The Chic Shall Inherit the Earth (12 page)

No wonder Vanessa liked sitting here.

“But what if she’s for real?” I sipped my blackberry smoothie.

“I believe God can change a person,” Gillian said. “But is that what’s happening here?”

“She came this close to thanking me for helping her the other day,” I protested. “That’s gotta be hard. And it had to mean something.”

“That she’s not popular anymore and she’s reaching for straws to haul herself out of her own hole?” Gillian gazed at me. “I love it that you helped her, and praise God that you did. But it doesn’t mean she’s going to change. The point is, I care about you. We all do. And we don’t want you to get slapped in the face if you try to be friends.”

“If you’re lucky,” Brett said from Carly’s other side. “Vanessa’s usual weapon of choice is the knife in the back.”

“You guys, she was crying,” I protested. “After DeLayne and Emily dissed her on the stairs, I saw that her mascara had run. The girl is going to have a hard enough time of it. Aren’t we Christians? Shouldn’t we do something to help? Go two miles if a person asks us to go one?”

“Not that Vanessa would ever ask,” Brett put in.

“That’s just my point,” I said. “We’re supposed to show the love of God to other people. Her, too. Without being asked.”

“Even when they’ve done something wrong?” Shani wanted to know.

“You can love the sinner, not the sin,” Gillian said. “I totally think Lissa is right to pray for her. I’ve been praying, myself. We can show the love of Jesus that way without standing close enough to get slapped.”

Okay, but in the meantime, who was going to walk down the corridor with her or sit with her at lunch? Was I overthinking this? Worrying about the logistics when I should be thinking about it from a more spiritual standpoint?

“But—”

At that point Shani stepped in and changed the subject, leaving me still wondering what my responsibility was. If I even had any. I mean, I pretty much look to Gillian as my yardstick to measure up to as far as my faith walk goes. She has her struggles like any of us, but she’s the first one to suggest prayer while we’re problem-solving (not so good for math, but great for life). She’s reading her way through the Bible a chapter at a time, and she’s got me doing that, too… though I have to say, I was really glad to get past the begats and the battles in the Old Testament. So if Gillian says the best thing to do is to pray for someone, you kinda have to pay attention because she’s usually right.

But the look in Vanessa’s eyes haunted me. The thought of that baby riding around and being taunted and made fun of made me feel sick. I mean, it’s been proven that they can hear things in utero, right? How would you like to develop an inferiority complex along with your fingers and toes before you’re even born?

In Public Speaking that afternoon, I attempted to take notes during the lecture while the guy who sat at the table in front of us tried unsuccessfully to flirt with Shani. I tuned in abruptly when the instructor said the awful words “group project.”

“Many of you are preparing for careers in public life,” Mr. Jones said, looking natty as always in a Brooks Brothers suit. “That means you will need to be comfortable in front of a microphone. I want you to separate into groups of three or four and prepare a public presentation based on the material we’ve covered this term.”

I glanced at Shani in alarm. Just how public were we talking here? In front of the class? In front of the school? The city? National TV networks?

“It can be in connection with your community-service activities,” Mr. Jones went on, “or in aid of a school event. It can even be performance art. But it can’t be part of any drama or theater performance you’re already doing, and you must be filmed or recorded in some kind of public capacity that has been rehearsed beforehand. I’ll hand out a sheet of prompts and ideas, and in the meantime, you can divide into your groups and brainstorm.”

Shani grabbed my arm before he’d even finished speaking. “We are so a group, girlfriend,” she said. “I have no idea what to do, but I’m not going in with Tate DeLeon and his buddies or the math geeks.”

Mr. Jones came around with the sheets and handed one to each of us. “How many in your group?”

“Two.”

“I said three to four, Miss Hanna.”

“We’re good.” She gave him her best marketing smile. “The two of us can do the work of four, trust me.”

“I’m sure you can, but that’s not the nature of the project.” He looked around, counting off the numbers in the groups that had already formed.

“Not Rory,” I whispered. “There will be homicide, I swear.”

“Miss Talbot, are you in a group?”

