Populazzi (28 page)

"But you said you love him."

"I do. But never as much as when one of us is trying to win the other one back. It's very sexy."

It didn't make a lot of sense to me, but that was something I'd come to appreciate in Ree-Ree. She had a unique take on things.

Kristie was far more traditional and innocent.

"Do you think Eric is husband material?" she asked me.

I had no idea. The word "husband" wasn't even on my radar. "You mean, like, will he be in ten years?"

"Ten years? I want to be on my third baby in ten years. Kerry—she'll be the youngest. Karly and Kyler will be her older brother and sister."

"You've actually thought this all out?"

"That's what high school is for: finding the right boy to take care of you forever. And for learning enough that I can help my kids with their homework."

"What about college?"

"Of course! If I don't find my husband here, I'll have to find him in college, right? And don't worry," she added, linking her arm through mine, "no matter when I meet him, you'll still be at the wedding."

Gemma, meanwhile, had already been given an open invitation to pretty much every college in the country. It wasn't just because she was on the pro tennis tour. She was also brilliant. To us, she was like a worldly-wise big sister who showered our group with her knowledge.

"Life outside is no different," she said. "It's just like high school. If you're hot and you're smart and you take no crap, you'll get everything you want."

While Gemma had the scoop on the real world, no one knew how to navigate Chrysella better than Trista. And following her lead was easy. Being a Penultimate wasn't like being a DangerZone. There was no specific uniform. Trista was all about individual style—as long as whatever we wore looked good enough to be "aspirational."

She thought my basic jeans and tops were a fine place to start but I needed some additional pieces and accessories to make my wardrobe work. She e-mailed me lists of links to items I should buy. I thought it was cool that she didn't make assumptions about what I could afford. If she liked something for me, she always sent at least two different versions: one higher end and one budget-friendly equivalent.

When I told her my credit card had been confiscated as part of my grounding, she told me to save the links until she "took care of things." In the meantime, she brought in items of her own or had the other girls bring in things to supplement my wardrobe. I never minded taking Trista's suggestions. She brought out a personal style I didn't even know I had.

Turned out "casual chic" was my thing: skinny blue jeans, tunics, heels, and limited but very specific accessories, like just the right textured shoulder bag, long necklace, or earrings. Trista also tweaked my makeup routine. She showed me how to blend different blushers, bronzers, lip glosses, and eye shadows to create the perfect look for my face: one that seemed totally natural but made my eyes and smile pop. My hair was still a mess of straight layers that looked best tied back, but I told Trista how curly it would get and she was thrilled. With the right highlights and product, she said it would be my crowning glory.

Even my mom noticed the change in me once I started taking advice from Trista. "You look so sophisticated lately, Cara," she said during dinner one night. "Like you're really taking care of yourself."

I ignored the implication that I had looked like a slob before and simply took the compliment. "Thanks. It's my friend Trista. She gives amazing fashion advice."

"I like the makeup, too. You look very collegiate. Doesn't she look collegiate, Karl?"

Karl lowered his paper for all of a second to look at me, then he disappeared behind it again. "Very collegiate," he muttered.

It was only two words, but Mom nearly jumped out of her seat with delight. Not only had Karl spoken to me, he'd admitted I looked "collegiate," which was the highest praise imaginable.

Much as I didn't want to get caught up in Mom's and Karl's head games, I felt pretty warm and fuzzy about it, too.

The next day, Karl showed up at Chrysella.

Trista, Ree-Ree, and Kristie were walking me out after school when I saw him. He was standing by my car, his long, lanky body practically bent double as he tried to shield his cell phone call from the wail of the wind.

No good could come of Karl being here. Sure, he'd acknowledged and half complimented me the night before, but he could still say anything now, and the Populazzi were right here to witness it.

"Cara!" Karl called, then he quickly got off the phone and walked toward us. He had a huge grin on his face, as if his appearance in the Chrysella parking lot was a special treat I could only be thrilled to receive.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" he chirped.

