Flawless (12 page)

Jen watches herself on the screen, eyes drawn together critically. How in the world could she possibly think she looks anything less than gorgeous? It's obvious the camera loves her all-American looks, and her accent is just right for Texas. Not too northern, with a hint of southern charm. It's easy to see how she got tapped for a move from Texarkana to Houston after six months. She was born to be on-screen. In fact, she kind of reminds me of an older, brunette Kristen.

When the news wraps, Mom unclips her microphone and practically skips to where Jen and I are sitting. “My two favorite girls,” she gushes. “Awesome piece today, Jen.”

Jen smiles at Mom, clearly flattered. “Thanks, Beth. But I think you might be right. It's time to add some highlights. My hair looked completely drab.”

“Call Zander. Just tell him I sent you and he'll fit you in.”

When I grab the take-out bag of salads, Mom wraps a thin arm around me, pulling me close in a way that I love. “How was your day, Sarah?”

“Fine,” I say, giving her my usual nondescript answer.

She sighs impatiently. “That's all I get?”

“It was school, Mom. It's not like I went to the Grammys.”

“Very cute,” she says with a playful bump of her hip to mine as the three of us reach her office.

I place the bag on the large coffee table and unload the trio of salads, two with lemon juice, one with fat-free Italian. Settling into the overstuffed burgundy chair, I pull the lid off my salad and pour on the dressing. Lots of it.

“Sarah,” Mom warns, hating that I won't jump on the lemon-juice-or-bust bandwagon.

“It's fat free,” I say through a mouthful of salad.

Jen and Mom sit in the chairs opposite me in impossibly proper positions, like they're eating with the Queen of England.

“Don't you want to change clothes?” I ask.

“Still have another newscast,” Mom says before turning her attention to her newest protégé. “Jen, tell Sarah about the scholarship.”

“Oh yeah!” she says. “A while back, your mom told me you like to write. I love to write, too. That's what got me turned on to journalism in the first place. Anyway, I was researching a story on the rise in college tuition and the limited academic scholarships available to graduating seniors. That's when I found out another affiliate right here in Houston offers a five-thousand-dollar scholarship to journalism majors.”

My eyes pop out in surprise. “It must be a new one, because I've never heard of it and I've done tons of research.”

“It is; this is the first year,” she says, salad still unopened. “I'll get you the forms. You have to write an essay. It should be a snap for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, grateful that someone like Jen is around. Not just for me, although I completely adore her, but for Mom.

Because it looks like she's
finally
got a friend she can trust.

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.

—KAHLIL GIBRAN

Chapter Twelve

My phone signals a text message while I'm brushing my teeth the following morning. Mom is already back at work, so in the quiet of the empty house the bird-chirp tone is hard to miss, even with the water running.

I don't have to guess who it is, and I almost ignore it altogether, but curiosity gets the best of me.

Got a FB message from R. Do your thing.

I stare at the screen and consider my options. I can either log on and get it over with, or ignore the message until she guilts me into doing it two hours from now. Either way, I'm cornered. I click Reply.

You owe me.

Pulling my laptop from the nightstand, I bang my fingers on the keyboard to release some pent-up frustration. But if I'm totally honest, I'm anxious to see Rock's reply to my question. I realize he thinks he's talking to Kristen. Still, it's a brief, guilty glimpse into what it's like to be her.

I log on to Facebook and open the message from Rock to Kristen.

That was the best answer ever. I'll give you the flight time as long as you take me with you. I've never been to Hawaii but it's on my list of places to see before I die. I think my last day to live would be spent doing something similar, but it would definitely include fishing with my dad. I know some people would rather go skydiving or something equally dangerous, but where's the thrill when you know you're going to die in twenty-four hours? No, I'd rather spend that time with the people who mean the most to me.