“No, sir. I’ve had a lot of public-speaking experience at the school, as you know. I’d like to waive this project, please.”

“I’m sure you would, but I want total class participation. This is a life skill and you wouldn’t be enrolled here if you didn’t feel it was useful to your future. Therefore, you’ll join Miss Mansfield and Miss Hanna. Stapleton, you too.”

I stifled a scream just in time.

“I’m already in a group, Mr. Jones.”

The instructor looked him over, then at Tate and two other jocks from the rowing team. “I’ll expect great things from this group, Stapleton.”

Rory just grinned at him, but Shani and I practically wilted with relief. Being in contact with Rory Stapleton for any reason whatsoever would totally spoil the last month of senior year.

“Miss Talbot, please join the others at their table. For the last fifteen minutes of the period, do some brainstorming and let me know what your project will be as you leave.”

Vanessa acted as though she were wading through peanut butter as she moved to our table. She dropped her backpack on the floor, draped herself in a chair, and examined her manicure.

“Yeah, well, we’re not a hundred percent happy about it, either,” Shani said in a low tone. “So. What’s our project?”

Vanessa slid the sheet of project prompts off the table and into her backpack. Then she gazed at the clock over the door.

Tick tock.

“Oh, I get it. We’re going to do all the work, and you’re going to take the credit,” Shani said brightly. “Well, that’s buckets of fun. Let’s get started. Lissa, any ideas?”

“The only public thing I’ve got going this term is the Cotillion,” I said. Vanessa’s left shoulder twitched, but she made no other indication she’d heard us. “I’ll be emceeing, introducing guests, introducing the non-academic awards, and all that. So how can we all get involved?”

“Divide it up.”

“Okay, if the—”

“Absolutely not,” Vanessa snapped. “That’s the point of the senior consultant. She manages the planning, so her reward is visibility on the night.”

“Oh, are you part of this group?” Shani inquired. “I thought you just sat there because the view of the clock was better.”

“I’m trying to help you idiots not fail.”

“Can you suggest something, then?” I asked. “Personally, I don’t care about being visible. But if we have to do this project, unless you’re prepared to do some performance art at the cable car terminus at Powell Street, it makes sense to use an event we’re already involved in.”

“
We?
” Shani inquired silkily.

“It’s
we
now,” I said.

Heaven help us.

Uh… wait a second. What if this was Heaven’s plan to bring Vanessa closer to us? College might not be high on God’s priority list, but what if she was?

A
S WE LEFT
the class, I told Mr. Jones our group would be working on the Cotillion. Vanessa once again slipstreamed me as I made my way down the corridor.

“We should talk,” she said when I’d looked back and caught her eye for the second time. “Do you have to walk so fast?”

“I have Art now, and it’s all the way at the end of the building.” The art studios were above the music practice rooms, which was kind of neat. I could always tell when Gillian was at the piano on the floor below—it made me feel as though I were making jewelry in the middle of a symphony.

“What about after school? We could walk down and get a latte. Throw some ideas around.”

“Sounds great. I’ll let Shani know.”

“I didn’t mean her.”

My stride hitched, and she came up beside me. A couple of people looked at us oddly (
Why is the most popular girl in school walking with that skank?
) but no one said anything. “Why not?”

“She’s a b—”

“Okay, enough of that. No one calls my friends names in front of me.”

In one of those odd instances of perfect timing, two girls from Phys.Ed. made a big show of crossing to the other side of the corridor when they saw Vanessa. They hissed a nasty word at her and giggled as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

She kept her gaze straight ahead. “Guess I’m not your friend, huh?” I had no idea what class she was going to—or if she bothered to go to some classes at all—but she kept pace with me.

“Do you want to be?”

I couldn’t tell, since she wore her usual this-conversation-is-boring-me-into-a-coma face. All the same, if this really was part of a bigger plan, I needed to listen to that voice inside that never steered me wrong.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God
. Or daughters, as the case may be. Decision made.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you at Starbucks at four. That’ll give us an hour before dinner.” She scrunched up her mouth as if I’d offered her a plate of worms. “Say what you want, but I like the food here.”

