B006K5TA1E EBOK (5 page)

“Lassos?” he asks, pulling out the empty chair beside him and motioning for me to sit. “Tell me about them.”

“The chef starts with the finest onions,” I begin, perching on the chair. “He slices them finely and dips them in a batter made from his mother’s secret recipe. Then he deep fries them to golden glory in oil that’s been around since the diner opened in ’73. You can taste the history on your tongue.”

“An excellent review,” Tyler says, laughing. “Very tempting.”

Paz’s falsetto rings out across the diner. “Oh, waitress! When you’re finished socializing, could you settle our tab? Some of us have to work for a living.”

Since Shirley is on break, I meet him at the cash register. “You don’t have to embarrass me, Paz.”

“I do, Shorty, and you’ll thank me later. Those guys are losers.”

“You started it.”

“You know I hate the smell of Dunfield dweeb,” he says. “Besides, it’s my job to remind them that school is not their only option: they have choices in life.”

I laugh in spite of myself. Paz is wasted on truffles. If he used that brain properly, he’d accomplish great things.

He punches me lightly on the arm. “Give Keira a kiss for me. But don’t tell Grace.”

“Okay, but I wish you’d tell Grace yourself.”

He takes the long way out so that he can clomp heavily past Rico’s table in his work boots.

Tyler pulls up in front of my building and cuts the engine on his Honda Civic.

I’m trying not to read too much into the fact that he offered to drive me home before meeting Jason, Rachel, Rico, and Izzy at the movie theater. It was only ten minutes out of his way, after all. He’s just a nice guy.

“Are you sure you can’t come with us?” he asks, turning the key so we can still hear the music.

“I wish I could, but I have plans.” More like orders to babysit, but I’d rather let him think I’m doing something more interesting. “Don’t you love this song? I’ve been playing it so much that my sister hid my CD.”

Tyler starts talking about the music, and I wait for a sign that he might be my FB. I could totally see myself with a guy like him; someone with an arty, intellectual edge. Last month I wouldn’t have aspired to arty/intellectual, but times have changed. I’m a columnist now.

When he stops talking, I unhook my seat belt and gather my things. I’m not going to ask him out. Izzy says I’m old-fashioned, but I think it works better if guys do the asking. “Thanks for the lift, Tyler. You’re going to miss the movie if you don’t hurry.”

“Maybe we can do this again sometime,” he says. “Better yet, we could go for dinner. I know this great Italian place.”

Arty FB’s always know the best Italian places.

“What about Sue Storm?” I ask. “I can’t afford to piss off the Invisible Woman.”

He gives me an FB smile. “I should probably do the right thing and break up with her first.”

I give him an FG smile. “You’d dump Sue for me?”

The sign from the Chinese restaurant across the street reflects in Tyler’s glasses, orange and pink and blue—his own neon rainbow. “Maybe,” he says. “Would you mind if I kissed you before I decide?”

“That seems fair. It’s a big decision.”

Fortunately, the shortage of B in my life doesn’t mean I’m a novice kisser. There was Porter Bell, of course, who kissed me at the eighth-grade prom. Shortly after that, I met Blake Wilson, whose family moved into an apartment just down the hall from ours. He kissed me in the elevator once, and I like to think he’d have made first FB status if Grace hadn’t been standing in the hall glaring when the doors opened.

Last, and definitely best, there was Anton, the dishwasher Dan hired for the summer before I started at Dumpfield. Three years my senior, Anton was the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen. I traded shifts all summer so that I could stare at his rippling muscles as he lifted trays of dishes, but I never got the nerve to say much to him before he quit for a new job at an upscale restaurant. When he was punching out for the last time, I walked into the staff office. We sort of circled each other for a second, and then he grabbed me and kissed me. I held on to his belt for dear life and didn’t let go until Grace walked in and glowered at us. She just stood there, and filled the tiny office with her attitude until Anton gave up and left with a muttered good-bye. I never saw him again.

That was over a year ago, and I hope I haven’t forgotten how it’s done. I lean toward Tyler and he leans toward me. Our lips touch for a mere moment before a sudden noise makes us leap apart. Someone is rapping on the windshield. With a sippy cup.

Grace stands over the car, glowering yet again, with Keira on one hip. Her eyebrow studs look like a row of nails drilled right into her head.

“Do you know her?” Tyler asks.

My plan was to avoid mentioning the teenage-mother issue before having the whole B thing locked down. Tyler might think I have similar ambitions. “My sister.”

I step out of the car, and Grace is on me instantly. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, it’s a full hour before your shift starts.”

“I have to pick up some things on my way in.”