Now for your question … You think
I
ask tough questions? Yours made me do some thinking about things I was trying to forget. Thanks for nothing. JK. The worst thing anyone has done to me has to be the time my best friend in Atlanta decided the only girl worth dating in our school of two thousand people was the girl I happened to be seeing. It destroyed our friendship. That's why I envy your friendship with Sarah; it's obvious she would do anything for you. That kind of friend is hard to find. Until my friend put me through that last year, I thought he was that kind of friend. But it just goes to show you never really know someone until things get tough or, in my case, you both want the same thing.

Next question: What is the first thing you notice about people?

See you tomorrow, gorgeous.

Even after I've read Rock's message three times, my pulse is sky high. The fact that he was hurt by someone stealing his girlfriend drives home the fact that I'm not near the friend he thinks I am. Or even the kind of friend Kristen thinks am I. That she
deserves
. If Rock—or, God forbid, Kristen—knew the reality of what I was actually feeling, I'd never be able to face either one of them. Add to that this deceitful little scheme Kristen's talked me into and I'm in full self-hate mode.

But at this point, I've gone too far to back out now. And in a totally twisted way, I love the chance to “talk” to Rock like his girlfriend, no matter how impossible that is. So with a healthy dose of disgust, I click Reply and, as Kristen puts it, do my thing.

It's hard to imagine you being vulnerable. For what it's worth, I think you're better off without the friend
and
the girlfriend.

Did I really just type that? I'm freaking talking about myself, for crying out loud! Ugh, I'm scum. Still, my scum-covered fingers get back to work.

The first thing I notice about people is their eyes. That's definitely the first thing I noticed about you, along with every other girl in the room. Especially when I saw you face-to-face. There was something in your eyes that captivated me … the color was definitely part of it, but it was more about the spark in your eyes. I could just tell you'd be someone I'd like, and I was right. Most people don't notice that about me, of course. It's hard to get to the eyes when there are much bigger things to notice about my face.

My question … guess I'll go easy on you this time. What song always makes you happy when you hear it?

Love, Kristen

Without rereading it, I click Send.

Second nail firmly secured in my self-created coffin.

Monday morning, I pull the car to a stop in front of Kristen's house at seven thirty sharp, the dead weight of dread firmly rooted in the pit of my stomach. It's the same dread I woke up with this morning, knowing I'd be forced to face Kristen and the details of yet another romantic night she's shared with Rock. I'm seriously tempted to just peel out, burn rubber, and leave her to avoid it all.

By the time she finally bursts through the front door and races down the sidewalk, I've been waiting nearly fifteen minutes and we're running dangerously late for school, which just adds to the tension building within me. I'm strung so tight you could practically play me like a fiddle.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she gushes, snapping her seat belt in place. She's known me long enough to know I detest being late. The only thing I hate more is waiting on other people who are late.

“It's called an alarm clock,” I say, doing my best to avoid looking at her. I can never stay mad at her when she gives me
the look
.

“We got home late last night,” she says.

My throat tightens at the realization of what's coming. “Doesn't the museum close around six?”

Kristen turns in her seat and talks to my notable profile, something only she is allowed to do. “Well, we left there around five thirty, then we ate dinner at Pepper's Grill. I thought he was going to take me home, but he had something
amazing
planned.”

Amazing
. The word reverberates through my head, bringing on an instant massive headache. “Oh yeah?” I say, knowing there's no escaping the details when we're still five minutes from school.

“Get this,” she says, hands out in front of her. “He took me to the Galleria and we went ice-skating. It was so wonderful. I mean, I'm a total klutz, so he was constantly grabbing me and picking me up. I'm telling you, Sarah, it was the most awesome date ever.”

The vision of Kristen and Rock, hand in hand, arm in arm, laughing about her inability to stay off her butt is enough to shoot my headache into migraine status.

And I have only myself to thank.

The next time I see Kristen is in journalism. Of course, she and Rock are practically making out in class, so I'm a total third wheel when I take my seat in the next aisle. Kristen looks up, smiling lazily, like she's in a love-induced haze. I guess if Rock was my boyfriend, I'd have a hard time keeping my hands and lips to myself, too.

