Kiss And Blog (11 page)

“How come you never got remarried?” I ask, taking a bite of the hamburger he made me order (swearing that the mixture of protein and grease would be good for my queasy stomach), while glaring at the back of the waitress’s head, the one who spent the last twenty minutes flirting with my dad, auditioning for the role of my new mommy.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for it,” he says, sipping his chardonnay and looking at me.

“That’s exactly what Mom says,” I tell him, as he sets down his glass and smiles.

“Speaking of, are you ready to face the music?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Do I have to?” I hold my breath.

“No. But I think you should.”

I took at him for a moment, and then I just nod, dragging my french fry through a puddle of ketchup, knowing he’s right.

The second we get back to the apartment, Easton calls. I guess he wanted to make peace with my dad, make sure he’s not fired, and say good-bye to me (yes, in that order). And after my dad gave him a lecture so severe it left me with my mouth hanging open in shock, he handed me the phone, and promptly left the room.

“Hey,” I say, plopping onto the couch, kicking off my shoes, and resting my bare feet on the coffee table.

“So, your dad seems pretty upset,” he says, sounding kind of scared and nervous, and not at all like the overconfident guy from last night.

“Yeah, well.” I just shrug, and gaze at my pedicure that’s in desperate need of revision.

”Okay, well, I just wanted to say that it was really cool meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I say, feeling relieved that he’s not completely turned-off and grossed-out by the whole puking fiasco.

“So, when do you think you’ll be back?” he asks.

“No idea,” I tell him. “Probably not ‘til summer though.”

“Okay, well, next time you’re in the city, you should definitely look me up,” he says, sounding cool and casual, and maybe, just maybe, even a little bit hopeful.

And after I agree to “definitely” do that, I lean against the cushions, close my eyes, and replay my incredible week in New York. It’s like, in the course of just five days, I grew closer to my dad, hung out in the coolest city in the world, added some crucial pieces to my wardrobe, knocked five items off of my “virgin list,” and (most important of all) survived my first romance-hook up quickie boyfriend pretty much unscathed.

And even though all of those things originally had me longing to stay, I now know that because of them, I’m finally ready to go.

Ten

Jeez, you’d think I’d been gone a month the way my mom and Autumn hugged me at the airport. Though to be honest, I actually kind of missed them, too. And the first thing I do when we get back home is head for my room, then I freeze in the doorway, dropping my bag in shock, when I see how everything has changed. And I don’t mean that I’ve been gone so long that I now see everything in a fresh, new light kind of changed. I mean that, literally,
everything has changed.
There are new dressers, new beds, new sheets, there’s even these cool new curtains that surround each of our beds, so that Autumn and I can share a room without having to constantly look at each other.

“So what do you think?” my mom asks, as Autumn stands beside her, smiling.

“I love it!” I gaze all around, touching the soft cotton curtain, and running my hand over my cool, new dresser drawers. Then I look at them, and they’re so excited about the fact that
I’m excited, that it makes me feel horrible for running away like that. “I’m sorry I ran off,” I say. “I just-”

But my mom raises her hand and shakes her head, sign language for “it’s my turn to talk.” “Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this, Winter, and while I realize you’re growing up and that we may not always see eye to eye, I’m afraid I can’t just let this one go. You know there are consequences to your actions.”

I stare at her, my stomach heading south while I wonder what she could possibly have in mind.
Damn, I knew all the hugs and furniture were too good to be true.

“I went along with the cheerleading, haven’t said a word about your new hair color, and the other day I actually left the store early so I could drive you to the mall. And even though I may disapprove of some of your more recent choices, I haven’t tried to stop you because I know they’re important to you. But this, running off to New York without so much as a note.” She shakes her head. “Well, you have no idea how worried I was. So for the next two weeks, I want you coming straight home from school, no detours, no side trips, and no TV. You missed a lot of schoolwork and I want you fully caught up. I also want to know that I can trust you again.”

She raises her eyebrows and lowers her chin, as I exhale slowly and nod. I mean, what else can I do? I’m getting off easy. And trying to barter her down will only backfire.

By dinnertime, all anyone can talk about is Rey. Seriously, all through the salad and well into the main course, it’s like “Rey this,” and “Rey that.” And, “Oh, my God, remember that time when Rey said such and such?”

So finally, I bite. “Okay, who the heck is Rey?” I ask, twirling my pasta onto my spoon and glancing from my mom to Autumn.

”This young boy I hired last week,” my mom says, taking a small sip of her sparkling water with lime.

And since my mom’s definition of “young boy” pretty much covers anyone between the ages of three and thirty, I say, “Details, please.” Then I take a bite of pasta so big I need a pair of scissors to cut it, just like on that old episode of “I Love Lucy.”

“He’s sixteen, just moved to Laguna, and he’s taking over your shift at the café,” she informs me.

“My shift?” I stare at her. “But why? I was gone less than a week, and you already replaced me?” I mean, jeez, just because I sometimes complain about having to work there doesn’t mean I actually wanted to stop. Especially now that my life’s so lonely and pathetic I have no other way of filling up all my spare time.

But my mom just looks at me carefully, obviously confused by my reaction. Then she says in a soft, patient voice, “Well, honey, when you ran off like that, I thought all the pressure was getting to be too much for you, and that maybe you’d enjoy having your weekends off, you know, to spend more time with your friends. So I hired Rey to pick up the slack.”

I just glare at her. I mean,
hello?
Now that Sloane has gone to the other side I’m pretty much all out of friends. And even though I realize how my mom can’t possibly know any of that (since I haven’t exactly divulged any of it), I can’t help being upset. I mean, I feel like she should just
know.

“I’m sorry, I thought you’d be happy,” she says, giving me a worried look. “Because now you can spend all of your Friday and Saturday nights with Sloane.”