"Um ... sure. You guys, this is Karl, my stepdad. Karl, this is—"

"Trista Camello," Trista interrupted. She had a huge, confident smile on her face, and she strode toward Karl with her hand outstretched. "It is
such
a pleasure finally meeting you, Mr. Ralston. I can't even tell you what a joy it's been getting to know Cara. You and Mrs. Ralston have clearly done an incredible job raising her."

Wow ... gush much? If I tried pulling off something like that it would sound completely fake, but Trista made it work. Karl lit up. I think he even blushed as he shook her hand. "Thank you, Trista," he said. "It's a pleasure meeting you, too. Cara's told me a lot about you."

I briefly considered asking
when
I'd told him a lot about her, seeing as we hadn't had a single conversation since I'd entered Trista's orbit, but Trista was already introducing Karl to Kristie and
Renee,
which apparently was Ree-Ree's real name. Trista then complimented Karl on his coat and cajoled him into giving her the name of the store where he'd bought it, since it was
exactly
the kind of gift she'd been seeking out for her own father. Like everyone else, Karl glowed under Trista's attention, and I could tell he was disappointed when she finally excused herself and the other girls so they could catch some of the guys' basketball practice.

"Oh!" Trista called back after they'd turned to go. "I'd love to pick your brain about Northwestern sometime. Cara's been
raving
about it. It sounds like an exceptional school."

That did it. Karl went supernova. "Anytime, Trista. Anytime." Then, as he turned to smile down at me, Trista shot me a knowing smirk and wink ... and I finally got it. She'd said she'd help with my home situation, and charming Karl to within an inch of his life was her way of doing it. I didn't know if it would work, but I loved that she'd made the effort. It proved she really did think of me as one of them.

"So ... our new friends seem very nice," Karl said. He did that when he was being playful: made everything plural like it belonged to us both. I was supposed to balk and call him on it, but after spending several weeks disowned, I didn't have the energy.

"I have a surprise for you." He gestured to his car.

Come on.

"What about my car?"

"We'll get it later."

Karl stared straight ahead as he drove, but his voice was cheerful. "Guess where we're going?"

"I don't know. Where?"

"Pat's ... Steaks," he said.

Pat's totally lived up to its hype as the best cheesesteak place in Philly, but it was all the way in the city, so we almost never went. Something was seriously up, but after several minutes of silence, I knew Karl wouldn't tell me unless I pried it out of him.

"Why?" I asked.

"We received your report card," Karl said. "It was exactly as you and your mother had said: straight As. Clearly you did not go quite as astray as I'd first believed. I have already apologized to your mother for not taking her at her word when she told me she spoke to your teachers. I should have. I also should have been more careful in choosing my words to you when I was upset. You are not a stranger, you are not dangerous, and you will always be my daughter. I love you."

Karl was sweating and he had the steering wheel in a death grip. I stared at him, my heart beating a little faster in anticipation. Was this it? Was he going to lift the grounding?

"Cara?"

"Oh." I realized he was waiting for absolution. That had never been a problem for me, telling Karl what he needed to make him feel better. But this time ... I couldn't. The words wouldn't come. Still, he seemed like he was about to lift my punishment and I had no desire to stop him, so...

"It's okay," I managed.

That probably wasn't the ideal response to "I love you." Karl squeezed the wheel tighter. I tried again.

"I mean ... I know. You know ... I know."

Oh, that was eloquent. I'd get a Pulitzer one day for sure.

The white faded from Karl's knuckles as he relaxed and nodded. "I
do
know. Thanks, Cara."

Wow. Maybe I
would
get that Pulitzer. I almost giggled, which would have been disastrous because I'd have stopped Karl from saying what came next.

"I hereby lift your punishment and return all privileges. Which leaves only one important item to discuss: American or provolone?"

The answer was obviously provolone. As we huddled over the steaks and cheese fries, Karl told me he had already faxed my report card to Dean Jaffe at Northwestern, who was
very
impressed. The dean had cemented his plans to come to Philly, and we were officially on his books for lunch April twenty-fifth. I did my best to give lip service to what I knew should be some of the greatest news ever.

Truthfully, though, I had no room in my head for anything but visions of my new life as a fully functioning member of the Populazzi.

