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Authors: Nia Stephens

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“All right. I'll shower in her bathroom, you shower here, but don't wash your hair.”
“Excuse me?” Bree was used to Sutton ordering her around, but she had never told her not to wash her hair.
“If you want to meet a guy who likes you for who you are, not for how you look, you can't walk around dressed like a movie star. That's going to be hard, since you get mistaken for a star even when you're all sweaty and makeup-free, but I have some ideas about that, and it begins with you not washing your hair.”
“But if I don't look good, why would anyone talk to me? Yes, I know I said I wanted someone interested in the real me, but you don't know anything about the real person until you talk to them.”
“Let's try looking at the situation scientifically,” Sutton said. “You've tried to find love looking like you usually do. Didn't work. So why not try looking like a kind of tired college freshman who stayed up late studying or partying or both?”
Bree shot her an expression that said
no way
a lot more clearly than words.
“Come on, Bree—it's not like we're going to run into anybody we know.”
“You've got a point,” she had to admit. “All right. But I think this is completely pointless. And I had better be back here by two o'clock at the absolute latest.”
“Your wish is my command.” Sutton dragged herself off the bed and gave Bree a deep bow.
“Oh, come off it, Sutton. And watch your ankle. Don't you want to ice it?”
“My ankle should be of no concern to you. Concern yourself only with your screen test, and your search for love.”
“Shut up!” Bree laughed, tossing a pillow in Sutton's general direction.
“Fine,” Sutton said, dodging it easily on her way out the door. “I'm going to wash my hair.”
Chapter 3
Putting It Together
A
n hour later, the girls sat in the back of a dove-grey Mercedes, hired from the company Kylian's parents used. Since both Ameera and the Harrises used another company, the girls avoided that one when they were ditching school. Not that they did it often—it was too easy to get caught. Rittenhouse had a lot of security cameras. But Bree and Sutton were more daring now that it was their senior year.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Bree asked, checking out Sutton's handiwork in a little gold compact her father had given her. Her initials were spelled on its top in diamonds. Rashid was conservative compared to the other major players in rap culture—he was a Black Muslim for one thing, and a thoroughly overprotective parent for another. But, like many of his colleagues, he liked his bling, and he liked to share the wealth with his baby girl.
“Relax. You look fine,” Sutton said, completely mellow, half-sunken in the silky leather seat.
“No,
you
look fine,” Bree pointed out. They had snuck into Sutton's apartment for clothes, makeup, the works. But Sutton made Bree skip makeup—all of it, even the minimal waterproof mascara and lip stain she wore when running—and dressed her in a pair of baggy burgundy cords she had worn in a production of
Oliver!
and a nubbly, oatmeal-colored sweater that Rashid's mother had knitted for her. Bree's best feature, her long, wild, honey-colored hair, was in a low ponytail, greasy and unkempt. Sutton had tried to talk her into wearing her mother's reading glasses, but Bree drew the line.
“This is about
not
acting,” she growled. “I'm not wearing a costume.” But with a face completely bare, Bree hardly recognized herself in the mirror. When Sutton snapped her picture with her cell phone, Bree begged her to erase it.
“Not a chance,” Sutton laughed, sending it as photo mail to Kylian before Bree could wrestle it away.
“Welcome to Ikea Elizabeth,” their driver said, opening the door for them when they arrived. “I'll be waiting here at one o'clock to bring you home.”
“Thank you,” both girls said, piling out of the car. An enormous blue building with yellow lettering loomed above them.
“So this is where the boys are?” Bree asked as they headed for the doors.
“You bet.” Sutton was still grinning, but Bree was unconvinced. The only guy who caught her eye in the café, where they stopped to grab coffee before heading to the sales floor, was putting on the blue smock that meant he was there to work. He wasn't that much older than they were, Bree thought, and she liked his short, spiky dreads. He was tall and lean, with a serious-looking, handsome face, partially hidden by a mustache and goatee. The big black frames of his glasses screamed
film geek
to Bree—that and the
400 Blows
T-shirt he was wearing under his smock. In her heart, Bree was a film geek herself. After all, acting was her life—it made sense that she had every single film in the Criterion Collection on DVD, and had compiled a personal film library of almost a thousand movies. Some were box-office hits, but most were independent or foreign films where the acting was everything. And she had a lot of old movies too. She loved old Hollywood glamour, even collecting vintage gloves, hats and sunglasses from the Golden Age of movies. She would rather buy a pair of sunglasses that Audrey Hepburn might have worn in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
than ten brand-new aviators, no matter what was in style.
