Revenge of the Cheerleaders (9 page)

"Campus," I said. "Northside Marketplace."

Logan's head snapped up. "You're going to pick up college guys?"

"Well, we can't very well pick up high school guys," I said. "Everyone at PHS knows who we are."

"Then go to Moscow," he said. "College guys only want one thing from girls, and I'm not talking about the answers to tomorrow's homework."

I scanned the parking lot for the Patterson twins but didn't see them. "It's just easier and faster to go to campus. But don't worry. Samantha isn't going to pick up anyone, and I'm giving out a fake name. For the experiment, I'm Juliet."

Logan shook his head some more, looked at me like I was crazy, then gave Samantha's hand a squeeze. "Give me a call when you're done not picking up men." He bent down and gave her a kiss which I pretended not to see, then left for his own car. Samantha watched him go with a sigh.

"Oh, stop being radiant," I told her. "You'll mess up my experiment."

She didn't stop though. She stood there smiling until Molly and Polly walked up. As we drove to campus, I turned around in my seat and explained the whole premise to the twins.

"Samantha generally attracts a lot of attention from guys," I said. "And do you know why that is?"

"Because she looks like a Barbie doll?" Polly asked.

"No," I said, "because she takes care of herself. She dresses nicely, does her hair and makeup, and has an air of confidence about her. She walks with good posture, and looks up and smiles at the world. People can tell she feels good about who she is."

"And she looks like a Barbie doll," Molly said.

"I don't look like a Barbie doll," Samantha said.

"Anyway," I went on, "if you don't project that image, you don't earn the respect
of
the male species. Men are like birds that way. They're both attracted to shiny things. And to prove this point, we're going to set Samantha at a table without all of those things we just talked about. You'll see that the guys don't give her a second glance." Molly stared back at me skeptically. I could tell she didn't believe me but I continued with my explanation.

"After a few minutes I'm going to sit down a little ways away from Samantha. I have my makeup on, my hair done, and I'm wearing a nice outfit. I'm going to look up and smile at people, projecting an image of self-confidence. We'll see how long it takes until someone sits down and starts up a conversation with me."

Samantha pulled into a parking lot and turned off the car. "And if Chelsea proves her point, you two agree to have makeovers, okay?"

"Okay," Polly said, then shot her sister a look. "Well, you said you'd do it if she could prove her point."

Molly grunted and opened her car door. "It's not going to work. The reason the guys at high school are mean to us has nothing to do with what we wear or how confident we look. They're mean because they're jerks. I'll watch your experiment, but if it doesn't go how you say it will, then PHS is made up of a bunch of troglodytes, and you should agree to shun every guy who's ever called us Roly or Poly." Molly held out her hand. "Agreed?"

Samantha shook her hand. "Agreed." Which just goes to show Samantha had no idea how many people at PHS had said the words Roly and Poly while describing the Patterson twins. If we lost, we would no longer be mingling with a large segment of the football team.

We walked across the parking lot and onto campus, past streams of students and ancient brick buildings. Samantha slipped Logan's sweatshirt over her top as we walked. "Now, since Chelsea isn't really trying to pick up anyone, you guys will need to go rescue her about a minute after anyone sits down next to her. Just walk up and say, 'Hey Juliet, are you going to English class? We don't want to be late.' Then she'll excuse herself, and we'll all head back to the car." Samantha shot me a firm look. "Right?"

"Right," I said.

She nodded knowingly. "Just don't revise the plan if the guy who happens to sit down next to you is cute, okay? I mean I know you're on the lookout for a new guy and that since things went south with Mike it might be tempting to receive attention from some college hottie, but the last thing you need is a twenty-two-year-old grad student hitting on you."

"Don't worry," I said.

Samantha nudged Molly and in a lower voice said, "If it's a cute guy, Chelsea will last approximately two minutes before she gives out her name, phone number, and e-mail address. In that case, you'll have to go in for an intervention and pull her out for her own good."

"Okay," Molly said.

"I am not that bad," I said.

In a voice that was meant to appease me, Samantha said, "Right. And you don't want to make the rest of us sit around on campus while you flirt with some new conquest."

I rolled my eyes at her, because really, I'm not like that.

