Starstruck (7 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, I stare up at the ceiling, at a brown-edged water spot in the shape of a boot. Until my mom had the roof fixed, every time it would rain, I’d get the Reilly’s Irish Bakery version of Chinese water torture.

But even though I haven’t been dripped on in years, I’ve never felt worse torture in my life.

Wish has always been my best friend. He’s never done anything mean to me. He doesn’t have that in him. But now he’s acting almost too nice. If I could look into his heart, though, I bet I would see the same thing that all my classmates see when they look at me.

Evie pulls aside the curtain and comes into my room as I’m lying there in the dark. “Are you dead?”

I just groan.

“The bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”

I roll over. Just thinking about which goofy Hanes sweatshirt and khaki elastic-waist pants I can wear makes me ill. “I’m not going.”

“It’s only the first week of school,” she says. Then I hear her call, “Ma! Dough is sick.”

My mother calls from the kitchen, “What’s wrong, hon?”

“I, um, think I had a bad, um, Tater Tot,” I say, uttering the first food item that comes to mind. I still can’t get the scene of Wish feeding me out of my head. That little potato nugget is forever ingrained in my psyche.

Evie just stands there, shaking her head over me like I’m the result of some horrible science experiment gone wrong. “I would never eat that cafeteria food. If you eat it every day, you’ll end up huge. No offense, Dough.” In my debilitated state, I somehow manage to muster the energy to smack her really hard on her bony butt. She shouts, “Mo-om!” in her annoying five-year-old tattletale voice, but then Rick’s horn blares and she immediately ages ten years before my eyes. “Feel better,” she mumbles, running off.

My mom’s not the strictest parent in the world. I guess since she dropped out of high school when she was sixteen to marry my dad, she realizes she can’t be one to talk. She comes into my room and puts a hand on my forehead, which always calms me. “Well, you just rest, then.”

So I spend the entire day in bed. Mostly I just lie there and stare at the boot on the ceiling. I think about reading; there’s a copy of
The Hunger Games
on my bedside table, under a layer of dust. I got thirty pages into it on the last day of freshman year and haven’t picked it up since. Just looking at the title gives me an appetite. At one point I get up the energy to surf the Internet, which is a mistake, because I land myself on Wish’s Facebook page and he has “what’s up?” wall messages from everyone and their mother. Literally. A Colleen DeFuca, who must be Fudge’s mom, wrote, “So nice to see you last night! Come over for dinner anytime!” As I scroll down the page, I cringe at the dozen or so messages he’s gotten in only, like, the last twelve hours, then contemplate ripping the extension cord from the wall and wrapping it around my neck a few times. Then I go back to bed.

At one in the afternoon, though, it hits me: I have school tomorrow. My situation has not improved. And I seriously doubt that the Tater Tot excuse will hold up for another day.

Not only that, since I haven’t eaten anything since last night, I’m starving in an eat-my-hand kind of way. Because our fridge is always devoid of everything but fish sticks, I decide to go down and swipe some eats. I’m hoping Christian will be with a customer or so cracked up he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow and I can just avoid him. So I tiptoe into the bakery, as ninja-like as a fat girl can, all the while salivating at the thought of a nice buttery onion roll. I’m so focused on the taste of those yummy sweet onions that a full-fledged lioness growl almost escapes when I see Christian sitting there, hunched over a table in the back room, still. Sleeping, I think. His back is to me, but he’s blocking the door to the bakery. He’s blocking my access to my onion roll, to my bliss. And that makes him evil.

I sidle up behind him. Yes, he must be punished. No, I won’t tell my mom that he’s dozing on the job, but I’ll make him think I’m going to. And then I’ll give him a stack of boxes to fold. Oh, yes, I will make him fear me.

When I get closer, his head cocks a bit to the side. So he’s not sleeping? Maybe he’s doing lines. Then I hear something beneath his chin that sounds strikingly similar to paper rustling … a page in a book turning. He’s … he can’t be … reading?

I take a few more steps toward him and decide that he must be perusing a manga book or a how-to manual on freebasing. When I’m near enough to peer over his shoulder at the title of the book on the top of the page, I think I must be going blind. It’s
The Faerie Queene.
It’s Edmund Spenser.

