Kiss And Blog (5 page)

But Sloane just grits her teeth, and whispers, “Yell goodbye like that.”

“Um, because she was leaving and that’s what people do when someone takes off.” I shrug, wishing we could just move past this so that I can show her our final cheer.

But Sloane just looks at me and rolls her eyes again. “Ugh, this is so impossible!” she says, turning to walk away.

“Sloane! Wait! Where you going?” I chase after her. “Listen, I finished our cheer and I want you to see it.”

But she just hurries away from me as fast as she can. “I’m going to class. I’ll see you at lunch,” she says, without once looking back.

By lunch, everything’s normal again. We’re sitting at Table C, I’m eating a healthy sandwich that my mom made especially for me, and Sloane is sipping a Diet Coke (or “liquid candy, don’t kid yourself” as my mom refers to it), while she reads the cheer.

“This is really good,” she says, glancing up at me and smiling.

“Really? You think?” I ask, taking a bite of my free-range turkey and organic Swiss on whole grain, while gazing at her.

“Totally. I think this is really going to work. Can I keep it?” she asks, already folding it up and shoving it deep inside her purse.

“Um, I guess,” I say, feeling really weird about feeling weird to see her just taking it like that.

“Because you know how I need to have the final words so I can make up the final moves.” She smiles, looking right at me.

And then just as I start to ask, “So what’s the deal with Ginny?” Jaci, Holly, and Claire stroll by on their way to Table A. And all three of them glance at Sloane and say “Hey,” while totally ignoring me.

I watch as they pass and then turn toward Sloane, shaking my head as I look at her. “Wow, looks like you’re moving right along,” I say, my blatant admiration ringing loud and clear.

But she just looks at me and shrugs. “I’m trying.”

Four

After school, I’m standing in the kitchen, sipping from a bottle of water, and watching as Autumn outlines a fresh new sketch of Jonathan Rhys Meyers’s amazingly sculpted face for her Tuesday afterschool portrait drawing class, when the house line rings.

“Omigod, I can’t believe you turned off your cell!” Sloane says, skipping right past hello and heading straight for the recriminations.

I just roll my eyes and lean against the counter, wondering if this is why she’s calling, so that she can lecture me on popular cell phone charging protocol.

“Whatever, anyway,” she continues. “I’m on my way to South Coast Plaza and I need to know how soon you can get there?”

I gaze at the kitchen clock on the far wall, and sigh. Technically, I’m only about twenty minutes away. But that’s only if my mom is willing to dust off the car for such an extravagant excursion as going to the mall (and have I mentioned that it’s a
hybrid?).
And I’m feeling kind of annoyed by this because, well, partly because I’m feeling kind of annoyed by just about everything these days, but also because Sloane already knows all of this. She is fully and completely clued in to all of the little minute details, all of the ins and outs, and hows and whys of my pathetic day-to-day life. So I can hardly believe that I have to explain it to her, yet again. I mean, between best friends, some things should just be
known.

“I’m not really up for the mall,” I say finally, choosing the cop-out over the explanation.

But she’s not going for it. “Not an option,” she snaps. “Beg, borrow, steal, I don’t care what you have to do, or how you do it, just get there!”

Jeez, she sounds just like that agent guy on
Entourage, I think, shaking my head and wondering why some stupid trip to the mall is suddenly fraught with such monumental importance.

“Jaci, Holly, and Claire are going to be there and they want us to meet them in Sephora in thirty, no, make that now twenty-eight minutes,” she says.

“Um,
us,
Sloane? Really?” I shake my head and roll my eyes, and don’t even try to hide my skepticism.

“Okay, fine. So they actually invited
me.
Well, now I’m inviting
you.
Just like we agreed. So I ask you, once again, how soon can you be there?”

“Fine, give me thirty, thirty-five minutes tops,” I tell her, hanging up, and wondering how on earth I’m going to pull this off.

It sucks being fifteen. For so many reasons I can’t even begin to list them all here. Though I will state, right now and for the record, that at the very top of my list of Things That Suck is the word
driver’s license,
and the fact that I don’t yet have one. Nor do I have one of those moms who just lives for the moment when school lets out so she can pick up her kids and proceed to
cart them all over town, from one place to another, for as long as they damn well please.

