Kiss And Blog (20 page)

And then, wouldn’t you know it, just as I’m pondering all of this, I mean just right out of nowhere, Rey looks at us, with
his face set all serious when he goes, “People, I think we’re finally ready for the talent show.”

And since we’re not exactly a group of joiners who get all happy with school-sponsored activities (I mean, if you add all of us together you’ll come up with three different high schools and not one attended dance or football game among us), and since my last foray into a talent showcase resulted in parental outrage and a threatened suspension, I instinctively cross my arms, shake my head, and go, “Uh-uh. No way. Forget it.”

But Rey’s not budging. And since he’s the one who put this band together in the first place, everyone pretty much recognizes him as the leader.

But no way am I bowing to that kind of dubious, non- voted-on authority, so I just continue to stand there, refusing to budge. Because even though I fully admit that school is no longer the nightmare it used to be, there’s still no way I’m getting up onstage in front of Princess Pink and her Pastel Posse so that they can heckle, snicker, sneer, and laugh, while they scrounge around for stuff to throw at us.

Uh-uh. No way. Forget it.

But Rey just looks at me and goes, “Get used to it, Winter, we’re going on.”

Then he picks up the mike and heads into a semi-rockin’ rendition of “American Idiot.”

Today is my sixteenth birthday. But it’s also Thanksgiving Day. Which, believe me, sucks even more than you can imagine. I mean, not only are all of my friends out of town with their families, busy enjoying the long holiday weekend in some exotic locale, but if you think being presented with a big, brown, one hundred percent organic, undercooked pumpkin pie masquerading as a birthday cake (and also acting as quicksand for the sixteen rapidly sinking candles that have been shoved in the middle), is remotely festive, well, think again.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, my mom has somehow gotten the idea that this is the perfect opportunity to unwrap her new boyfriend and present him to us. Who, don’t get me wrong, we’ve technically met before, but still, up until today our contact has mostly consisted of a brief hello, followed five minutes later by a somewhat awkward good-bye. I guess what I’m trying to say is that up until now he’s never actually attended one of our formal (well, formal for us) family gatherings, so this is actually kind of a big deal. But it also makes me wonder why she had to choose today, as opposed to some other day, when it’s not actually my birthday.

So it’s basically me, Autumn, my mom, and her boyfriend, Dave, and we’re all sitting around the dining-room table, with my birthday pie placed prominently before me. And they’re all gazing at me with this look of anticipation and excitement, and then completely simultaneously, as though they’d been rehearsing it for weeks, they go, “Make a wish!”

And as I gaze at these sixteen candles, I know I have about five seconds to accomplish this task before they’re swallowed up completely.

So I close my eyes, lean in, and think,
Rey, Shay, Sloane, the talent show, the blog, my mom . . .
and all these words and names just jumble together, rushing through my head in no particular order or sequence, and with no real wish attached—like a grocery list written on the fly.

And then Autumn goes, “Hurry up and blow! They’re totally sinking!”

So I do. I lean in and blow with all my might. And by the time I open my eyes again, I see that my mom’s already retrieving them, licking the tips of her fingers to protect her skin from the smoldering wicks.

And then I watch as she takes her index finger, the one covered in gloppy pumpkin pie chunks, and offers it to Dave’s lips so that he can lick it off. And as I’m looking at this, I realize I should be feeling way more grossed-out than I am. But the
truth is, I’m actually focused on the whole candle-blowing gig, and how I’m now hoping and praying that there’s absolutely no validity to any of that supposed magic whatsoever. That it actually amounts to no more than just another one of those old, played-out, urban myths. You know, like Santa and his elves, the Easter bunny, and that fairy who pays you by the tooth.

Because with a wish list as random and nonspecific as mine, I’m afraid I’ve just inadvertently put myself in a very vulnerable position. I mean, by failing to define just what exactly it is that I want, I’ve left the whole thing pretty wide-open, serving as a sort of free-for-all where just about anything can happen!

But now, watching as my mom sticks her finger in her mouth, presumably to lick off any pumpkin morsels that Dave has left behind, I’m still so freaked about the wish that I’m just not as disturbed by that as I should be. So I push all paranoid thoughts out of my head and smile at my mom as she cuts the first piece of pie, then I force myself to look at Dave and admit that he’s not nearly as bad as I suspected or feared.