“You should have said so earlier. I can’t read your mind.”

Tyler opens his door and comes around the car to meet Grace, which is pretty brave of him.

“Grace,” I say, “This is—”

“I don’t care.” She thrusts Keira into my arms and walks away. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

I apologize to Tyler. “I’d like to say she’s not usually that rude, but unfortunately she is.”

He reaches out to Keira and asks, “Who’s this?”

Keira recoils and unleashes an ear-piercing wail. “My niece.”

He backs away. “Sorry, sorry. I guess I should get to the movie.”

I hope Mr. Fantastic is up to a challenge.

I settle Keira in front of her favorite Barney movie and head into the bedroom to check my e-mail. The phone rings.

“Well?” Rachel asks.

“How come you’re not in the movie?” Tiptoeing to the bedroom door, I peek into the living room and confirm that Keira is now sound asleep on the couch. I close my door and settle onto the bed so that my voice doesn’t wake her.

“We snuck out for a minute,” Rachel says. “So we’ll have to talk fast.”

“How’d it go with Tyler?” Izzy calls from behind Rachel. “We couldn’t get much out of him before the movie started.”

“Well, for starters, he asked me out, and then he kissed me.” A general squawk of excitement reverberates at the other end. It sounds like eight people. “Where
are
you guys?”

“In the restroom,” Rachel says. “So
then
what happened?”

“He’s kissing me, and it’s great, and then Grace comes out with Keira and bangs on the window.”

“Oh, crap,” Izzy says.

“I know! He got out of the car to meet her, but you know how Grace is.”

Now there’s a chorus of dismay. “Grace ruins everything,” Rachel says.

My sentiments exactly!

“Well, don’t give up,” Izzy says. “If Tyler likes you, Grace won’t scare him off.”

If Grace could scare off Anton, she can scare off Tyler.

Rachel apparently agrees, because she suggests that I call him instead of waiting for
him
to call me. “I think he’s worth it, Lu. He’s smart and cute. Plus, he’s got a car. His parents just bought it for him because they’re moving to West Ridge and Tyler wants to finish the year at Dunfield.”

West Ridge is a pretty nice neighborhood. His parents’ catering business must be taking off.

“Maybe I will,” I say, just to get them off the subject. It works, too.

“We’ll strategize tomorrow,” Izzy says, before they hang up.

After checking on Keira again, I take out my iPod and lie down on the bed for a moment and replay the car scene in my mind the way it
should
have gone. I’d add about two minutes on to the kiss and then make a smooth, casual departure. “Call me,” I’d say as I opened the door. “We’ll see how fantastic you really are.”

Tyler.
It’s a good name for a boyfriend. I know that he’s not my boyfriend yet, but he might be soon. And then I’ll be a whole new Lu Perez—the one with the boyfriend who has his own car. The one whose boyfriend lives in West Ridge. The one whose boyfriend wants to be a food critic someday.

Tyler and Lu.
It works. It really works. It sounds like an upscale clothing store, or a swanky restaurant. A swanky restaurant that serves food worthy of a critic.

We’re in New York City at a hip, new restaurant Tyler is reviewing for the
Times
. He orders five or six different dishes to sample.

“Try the paella,” he says.

“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t do spicy.”

“You do now. You’ve got to expand your horizons, Lu. A girl cannot live on meat loaf alone.”

He extends a forkful of paella. It’s an explosion of flavor in my mouth. Hot, but not too hot. “Wow! Amazing!” I say.

“I know,” he says. “And so are you.”

We gaze at each other across the tiny, candlelit table. The moment is perfect…

Except for that annoying noise in the background.

I yank off my headphones and sit up, realizing that I’ve been sleeping. And my cell phone is ringing. I fumble for it, hoping it’s Tyler. If it is, I want to sound cool and casual.

“Hello?” Just right. I sound almost bored.

“You sound awfully calm,” Grace says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

There’s a laugh at her end, but she doesn’t sound amused. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?” I ask, suddenly worried.

“How’s Keira?”

“Fine,” I say, already on my feet. “She’s asleep on the—
Oh, no
!”

“Missing something?”

I’m running around the apartment now, opening doors and pulling curtains aside. “Is this a trick, Grace? If it is, it isn’t funny.”

“No, it isn’t funny,” she agrees. “Where’s my baby, Lu?”

“You must know,” I say, getting down on my knees and peering under the couch. “Or you’d be freaking out too.”

“But you’re the one looking after her.”

For a second I wonder if I’m actually having a nightmare right now. Maybe if I just admit the truth I’ll wake up. “I don’t know where she is, Grace.
I don’t know
.”

