The Black Sheep (7 page)

“We're not.”

I sink back into my seat and glance at my watch. Carrie and I are supposed to meet shortly to get ready for the party. I could wrap this up quickly by telling Lisa what she wants to hear: that I lost my head to fame; that Judy is pressuring me to do the wrong thing; and last, that I am very sorry for breaking the rules. Unfortunately, my mouth has other plans. “I don't see why you're making such a big deal about this, Lisa. It was just a bucket of fish.”

“It was not just a bucket of fish. The rules exist for a reason.”

“Just think of me as an exception to the rules—like you think of Mitch.”

Lisa scowls, but doesn't respond.

“Tell me, Lisa,” Judy says, “will Kendra's behavior derail your plans to
Free Willy
?”

My bravado evaporates instantly. It never occurred to me that sliding Maurice an extra snack could ruin his chance at freedom. “Why would that matter?”

“You gave him the wrong mix,” Lisa says. “If he gets sick, we can't release him.”

Judy's head twitches toward Chili, but he is too riveted by Lisa to notice. At least, he is until Mitch nudges him helpfully. “Judy wants you to get a shot of Kendra's expression,” he says. “She looks like she's going to faint.”

“Shut up, Mitch,” I say. How can he make fun of me when there's so much at stake for Maurice? “Do you think he'll be okay, Lisa?”

She pauses long enough to make sure I really get the point before letting me off the hook. “Probably.”

I'm so relieved that it takes me a while to tune in to the lecture again.

“I won't tolerate your recklessness,” Lisa is saying. “I'm sure you get away with acting like a spoiled child in New York, but around here, the animals are the priority.”

“Maurice is a priority for me, too,” I tell her.

“If you want a pet, get a goldfish. The rest of us are here to study, and you're disrupting our work. Since you can't be trusted, I don't want you here unless you're supervised.”

I gesture at the crew. “I'm supervised constantly.”

Lisa turns to Mitch. “Your family brought her in here,
you
keep an eye on her.”

Judy jumps in before Mitch can protest. “Good idea. Mitch is used to babysitting.”

Black Sheep Rule Number Six:
It isn't murder when you're doing the world a favor
.

Carrie rolls her eyes as Mitch stalks ahead of us up the street. “I know Mona asked him to chaperone tonight, but it's not like she's around to know whether he actually does.”

“He would know,” I say, projecting my voice. “Perfect, responsible,
exceptional
Mitch would never ignore a commitment.”

Mitch speeds up until he's nearly out of sight. Not that I care. I couldn't be happier that he refused to walk with us. Since the crew went ahead to set up, Carrie and I have a rare opportunity to chat privately. We've already managed to share stories from our past, and our hopes and dreams for the future. Finally, I have the chance to ask the question that's been on my mind for days: “Do you think that hot guy from the mall will be at the party?”

“Jordan? Absolutely. He's Aaron's best friend.”

We turn down Aaron's street and I'm suddenly wracked with insecurity about my hair, my makeup, my outfit, and my personality—or lack thereof.

“You'll be fine,” Carrie reassures me. “That skirt and tank top are all you need. It's casual and sexy all rolled into one.”

At the end of the driveway, we hear someone shout, “They're here,” and the bright lights of several cameras flick on. Although I've become more accustomed to being in the spotlight lately, it's still intimidating. I stop in the middle of the road and rummage through my purse.

“Quit stalling,” Carrie says. “You're practically the guest of honor.”

“Please.”

“I'm serious,” she says. “You're famous around this town. I've had calls from people I don't even know asking if they can hang with you.”

“That's ridiculous,” I say. Although I owe a lot of my newfound popularity to the cameras I can take credit for some of it. While I'm not cool myself, I do come from a cool place. I'm practically an ambassador.

Clicking my purse shut, I throw my shoulders back and lead Carrie up the front stairs with a new attitude—a Black Sheep attitude. There's a crowd on the front porch, Judy among them. She takes a long drag from her cigarette as I approach.

