Flawless (3 page)

“
Teen Vogue, Cosmo
. That kind of thing.”

Rock winks at Kristen in a way that makes me want to scream. It's already happening. “Well, all that reading has paid off, gorgeous. You are, hands down, the most stunning girl in this entire building.”

And just like that, I'm back to where I've always been.

In Kristen's shadow.

I never saw an ugly thing in my life; for let the form of an object be what it may—light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful.

—JOHN CONSTABLE

Chapter Three

After school, Kristen and I head to Sandy's Nails. Most of our friends get their nails and feet done before school starts, but going after the first day of school has become a tradition. The first year we came to Sandy's the week before school started; we had to wait an hour and then got nothing more than a glorified footbath with a polish change. Coming after school starts changed everything. We get to relax and gossip and the salon is practically deserted, which means Sandy and her sister, Nan, give us a lot of attention.

We sit side by side in superdeluxe massaging pedicure chairs, then drop our bare feet into the soapy hot water. How is it that a spa pedicure can make everything better?

Kristen leans her head sideways to look at me. “Give me the update on your college apps.”

I close my eyes, visualizing the list of colleges I've applied to, ranked in order. “I should hear back from the University of Texas by late fall.”

“And the others?” Kristen knows my first choice is the University of Texas. It's close to home and has a kick-ass communications program.

I shrug. “Got my acceptance to Rice in July, but I really don't want to stay in Houston.”

Kristen nods. “No way am I staying here, either.”

“Still set on Texas State?” Texas State has long been known as a party college, but a good one nonetheless. It could be a great fit for Kristen, but I can't imagine living an hour away from her.

“Yep,” she says, grinning. “I can't wait to get out on my own.”

“On your own?” I say, laughing.

“Yes, on my own.”

“As in supporting yourself?”

Kristen scowls. “Okay, Debbie Downer. That'll be enough.”

“Seriously. Are you going to get a job?”

She nods, eyes closed as Nan rubs her feet.

“Any thoughts about where?”

“Dr. Randall at the animal shelter said he'd put in a couple of phone calls for me as it got closer to next fall. Hopefully I can land something at a vet clinic or shelter there.”

“That's awesome, Kris!” I stare at my friend, whose eyes are still closed, a small grin on her lips. She'd never told me she planned to work when she moved. I'm totally impressed.

She opens her eyes just a sliver. “Bet you've already got a job lined up, don't you?”

I smile back at her. “Not yet.”

“But you will. That's just how you work.”

A part of me feels like I should apologize for not being more spontaneous, but she's right. That's not who I am. “Fail to plan …”

“Plan to fail,” she completes. “God, you're predictable.”

Sandy and Nan chuckle at our conversation and I smile at them.

“She says it like it's a bad thing.”

“Sarah, there are moments in life you can't plan. Moments you'll miss because it's not part of your perfectly organized life.”

“Prove it.”

“I can't
prove
it.”

“Exactly.”

Kristen sits up straighter in her chair and levels her eyes on mine. “I can't prove it because you won't relax enough to
do
something spontaneous, to just get caught up in a moment.”

“Easy on the melodrama,” I quip, thankful no one else is in the salon.

“All I'm saying, Sarah, is that the best parts of life can't always be predicted. You can't constantly plan for every single experience.”

“She's got a point,” Sandy says, looking up from my feet. “Some of my best memories are of things that happened out of the blue. Things I never could have planned.”

“Aha!” Kristen says, triumphant smile on her face. “Told you!”

I shake my head at Sandy. “And I pay you to do this to me?”

All three of the women laugh when I roll my eyes, but I can't help wondering if there might be a shred of truth in what they're telling me.

“You have to help me.” Kristen's lying on my bed, petting my other best friend, my three-year-old calico cat, Ringo. The bright pink on her freshly painted fingernails clashes against the red in his fur.

I put her soda on the dresser and open my own with a spoon I grabbed from the kitchen. I definitely don't want to mess up my fingernails after spending an hour and a half in that chair today.

“Help with what?” I take a sip, then put down my drink and grab Ringo from her grasp. I drop into the swing Mom had hung in my bedroom for my thirteenth birthday. It's not a playground swing. It's more of a front-porch kind of swing with a totally plush, hot-pink velvet cushion.

“Rock.”

For a millisecond, I think I might pass out. My hand stills on Ringo's back, prompting him to move positions in an effort to get some more attention. The deep rumble of his purr vibrates against my knee.

Me? Help Kristen with Rock?
My
Rock?

“Geez, don't look so surprised. He was totally flirting with me at lunch.”

Don't remind me.

“Since when do you need help with guys?” The fact that she's asking for my help is seriously comical. I've never even been on a date, unless you count the time my pimply cousin Nate took me to the eighth-grade dance. And I totally don't.

“I want him to take me seriously,” she whines, her eyes wide and desperate.

I don't bother trying to stop myself from laughing out loud. “I think he takes you plenty serious.”

“But he likes smart things. Like literature. I don't know anything about that kind of stuff. Nothing!” Panic brings her voice to a full screech and I hold up my hands to silence her.

