So Not Happening (2 page)

“You can do this. Where's our little optimist?”

“She's in New York. Where her life is.” After we hang up, I grab a napkin and blow my nose. Right on the part that says
Jacob and
Jillian Finley.

This all happened so fast. I still don't understand it all. One minute my mom is e-mailing this guy and then six months later, they're married. And I can't call my dad. He doesn't get in from Tahiti until tomorrow morning, in time to pick me up at the airport. Yeah, he's wrapping up another vacation with his latest barely legal girlfriend, whose name I forget. Something like Kippy, Kimmie, or Magenta. I'm serious. The last girl I met—her name was Magenta. With a name like that, you
know
she has to be a stripper. It's her destiny.

So both of my parents are totally messed up right now. One thinks she's found true love. Again. And the other is currently dating through the alphabet.

“Bella!” My mother breaks through the masses, pulling What's His-Name behind her by the hand. After a group hug, in which Jake stands uncomfortably, still linked to Mom, an awkward silence falls.

I take this opportunity to stare at Jake, taking in his gargantuan form, his outdated ponytail, and the little scar over his right brow.
Do you get that you're ruining my life? If you're an ax murderer, I want
you to know I am
so
on to you. My dad knows
tae kwon do,
and if you
ever raise your voice at me, he
will
whip out his black belt and go all
Jackie Chan on you.

“Bel, I can't wait until this week is up and we're all back together. We're going to spend some quality time with one another before school starts. Get adjusted.” My mom leans into her new husband.

Gonna. Hurl.

“Plus we have to teach Bella here how to milk a cow.” Jake winks and everyone laughs. Except me.

Okay, God, I don't know what You're up to, but this is not my idea
of a good time. How could You do this to me? How could You rip me
from my home and drop me here—in Hicksville? Because, God—
Oklahoma? It's
not
O-K.

chapter three

I
'm going to be on
Good Day,
New
York
this afternoon. What do you think about this jacket? Too Justin Timberlake?“

My dad's Hugo Boss blazer hangs perfectly on his gym-enhanced form. And he knows it.

“I'll be talking about the latest alternatives to Botox, as well as promoting my new retreat packages in Cancún.”

And that's a retreat from wrinkles and things that sag. People don't soak up the sun and frolic at the pool when they go to Cancún with my dad, Dr. Kevin Kirkwood. They tell their friends and coworkers they're going on vacation, then come back with a brand-new face. New York doesn't call him the Picasso of Plastic Surgery for nothing.

“Dad, I was hoping we could hang out today. I've barely seen you this week, and in three days I'm an official Oklahoman.” A thought that incites my gag reflexes.

“I'm sorry, babe. After the TV gig, I have a coffee date. But then I promise I'll be home.”

He grabs a bottle of water out of the kitchen, one I can barely find my way around even still. I've been here every other weekend for the better part of the year, and it's still not home.

My dad is currently dating like he's on
Survivor
and it's an immunity challenge. If dating were an Olympic event, he'd be sporting a neck full of medals and his face would be plastered on the cover of
Sports Illustrated.

He slides his sunglasses on his face. “Luisa will get your lunch. If you go anywhere, call me.”

“Can't we just do lunch? Tavern on the Green? McDonald's?” Anything?

“Look, babe, this is a stressful week for me.”

For
you?
“My mother just married a six-foot-five farmer, I have two new brothers preprogrammed to hate me, and I'm rounding out my last week as a resident of New York City.” I cross my arms. “Now what were you saying about a stressful week?”

My dad stops long enough to place a hand on my shoulder. “Isabella, I know this is an upsetting time for you. But life can't stay like it was. Your mom and I are over, and she's moved on. I've moved on.”

“And by default, I have to?”

“Just think of it as having the best of both worlds. You have fresh air in Oklahoma.”
I see that shudder, Dad. I see it! “
Andonce a month you come back to Manhattan.”

“You could've put your foot down. Forced Mom to stay in the state.”

