Kiss And Blog (6 page)

“Can I ride with you?” Sloane asks, as we head outside of Nordstrom to wait on the curb, where I told my mom to meet me.

I just nod. I mean, I’m definitely not feeling all that happy with her right now, but still, it’s not like I’m gonna leave her stranded at the mall or anything.

“Listen,” she says, looking at me for practically the first time since I got here. “I’m really sorry about all that stuff that happened back there.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t look all that sorry at the time,” I say, shaking my head and refusing to look at her now. I mean, I know we made a pact, and basically spent the entire summer planning and plotting and dreaming of having a moment just like that. But now that it’s happened, I have to admit that it really wasn’t all that great. In fact, it actually kind of sucked. And I’m starting to wonder if maybe we should just sit down and rethink all this, and try to get out while we still can.

But apparently Sloane is not on the same page, because she just looks at me and says, “You so don’t get it, Winter. It’s not like Jaci actually meant any of that stuff, it—it was more like a test, like an initiation or something. You know, like when you pledge a sorority and they test your loyalty level before they decide to let you in. It was totally innocent, harmless even! They were just trying to see if you could handle hanging out with them, because obviously not everyone’s up for it. Believe me, they did something very similar to me right before you showed up.” She nods, her eyes searching my face, trying to see if I believe her.

I look at her, wondering if that really is true, or if she’s just trying to make me feel better. Or, even more likely, if she’s just trying to make
them
look better.

”Just be glad they didn’t make you steal something, too,” she says, retrieving a brand-new Chanel black eyeliner pencil from her purse and holding it up in offering. “Want it?” She looks at me, shrugging her slim shoulders.

“Um, no thanks,” I say, turning to see my mom pulling into the parking lot.

“You’re not going to say anything are you?” she asks, dropping it back in her purse, suddenly sounding all scared and nervous, and a lot more like the Sloane I’ve known for the last eight years. The one who never ignored me, who was never mean to me, and who certainly didn’t steal stuff just to impress someone.

“To who, Sloane? Who would I say something to?” I ask, feeling sad and tired and totally sick of playing these weird little head games. I mean, everything’s so different now, but not in the way I thought it would be. And to be honest, it kind of makes me miss my old life, where everything was just so much easier and way less complicated. It’s even making me wonder if I was actually happier than I realized. Because now, standing next to Sloane and her stupid stolen Le Crayon Yeux, I feel kind of depressed.

I just wish everything could go back to how it was before.

But that’s probably only because I know it’s too late.

“Okay, well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure you passed. I mean, after Ron Herman, they basically left you alone, right? And I know you heard how they all said ‘See you tomorrow’ when they were heading toward Saks. Because believe me, if they didn’t like you, they wouldn’t have said anything,” she says, just as my mom pulls up next to the curb in her rarely driven Prius.

“Yeah, and what does that mean? What do I get for surviving that kind of emotional hazing?” I ask, opening the passenger door, and peering at her, watching as her face breaks into a big, triumphant smile.

“What do you think? Popularity!” she says, her face all lit up as she climbs into the back.

Five

I gotta admit, the next morning as I’m making my way to Dietrich’s, I’m feeling kind of nervous about seeing Sloane. I mean, that whole mall episode with the stealing and the mean little comments just felt so freaking weird that I’m seriously having second thoughts about our plan. And I’m wondering if maybe we should think about scheduling a nice, cordial, sit- down conference, where we can rehash this whole thing, admit where we may have gone wrong, and then don our parachutes and bail out early, before the whole thing goes down in a cloud of smoke.

But when I walk in the door, I see Sloane at our usual table, with two coffees and a chocolate chip scone before her, smiling and waving like everything’s completely normal. And as I take the seat across from hers, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m just overreacting, and getting all paranoid and resistant to change. I mean, maybe things aren’t really as bad as I think. And maybe I’m just panicking because it’s been kind of hard
watching her fit in so much easier than me. Because the fact is we made a deal, I mean, we even went so far as to sign an actual popularity contract (her idea, though I’m the one who drafted it), so now I guess I’m just gonna have to pitch in a little more, and do my part to see it through.