And just like
that
I feel like I never even left. Like I’m picking up exactly where I left off, and that nothing has changed, least of all me. “Yeah, well that’s just great, Mom,” I say, shaking my head, dangerously close to tears. “Except for the fact that Sloane and I aren’t exactly friends anymore, and somehow I just completely forgot to cast an understudy.”

I push away from the table and my still half full plate of
food, and make a run for my room, where I close the door, grab the laptop I share with Autumn, and pull my cool new privacy curtain until it’s secured all around me. And then, just to torture myself even more, I check my e-mail, which just makes me feel worse when I realize that my twelve new messages are what most people call spam. And since I’m not currently interested in stock market investing, penile enhancement, or Viagra, I delete every last one, until my screen is finally clear and my in-box shows 0.

Then I sit there, just staring at that sad empty number, thinking how nice it would be to have a constantly ringing phone and a
legitimately
full in-box, yet painfully aware of how I haven’t the slightest idea how to actually go about getting any of that. I mean, I’m actually pretty shy, which is like a major handicap when it comes to making new friends.

But what if I were to start a blog, or live journal, or whatever they call those things?

What if I created my own Web space where I could write about something interesting, yet in a totally anonymous way? I wouldn’t even have to use my real name. Heck, I wouldn’t even have to say where I live. I could just simply create this whole new persona, one that’s smart, cool, and engaging. One that people would actually want to read about, talk about, and maybe even contact. I mean, just because I lack an interesting life, doesn’t mean I lack an interesting opinion.

And then before I can really stop and think it over, before I can make one of my usual pro/con lists, I’m all signed up and signed in with my very own blog. I’ve even managed to come up with a really good, really secure screen name that will totally shield my identity, yet still has a unique and personal meaning to me. I’m calling myself Eleanor Rigby. After an old Beatles song about all these lonely people that my mom always played when I was a kid.

So, feeling all excited about my new identity, I stare for a moment at that intimidating, blank screen, then I type:

THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

***Under Construction—Check Back Soon***

Okay, so as far as blogging goes, I guess I’m off to a pretty dismal start. I mean, just because I found a name for my new persona, doesn’t mean I have the backstory to go with it. But it will come. I know it will. I just have to be patient.

They weren’t kidding about the ton of homework. So by lunch when I find myself so loaded down with make-up assignments and chapters to read that I have no idea how I’ll ever catch up, I decide to just go to the library and get a head start. Not to mention how this will also keep me from having to eat lunch at the lonely, desolate Table C, as well as lower my risk of running into Sloane again. I mean, I’m just four periods and one ten- minute break into the day and I’ve already seen her three times. And even though I know I’ve got three full years of Sloane sightings ahead of me, at the moment, I’m determined to take it just one period at a time.

But do you think she said hi? Or did anything remotely polite in honor of our eight years of friendship? Nope. She just averted her eyes and carried on with her new friends, acting like she didn’t even see me.

Like I wasn’t even there.

Like I was invisible to her too now.

So I try to make myself feel better by remembering how just a few nights ago I was making out in a loft, in Manhattan, with a totally hot actor guy (while somehow omitting the other less attractive parts of that story). And I smile when I realize how Sloane, cool as she may be these days, has yet to do anything remotely as cool as that.

And then, just as I turn the corner, I’m suddenly confronted with a sight so horrible, and so freaking unbelievable, that I’m unable to do anything other than stop and stare.

Because standing right there, no more than twenty feet away, are Sloane and Ginny. And standing right alongside
them? Well, that would be none other than Andy Spence and Cash Davis.

And not only is Cash standing next to Sloane, but he’s also smiling.

And not only is he smiling, but he’s also talking.

And I stand there watching as everyone laughs at whatever incredibly clever thing he just said, noticing how Sloane puts some major extra effort into her laugh. Throwing her head back, so that her long, blond hair swings brilliantly from side to side, while clutching herself in a way that emphasizes her maximum waist-to-hip ratio. And while she’s busy engaging in this bit of well-rehearsed, painstakingly choreographed, primitive flirtation ritual, I watch as Cash moves in even closer, as though he wants nothing more in this world than to hold her hand, brush her hair, or make out with her, or something.

And the sight of all
this,
the realization that she’s actually well on her way to getting
everything
we both always wanted, that her application has been approved and she is now free to partake in all the perks of membership (while I’m left standing on the sidelines, like last year’s It bag), makes me feel so unbelievably sick, nauseous, and grief-stricken, that I spin around and run blindly toward the library, where I smack right into some weirdo with a guitar.

“Hey, there!” he says, regaining his balance, as I look at him with eyes so wild and teary he actually appears blurry to me.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice softer now, as he leans in for a closer look.

“I’m fine,” I say, glancing at him only briefly, but still long enough to take in his straight dark choppy hair; brown heavily lashed eyes; kinda pale skin; long, lean, lanky build; shiny black dress shoes; slim-fitting black dress pants; crisp white dress shirt; black skinny tie; ultra-tailored black blazer; and of course, that ridiculous guitar. The only things missing are a
British accent, a Vespa, and the Who’s
Quadrophenia
soundtrack. I mean where does he think he is? 1980?

“Yeah, well, you don’t look all that fine,” he says, still peering at me with concern.

“Excuse me?” I stare at him. I mean, did he really just say that?

But then his face turns all red and he looks all embarrassed when he goes, “No! What I meant was you look good. Really good. But you also look kind of upset, that’s all.”

But I’m in no mood for this. I mean, my stomach hurts, my eyes are stinging, my throat aches, and all I want is to get far away from him, far away from everybody, so that I can find a nice corner, hunker down, and try to figure out how on earth I became such a big, embarrassing loser. So I just look at him and go, “Okay, are we done here? ‘Cause I really need to get to the library.”