And since my mom actually grew up in a time long before SUVs and car pools were even invented, way back in the days when kids who lived within walking distance of school were expected to do just that, and then get on their bikes and pedal like mad if they wanted to have any kind of a social life after three o’clock, she, unfortunately, is under the impression that what was good enough for her then is surely good enough for Autumn and me now. And even though I suspect that my dad is probably modern and hip enough to completely disagree with her antique, time-warp, child-rearing philosophies, it’s not like he lives here, so he’s really not much help.

So now, I find myself in the very regrettable position of having my social life for the next three years resting on a single trip to the mall, where my only hope of getting there on time (if at all) depends on a woman whose values belong in the Museum of Antiquated Beliefs.

I pick up the phone, fully prepared to do battle, when my mom, once again, takes me by surprise when she sighs. “Oh, Winter, do you really need to do this?”

So I just sigh right back and say, “Yes, Mom, I really do.”

And thirty-eight minutes later I’m breezing into Sephora with the ten bucks my mom slipped me riding securely in my front pocket, even though I’m fully aware of how it probably won’t buy me much more than a tin of sample-sized lip balm.

“Hey,” I say, approaching Jaci, Holly, Claire, and Sloane who are all huddled together in the Too Faced aisle.

But the only one who says “Hi” back is Sloane. And to be honest even that sounds pretty halfhearted, like she just couldn’t afford to risk any possible deduction points by getting all happy over the arrival of someone like me.

“So which do you like better?” Jaci asks, balling her hands into tight little fists, and shoving them toward me so that I can inspect the lip gloss stripes she’s painted on top.

And as everyone huddles even closer, waiting to see which one I’ll pick, I suddenly realize that this is like a pretty big deal, and actually far more important than it seems. So I lean toward her outstretched fists, noticing how the one with the red-blue undertones is far better suited to her skin (which is actually pale white and
not
Mystic brown like she wants you to think). So I point at that one and go, “Um, I think that one, right there. Yup, definitely that one,” I say, nodding for emphasis, and feeling pretty confident that I totally aced this little test and made the right choice. I mean, let’s face it, this isn’t just some crazy, random, eeny-meeny-miney-mo decision, this was actually based on years of art classes and color theory immersion courses that my mom enrolled me in until I was old enough to revolt.

But Jaci just stares at it, her nose all scrunched up, and I know that even though, technically, I’m right, obviously, that’s not at all how she sees it. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, but I’m getting this,” she says, pointing at the pink one with the heavy yellow undertones that’ll only succeed in making her look jaundiced and lipless. But it’s not like I can actually tell her that, so I just sort of nod and shrug, fully aware of how it’s a lot better if I don’t say anything now.

And then, of course, right on cue, Holly and Claire go, “Oh, yeah, definitely the pinker one, so much better than the other.”

And then they both look at me like it’s a challenge, as though they’re actually daring me to stand by my original choice. But since it’s not my problem if Jaci’s lips fade into the rest of her face, I just shrug.

So then they all turn to Sloane who’s looking at me with narrowed, disappointed eyes, and an expression that says, “Don’t blame me. I tried to help, but you’re the moron who fucked it all up.” Then she shakes her head, looks at the others, points at the yellow-pink stripe, and goes, “That one, totally.”

And then, just as I’m wondering if I should expect to be escorted out by security or something, I watch in amazement as Jaci grabs two tubes of that partisan vote lip gloss and drops them right inside the opened zipper of her Gucci tote bag.

Then she looks at all of us and goes, “I am so over this place. Let’s go hit Ron Herman.”

The walk from Sephora to Ron Herman is actually not that far. But for me, straggling behind, and wondering if there’s any real legal precedent to the phrase “guilt by association,” it feels infinite.

I mean, hello, Jaci just stole two tubes of lip gloss!

But as we head toward the store with no sign of screaming sirens or flashing red lights, I start to relax. And then it dawns on me that Jaci just stole some lip gloss and
nobody even flinched.
Not Holly, not Claire, and even more surprising, not even Sloane, who, by the way, is now a full three steps ahead of me, and dead set on pretending that I don’t even exist.