In fact, he’s actually sort of nice.

But since my mom really hasn’t dated since the divorce (or at least not to my knowledge), I guess I’ve pretty much always pictured her with some kind of embarrassing, skinny, heavily bearded, eco-freak guy. You know, like the kind who drives an old, beat-up, rusted-out car covered in political bumper stickers, who never leaves home without his moldy Birkenstocks, and who, no matter what the season, is always sporting a glaringly white vegetarian pallor to go with his permanent affliction of bad tofu breath.

But Dave’s nothing like that. I mean, he’s normal, tan (probably because he surfs every morning), with kind eyes, a nice smile, and a pretty cool, easygoing personality. Also, he’s an architect. Which I think is like a pretty cool profession. And even though I’m kind of shocked that my mom would date someone who makes a living, as a sort of “land rapist” (her pre- Dave words, not mine), putting up buildings where bunnies
once multiplied and wildflowers swayed happily in the breeze, I guess she thinks it’s okay now, because he’s “green.” Which means he builds in a responsible, earth-sustaining, ecologically sound kind of way.

So after eating a piece of my b-day pie and opening all of my presents, which consisted of three gift cards (Barnes & Noble and Urban Outfitters from my mom, Sephora from Dave), and a supercool necklace that Autumn made and that I’m actually already wearing (and not just out of familial loyalty but because I really do like it), I excuse myself and go to my room, because I kind of want to be by myself for a while so I can read some of the comments that people have posted on my blog.

And as I log on and scroll through them, I’m amazed at how many people have something to say about the goings-on in my day-to-day life. And even though seeing all of this makes me feel kind of happy, popular, and cool (and even, I admit, a little bit famous), I’m also growing increasingly worried about getting caught. Not to mention how I’m starting to feel the building of some serious pressure to come up with even bigger and better stuff. You know, like juicier secrets, and more examples of Sloane’s awfulness.

Because from what I’ve already gathered by reading just a few of these comments, this is one outspoken, highly opinionated, bloodthirsty crowd. And they’ve made it painfully clear how not a single one of them appreciated the more mundane secrets, or anything to do with junior high farting incidents or shower peeing, which apparently, is way more common than I would’ve thought.

It’s like these readers are so desensitized, so impatient, and so overexposed to sensational tabloid headlines that scream stuff about heiress porn, dehydrated starlets, and all manner of celebrity couch-jumping antics, that nothing short of the big scandalous story will do.

Which is fine for them. And it’s not like I’m judging or anything as even I’ve been mesmerized by the shocking sight of
telephoto-lens-captured celebrity cellulite, wondering if it was actually real. But the fact is, I
don’t
work for the
Enquirer.
Not to mention how I’m just an ordinary sixteen-year-old girl from small-town America (yes, Laguna Beach is a small town, population 24,000, thank you very much), who just felt the need to vent a little, and yeah, I admit, get some good, old-fashioned, healthy, yet well-deserved revenge on a former friend who done me wrong.

But now I’m starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’ve gotten in a little too deep.

And if so, then I also have to admit that I really don’t have the slightest clue how to get out.

I mean, sure I could just close up shop and blog no more. But the thing is, I promised these people the whole story, the unmitigated, fact-based truth. So I really can’t see how quitting right smack in the middle is in any way a valid option. It’s like, if nothing else, I like to think that I’m a person who makes good on my word (unlike Sloane). And yes, even though I realize how that may, on the surface at least, seem really hypocritical, since obviously it’s not like I’m standing by my word when I expose all of her secrets, the fact is, that after what she did to me I now firmly believe that any former obligation or loyalty to her has become sort of null and void. Besides, I really think that once I’ve said my piece and am winding down, the whole thing will lose steam, my readers will be more or less satiated, and everyone will just click over to the next big thing. And I promise, that once that happens I will happily close up shop, and quietly fade into blog oblivion.

But until that day arrives, I definitely feel the need to come up with some major juice, or suffer at the hands of some very angry readers.