Sometimes Sutton or Kylian could be persuaded to watch an indie with her, especially if it was famous for having a really shocking sex scene or two, but mostly she watched them by herself after her mother had gone to bed. Bree often fell asleep in the flickering light of the screen and dreamed all night on the sofa. It would be nice to have someone to share that part of her life with.
“What's so interesting about cloudberry jam?” Sutton asked, dumping three packets of sugar into her coffee.
“What's cloudberry jam?” Bree asked, watching Film Guy throw away a paper wrapper and stride out of the café. Bree was pretty sure he had glanced at her over his shoulder on his way out.
“I don't know, but there is a mountain of it in little glass jars where I thought you were looking. I guess you were checking out something else.”
Bree's eyes finally registered the sales display next to Film Guy's now-empty table. She wandered over and read a label.
“Not interested,” Bree declared, putting it back. “Are you ready to shop?”
“You bet.” Sutton picked up her coffee and followed Bree into the series of fake living rooms. There were a few guys in that general area—older guys, mid-twenties at least, each accompanied by a female friend. Some of them might have just been friends, but not too many if Bree was reading their body language right. The way they flopped onto sofas, practically in each other's laps, and dragged each other by the elbow from room to room seemed clear signs of couple-hood.
“I'm beginning to see a flaw in my plan,” Sutton admitted as they wandered over to the rugs section. There were two guys there, and they looked about the right age, but they were there to buy a rug to share. Roommates? Partners? Bree wasn't sure. And even if they were straight, they both had opinions about interior decorating. Bree could still hear them squabbling from the mattress section, where Sutton collapsed in frustration on top of a surprisingly cheap double bed. “No one comes here alone!”
“The people who work here do,” Bree pointed out, joining her on the bed.
Sutton bolted upright. “Aha! I thought you were checking out that guy in the glasses!”
“I was,” Bree agreed. “But I guess he wasn't into me. We've been wandering around for almost an hour. That's plenty of time for him to find me.”
Sutton shrugged. “I'm sorry. This was a complete waste of time. I'll call the driver.”
“Not a complete waste of time—we could have been at school. But as long as we are here, I want to find the play area.”
“Why?”
“The signs make it look like fun.”
“You really want to go play with a bunch of four-year-olds?”
“I'm hoping there won't
be
any four-year-olds,” Bree admitted, dragging Sutton back to her feet. “I'm hoping for a ball crawl . . . or maybe a trampoline.”
“You're hoping that Four Eyes will come hunt you down if you give him some time?”
Bree didn't say anything. She just followed the painted arrows that led to a brightly colored, enclosed play area. It did not have a trampoline, but it did have a ball crawl. And, better still, it was deserted.
“Cannonball!” Bree yelled, diving in. Balls went flying everywhere, mostly in Sutton's direction.
“Shove over,” Sutton said, diving in. “Do you smell something?”
“Even little kids can tell that this isn't really a pool, Sutton. You worry too much.” Bree tossed a ball at Sutton's head, then dove beneath the surface. She could hear Sutton's retaliatory salvo rattling over her head.
“I'm sorry, but you two can't be in here,” said a squeaky voice above the surface. Bree sat upright and saw the play area monitor, a tiny grandmotherly figure walking toward them, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
Poor thing,
Bree thought.
Sutton's about to make her feel a lot worse.
“Why not?” Sutton asked innocently, as if she couldn't see the sign that said
Ages 8 and under!
by the gate.
“I'm really sorry, but this is just for kids.”
“Why?” Now Sutton sounded shocked.
“Um, I don't know,” the monitor admitted. “It's just the rules.”
As soon as she said that, Bree knew what Sutton was going to say next.
“That's ageist, and being ageist is just as bad as being sexist. Or—”
“Sutton, don't say it,” Bree murmured without much hope. This was the bad side of having a best friend whose parents were both lawyers.