Grace lets my hysteria rise for a moment before saying, “Mrs. Maneiro found her wandering in the hall.”

I try to come up with a good excuse, but there is no good excuse. “I must have dozed off, Grace. Keira was asleep on the couch and I thought she’d be okay.”

“You’ve got to chain the door, Lu. You’ve got to
watch
her.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

It’s not enough. Grace is just getting warmed up. “You think you’re too good to watch my kid, now, don’t you?”

“Of course not. Don’t yell.” Everyone in the diner is probably staring at her and listening in. My regulars will realize I’m a terrible aunt.

“Ever since you started writing, you’re all full of yourself. Well here’s a news flash, Lu: you’re nothing special. You’re no better than the rest of us. In fact, you’re worse than the rest of us. You’re useless.”

Before I can say another word, she slams the phone down, nearly blowing out my eardrum.

Rachel and I stop and wait for Izzy to catch up. Her stiletto boots keep getting stuck in the grass as we walk across Dunfield’s back field toward the bleachers.

“I don’t understand why they’re holding this outside,” Izzy grumbles, scraping dirt off her heels. “It’s not a sporting event.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” I say. “This is a competition. Expect a fistfight or two.”

“Over Mariah, probably,” Izzy says.

The date auction is taking place on a makeshift stage erected in the center of the track because attendance is expected to be so high. Hundreds of students are already milling around, although the auction itself doesn’t start for nearly an hour.

“It’s all material for Newshound, right, Lu?” Rachel asks.

When I shrug, Izzy asks, “What’s wrong?”

I start walking again, and they follow. “I’m thinking of quitting the
Bulletin
.”

“But you were so into it last week,” Izzy says. “It’s not because Scoop called you a dog, is it?”

“No, but thanks for reminding me. There are too many events to attend, that’s all.”

Izzy rolls her eyes. Unlike Rachel and me, she’s adapted quickly and well to being a fully participating Dunfield student. It makes me wonder if we were holding her back last year.

“I’m not saying the events aren’t fun,” I continue. “But between homework and my job, I don’t have much time left over for my family, and they need me right now.”

“You need time for yourself, too,” Izzy insists. “And you said this column is an opportunity.”

“I’ve had second thoughts. I don’t think it’ll lead to anything.”

“Tons of successful writers launch their careers at a high school paper,” Izzy protests. “Right, Rachel?”

Rachel doesn’t say anything. She’s remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout this discussion.

“Success doesn’t exactly run in my family,” I say.

“So you’ll break the mold,” Izzy says. “You have so much going for you.”

“Please. I couldn’t even keep track of my niece. I’m useless.”

“I knew it!” Rachel bursts out. “This is about Grace, isn’t it? She said something, didn’t she?”

“She said a lot of things. I lost her kid, Rachel.”

“It was an accident.”

“I wasn’t paying attention and it could have been a disaster.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Izzy chimes in. “You made a mistake, Lu, that’s all.”

“Grace has made plenty of mistakes herself,” Rachel says. “Big ones, some of them. She should cut you some slack.”

Izzy stops walking again. “Don’t be mad at me for saying this, Lu, because you know how much I like Grace. I think she’s a good mother, I really do, but I don’t think she’s always a good sister. I think she’s jealous of the fact that you have more options than she does.”

That it’s Izzy saying this somehow gives it more weight. Still, in this instance I was definitely in the wrong. “It’s not just Grace. My mom said I’m spreading myself too thin—that I need to focus.”

It’s harder for them to argue against my mother, but Rachel takes it on. “Focusing is important, but you need to have dreams, too. The only reason I can drag my butt into this dump every day is that I’ll never become a conservationist otherwise.”

“A conservationist?” Izzy says. “I thought you wanted to run a lodge.”

“A lodge
in the Serengeti
, Izzy,” Rachel says. “I want to lead wildlife safaris.”

Izzy stares at Rachel as if seeing her for the first time. It’s that “how could we be so different and still be friends” look. Whereas Rachel loves communing with nature, Izzy prefers communing with her blow dryer. She always denies it, but Iz fully intends to take over her parents’ salon one day. I know she’ll expand far beyond its current Mom-and-Pop status, too. She’s already pushing them to try new things, but they’re satisfied with being an unchanging neighborhood institution.

“My point is, you can’t let this thing with Grace hold you back,” Rachel says. “Like my father always says, ‘If you dream big and work hard, you’re sure to succeed.’”

Izzy nods in agreement. “Now, let’s go find Newshound a story.”