I turned to Polly when the Northside Marketplace was in sight. "When we get there, Samantha will need to wear your glasses."

Polly touched her frames tentatively. "But I can't see without them."

"It's part of Samantha's outfit. If you wear them, so should she."

Polly grumbled about this and Molly said it was going to be the blonde leading the blind, but in the end Polly handed them over to Samantha. "Oh all right, Molly will just have to tell me what's happening since it will all be blurry to me."

We walked inside the Northside Marketplace, then Molly and Polly sauntered into the dining room to do reconnaissance while Samantha and I went into the restroom. Samantha went in to wash off all of her makeup and pull her hair back. I went to touch up mine and give Samantha last-minute instructions.

"This whole theory will be blown if some guy sits next to you, so try to look extra repulsive. You know, if anyone comes too near, start spitting or something."

Samantha splashed water from the sink onto her face and didn't answer me.

I ran my fingers through my hair. "And what will we do if no one sits down by me? I mean, it's possible that every guy who comes by will already be seeing someone, or shy, or just not interested." My hands nearly shook as I applied my lip gloss. "I should have made you be the pretty one. You're better at flirting."

"Which is why I already have a boyfriend." Samantha patted off her face with paper towels and pulled her hair into a messy ponytail. Uneven strands hung out over one ear. v"Come on, Juliet. You already look irresistible and the sooner we do this, the sooner we can leave."

We left the restroom and she walked toward the restaurant entrance. "Remember to slouch." I called after her. "Don't make eye contact. The world is an awful, gloomy place!"

She didn't look back at me, but several other students did. I slid back into the doorway of the bathroom so they'd all stop staring at me.

After a couple of minutes, I went into the dining room to keep track of Samantha's progress. As I stood in line to order a soda, she slunk off to the tables, looking at the floor, although this might have been because it was hard to see while wearing someone else's glasses. She held out one hand as though perpetually ready to catch herself.

No one paid attention to her as she walked over to a chair. A few people noticed her as she misjudged the distance of the chair and stumbled onto it. Even more people noticed as she grabbed her shin and did this sort of hopping step while repeating, "Youch!"

But no guys walked up, so it was all good.

Finally she took her seat.

A few tables over, Molly shook her head. Polly just squinted in Samantha's direction.

Samantha kept leaning down with her face nearly pressed against the table as she rubbed her shin. It was not an attractive look.

Good strategy. I was wrong to ever doubt Samantha's abilities to look like a loser.

The guy at the counter gave me my soda. I took a deep breath, held my shoulders erect, and strolled across the dining room. I put a bounce in my step as I walked to an empty table. Smiling at anyone in the vicinity, I sat down, and leaned back in my chair.

My heart was beating too fast. Would people be able to sense that?

The table felt colder, looked bigger than I'd expected. And emptier too. A minute passed. No one even noticed me as they walked by. Another minute wound around my watch.

It was a stupid experiment, I realized, because I had forgotten the cardinal rule of the pick up. Guys never tried to pick you up when you wanted them to. No, when you were between boyfriends and desperate, they stayed away from you like you were wearing man repellent. It was when you didn't want it and weren't expecting it that they popped up to flirt with you.

Which meant despite all our manipulations, Samantha would get the guy, Molly and Polly wouldn't get makeovers, and Mr. Metzerol wouldn't think I was helping them. Rick would win the audition, and I'd have to explain to half the senior class why I was shunning them. Then again, after Rick won the audition spot maybe everyone would naturally shun me.

See, things always work out somehow.

"Hey."

I'd been so busy brooding I hadn't noticed anyone approaching. Now I looked up and saw a guy, and not just any guy—the Clark Kent guy.

Chapter 9

H
e wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, but somehow managed to look even better than he had at Rick's party.

I blinked in surprise and struggled to find my voice. "Oh, hi."

He sat down in the chair next to me and smiled but his eyes had an edge to them. "You know, when some girls run out on a guy at a dance, they at least leave a glass slipper behind to help him out. You disappeared without so much as telling me your shoe size."

I laughed, and blushed, and felt happy despite the accusation in his voice. He had the most gorgeously familiar eyes, and he had cared that I left the dance. "Sorry about that," I said. "You see, there was this thing . . ."

