Kiss And Blog (15 page)

Fourteen

Monday morning when I stopped by Dietrich’s I wasn’t sure just what to expect. I mean, first of all, I couldn’t be sure if Rey would even be there. And second, I had no idea how he’d act toward me if he was. Not to mention how I might inadvertently act around him.

I mean, I’d just spent the entire weekend poring over his blog, looking for clues as to how he might feel about me (um, there were no clues), and dissecting my conversation with Shay, going over it again and again, and each time coming to the same lame conclusion—that I’d accidentally, unintentionally, yet wholeheartedly, given my sincere permission, and signed- on-the-dotted-line consent, for Shay and Rey to hook up and make out directly in front of me.

Only now I want to take it all back.

And
not
because I want to be the one making out with him or anything remotely like that. I mean, I’m pretty much existing in a state of emotional limbo, still feeling completely undecided
on all that. But the one thing I do know for sure is that I want Rey to sit back and wait, abstaining from all romantic and physical female contact, while I take my time deciding.

“Hey,” he says, waving at me from our usual table, like everything’s totally normal. “I already got our coffee and scone.” He smiles.

Our
coffee and scone? I wonder how Shay would feel about that?

I slide onto the opposite stool as he pushes my latte toward me. And I gaze at him from over the top of my cup, noticing how happy he looks today. Maybe even too happy.

“So,” he says, breaking off a piece of frosted maple oat scone, and leaving the rest for me. “You left early. You missed out.”

Missed out on what?
I think.
Overtime in tonsil hockey?

“Your friends got busted.”

My eyes bug out, as I drop the scone and stare.

“Well, they got container checked. They were all lined up on Main Beach. We saw them when we were leaving. I guess the cops stopped them for questioning, and then decided to check their water bottles for a suspicious substance.”

“Serious?” I ask, hoping the story will get even worse than this, and somehow involve handcuffs, billy clubs, a permanent stain on their permanent records, maybe even an extended stay in juvenile hall.

“Yeah, but apparently it was nothing since they just ended up emptying all the bottles and letting them go.”

“But who was all there?” I ask, desperate for every single detail, but only because of the blog. I mean, other than that it’s not like I really care or anything.

But Rey just shrugs. “Who knows? They all look alike to me. I can’t tell the difference.”

And as we walk out the door and head for school, I’m wondering if this is maybe something Eleanor Rigby should write about. I mean, since she wasn’t actually there to witness it I’m
not sure if that goes against like, the laws of journalistic integrity or something.

But when we arrive on campus, I see Sloane surrounded by students. And I watch from a distance as she stands before them, her glistening blond hair reflecting the sun, as she recants the whole sordid tale for a scandal-hungry crowd. And even though I can’t exactly hear what it is she’s saying, I can tell by the look on her face that she’s using only top-shelf adjectives and adverbs to embellish her starring role in her fictionalized version of “Busted on the Beach! A Cheerleader’s Story.”

And as I vacate the scene, I’ve already decided not to write about it. I mean, somehow that whole mess has just made her even more popular, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything to help that along.

THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

You Oughta Know

Okay, so apparently, not only is Princess Pink too good for me, but she’s also too good to acknowledge me. I was in the bathroom at the beginning of lunch when I vacated the stall only to find her practically canoodling with her own reflection as she leaned in really close to the mirror and painted on a shiny, thick, sticky layer of DuWop Lip Venom (that she probably stole), while pretending she didn’t see me, even though it’s pretty obvious that she did.

Me: “So.” Okay, try not to judge me. I mean, I felt like I had to say something and this was the best I could do on such short notice.

P. P.: “____.” She says nothing. Just sighs, and removes a stray eyelash from her dermatologist-tended cheek.

Me: “That’s it? You can’t even say hello anymore?” Followed by penetrating, malevolent glare.

P. P.: Still not breaking from her mirror-gazing love fest. “Jeez, Eleanor, what do you want from me?” This was followed by a classic headshake-deep sigh combo (at her own reflection, yet meant for me). Like she’s Paris Hilton and I’m some jilted Greek shipping heir who won’t leave her alone.

Well, P. P. since you asked, here’s My List:

I Want

1.   An apology for your sudden defection after eight years of friendship with no explanation or final note.

2.   My Black Eyed Peas CD, which you’ve had since the beginning of last summer and have yet to return.

3.   A simple thank-you for the countless hours I spent tutoring you so that you wouldn’t face the humiliation of flunking out of English for Dummies.

4.   A little acknowledgment for when I put everything on hold so that I could help you through a really rough time when you discovered that your real dad is not out of the country like your mom said, but that he’s actually locked up in some Nevada Federal Prison for Men where he’s serving time for tax fraud and evasion.

5.   Author credit for the cheer you stole, plagiarized, and used without my consent.

6.   A smidgen of gratitude for helping you through yet another rough time when you discovered that your mom was having an affair with a married man (and father of two), who also happened to be her boss, and who she eventually got knocked up by and married (in that order).

7.   An ounce of appreciation for doing my best to make you feel better when I tried to convince you that your mom’s not-so- secret past as an exotic dancer meant that she’d probably performed in the chorus in some way off-Broadway productions.

8.   A simple hello, wave of acknowledgement, or halfhearted nod when we pass in the hall so I don’t have to feel like the last eight years I spent being your best friend was a total waste of my time.

