton candy.

We’re at the Fun Fair, the last major fund-raising event in the Literacy Challenge. The guys’ and the girls’ teams actually came together to organize it, and the unseasonably warm day has drawn a huge crowd. Plus, since Tyler and I mentioned it in “The Word,” students from other schools have at least doubled our usual crowd.

“The rest of her isn’t bad, either,” Joey says, stooping to kiss my cheek.

Rachel and Izzy beam at him. This is the first time they’ve hung out with us, and I can tell he’s made a good impression. It shouldn’t matter what other people think, but it makes me happy anyway.

I offer Joey a dart. “Two more red balloons and we get the teddy bear.”

He slides the purse straps onto his shoulder before aiming and firing the dart with his right. It hits a blue balloon instead of a red one.

“Try it without your purse,” someone says. “You might have better luck.”

We turn to find Mac Landis standing behind us with Morgan the Moron and some of their crew. Mac hasn’t acknowledged me in weeks, and I don’t see why he’s bothering now.

The guy running the game says, “Let the lady have the last dart. You could still win the plastic gecko.”

“Yeah,” Mac says, playing to the crowd. “Let the lady take her best shot. You’ve got your hands full.”

“Shut up, Mac,” I say, trying to take my purse back from Joey.

“Ignore him,” Joey says, holding on to it. “He’s an idiot.”

Mac is enjoying himself too much to give up the stage. “Let
me
give the lady a hand—I mean the little lady, not the big one.” He holds out his hand for the dart. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

I turn away from him to take aim at one of the remaining red balloons. “I’ve seen the way you do things, Mac. I can handle this on my own.”

“Ten bucks says she chokes,” Mac says.

“Fifteen says I don’t,” I counter. I shouldn’t be so cocky, but I’m determined not to let Mac get the better of me in front of Joey.

Raising the dart, I close my eyes and conjure up the memory of Mac rejecting me at the dance. Then I open my eyes and the dart demolishes its target. My friends cheer.

As the caller cuts down the gecko, I turn to Mac. “You owe me fifteen bucks.”

He snorts. “Like that’s going to happen.”

“A bet’s a bet, Landis,” Joey says. “Unless you’re a cheater. Are you?”

Mac scowls, and I remember what Joey said about his plagiarizing an assignment. Morgan takes a step toward Joey, but Mac stops him and pulls out his wallet. “Take the money,” he says, handing it to me. “Buy your boyfriend a new handbag.”