Both girls smile, satisfied that their work is done. Feeling better, I link my arms through theirs and start walking. I may not be able to choose my relatives, but I did a great job of choosing my friends.

If I were a regular reporter instead of an anonymous columnist, I could simply chronicle Izzy’s journey through today’s auction. She’s decided to bid on someone, and we are shopping for the lucky guy now.

“Rico didn’t do it for you?” Rachel asks. She’d hoped we could all hang out together with Jason, Tyler, and Rico.

Izzy shakes her head. “First, there was the thing with Paz at the diner. Then he told me about his girlfriend who lives in Mexico. He sees her every summer, but in between they’re supposedly allowed to see other people, as long as it’s casual.

“You mean he’s looking for a friend with benefits?” I ask.

“Correct,” Izzy says. “I mean, do I look like that kind of girl?”

She doesn’t. Izzy is fond of glitter and trendy clothes, but she doesn’t show much skin or flaunt her chest size. And while she believes in taking the initiative with guys if she likes them, she’s still a traditional girl underneath.

“I need a guy with some class,” Izzy continues. “And I’m hoping forty-eight dollars will buy it.”

“That’s a lot of money,” I say. “Are you sure you want to throw it away on a single date?”

“Quality doesn’t come cheap, Lu.”

“How will you know you’re bidding on quality?” Rachel asks. “You can’t always see that from a distance.”

Fortunately, Mariah has eliminated some of the guesswork by preparing a complete list of the auction participants, along with a description of the “dream date” each is offering. To raise extra money, she’s selling that list half an hour before the auction begins. Meanwhile, everyone on the list will be working the crowd so we can check out the merchandise up close.

“You can tell a lot about a guy from his dream date,” Izzy says.

I find it hard to believe that any Dunfield guy has the imagination—or money—to offer a classy date at a charity auction, but Izzy is less cynical than I am.

The crowd parts to reveal Mariah heading for the stage. Her leather jacket is undone, and I can see that in honor of the occasion, she has actually abandoned her usual workout gear in favor of the short leather skirt she wore in the Bootylicious Calendar, heels, and a low-cut tank. She climbs the stairs and turns to face the crowd.

“I know you want this,” she says, displaying the pre-auction package teasingly. “But you’ve got to wait another twenty minutes. In the meantime, start mingling. If you see someone wearing one of these”—she points to the number pinned to her tank top—“talk to them. If you fall in love, you still have time to run to the ATM.”

Coming down the stairs, Mariah’s eyes light on me. “What, no number, Coconut? I’m pretty sure zero’s still available.”

“Thanks, but I could never compete with you.”

She takes my comment at face value. “So true. We’d have to give money
back
to get someone to take you off our hands.”

It’s another beauteous day at Dumpfield.

Leaving Rachel and Izzy to study the auction guide, I start circulating. It’s not long before I come upon the tech nerds, who have gathered in a conspiratorial clump beside the bleachers. They’re emptying their pockets, handing their money to a guy wearing a faded
Star Trek
baseball cap.

“What’s the total, Curtis?” a guy with greasy, straw-colored hair asks the Trekkie.

Curtis’s lips move as he counts. “We’ve got one hundred twenty-three dollars and sixty-one cents.”

“That should do it,” the greasy-haired guy says. “Let’s review the strategy. Curtis: you’ve got to hold off until everyone else has finished bidding, and then shout a last-ditch offer. If you fire too soon, she’ll beg someone to outbid you.”

I think I’ve found my story:
Guys pool their money to give nerdy pal shot at a real date with hot girl.
That is so sweet!

“Do not forget your mission,” Greasy Hair says. “You won the bet, but you have an obligation to the rest of us. Did you hook up the spy cam?”

Curtis points to his cap. “Operational.”

“Okay, you know the drill. Start with cleavage shots. Then stand behind her and ask her to reach for something, because we want thong action. And belly ring. I’m talking extreme close-up. We want to know if that girl waxes or shaves.”

Ew. EW. EW!!! I have to report this to a teacher. The pervs must be stopped.

“Are you kidding?” Curtis asks. “Mariah wouldn’t shave.”

On the other hand, who am I to ruin an underdog’s big chance?

Tyler finds me on the bleachers. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says.

So Grace hasn’t scared him away after all! “You have?”

“I want you to do me a favor,” he says. “It’ll cost you, but I promise to pay you back. It’s for a good cause.”

I notice he’s holding a folded number in his hand. “You’re going on the block?”

He nods sheepishly. “My cousin is on Mariah’s planning committee, and she pressured me into it. But I’m afraid no one will bid on me.”

“Of course they’ll bid on you. You’re Mr. Fantastic.”