“You made it,” she says, exhaling a stream of smoke in my face. She's wearing a low-cut sundress, high-heeled mules, and bright blue contact lenses. For a moment I dare to hope she's off duty, but she snaps her fingers at me to follow her into the house.

Chili turns his lens on me, and within seconds I am surrounded by a circle of strangers. A very well-dressed circle of strangers. It's only a house party, but everyone has gone all out. In fact, I'm underdressed. I turn to Carrie to complain, but the bright lights have already driven her out the back door.

Aaron welcomes me with a kiss on the cheek and introduces Jordan, who promptly offers me a beer.

I hesitate. I haven't explored Black Sheepism enough to know whether underage drinking is part of the movement—especially underage drinking on national television. However, a Black Sheep cannot be a wimp. These people think I'm an urban sophisticate—a cultural trailblazer. They might even believe my life is one long string of concerts, parties, and gallery openings.

Black Sheep Rule Number Seven:
Give the public what they want
.

“I prefer martinis,” I say, waving the bottle away.

Aaron and Jordan glance at each other quickly, probably impressed by my worldliness.

“I'll see what I can do,” Aaron says, “although my parents locked the bar.”

Tia, who has joined us, says, “According to
In Style,
martinis are the hip drink in New York clubs right now. Are you into the club scene?”

I'd say yes but I doubt she's referring to the Algebra Club. “I'm, uh, more into the gallery scene. There's a phenomenal retrospective at the Guggenheim right now.” At least, Mom said it's phenomenal. I was sulking too much over giving up an afternoon of discount shopping with Lucy to get anything out of it. “It's on modern art of the 1920s.”

“How can art that's eighty years old be called ‘modern'?” Aaron asks.

“Modernism actually dates back to the late nineteenth century,” I explain, happy to share my knowledge, as a good ambassador must. Mom covered the modern art movement so extensively during our après-gallery quiz that I almost passed out over my tea and scones. “The movement got its name because artists were rejecting the past as a model for the present.” Much like Black Sheepism, in fact.

“That's cool,” Tia says. She sounds serious, but a couple of the other kids snicker and start edging away, revealing Mitch leaning against the living room mantel. He's smirking.

Okay, so I overestimated my audience's appetite for culture, but maybe I can recapture their interest by exploring common ground.

“I haven't missed the art scene, though,” I say. “Your aquarium is more interesting than any gallery.”

Aaron shrugs indifferently. “Never been.”

“Me either,” Jordan says.

“I went on a school trip once,” Tia says. “There are fish, right?”

“More than fish,” I say, trying not to look surprised that they know so little about a local landmark. After all, plenty of New Yorkers haven't been to the Empire State Building. “There are penguins and turtles, and a pool where you can touch a stingray.”

“Is there a pool where you can touch a beaver?” another guy asks, and Tia punches him in the arm.

An ambassador has class, so I ignore him and carry on. “It's worth a visit for the sea otters alone. They're so much fun to watch.”

Tia tries to feign interest. “Really?”

“Really,” I say. Maybe I could win back unsupervised aquarium visits if I manage to recruit some new volunteers. Surely they'd want to get involved if they knew all the facts. “Otters are so smart you wouldn't believe it. Unfortunately, they're endangered. People used to kill them for their pelts.”

“Uh-huh?” Tia gives up all pretense and turns a full-watt smile on Chili.

“The aquarium's always looking for people to help out,” I continue. “Especially with raising public awareness.”

Judy slices a hand across her throat. “Save your battery for something interesting, Chili. Let's set up in the backyard and get some B-roll of the party.”

They head outside, and most of the party stampedes after them. Only Aaron and Jordan seem to be immune to the call of the camera. But what do I do now? Obviously my shtick isn't working, and I haven't had much practice dazzling guys with my sparkling conversation.

“I guess environmental activism isn't for everyone,” I say, running a hand through my hair and smiling nervously at the guys.

“I guess not,” Aaron says, returning my smile and running a hand through his own hair.