Wait. Crackheads do not read Edmund Spenser. Edmund Spenser is probably the furthest thing from manga I can think of. In fact, I, who am reasonably well read and intelligent, would probably rather read a how-to manual on freebasing than Edmund Spenser.

Suddenly, Christian swings around and faces me. The book and his chair fall to the cracked linoleum. His eyes are huge with surprise. Wait, no, that isn’t surprise. He’s wearing glasses. Round-lensed spectacles that magnify his eyes into golf balls. For once, he has his dreads pushed back, in a kind of girly white headband, so I can see his eyes. And those goofy glasses. I jump back as he lets out this little piglike squeal. Then he loosens his jaw and whispers, “What the … What are you …”

I just stand there. Edmund Spenser?

“You scared the crap out of me,” he finally says.

“Are you reading that for a class or something?” I ask.

He reaches down and picks it up. “I was just …” He looks nervous. He pulls off his glasses and headband and then it’s right back to the Christian I’ve come to expect. “Forget it. Why are you here?”

I sniff loudly, which is pretty stupid, since I’m home because of a stomach thing, but whatever. He doesn’t know that. “I’m sick.”

With that, I head into the front. I reach into a case and pull out a scrumptious, perfect onion roll, then devour half of it in one bite. When I turn around to search the donut case for some dessert, I see Christian standing in the doorway, watching me. His dreads might shield his eyes from the world, but they don’t hide his smug smile.

“What?” Since my mouth is full, it comes out like “Ut?”

“That’s bull,” he says, coming inside and leaning against the counter. “That dude in the truck … your boyfriend. You’re avoiding him.”

I swallow. “I am not. I’m sick.”

He laughs. “Yesterday you couldn’t get away from him fast enough, by the looks of it.”

“Because I had a lot of homework to do,” I say, wondering why I’m having this conversation. I should be upstairs with a gallon of Nesquik and a bag of sugar and
As the World Turns.
“And I was feeling sick.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully.

I start to walk away, but then I stop. “I mean, you saw him. Do we … I mean, would you ever think that he and I could … last?”

Immediately, he shakes his head. “Not a chance.” I start to nod in agreement, but then he says, “Not with that look.”

“Look?” I act surprised, but I know exactly what he’s talking about. The big-Hanes-sweatshirt look.

To my surprise, he points at my face. “That look. Like you’re about to die.”

I realize that I have such a deep frown and I’ve been lifting my eyebrows in worry for so long the creases on my forehead must be little canyons. I mentally massage my face so that the corners of my mouth tip up a bit. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I get it. You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

I sigh. “Well, wouldn’t you, if your girlfriend transformed into a Victoria’s Secret model while you became the Pillsbury Doughboy?”

He shrugs. “If she loved me, why would I care what I looked like?”

Ugh. Guys. So simple. So idiotic. “B-because …,” I stammer.

“I’m just saying.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” I say, stuffing the rest of the roll into my mouth.

“Who you are isn’t half as important as who you let others think you are. It’s all about perception. And there are ways to make people perceive things that aren’t really there.”

I cross my arms. “Oh, so you like to let people think you’re a pothead loser when you’re actually a literary scholar … why, again?”

He nods. “If I had come in here all clean-cut and raring to go, your mother would have given me a shitload of things to do. As it was, you guys wanted to get as far away from me as possible, as quickly as possible.”

My jaw drops. “You mean, it really is all an act?”

He smiles. “It’s not just acting lessons and airbrushing that makes us drool over Hollywood stars. There are a lot of techniques for enhancing one’s star qualities. My mom’s an actress, so she should know.”

No, your mom’s a prostitute, I think, but I’m too intrigued by this theory to correct him. He’s got to be kidding, right? “That is so warped.”

“How is it, if it helps you?” He says that very philosophically, as if he’s reciting the Tao of Christian or something.

I want to smack that smug look off his face. “You didn’t really fool me. That whole ‘May I have a cupcake?’ thing was not very scary. Very Oliver Twist.”