And just as I’m about to log off, Autumn walks in, takes one look at the screen, and goes, “Oh, jeez, don’t tell me you’re into that, too? Everyone at school is talking about it.”

And when I turn and look at her, I concentrate on keeping
my expression calm and serene, because deep down inside, my heart is hammering, my palms are sweating, and it pretty much feels as though my entire nervous system has gone into crisis mode.

“A
lot
of speculation on who it might be,” she continues, getting onto her hands and knees and retrieving her art portfolio out from under her bed.

“But that’s ridiculous,” I say, frantically staring at the back of her head. “I mean, it could be about anyone, from anywhere.”

But Autumn just shakes her head, sits on her bed, and starts flipping through her drawings. “Nope, it’s definitely local,” she says, not even looking at me.

“What makes you so sure?” I ask, trying to sound sort of neutral, and only mildly interested.

“Well, for starters, did you read the one where she talks about skinny smoker dude? I mean, hello, there’s only one of those that I know of.”

I just laugh. I mean, if this is the only evidence she can come up with, then I’m starting to feel pretty good about my prospects for keeping my anonymity intact. So I just roll my eyes and go, “Autumn, that’s insane. I’m sure there’s a skinny smoker dude on practically every corner, in every downtown area, in every city in America, if not the entire world!”

But she just shrugs, finds the picture she’s looking for, and carries it out of the room. While I frantically scroll back through all of my entries, wondering how on earth I could’ve been so careless.

Twenty-one

I’m going to hell. No, seriously. Got myself a one-way ticket, nonstop, nonrefundable, and definitely nonnegotiable. And I feel so awful about the reason why, that I’m actually pretty reluctant to share it.

Though I do think it’s safe to say that during the short amount of time it took to engage in the “why” I wasn’t exactly feeling all that bad about it.

In fact, it was pretty much the exact opposite.

It was only later, when I got caught, that I started to suffer.

It was the Sunday evening following my birthday (or Thanksgiving Day, whichever is more important to you), and I went over to Rey’s because he just got back from his family’s place in Napa Valley. And after saying hello to his parents, he led me into the media room, where he got this big smile on his face as he presented me with this small, thin, shiny, wrapped package.

“Happy birthday,” he said, handing it to me.

I slipped my nail stub under the transparent tape and removed the navy-blue paper, where I found a red plastic jewel case containing a homemade, compilation CD, and some pretty impressive cover art that I recognized immediately as Rey’s. And after standing there for a moment, turning it over in my hand and reading each side, I smiled shyly, and said, “Um, thanks. This is so sweet of you.”

Then he took it from me and said, “First you gotta hear it.” He slid it into the stereo, pushed Play, and just stood there smiling as the room filled with the sound of Social Exile (sans moi) doing an amazing rendition of “A Hazy Shade of Winter” (which if you’ll remember, is the exact same song he sang to me in Dietrich’s that day). Only this time he got all the lyrics right.

I just stood very still, listening to the song, and slowly realizing how Rey had arranged it all just for me, just because it was my birthday. And when it finally ended, I felt so wildly happy and elated, yet also kind of embarrassed and unsure of what to do next. I mean, even though I wanted it to mean something big, the fact was, I was painfully aware of how he was still with Shay. Which basically meant that this gift probably didn’t mean near as much to him as it did to me. And that it was probably just another recorded jam session, in a succession of many, and therefore was never meant to be a big deal.

And fully aware of how I needed to just relax and stay very cool about the whole thing or risk outing my true feelings, I just looked right at him and said, “Oh, that’s so cool. Thanks.”

Then I leaned in to hug him.

Which, if you think about it, is really not such a big deal since that’s what people usually do when someone gives them a gift. Besides, it’s not like we hadn’t ever hugged before.

But this time, as I pulled away, our eyes accidentally met, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing. And I don’t mean some little grandma-style peck on the cheek. I’m talking about
real-deal, full-blown, Hollywood-love-scene kissing. And it was so perfect. So seriously awesome. And his hands were all buried in my hair, and mine were wrapped around his neck, and even while it was happening I could hardly believe that it was really happening, because it was just that amazing.