“Or racist!”
The monitor folded her arms over her chest, gave Bree a terrible look, and said to Sutton, “You're saying that not allowing people over eight into the ball crawl is the same as being racist?”
“Is there a separate but equal play area for grown-ups?” Sutton asked.
The monitor pulled a walkie-talkie from one of several pockets in her blue smock, then smirked at Sutton and Bree.
“I'm afraid that I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” she said.
“Are you going to have security guards physically remove us from the store?” Sutton asked, making it sound like her dearest wish.
“Maybe it's time we got going,” Bree said, scrambling out of the ball crawl. Unlike a lot of actresses, she didn't like to make a scene unless cameras were rolling. She wanted to be a Greta Garbo figure, a creature of mystery. Not that she had much chance of that with Sutton around.
“Did Rosa Parks leave the bus?” Sutton asked, unwilling to give up.
“Actually, yes, she did,” Bree pointed out. “After the police showed up. Is that what you're waiting for?”
Sutton launched into “We Shall Overcome” as the monitor's backup arrived—a burly manager and the cute film geek from the café. Bree's cheeks burned with embarrassment—an embarrassment that would be especially visible without makeup.
“Sutton, shut up!” Bree hissed, jerking her thumb at the film geek. Amazingly, Sutton did just that, scrambling out of the ball crawl at top speed.
“Ur, sorry for the disturbance,” Sutton said. “I've got to get a lightbulb.” She bolted, and the monitor and the manager went running after her. The film geek just raised his eyebrows at Bree, who laughed.
“She can't help it,” she said, trying to explain. “Sutton doesn't want things to ever get boring.”
“You guys must be pretty bored already to be causing trouble at Ikea.”
“Well, kinda,” Bree admitted, still giggling. She was trying not to be too
on.
She knew how to be charming—she was less sure how not to be charming. She tried to keep the smile low-wattage, as if she were meeting another girl, and not seem too flirty. She kept her voice quiet and even when she said, “My name is Bree.”
“I'm Sean. As if that wasn't obvious.” He gestured toward his big yellow name tag.
Bree smirked. “So, Sean, what do you do for fun, if you're not into causing trouble at furniture stores?”
“The Spike Lee film festival at the Mercy Theater. Do you know it? It's in SoHo.”
“Yeah, I know it.” It was her father's favorite theater in the city. They showed a lot of films by black directors as well as the usual art house stuff. “What are they showing tonight?”
“
Do the Right Thing
starts at seven-thirty.”
“That's a good one,” Bree said, hoping he would take the hint.
“You've already seen it?” He sounded disappointed.
“Sure. But that's definitely a movie you can watch again and again.”
If you don't ask me out now,
she thought,
I don't know what I'll do.
“Want to meet me there?”
“Sure.” She grinned, the full-wattage Bree smile.
“Great! I can't wait!”
Bree gave a half-wave, and headed back the way she came. It took her a while to find Sutton, who was in the housewares section, nowhere near the lightbulbs.
“I thought you would just call me,” Sutton said, examining a wine glass. She was so collected, Bree would never have believed the scene upstairs had actually happened if she hadn't witnessed it herself. “I don't need any lightbulbs.”
“Do you need wine glasses?” Bree asked. Sutton hated the taste of wine. She would drink sweet cocktails, like cosmopolitans and apple martinis, but never even sneaked wine at her parents' parties.
“I'm trying to figure out the difference between one of these, which costs two dollars, and Mom's wine glasses, which cost forty dollars. Each.”
“Break some wine glasses, Sutton?”
“She was the one who left them on the counter where anyone could brush them off.”
“Well, if you want to buy one, go for it. But I've finished my shopping for today, and I want to go home and practice for my screen test.”
“Is Sean going to meet you there to help you rehearse passionate embraces?” Sutton was grinning from ear to ear, partly out of happiness for Bree, but also from relief that her plan for boy shopping had not been a complete failure.
“No, but we are going out tonight.”
Sutton squealed and gave Bree a hug.
“Don't get too excited,” Bree warned her. “You might break some glasses. Anyway, this could be a total disaster and turn out like every other date.”

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