He waves me off. “What are you talking about? You almost pissed yourself when I got in your space. I bet you ran upstairs and asked your mom what prison I’d just been released from.”

I keep my mouth shut.

“Speaking of Mom, Grams said she gave you all her leftover clothes. So why are you wearing stuff like”—he points to my raggy sweatpants—“that?”

“Excuse me, I didn’t know I had to dress in a prom gown to be sick,” I mutter. “It was very nice of Melinda, but tight snakeskin minidresses don’t exactly work for me.”

He squints at me. “Oh, right. Mom was here doing a play called
Toots
back then. It was about a stripper. She got an award for that.”

I swallow. “You mean, she doesn’t …”

“Always dress like that? No,” he says as if I’m an idiot. “She’s always getting clothes sent to her from all these designers.”

“Really?” I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to go through that bag. Four minutes after she’d presented it to me, it was stuffed behind my hamper, where dust bunnies go to die.

“Did you think my mom was really a stripper?”

Well, no, actually, I’d thought a lot worse, but I shan’t be telling him that. I’m struggling to think of a believable lie when he grins.

“That’s good. She’s an actress. It’s her job to fool you.”

“It worked,” I admit. “But she’s the actress. You’re just a guy working at a bakery. Why do you do it?”

He shrugs. “Why the hell not? I’m not hurting anyone this way.”

“But … aren’t people disappointed when they find out that’s not really you?”

“It’s all me. I’m not just one flavor. You’re not, either. So it all comes down to which ‘you’ you want to show the world.” He thinks for a moment. “I used to do a lot of crazy … Well, forget it.”

There’s something he’s thinking of saying, but I’m too busy trying to digest this new concept to pay attention. Which “me” do I want to show the world? Sure, I guess I could try to switch it up a little, show off the more confident, unreserved me, the me I save for singing in the shower and goofing off at home, instead of the dorky me that seems to want to show itself far more often. But would that version of me come out? Maybe if I mentally pushed myself, it would. Maybe my confident flavor would ooze through. Flavor. I need another donut. I grab a glazed ring off the shelf and start to lick the icing off it. “Are you really reading Edmund Spenser for fun?”

He starts to answer, just as the bell above the door jingles. Two white-haired ladies hobble in, and I take that as a cue to run upstairs and check out the bag of clothes Melinda gave me. In my room, I reach behind my hamper and pull out the shopping bag. It’s stuffed to the top, and for the first time I realize that none of the fabric poking out resembles snakeskin, or anything tacky, at all. I dump the bag out on my mattress and inspect some of the pieces. They don’t have tags on them, but I can already tell they make the nicest thing in my closet, the frilly church-lady blouse that was ruined by blood yesterday, look like an XXL Hanes sweatshirt.

I fluff out a sheer pink dress and hold it against my body, imagining myself with Wish at homecoming. In that dress, I’d almost look like I belonged with him.

I stand in front of the mirror and do a twirl. “What flavor are you?” I murmur, and then I realize that I am talking to myself, and that while designer clothes might be able to hide my butt, they probably won’t be able to hide that I am going nuts.

I
SPEND THE REST
of the day rushing around the apartment like a madwoman, confiscating things from Evie’s room, rifling through my mom’s makeup bag, and spontaneously breaking into jumping jack binges from the adrenaline. Every time my arms meet over my head, I grunt out, “What flavor are you?” like a drill sergeant. “I am too hot for Erica Dunleavy. Way too hot for Terra Goldbar. Rick Rothman has nothing on me!” I chant until I’m out of breath.

While I’m lying on the floor of the living area, recovering, Evie and my mom come in. My mom’s eyes widen. “Oh! Did you faint?”

“Um, no,” I say, struggling to sit up.

Evie says nothing until she spots a pile of her things on one of the chairs. “What are you doing with my stuff?” she demands.

“Just borrowing.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, shrugging. She drops her bag and inspects the pile. “You’re going to curl your hair? And wear eyeliner?”

I shrug.

“Aw, it’s for Wish, isn’t it? That’s cute,” she says, like I’m in preschool.