I remember reading an article in
Cosmo Girl
that said mimicking gestures is one of the “Five Surefire Signs” that a guy is into you. Well, Jordan is cuter, but Aaron is still pretty hot. And a Black Sheep always has a backup plan.

“You guys should think about getting involved,” I continue. “I could introduce you to the director of volunteers.”

Aaron suddenly leans toward me, as if he is going to kiss me. As much as I'd like to be Black Sheep–casual about it, I lean away from him. It's not so much that I object to kissing a guy I've met only once before; it's that it would be weird in front of Jordan. Monterey is a little too laid back in some respects, if you ask me.

Far from being discouraged, Aaron leans closer still and parts his lips in an exaggerated smile. “Are my teeth okay?” he asks. “I forgot to brush after dinner.”

Cosmo
didn't cover this turn of events. “Yeah, you're all clear.”

“Then I'm ready for my close-up,” he says, letting out a loud belch that engulfs me in lager fumes.

Jordan shakes his head as his friend leaves. “The guy's a pig. Sorry about that.”

“It's okay.” I glance around and see we're entirely alone. Obviously the real guests of honor here are the film crew, but I think I can cope with the disappointment. Who needs a crowd when you've got one cute guy?

“I hear you're like a celebrity at Cannery Row,” he says.

“Oh, not really.” A Black Sheep is always modest.

“You're getting all kinds of free stuff, right?”

“Nothing too exciting.”

“But the arcade manager said he gave you free game coupons.”

Okay, so our definition of exciting differs, but I see what he's doing: he's hinting around for a date. Fortunately,
Cosmo
was clear about my next step. I must encourage him. “That's right, and I haven't used them yet because I'm not that good at video games. Maybe you could—”

“Take them off your hands?” he interrupts. “That's what I was hoping you'd say. There's this girl I want to ask out, but I'm low on funds. You know how it is.”

My diaphragm takes so long to expand after the sucker punch that I fear it's down for good. Eventually I get enough breath to say, “Sorry, I promised them to Mitch.”

“Mulligan?” he asks, crestfallen. “He sucks at video games. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. But I have a jar of free salsa if you want it.”

He doesn't even bother to answer before bolting out the back door.

Now I'm really alone, and this is officially the worst night of my life.

Mitch appears in the kitchen doorway. “He's right. I do suck at video games.” He waits a beat before adding, “But I'll take the free salsa if you're offering.”

“It's all yours,” I say. My voice sounds faint and faraway, because it's traveling all the way up from deepest mortification.

He must know this, because he says, “They're both jerks.”

I swallow hard as this sinks in. “You were listening the whole time?”

“Pretty much. It's not like I could face going outside. But look on the bright side: I didn't film your conversation for the rest of America.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that Judy lied to me about that? Can't you give it up now?”

“Okay, but only because I can see you're overwrought that it didn't work out with the jerks.”

“Shut up.”

“Uh-uh, you've used that one today. Maybe someone will offer you some free comebacks down at Cannery Row.”

I throw myself onto the couch, exasperated. “Just leave me alone.”

“Can't. Chaperoning. I'm exceptional at it, remember?”

“Then let's go home.”

“But you haven't even had a martini yet.”

I close my eyes, defeated. When I open them again, he is standing over me, pouring Sprite into a plastic martini glass.

I accept the glass with a sigh. “I just drove thirty people outside with my conversational skills. It's the first time I've ever really understood how my parents feel.”

“I'll let you in on a little secret: jerks find beer more interesting than art.”

I laugh. Obviously the faux martini is loosening me up.

“You shouldn't care what they think,” he says, pulling back the curtain to reveal thirty teens trying desperately to attract the crew's attention by bellowing several different songs at the same time.

“It's like they're auditioning for
American Idol
,” I say.

Mitch offers a rare smile. “More like
American Idiot
.” He stares out into the backyard for a while before speaking again. “If you're really interested in otters, you should see them in their own environment.”

“You mean the ocean?”