“Hey,” she says, pushing my coffee toward me, and taking a quick sip of hers. “You think Jaci will show up in her shoplifted skirt today?” She breaks off a piece of scone and smiles.

I roll my eyes and laugh. “Yeah, what’s up with that?” I ask, sipping my coffee, and looking at her. “I thought her family was supposed to be like, mega-rich or something?”

“Believe me, they are,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “I don’t know how she can stomach it though, ‘cause when I got home, I felt so bad about that stupid eye pencil that I ended up giving it to my mom. It’s like, I just felt way too guilty to actually use it, yet I also couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. So I just ended up telling her it was part of some gift with purchase, and that I didn’t really need it because I already had one. But I gotta admit it’s kind of funny to think about her lining her eyes with a stolen pencil.” She laughs.

And when I look at her, I start laughing, too. Not because it’s all that funny, but because I’m thinking maybe I can start to relax again, now that everything’s finally back to normal.

But by break when Sloane doesn’t show up at my locker, I decide to head for hers. And when I’m halfway there I find her standing in the middle of the quad, talking and laughing with Jaci, Holly, and Claire.

“Hey,” I say, smiling as I join them, doing my best to convince myself that Sloane was right, and that all that weird stuff at the mall was just part of some crazy popularity hazing ritual that I’ve successfully passed, and can firmly put behind me.

But the only response I get is a lazy-eyed glance followed by, “Oh, he-”

I swear, that’s exactly how they say it, like it’s just way too much effort to add that final
y
for someone as unimportant as me. So I just stand there, feeling my confidence plummet as they completely ignore me and continue right where they left off. And if you think Sloane, my best friend in the whole wide world, makes any effort to fill me in, or at the very least, acknowledge my presence, well, think again.

But when the bell rings, and the three of them scatter off to class, Sloane finally turns and looks at me, rolling her eyes when she whispers, “Omigod, did you
see
Jaci’s outfit? I think the only thing she didn’t steal was her shoes. But then again, she probably swiped those the week before!” She shakes her head and laughs. “Listen, I can’t be late to English, but let’s go over our cheer at lunch, k?”

And I stand there in the hall, watching as she runs to class, and then I turn around and head toward mine.

By Friday morning I’m in a total panic. During the course of the week I’d already worn every piece of clothing from my collection of knockoffs, in addition to the two items with labels that I was actually proud of, and now I find myself marching dangerously close to the much dreaded territory of
retail repeat.
Not that anyone would notice, mind you. Because even though it definitely seems like I’m blending in better than ever before, it’s not like any hot guys (or
any
guys for that matter) are actually looking at me, or like Ginny, Jaci, Holly, or Claire even acknowledge my existence when Sloane’s not standing right next to me.

Still, the ban against wearing the same outfit twice in one week is just one of those unwritten, yet clearly defined, completely understood, universal rules. And with Sloane showing so much promise in her bid to join the social ranks, and with
our cheer coming along so well, I’m feeling pretty obligated to do whatever it takes not to become a bigger burden than I already am. I mean, I’m really doing my best to keep my mouth shut whenever I’m feeling unsure what to say (as opposed to nervously yammering on and on about nothing, like I used to do), and am even making a concerted effort to smile
all the time.
Which makes my jaw ache so bad I think it’s giving me TMJ.

But now, standing before my closet with absolutely nothing to wear, I can feel myself getting worked up to the point of hysteria. And, believe me, I’m fully aware of just how ridiculous that sounds. I mean, last year I never used to worry about stuff like this, because once you’re firmly shut out of everything that matters, you’re pretty much free to do as you please and wear whatever you want.

But now that I’m standing on the threshold, and actually have a shot at getting in, it suddenly seems like every little nuance, every minor detail, is not only amplified, but also put right out there for everyone to see and/or
judge.
And I know that if I somehow get it wrong and mess up this early in the game, then the repercussions may very well affect my social standing for
the next three years
!