My dad smiles, his teeth a perfect white row. “Honey, if you feel like you'd enjoy talking with someone about these negative feelings, I can get you in to see my therapist.”

“I could live here.” I've only asked a hundred times.

He kisses me on the cheek and rests his hand on my shoulder. “The weeks will fly, and I'll see you next month.”

I clench my teeth. “Good luck on your interview.“ And I leave the kitchen in search of more understanding company.

Like my cat.

I lumber up the stairs to the top floor of the brownstone where my park-view bedroom is tucked away.

“Senor Kirkwood means well, Bella.” Luisa, the woman who used to be my nanny, waits for me at the last step, a laundry basket under her ample arm. She follows me into my room.

When my dad moved into this place, he got a professional designer to decorate. Was I consulted about my preferences for my room? Um, that would be a negative. Just like I wasn't consulted about whether I would like to pack up my life, leave everything I love behind, and move to farm country.

I twirl on my heel and crash onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. Where a painting of a group of cherubs glares down at me. They're supposed to look angelic, but to me they look like they're from some gang—fresh out of Compton.

“What's up with him, Luisa?” I sigh. “I just want my old dad back.”

“He's a very busy man,” she clucks as she places socks in one of my drawers. The drawer with the zebra stripes on it. The decorator obviously had a head injury before taking on my room. Actually the whole house is pretty hideous, but dad says it feeds his creative spirit. I'm not sure creativity is a quality people want in their plastic surgeon.

“I thought this week would be different.” I spill my heart out to the woman who is basically now my dad's nanny. “I imagined him being grief-stricken that his daughter would be moving across the country, but between work and all his dates, he barely knows I'm here.”

Moxie, my Persian, leaps onto my stomach. I pull her close and pet her silky white fur.

Luisa settles herself onto the edge of the bed and smoothes the hair from my face. “I will miss you. Does that count?”

“I'll miss you too. I wish you would come live with us.”

She waves a hand. “No. I no live around pigs and cows. I was married once—I know what that's like.”

I laugh, even though it saddens me to think of being so far away from the woman who pretty much raised me. But Dad got Luisa in the divorce settlement. There was no detail left unattended in my parents' divorce. Everything was split very neat and tidy.

Everything except me.

“So, Bella”—my friend Jasmine flips her hair—“are you and Hunter ready to do this long-distance thing?”

I sip my virgin daiquiri and look at the giant Buddha statue across the crowded restaurant. “Sure. Yeah.” I nod and smile at my two friends surrounding me at the table. “Definitely.”

Mia looks skeptical and Jasmine doesn't meet my eyes.

“Hunter is totally cool with the move.” I force a dreamy look into my eyes and turn to Mia. “We'll just take it day by day, you know? With the phone, e-mail, text messages ... it will be like we're not even apart.”

We pay our bill and walk outside into the muggy August evening air, where Mia's driver pulls up in an Escalade. The three of us pile into the back, giggling over nothing in particular.

I smooth my miniskirt then dig through my bag for lip gloss. “My last time for Club Viva. At least for a while.” I sigh, thinking of my fond memories of our favorite teen dance spot.

Thirty minutes later, the Escalade stops at the entrance to Viva's, and we link arms and sashay to the entrance.

“Name?”

I blink at the bouncer. “Richie. It's me.” I laugh. “Bella?”
I'm a
regular!
I wait for comprehension to settle in.

It doesn't. “Bella?”

“Bella Kirkwood?”

“Oh yeah . . . Bella.” Richie scratches his bald head. “I'm sorry, Miss Kirkwood, you're not on the list tonight.”

“What? Of course I am! I'm always on the list.” I gesture behind me. “We're all on the list.”
Dude,
we are
the
list.

He taps his clipboard and frowns, his forehead wrinkling into folds. “Nope. Sorry. Your friends are here, but you're not. We have a special band performing tonight, and we can only take who's on the sheet here.”

I feel the heat of my embarrassment all the way to my toes.