“I’ve got news for you, Lu: you’re the only one who thinks so.”

I smile. “Well, I could help you out, but I’d need to know what entertainment’s on offer. To quote Izzy, you can tell a lot about a guy from his dream date.”

“The Bulls are providing the entertainment,” he says, pulling two tickets out of his pocket. “I’m just providing the seats.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Basketball? What happened to a nice Italian dinner?”

“The game will be way more fun than fettuccine, I promise. How about it? I’ll be humiliated if no one bids on me.”

“So it’s not so much that you want to go out with me as that you want me to save you from public humiliation.”

“Not to mention ugly bidders,” he adds.

“Tyler! That’s terrible.”

He grins. “I’m just saying I’d be proud to leave the stage with you. And as a special thank-you, I’ll throw in the nice Italian dinner.”

I pretend to think about it. “Including dessert?”

“Three courses. And that’s just the beginning.”

He reaches over, grabs the zipper on my hoodie, and pulls me toward him. We’re surrounded by people, yet I feel quite comfortable kissing my Arty FB because Dunfield is the last place on earth you’d ever find Grace.

When he finally pulls away, Tyler says, “Consider that a sneak preview.”

“You think one kiss is going to convince me to bid on you?” I ask.

His smile falters as I climb down from the bleachers. “Where are you going?” he calls.

“To round up some cash.”

I collect my purse from my locker and check my wallet. Thirty bucks. That
might
be enough to win Tyler, especially since he’s not up till later in the program. By then most of the girls will have blown their budgets on the seniors and the jocks. So few Dunfield girls recognize a superhero in disguise.

Just in case, I decide to make a quick pit stop at Mr. Sparling’s office on my way back to the field. He offered me some petty cash to cover my costs at events. I doubt he’ll foot the entire bill for a dream date with Tyler, but he said a good journalist dives into the action, so maybe he’ll give me a top-up.

I hear Mr. Sparling’s voice before I reach the door. “This is not the kind of writing I expect from you,” he lectures. “I’m very disappointed.”

“Oh, come on,” a familiar voice says. “It’s funny.”

I place the voice: it belongs to Mac Landis. Taking another step, I peer through the crack in the door. Sure enough, there’s a blond mop of hair in the chair opposite Mr. Sparling’s.

“It’s juvenile,” Mr. Sparling replies. “You’re capable of so much more. That’s why I gave you this opportunity.”

“But you gave us free rein to share our opinions. That’s the purpose.”

“No, the purpose is to stretch your mind and your writing skills.”

Mac murmurs something I can’t quite catch, but it’s obviously not apologetic enough for Mr. Sparling, because he says, “Whether you aim low or aim high, you’ll reach your target, Mac. Do you want to settle for low?”

The blond head droops. “Okay, I’ll rewrite it. Sorry, sir.”

“Just do your best. That’s all I ask.”

I back away before Mac leaves the office. As soon as I turn the corner, I start to run. If I hurry, I can still make it to the ATM.

Back in the field, Mariah is already on the stage, warming up the crowd with some dance moves as loud music thunders out over the field. I fill Rachel and Izzy in on the details of my scouting mission, ending with Mr. Sparling’s conversation. “It looks like you guys were right about Mac being Scoop,” I tell Rachel. “Mr. Sparling sounded really disappointed. I’m surprised he expected more of Mac. He must see something we don’t.”

Finally, the auction begins. Eighty students parade around the stage before lining up. The cheers are almost loud enough to drown out the music.

Griffin Gonzalez has volunteered as auctioneer. He’ll be working from his fellow seniors down to the sole freshman who had the nerve to put himself on the block.

Determined to take the plunge, Izzy bids on the very first guy. And the fourth. And the seventh. Each time, she is defeated by girls with deeper pockets. Number seven, who offers a limo ride and theater tickets, pulls in a whopping sixty-eight dollars.

Izzy is down but not out. When number fifteen steps up, she tries again. He’s tall and cute but more rugged than her usual type.

Rachel says, “In case you didn’t notice, he wearing hiking boots, Izzy.”

I consult the auction guide. “This guy’s dream date is rock climbing. You’re afraid of heights, Iz. And you only wear heels.”

“But I like seniors,” Izzy says. “And sometimes you have to compromise.”

Only one other girl is willing to compromise, and Izzy lands number fifteen for a bargain: twenty-two dollars.

When Mariah’s turn comes, she struts to center stage and does a pirouette before settling into a contrived pose. Before the auctioneer even opens the bidding, hands soar. There are a few hoarse shouts—the sound of desperate men with money to blow.