And it’s like, not to sound like a pious little teacher’s pet, but I just don’t get it. I mean, why the Winona? Because it’s not like Jaci can’t afford the thirty-five dollars it might’ve set her back. From what I’ve heard her dad is like some big-time developer (or, as my mom so delicately puts it, “land raper”), while her mom has devoted her entire life to the pursuit of Pilates, pedicures, personal pampering, and parading Jaci and her friends pretty much anywhere and everywhere they want to go after school and on the weekends. So, obviously, this is not an ability-to-pay issue.

When we get to Ron Herman, I’m still lagging behind as all four of them head straight for the Juicy Couture section. And even though I guess some of that stuff is kind of cute (well, for other people, but not really for me), I gotta admit that I’m pretty much amazed at how they never seem to tire of it. I mean, just how many pastel warm-ups can a person really
own before their entire closet begins to look like a big fat Easter basket?

And even though I now know that my only real shot at overcoming the whole lip gloss fiasco will require me to stand right alongside them and coo over tiny, pink terry-cloth dresses, too, I gotta admit, at this exact moment, I’m just not feeling all that up for it.

So once again, I just stand there, watching silently and trying to keep my face neutral, as they press little cotton skirts and tops against their skinny bodies, while complaining about how fat they are.

And even though I’m aware that my job as the passive observer is to deny and rebut every single self-directed insult, every single insincere self-criticism, doing my part to try to rescue them from their fake self-esteem issues, I still just continue to stand there, not saying a word. Because the fact is you could shove all four of them together and still not fill a pair of size-eight pants. I mean, I aced ninth-grade algebra, which means I’m fully aware that size zero times four still equals zero. And believe me, it’s not like they don’t know that, too.

“Do you not like this stuff?” Jaci asks, holding a yellow terry-cloth mini-dress with matching lace trim to her torso, and looking at me in a way that says, “If you answer wrong, you are so going down.”

“Um, yeah, some of it’s okay,” I say, shrugging yet feeling pretty good about my answer, amazed at how I actually found a way to preserve my own, differing opinion, while still reserving judgment on her personal style choices.

“So what kind of clothes do
you
like? Because I’d be very curious to see them,” she says, dropping the dress back on the rack and narrowing her eyes at me.

I gaze at her for a moment, and then I look around, noticing how they’re all staring at me. Well, everyone but Sloane, who’s now so totally over me that her eyes are practically glued to the ground, refusing to go anywhere near my direction.

But again, I just shrug. “I don’t know, I haven’t really looked around or anything,” I finally say.

“Well, let’s have a look then, shall we?” Jaci fake-smiles, weaving her skinny, spray-tan arm through mine, and leading me to the other side of the store where the nonpastel, less girly pieces hang. “What about these?” She holds up a pair of cool, black, sleek, stovepipe pants. “These look like something you might like.”

“Um, yeah, they’re pretty cool,” I say, feeling surprised that I actually do mean it, and reaching out to touch the sort of stiff-looking fabric.

But just as my fingers are about to make contact, she squints at the price tag and quickly yanks them far out of my reach, her face dropping into a dramatic pout. “Oh, three hundred dollars. Too bad,” she says, tossing them back on the rack. “Or, how about this?” She pulls out a plain white, short-sleeved T-shirt, again going straight for the price tag. “Hmmm.” She looks at me, her lips all pressed together. “Eighty-five dollars is probably a lot more than you spend on your Mossimo’s, huh? But still, just feel that cotton, such better quality, don’t you think?”

She pushes it toward me, practically forcing me to touch it, but this little game is getting so weird and mean, I’ve decided to stop playing.

“Okay, well I think I’m gonna take off now,” I say, my eyes boring into Sloane, willing her to wake up, come to her senses, and follow me, or at the very least acknowledge that I’m even here.

But when I get no response, I just turn toward the door, fully prepared to walk out, when Jaci says, “Omigod, come back here! I was
so
totally kidding!”

So I turn around and look at them, watching as they all fake-smile at me, well, all except for Sloane who is biting down on her lower lip and gazing at me in this pleading way. And I know it sounds lame, and I know that you’ll probably hate me,
but I don’t leave. I just continue hanging with them, following them from store to store, until Jaci has stolen an entire outfit and decides to call it a day.