He nodded with his eyebrows raised. "This thing? Are you sure you don't just make a habit of fleeing from dances?"

"No, you see . . ." But I didn't want to explain any of it. How did I go about telling a stranger that Rick and his deadbeat band hated me and had written a whole CD of awful songs in my honor? "It's a long story," I said.

"I see." More nodding. "Does it involve a carriage that turned into a pumpkin at midnight?"

"No." It did involve a wicked sister, but I wouldn't go into that either.

"Then, can you tell me your name?"

I hesitated, wondering if he had listened to, or remembered the song Rick had been singing when I left. I hoped not. "It's Chelsea."

"Chelsea?" he repeated, perhaps because I'd been hesitant to answer.

I was about to ask him what his name was, when Molly and Polly walked up. Well, Molly walked up, Polly sort of shuffled over and bumped into the table. Then she put one hand down on the top to stop it from wobbling.

Right on cue Molly said, "Hey Juliet, are you ready to go to English? We'd better hurry or we'll be late."

"Juliet?" The guy asked.

"Oh, my name isn't really Juliet." I looked back and forth between Molly and Polly. "You don't have to call me that. I know this guy. He's . . ." and that's when I realized I still didn't know. "Urn, what's your name?" I asked him.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Romeo Montague."

Polly waved her hand nervously in my direction. "Come on, Juliet. We've got to leave for English. Remember—Professor Dotti and our eyebrows?"

Molly just shook her head at me, tsking under her breath. "You're pitiful. You didn't even last two minutes."

I turned back to Romeo/whoever he was. "This is all just a big misunderstanding. You see, I came here to try to pick up guys—well, no, wait, that doesn't sound right. You see, actually I wasn't really trying to pick up guys, which is why I gave out a fake name, only I didn't give
you
a fake name because I really am Chelsea."

He nodded, his arms still folded. I could tell by his expression that he thought I was insane. Which is when I knew there was no point trying to explain because I couldn't talk my way out of this situation and come out looking like a normal person. I stood up and pushed away from my chair. "Urn, I'd better get going or I'll be late for English. See you around."

"Yeah, see you, Juliet."

We were able to get Molly and Polly an appointment in the salon. Dotti cut their hair shoulder length, adding layers and highlights. Then she did the eyebrow waxes. And yes, Molly shrieked during the process. Polly did one eyebrow and tried to chicken out and not do the other. We had to convince her that she couldn't walk around with uneven eyebrows.

Then we went shopping, and I found them some nice shirts that didn't cost a whole lot—which was a feat of willpower, considering I just wanted to sulk the entire time.

I couldn't believe I had met the guy again. He had looked even better than I remembered, and now he thought I was crazy. How could I fix that?

Samantha kept gushing about how wonderful the twins looked, and even they seemed happy with the end results, eyebrows and all. I could barely manage to get out a few compliments though. My thoughts kept returning to the guy.

I knew where he worked. If I went to the Hilltop, say on a daily basis, sooner or later he'd have to be my waiter, right? And once he was my waiter I could . . . well, I wasn't sure what I could do. Maybe give him a certified doctor's note swearing to my sanity along with a really big tip.

I was as pitiful as Molly had said. I'd spoken about three sentences to him and was willing to spend my entire college fund hanging out at a restaurant. And all this for a guy who most likely wouldn't take another look at me once he learned I was only a senior in high school.

When Samantha dropped me off at my house, I paused before shutting the car door and asked her, "So . . . do you want to go out to dinner at the Hilltop tomorrow night?"

Molly and Polly made quite the entrance when they walked into school in the morning. A lot of girls told them how nice they looked. The guys were silent on the matter, but even this was a good thing. No one called them Roly and Poly. I did hear the term Holy and Moly floating around, but I figured that was a compliment.

Polly smiled a lot, and told me her parents agreed to buy her contacts. Molly pointedly told me there was no way she was wearing contacts and seemed suspicious about the attention she received. But despite all of my coaching, when I saw them in the hallways between classes, both girls still shuffled their feet and kept their eyes downcast. "Watch your posture," I'd whisper to them as we passed. "You're confident, remember?"