“Hey,” she says.

“How's it going?” Rock asks, turning the full effect of his attention on me. When he looks at me with those amazingly deep, sincere eyes, I have to remind myself he's Kristen's boyfriend and he's just being sociable.

I stare back at him, wishing like hell I had something incredible to say. Something that would make him wish he'd been with
me
last night. Something that would make him see he's e-mailing and Facebooking me, not Kristen.

Instead, I settle for a lame, “Pretty good. You?”

“Couldn't be better,” he says with a wink in Kristen's direction.

Instead of attempting an answer, I simply nod while opening my notebook.

“Ignore her,” Kristen says. “She's upset with me for making her late this morning.”

“Not true,” I quip, keeping my eyes on the notebook and trying to look like I'm reviewing my notes from last week.

“Whatever,” she says, then turns her attention back to Rock. “Sarah hates it when I'm late. It makes her downright crazy.”

My heart picks up its pace and my mouth fights to spew a few choice words Kristen's direction. How dare she air my faults? And, for the record, being punctual is so
not
a fault.

“My mom is the same way,” Rock sympathizes.

Oh my God. Now I'm being compared to his
mother
?

Regardless of how badly I want to defend myself, I keep my mouth closed, not trusting the words that would fly out given half a chance. Getting into a fight with Kristen in front of Rock would not be cool.

Rock reaches over and pats my shoulder, like he's soothing a fussy preschooler. “I think it's great. I like being on time, too.”

That gets my attention and I look up to see him smiling. I swear, his smile could light matches. It's that hot.

Before I can reply, Kristen turns in her seat to face me. “I've got it!” A shiver of dread slinks down my back. Declarations like this from Kristen are a bad omen. Every single time.

When I don't ask for details, she huffs a frustrated breath. “Don't you want to know?”

“Not particularly,” I mumble, shaking my head, wondering what Rock makes of this exchange. Does he still see two best friends?

“Well, too bad. I'm telling you anyway,” she says. “Why don't I start riding to school with Rock?”

A flush spreads across my chest and then my hands begin to shake.

She can
not
be serious. We have ridden to high school together every single day. I can't believe she's letting a guy—even one as stellar as Rock—come between us.

“I don't think that's going to solve your problem,” I say, cursing the quiver in my voice.

“What problem? I don't have a problem,” she says, 100 percent clueless that I'm fuming.

“The problem you have getting ready on time. At least I'm used to it. No need to make Rock late for school.” Even as I say it, I know it's a lost cause. Kristen gets what she wants.

Period.

Rock clears his throat. “I don't mind driving you to school,” he says to Kristen, “but I don't like the idea of breaking up your routine.” The last sentence is directed straight at me, those damn probing eyes sending little rivers of heat through me.

Shaking my head, I focus on Kristen, ignoring the click of the door when Mrs. Freel shuts it behind her, signaling the beginning of class. “This is what you want?” I whisper to Kristen, shaky voice betraying the strength I'm attempting to exhibit.

“Well, sure,” she says, confused. “This way, you don't have to ever wait on me and you'll be on time. I thought that's what you wanted.”

I'm grateful Mrs. Freel begins speaking and keeps me from answering. Because, honestly, I would never tell her what I really want: that I want things to stay the same, that I don't want to be alone. I mean, the thought of walking up those stairs every morning without her beside me is terrifying.

More than anything, I just want my best friend back.

After school, I stop at the grocery store and get some things for grilled tilapia. It's a beautiful day outside, the kind of day that screams backyard barbecue. And the last thing I need is to sit around with a bunch of idle time to obsess about Rock and Kristen.

I'm surprised when I turn onto our street and see a familiar red hot rod. Jen's convertible. But it's only five fifteen, so Mom definitely isn't home yet. I mean, that'd be a first. Maybe Jen and Mom went somewhere together. That would totally thrill me; Mom
needs
a lot more fun in her life. I've been telling her that for years.