With a nod, she cut away down the corridor toward the science labs, leaving me wondering what I was getting into.

So, ninety minutes later, I pushed open the door at Starbucks to find a smattering of Spencer blue cardigans at the various tables. Vanessa sat in the back next to a rubber plant, looking very studious with an enormous biology textbook.

Maybe she was studying up on what exactly happened during labor—a section I knew was in there, even though I hadn’t been assigned to read it during my brief and not-so-illustrious career in science.

I got a skinny vanilla latte and joined her. She slid her backpack off the leather chair next to her and I sat. “So. The Cotillion.”

Whoa. Clearly the girl didn’t believe in small talk.

“I was thinking we’d just divide the programming up among the three of us,” I began as she put the Bio book away. “Instead of me doing the whole job all night, we’d each take a section. And it’s being videotaped, so that meets Jones’s requirement.”

“It’ll never fly,” she said flatly.

“Why not?”

She looked at me as if my brains were dribbling out my ears. “Hello? The only reason you have this job at all is because…?”

Because the committee didn’t want you up on that stage. Right.
“But if your getting involved again is a requirement for a class, nobody can say anything.”

“Uh-huh. They might not say anything, but you’ll find that, hey, it’s the last week before Cotillion and all your teams suddenly have homework to do or they’re on field trips or they have seventy-five hours of community service to catch up on.”

“My team won’t do that.”

“Are you willing to take the risk?”

I thought of the phenomenal amount of work ahead of us. We’d hired lighting crews and a band and caterers and an event planner, but the success of the dance still depended on the smooth operation of my various subcommittees. People had to interface the band with the sound system, and the caterers with Dining Services, and the lighting riggers with Facilities. If even one of them flaked, the whole operation would tilt dangerously into panic mode.

“Shani can take part of the emcee job,” Vanessa said quietly. The scope of what she was suggesting must have shown on my face. “But if you expect to include me, you might have to change your project.”

“None of us has time to come up with anything else,” I said. “This is tailor made for us. We just have to think creatively, that’s all. Or, hey, just not tell anyone you’re part of it, and hand you the microphone at the last minute.”

“
You
think creatively. I have to go.”

“Wait a minute.” I grabbed her arm and out of sheer shock, she plopped into her chair again. “You can’t say let’s get together and discuss this and then not discuss it.”

“I just did.”

“Telling me it’s impossible isn’t a discussion.”

“I don’t hear you coming up with ideas.”

“Hello, I’ve had five whole minutes to think about it.”

“And look what that got you. People would find out if you planned to bring me in at the last minute. Your friend would flap her mouth for sure.”

“Maybe. Though maybe if you were nicer to her, she wouldn’t.”

“She isn’t nice to me.”

“It has to start somewhere.”

“Don’t preach at me, Christian girl.”

Something snapped in my brain and unraveled like a rubber band wound too tight. “You know what you need, Vanessa? You need a good spanking. You say you’re trying to help us succeed, but you’re not. You’re just using us for whipping girls to take out your rage on.”

Silence fell over the entire coffee bar, as though a cloaking device had just been activated.

My voice felt rough in my throat as I dropped the volume. “News flash, girlfriend. You got yourself pregnant, and people are taking advantage of that to get you back for years of snottiness and abuse. But not all of us are. Some of us feel sorry for you. Some of us would support you if you’d let us. But no. All we get is more of the same. Are you really that one-dimensional, or is there a real person in there who is going to make this baby a decent mother?”

Vanessa stared at me, her mouth open a little and her eyes positively burning a death ray through me. “Are you quite finished?”

“No. I’m not.” The noise level around us rose a little. “Yes, I’m a Christian. But what that means is that I can feel. I can empathize. I can try to be your friend, but you’re too busy calling me names and dissing my friends to see that.”

“I don’t want your empathy. Or your pity.”

“Maybe not. But what you do need is a friend.”

“Why should you care?”

Because God is love, and compassion, and all those things you need right now. And I may not be much, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got to Him, sister.