When that didn't produce results, I took Mr. Metzerol's methods to heart and threatened to smack them in the back if they didn't straighten up. Instead of listening to me, I think they just avoided me in the halls.

At lunchtime Mr. Metzerol complimented me on their appearance though. "You're a miracle worker," he said. Of course, that was the last nice thing I heard him say. I sang my song for him again, and judging from his dour facial expression I hadn't improved since yesterday.

I got another lecture on using my diaphragm. He also told me my notes were breathy and in my throat as opposed to in my forehead, where I should be feeling them. Really. He told me that. I was supposed to feel the notes in my forehead. Which is why artistic people are so annoying, because they say these sorts of things and expect the rest of us to know what they're talking about.

Still I thanked him, promised to do my scales, my exercises, and to try and produce sound emanating from the region of my eyebrows.

After school we had cheerleading practice. Or at least we were supposed to—what we really did was practice our song. We had to do some sort of cheer routine for the halftime of the next game, but instead of coming up with a new routine, we decided to just modify our "Shoop Shoop" song and dance. Rachel, Aubrie, and Samantha would do the backup part wearing football uniforms, and I'd change the words of the song so they described a winning football team.

Easy enough and we wouldn't have to learn new dance moves.

After rehearsal I had just enough time to get home, do my homework, my chores—and all right, I admit it—primp nervously in front of a mirror before I drove to the Hilltop.

Samantha and Logan were meeting me there. Samantha because she'd been the one standing within three feet of me when I rashly decided to track down 'the guy,' and Logan because they'd barely spent any time together recently. Samantha used to work at the bookstore with Logan but had quit when school started up so she could spend more time on her studies. And she did study more—well, when she wasn't moping around because she didn't see Logan at work anymore. Anyway, Samantha insisted Logan come too because the Hilltop was "their restaurant." They went there on their first date.

I asked Aubrie and Rachel if they could come too, but they already had study plans with some guys from the team—something that Rachel sighed repeatedly about. "Can't you go to the Hilltop another day?" she asked. "Samantha already got to watch you make a fool of yourself this week."

Rachel has so much faith in me.

Anyway, it was just Samantha, Logan, and me. For once I was glad they were so engrossed in each other, because that way Logan didn't harass me about the pathetic depths my love life had reached. Although as we walked into the restaurant he did say, "Have you tried the guys at Taco Time? I bet they'd be cheaper to stalk."

I ignored him and we walked up to the hostess. Samantha and I had this part of the night perfectly planned.

"Table for three?" the hostess asked. She didn't look much older than us, definitely a college girl.

"Yes," Samantha said, "and if it's possible we'd like the same waiter we had last time."

"What's his name?" the hostess asked.

Samantha snapped her fingers and put on a look of consternation as though the name had escaped her. She turned to me. "What
was
his name?"

I shook my head. "I've forgotten, but he had brown hair, blue eyes. He was tall . . ."

The hostess considered this. "Was he an older guy with glasses?"

"No. He was young . . . and he had a nice smile . . . " I hoped the hostess would produce a name but instead she shook her head like she too was stumped. "Donald and David are both blond. Randy has red hair. John and Cleave have brown hair but brown eyes . . . Are you sure it was this restaurant?"

It had been this restaurant, but either he wasn't a waiter here or the hostess had forgotten him. And since she was a female and he was a hot guy I doubted she would forget him. So who was he? My hopes fell. "Maybe not," I said, and then I let her lead us to a table.

Dinner consisted of me glancing around the restaurant half a dozen times just to make sure I hadn't somehow overlooked the guy, and me feigning interest in the salt and pepper shakers so I didn't feel like a third wheel in Logan and Samantha's conversation.

Maybe he worked here as a busboy or a chef. Only there wasn't a way for me to casually ask about him now that I'd told the hostess he was a waiter.

Besides, Rachel was right. The whole thing was a stupid idea. It wouldn't have worked anyway.

I ate slowly, mostly because I had no appetite. Samantha and Logan finished way before I did and then had to sit there and watch me pick at my food. "You don't have to wait for me," I told them. "If you need to go, I understand."

"We can wait," Samantha said. "It's no problem."

"Are you done with your calculus homework yet?" Logan asked her. Logan is Samantha's self-appointed tutor ever since last year when she bombed the SATs.