Faithfully yours,

Eleanor Rigby

Fifteen

So, every day at lunch for the past week and a half, I just sit at our table, hunching over my healthy, heart-smart sandwich and accompanying bag of contraband chips that I shove in there when my mom’s not looking, and eavesdrop on Rey’s excruciatingly cute, increasingly romantic, seemingly never-ending, cell phone conversations with Shay.

And the worst part is, since I’m the one who accidentally blessed this whole unholy union to begin with, I’m pretty much forced to just sit back and act like I couldn’t care less and can’t possibly be bothered to notice that the calls just get longer and longer as the two of them just grow closer and closer with each and every passing day.

I mean, since clearly this is all my fault to begin with, what choice do I have but to nod and smile and basically just play along every time he snaps his phone shut and relays all manner of adorable facts, useless information, and vital statistics that I never,
ever
wanted to know? Like:

”Did you know that Shay’s new golden retriever puppy is named Nola, after the Scarlett Johansson character in
Match Point
?

“Did you know that Shay’s spending the summer volunteering in New Orleans? Aiding flood victims and helping to rebuild the city?

“Did you know that Shay modeled in Paris two years ago? And that she had so many jobs she could barely keep it straight, when she decided to give it all up so that she could have a normal high-school experience and graduate with her class like everyone else?

“Did you know that Shay is perfect in every single freaking way, and that she’s the bestest thing that ever happened to me in this whole wide world?”

Okay, maybe he didn’t exactly say that last one, but still, he may as well have.

And after last night’s tortured reading of his latest blog entry that veered from his usual insightful, relevant, highly entertaining subject matter, to a full page musing on the challenges of house-training Shay’s adorable puppy, Nola, I knew I just wasn’t up for any more of that. So I grabbed my lunch, and hauled it over to the library where I could eat in peace. And even though, technically, you’re not supposed to do that, the librarians don’t seem to mind when it’s me. But that’s probably because I’m one of the few people in this entire school who actually knows them by name.

And then just a few minutes before the bell rings, I’m gathering up my trash when I hear someone whispering from somewhere among the bookshelves. And even though normally I wouldn’t pay any attention to that since it’s a library, and that’s what people are pretty much forced to do in libraries, there’s something about the way this sounds, something kind of frantic, upset, and whimpery that makes me want to investigate further.

I grab my stuff, fling my backpack over my shoulder, and
figure I’ll just stop by for a quick peek on my way out the door. And just as I round the corner and peer down the aisle, I see some girl all curled up on the floor, crying into the sleeve of her sweater, and pressing her cell phone tight to her ear. And I stand there in shock when I realize it’s Sloane.

Then she says, “Okay. I will. Bye, Dad.” Then she closes her phone, buries her face in her hands, and breaks into these major, shoulder-shaking tears.

And acting on nothing but pure instinct and an obviously impaired memory, I head right for her, kneel down beside her, and in a tentative voice go, “Sloane?”

And when she looks up, I see that her eyes are all puffy and red.

“Are you okay?” I ask, gazing at her and knowing she’s not.

But she just shakes her head, and hides her face in her hands again, breaking into even louder, more violent sobs.

And even though I feel kind of awkward and uncomfortable to even be here in the first place, that doesn’t stop me from asking, “Do you need to talk?” Then I sit there patiently waiting for her to respond. I mean, I know it seems crazy that after everything that’s happened I would even care enough to ask, but I guess there’s still this small part of me that retains a little hope. Besides, I think it’s safe to assume that this is not the kind of stuff she can share with her cool, new friends. ‘Cause from what I’ve seen they’re pretty strict about limiting all of their conversations to the topics of tanning, shopping, food purging, and guys.

But even so, I can still hardly believe it, when she actually looks up and smiles, before wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, which transfers most of her mascara to her thick, ribbed cuff.

And when the bell finally rings, she looks at me and whispers, “You’re the only one who knows.”

Then she gathers her things and heads for the door saying, “I’ll call you tonight.”

THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

Oops! . . . I Did It Again

Seen: curled up and crying, our recently crowned Princess Pink on the verge of a complete emotional collapse, and ready to lean on old Eleanor’s shoulder.

Did she, you wonder?

Not a chance.

And in honor of ex-best friends who dingdong ditch you, I present to you a special edition of The List, with one extra bonus secret thrown in for free.

9.   As part of her self-created popularity boot camp, P. P. spent the entire summer memorizing a homemade stack of 3 χ 5 note cards with imaginary questions written on the front, and their appropriate responses scrawled on the back. Think of it like flash cards for social retards. For example, the front of a card might read, “Omigod, love your skirt!” And when you flip it over to the back you’ll note that the correct response is, “Oh, please, this is so old!”

10.    P. P., who is taking prealgebra
again
this year, somehow managed to craft an intricate, detailed, color-coded graph depicting every teen movie queen going back to the mid-eighties,
noting not only their commonalities, but also their individual strengths and weaknesses, which she then translated into a
USA Today-type
brightly colored pie chart showing the ratio of blonde to brunette, cheerleader to class president, athlete to mathlete, so that she’d know just exactly who to emulate.

11.    If asked, P. P. will pretend that she never, ever, not even once, cried herself to sleep because the only thing she wanted in the whole wide world was to meet Britney Spears. But don’t you believe her.

12.    In second grade, Princess Pink’s show-and-tell presentation was cut short when she stood before the classroom with her mom’s fully charged vibrator in hand, offering a free neck, back, and shoulder massage for anyone interested.