So, knowing there’s just no way I can scale this peak alone, and that I’m in desperate need of a savvy Sherpa, I grab my cell phone with the full intent of calling Sloane, figuring that not only will she be able to calm me down and walk me through this, but also will help me piece together something really cute to wear. But then just as I’m about to press Talk, it suddenly dawns on me that it’s probably better if I
don’t
talk to her about this. Because even though she’s my best friend (which pretty much means I should be able to call her whenever I want about anything I want), the truth is that things are starting to feel a little unsure and fragile lately. And I just don’t think I’m in any position to ignore the voice in my head that’s urging me to just snap my phone shut and drop it to the ground, nice and easy. Because if I can keep myself from calling her, then she’ll
never have to know just how panicky and insecure I feel. Then maybe she’ll stop all the glaring, head-shaking, and acting like I’m some kind of major liability.

It’s like, over the span of the last four days, I feel like I’ve been standing on the sidelines, watching how easy it’s been for her to assimilate. And even though she swears they were just as mean to her that day at the mall, it’s not like I actually witnessed it. So excuse me for wondering if maybe it’s not even true. Like, maybe, buried somewhere deep down inside her Louis Vuitton purse, was a receipt for that Chanel eye pencil, and that she actually just made the entire story up for the sole purpose of making me feel better, and less like a loser.

Yet I’m also starting to notice how lately, it seems like the only time she’s ever nice to me is when Jaci, Holly, and Claire aren’t around. And how the second they show up, she starts totally ignoring me, judging me, and eye-rolling me again. So I guess I’m feeling pretty unwilling to do anything that might encourage that.

“I just don’t get what the problem is,” Autumn says, lounging on her bed in an outfit that looks more like pajamas than school clothes.

“Whatever,” I say, turning to scowl at her. “It’s not like I asked you anyway.”

But unfortunately she’s used to being scowled at by me, so it’s not like it even fazes her. “Why don’t you just wear those jeans you paid way too much for, you know the Rockin’ Republicans? You can wear them with the white ribbed tank top, under that kind of billowy, gauzy, blue tunic top, and those three-inch cork wedge heels that you also overspent on.”

I just stand there and stare at her, wondering when she became Rachel Zoe. “It’s Rock & Republic, you big dork,” I finally say, even though she’s just given me the perfect solution.
I mean, hello? Mix ‘n’ match, why couldn’t I see that?

But she just smiles. “I was making a joke,” she says, apparently so accustomed to my bad attitude that she’s able to ignore
it now. Which, I gotta admit, makes me feel so bad about being such a mean, older sister, that I make a real effort to soften my tone and ask her about school, while I change into her suggested outfit.

“School is awesome.” She shrugs, continuing her sketch.

“Any cute guys?” I glance at her.

But she just laughs and makes a face. “Crosby told Marc to ask Sage to ask me if I liked him. But I said no.”

I button my jeans and stare at her.
This is freaking unbelievable!
“You don’t mean Crosby Davis? Cash Davis’s little hottie brother?” I ask.

But she just nods.

“Why don’t you like him?” I ask.

“He’s not my type. Besides, I don’t want to get all tied down.” She laughs.

“Not your type?” I gape at her. I mean, how can she be serious? He’s like a Cash Mini-Me!

“He doesn’t even know who Jimi Hendrix is!” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“Um, Autumn, I hate to break it to ya, but Mom has turned you into a freak, because most kids don’t know who Jimi Hendix is,” I inform her, as I slip my feet into my shoes.

But she just shrugs. “Their loss.”

I just stand there, staring at her in shock. I mean, the hottest sixth grader in Laguna Beach likes my art-fart baby sister, and she rejects him because he doesn’t worship a guy who’s famous for playing the national anthem—on his electric guitar—
with his teeth!

I shake my head, grab my bag, and head out the door. I swear, life is so freaking unfair.

Since I’m the first to get to Dietrich’s I just go ahead and order our usual, two coffees and a chocolate chip scone, then I carry it over to our usual table.

”Hey!” Sloane, says, rushing through the door. But this time, Claire is trailing right behind her.