"Oh my God, you could not possibly be any cuter!" I squealed. Yes, squealed. I defy any human being not to squeal when faced with a twenty-pound love-pig of a black fuzzy mutt with little white paws, a little white bib and chin, and wide pointy ears that moved completely independently of each other, and either flopped down or perked straight up depending on his mood. This was Riley, Trista's dog, and at the moment he was lying on his back, begging with his front paws for me to go back to scratching his belly. Of course I obliged.

My grounding had been lifted yesterday, and today was our day of celebration. I had already done a little celebrating last night: I'd used my freshly returned credit card to buy the laundry list of clothing and accessories Trista had been e-mailing me. I was smart about it, though. I had my mom come check out all the links first. Given Trista's impeccable taste, Mom loved everything. She was especially impressed by Trista's responsibility in suggesting lower-cost alternatives to each item.
She gave her explicit approval of every purchase and had even been inspired to do some shopping for herself.

Today the guys had an away game, and Gemma had gone off for several weeks to play in some tournaments. That left Trista, Ree-Ree, Kristie, and me. We caravanned to Trista's house, but I
had
to call Claudia, so I put her on speakerphone and kept the cell in my lap so Kristie wouldn't look through her rearview mirror and wonder if I was hiding a secret cache of other friends.

I was especially thrilled to have Claudia on the line when we passed through an automatic gate and pulled into Trista's driveway—or more accurately, Private Road.

"Uh, Claude? The street is named Trista Way."

"Of
course
it is!" Claudia gushed. "Is it a shallow road? Is it beautifully paved in gold but rotting away underneath? Is it lined with street signs telling you what to do?"

"Okay ... I see goats."

"Goats?"

"Goats. There is a pen of actual goats to my right."

"Do you think they eat the goats?"

"I do
not
see Trista eating goat."

"What would you do if she served you goat? She's Supreme Populazzi. You'd have to eat it."

"
Ugh!
" I made a formal declaration that when and if the time ever came that I was Supreme Populazzi, I would never make anyone eat goat.

"Hey, Claudia," I said as I neared the end of Trista Way, "remember how I told you Nate's was pretty much the biggest house I'd ever seen?"

"You take it back?"

"I take it back."

It honestly seemed silly to refer to Trista's house as a "house." It was more like three or four houses pushed together, all united by a network of columns and massive turrets. Seriously, turrets. If we were living in another century, I'm fairly certain the place would have qualified as a castle.

Of course it had its own parking lot. As I pulled in behind the other girls, I hung up, swearing to call Claudia back the second I left. I walked toward the three-story archway hooding the entrance and wondered if Trista's room was in a turret. Had it been me, I totally would have chosen a turret room.

"Cara!" Trista called. "This way! My house is over here."

"Your..." I jogged to catch up with her, Ree-Ree, and Kristie as they walked down a cobbled path. "I'm sorry, did you say your
house?
"

"Present for my sixteenth birthday. I got to move into the guesthouse."

The guesthouse was down a long hill from the main house, and the pool sat between the two buildings. Trista's place was a perfect miniature of the main house, complete with mini columns and an arched entranceway. No turrets, though. The grand tour took all of five seconds and included two rooms: The Hang and The Hole.

The Hang was Trista's bedroom/hangout room. It was carpeted in plush blue shag and housed her queen-size bed, covered with layers of brown and blue patterned comforters and pillows, one small worktable and a chair, plus several brown and blue beanbags and oversize pillows. The wall opposite the bed held a wide shelving unit filled with books and keepsakes, all surrounding a large wall-mounted flat-screen TV. A small but beautiful bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower/ tub branched off The Hang. When I fantasized about my ideal dorm room at Northwestern, I dreamed it would be exactly like The Hang.

The Hole was technically a kitchen, but as Trista explained, her parents hadn't bothered renovating it for her, since they knew she couldn't cook. They also hoped she'd go to the main house and sit with them for meals. Everything in The Hole was stark white, which showed off every smear and stain, both new and ancient. You had to enter The Hole single file; it couldn't hold more than one person across. Still, it had a working sink, fridge, oven, a fully stocked pantry, and two stools that put you at the perfect height to munch on a bowl of cereal at the end of the counter.