“No, it’s for a science experiment,” I mutter.

She nods, then scrunches her nose in confusion. I can tell she’s wondering why all they do in Intro to Physical Science is fire up Bunsen burners. When her eyes light up, I know she’s thinking about the possibility of getting an A in science junior year, for the first time ever, if makeovers are on the syllabus. “Do you want help?” she asks.

I’ve never used a curling iron before, and I’ll probably burn my forehead to a crisp, but I shake my head. I need to focus, and I doubt I’ll be able to with Evie popping her gum and, well, just existing.

First I start with a shower. I shave and loofah myself until my skin glows red. As I’m applying some of Evie’s self-tanner, my mother bangs on the bathroom door.

“Indecent!” I shout.

“Dinner!” she shouts back. I don’t smell anything like fish sticks, so it must be french-bread pizza night.

“Not hungry,” I answer. I’m too busy chanting my mantra to think about eating.
You are strong. You are beautiful. Wish is lucky to have you.

When I’m done, I sit on the toilet lid, naked, waiting for my body to dry. I hope I’m not all streaky. While I wait, I read an article in one of Evie’s
Seventeen
magazines about how to tweeze eyebrows. It sounds painful and dangerous, but my chanting must be working, because I find the confidence to attempt it. I use an emery board to draw an imaginary line across my brow, just like the article instructs, which sounds kind of stupid, but it works. When I’m done, I stand back and look at myself. Wow. Estee Lauder would approve.

Next I do a manicure and a pedicure. The polish gets everywhere but on my nails at first, but eventually, with the help of cotton swabs and a gallon of remover, I do a passable job.

Soon Evie’s banging on the door. “I have to pee,” she grumbles. “Oh, and Wish is on the phone.”

With the swami towel insulating my ears, I didn’t hear the phone ring. I put on my robe and waddle into the kitchen as fast as my feet, with little toe separators intact, will carry me. “Hello?”

“Hey, you.”

Wish’s voice is soft, scrumptious. It makes me want to sputter, “I’m not worthy!” into the receiver, but I bite my tongue and think, What would be the fun and sexy thing to say? “Hi, baby,” escapes.

Oh, God. That does not sound like me. I don’t even sound PG-13 rated. I sound like Toots, the old fat stripper Christian’s mom played.

There’s a pause. “Have you been drinking?”

I suck in a breath. “No, why?” I can sound fun and sexy without sounding like a stripper. Happy medium. Like Erica Dunleavy. Channel Erica Dunleavy, Dough. You can do it. “Have you?”

I let out this giggle that sounds like I have been not only drinking, but sucking helium and popping Valium as well. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get control. You can do this.

Wish ignores the question. “Evie told me you were sick. Are you feeling better?” he asks. That’s when I realize I should probably be acting like a recovering sick person, instead of a phone sex girl.

I muster a cough, which is just as silly as my sniff in front of Christian. Thanks to Evie’s vagueness, she probably didn’t tell him my bad Tater Tot excuse. “Much better,” I say, chanting, Confident, confident, confident! in my head. It works. I don’t sound squeaky at all. “How are you?”

“Good. I missed you.”

I’m about to say, “Why, do I owe you money?” But I stop myself. “Aw, you’re sweet.”

“So, you coming to school tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath and say, “Can I ask you a favor? Would you mind driving me?”

Another pause. “Now, Gwen, you know I wouldn’t,” he says in his “silly you” tone. “I’ll be there at seven. Cool?”

“Fantastic!” I say with so much enthusiasm you’d think I just got a free trip to Disney. I am such a fraud. No, no, I am confident. I am beautiful.

“Great. See you then,” he says.

I hang up the phone, turn, and see my mother and Evie staring at me. They both have their forks suspended midway between their plates and their mouths. A big clump of mac and cheese falls off my mother’s, right into her lap. “Sugar!” she cries. Then she swabs her pants with a napkin and says, “Why are you all red?”

Evie points at my pedicure, my delicate pink toenails, all grinning up at me. “Pretty,” she says.

I can’t help smiling. I don’t think anything of mine, even my feet, has been called that in a very long time.