“Be yourself, Kristen. If that's not good enough for him, then he doesn't deserve you.” Okay, so there's a part of me that completely believes what I just said. But another, more evil part of me likes that Kristen has finally admitted she has a flaw.

“We're not living in some after-school special, Sarah. It isn't as simple as ‘be yourself.' ”

Ringo leans back and bites the hand I'm still resting on his back. “All right, already,” I mumble to the cat as I resume stroking his tricolored fur.

“Yes! I knew you'd do it!” Kristen jumps off the bed and onto the swing, sending an angry Ringo to the floor with a yowl and a hiss.

I unwrap her arms from my neck. “No!”

“What?” she asks, arms crossed over her rounded chest. “But you said ‘all right.' I heard you.”

“I was talking to Ringo, Kris. I can't teach you about literature in twenty-four hours or less. It's not like cramming for a test, for crying out loud. It's
literature
.”

“And?” she asks.

“How many years do you think people have been writing?”

She shrugs, completely missing my point. “A lot?”

“Try thousands. How in the world am I supposed to teach you about literature that spans centuries? The stuff we've had in high school doesn't even scratch the surface. Don't you think he might notice you're not actually passionate about literature? It's more than just memorizing a bunch of names and dates. Why not introduce him to something you
are
passionate about?”

Kristen puts her hands in her lap, picking at the newly applied polish. “Like what?”

“Like taking care of animals. How many strays have you nursed back to health?”

“That's not serious enough, Sarah. Anyone can feed an animal.”

I continue on, praying I can get through to her. “First of all, that's not true. You do more than feed them. Secondly, even if I gave you the CliffsNotes version of American literature, your knowledge base would be so full of holes he'd see right through it. I mean, unless you can figure out a way for me to talk
for
you … you're just going to have to do this on your own. And, trust me, I think your obvious assets will do the trick.” They always do.

She raises her head, eyes sparkling with a mischief I haven't seen since we put shaving cream in Priscilla Hart's bra while she showered after a volleyball game. “What'd you just say?”

“That being yourself should be more than enough?” This is my mantra. And she was the one who first taught it to me.

“No! About you talking for me. That's the answer!” She bounces on the swing, threatening to bring the roof down on us.

I hop off the swing and stand in front of her. “Last time I checked, I wasn't a ventriloquist and you don't have a hole in your back for my hand.”

“Not in person! We'd never pull that off.”

Honestly. She's working my last nerve.

“Give up?” she asks.

“Will that shut you up?”

Kristen laughs, a maniacal sound that sends Ringo under the bed. If I thought I'd fit, I'd follow.

“It's so obvious,” she says. “We'll talk online. Except you can write to him as me.” Kristen's pointing at me and then herself, her ponytail bouncing up and down as she nods, reminding me of an excruciatingly perky flight attendant.

For the first time in my life, words fail me. I stare at her, pushing away the spark of resentment coming to life inside me. “You can't be serious.”

“Totally,” she whispers excitedly, her hands clapping under her chin.

“It'll never work. He's too smart to fall for something so lame.” And I truly think writing to Rock as Kristen might kill me. Because he's absolutely perfect.
For me
.

When I take a breath to continue the list of reasons why we shouldn't do this, she drops the bomb. The one thing she knows will get me every time.

“I would do it for you.” Her eyes turn teary and her voice is like a whisper. “You know I would.”

And she has me. Because the honest-to-God truth is that she
would
do it for me. She'd do anything I asked. She always has.

Like the time I fell asleep with gum in my mouth and woke up with it matted in my hair. Mom hauled me to Penny's Pamper Palace to have it cut out and Kristen had her hair cut the exact same awful way. Or when we were in seventh grade and Mae Schroeder invited every single person in our class to her thirteenth birthday party except me, and Kristen jumped in with an impromptu party of her own, taking every last A-list kid with her. Mae spent her long-awaited birthday with a handful of geeks and wannabes while Kristen and I partied it up with everyone else.

I can't even visualize Rock in my head right now, because it's not about him anymore. It's about Kristen. My best friend. In my mind, there's not much of a choice.

If I have to choose between Kristen and a guy, or Kristen and myself, it'll be Kristen every time. I can't imagine doing anything to purposely hurt her.

I sit on the swing beside her and pull my legs up, resting my chin on my knees. “I'll think about it, but that's all I can promise.”

The moment I walk into journalism the following day, I regret my decision. Seriously. I'm totally counting on some tremendous karma payback for this kind of sacrifice.

Rock and Kristen are cozied up in our usual place and he's laughing at something she said. It's not until I drop my books on my desk that either one of them acknowledges me.

“Hey,” Kristen says, keeping her eyes on Rock.

“What's so funny?” I regret the words the second they fly out of my mouth because I know how insecure I sound. Like some sort of wannabe clamoring to belong. Rock turns all of his attention to me, something I'm entirely uncomfortable with, especially when he takes the cursory pause when his eyes reach my nose. It takes everything inside me to not cover my face with something. A Boeing jet would do the trick.

When he finally pulls his eyes back to mine, he smiles. “I asked Kristen who her favorite poet was and she said Shel Silverstein.”

“I was like totally kidding.” Kristen shoots me a wide-eyed SOS look.