The bouncer runs a meaty finger under his too-tight collar. “Tell you what, I'll make an exception . . . but just this once.”

I know I should say thank you, but I'm too busy holding back a good “Do you know who I am?”

“Since you didn't make the cut, I'll have to escort you in myself.” Richie unhooks the cording and lets me pass, then stops me. “The back way. Only A-listers go through the front.”

I stand rooted to my spot. A-listers? I
am
an A-lister! I'm an A plus! I'm A squared. A times infinity!

He travels fast on long legs, and in my four-inch heels and extra-large attitude, it's everything I can do to keep up. With a fist the size of a Hummer tire, he pounds on the door twice. The pulsing music grows louder as the door swings open.

The back entryway is dark, and I step closer to my escort. We round the corner, then Richie abruptly stops.

“This is the door to the dance floor,” he yells over the music. “Knock three times, then go in. Someone will be on the other side to help you find your friends.”

I lift my manicured hand and pound three times. I push on the door, but it doesn't budge. Rearing back, I tackle it with my left shoulder, sending it flying on its hinges.

I blink hard as the lights flare to full life.

“Surprise!”

My hands fly to cover my mouth as the room erupts into flashes, cheers, and shouts. The techno song is replaced with “Bye, Bye, Bye.”

Banners hang from the back wall. WE'LL MISS YOU, BELLA! and WE LOVE YOU! and BELLA + NYC = FOREVER!

“Oh my gosh!” I shake my head and scan the room, reveling at the sight of a club full of friends. “You guys are the best.” Tears pool and I quickly swipe them away as Hunter, my tower of studliness, ambles my way, arms open wide. I fold into him, and we stand under a strobe light, just hanging on and laughing.

I kiss his cheek. “Did you do this?”

He shrugs. “I had a lot of help.” Hunter smiles and gestures to Mia, who stands two feet behind us. With a laugh, she leaps to us, moving in for a three-way bear hug.

“How am I ever going to make it without you two?”

“You're not going to.” Hunter laces his fingers with mine and pulls me to his side. “Nothing's going to change just because you're moving.”

“Totally.” Mia's long blonde hair swings as she nods. “We'll miss you while you're away, but we'll just have to make the most of the time you spend here.”

The music roars to full volume, and I can feel the bass rumble in my chest. The crowd of my friends fills the dance floor and circles around us. With a final hug to Mia, I pull Hunter along behind me, and I work the room, speaking to every person I pass.

Forty-five minutes later, I've worn out the words
thank you
and my chest hurts from excessive, jubilant hugging.

“Let's get you something to drink.” I follow Hunter to the bar area, where he orders my Club Viva usual. A Sprite with cherry syrup. Three cherries, no stems.”

I smile into his beaming face. He leans down, brushes away my bangs, then kisses my forehead. Does it get any better than this boy? He's hot, he's thoughtful, and he throws a good party. What more do I need?

Hunter gets a water for himself, then we walk upstairs to find a table overlooking the dance floor. He pulls out my chair, and I smile at his ever-present politeness. Such the gentleman, that boy.

Hunter is the only guy I've dated. Well, besides Sammy Nugent in the sixth grade, but that was only so he'd share his Oreos with me during children's church. Mr. Perfect and I have been together for two years. Our meeting was like Disney-movie heaven. He was a freshman at Royce Boys Academy, and I was in the same grade at the Hilliard School for Girls. Twice a year, our administration decides to pretend there are boys in the population, so they bring the two schools together for a social. I remember I was dancing with this tall, redheaded kid who had a retainer and watered me like a sprinkler every time he used the letter s. Then with a tap at his shoulder, the boy stopped moving, turned around, and there was Hunter Penbrook.

“Sorry to butt in, but I have to leave soon, and she promised me a dance.”

I giggled with relief and curiosity at this handsome ninth grader. Of course, being shut away from boys at my all-girls school, I pretty much giggled anytime someone of the male species was near.