Kristen (6 page)
“What do we stand for?” Kristen asked, never tiring of the routine.
“BOB,” they answered.
“And what does BOB stand for?”
“Brains over beauty!”
She smiled, her stress melting like Creamsicle-flavored Glossip Girl in the sun. Nothing validated her more than the WC, not even David Beckham’s loving neck licks.
“State the reason for this meeting,” Kristen insisted in her best robot-meets-no-nonsense-CEO voice.
“We’ve been waiting for a progress report and never got one.” Oprah fiddled nervously with one gold hoop earring. “Did you take my advice? Did you and Ripple help each other?”
“Looks like it,” Einstein snickered, straining to see beyond the camera’s reach. “What are you
wearing
?”
“Hey, are those shorts from Quiksilver?” Bill Gates asked, nudging his round glasses a little farther up his shiny nose. “I have the same pair.”
“You shop in the girls’ section?” Kristen asked.
“No, you shop in the
boys’
,” he countered. “B-but they look good on you. I mean, you know, you can totally pull them off.”
“You wish,” Shakespeare muttered.
Einstein and Oprah giggled.
Bill Gates turned red.
“Wait!” he screeched. “I didn’t mean it like
that
. I meant—”
“It’s okay.” Kristen hurried him along, angling the computer even farther up. “I
know
what you meant. And thanks for checking in, but I’m fine. . . . Actually, I’m late. Dune is at GAS Park right now, so I better go.”
“Question.” Oprah’s round dark eyes seized Kristen, refusing to let her go. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Kristen nodded yes.
“Then we’ll get moving on plan B right away,” Oprah announced.
“What’s plan B?” Kristen asked. “Why are we moving to it? I never approved it.”
“Because I’m not so sure plan A is working.”
Kristen, about to protest, looked down at her outfit and sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. But Ripple had sworn by the dude-duds. And when it came to Dune, she was smarter than any of them. . . .
Right?
HALF-PIPE
Tuesday, July 21
1:41 P.M.
The way Kristen threw her leg over her bike, with uninhibited force, gave her pause. Usually she slid back on the gold banana seat, lifted on to her left toes, and swung her leg over with grace and modesty. Then she’d lower down and roll back her shoulders with the posture of a world-class gymnast. But something about the long, baggy shorts, formless sweatshirt, and fat black DC sneakers made her feel more lad and less lady. And she ambled into GAS Park with the side-to-side swagger to prove it.
Skaters greeted her with respectful head-nods when she passed. Not because she was hawt, but because she was nawt. She was no longer a pretty blonde who could knock them off their boards with a suggestive half smile or a whiff of her citrus-scented body oil. Kristen was suddenly a girl they could hang around without feeling conscious of their back zits (bacne) or their mid-afternoon BO.
She was a buddy, not a beauty.
The realization was enough to make her want to hop back on her bike and pedal to the nearest Bebe. But she had no money, and even less time. Skye and the DSL Daters were all over Dune like SPF 50.
Kristen hiked up her shorts and hurried over to greet them. They were in the juniors’ area, surrounded by young boys in helmets who were rolling down little asphalt hills with their tongues sticking out of their mouths. Despite the cramped course, no one dared complain. Because for the first time ever, GAS had been invaded by hawt blondes in bikinis. For the first time, they were getting a taste of what was missing in their lives.
“Hey.” Kristen greeted Dune, Tyler, and Jax with a confident smile, ignoring the fact that they were in the middle of helping the wobbly-on-purpose DSL Daters balance on their new pink boards. Scooter, however, was zipping past the little skater guys with roller-derby determination. Ripple was there too, and she seemed particularly interested in tips from Jax, even though the pictures in her bedroom showed her charging the half-pipe without protective gear. No one stopped to say hi, except—
“Hey, Kristen.” Dune turned to face her, and suddenly the unnerving rumble of wheels scraping along the pavement faded into the background. His navy T-shirt was off—stuffed down the back of his red checked surf trunks—and his feet were bare and golden brown.
“What are you doing here?” He stepped away from his friends so he could welcome-touch her shoulder. It was either a flirty gesture or a subtle attempt to see if she was
really
wearing a sweatshirt in the middle of July.
“Tutoring.” Kristen chin-pointed at Ripple, who was comparing tan lines with the short DSL Dater in the white string bikini and black mesh cover-up.
“In what?” Dune rolled his eyes behind his sister’s back. “Selling out and acting like a different person to impress a guy?”
Kristen felt herself blush. Was he accusing her of doing the same thing or just annoyed by his new and
un
-improved sister? Either way, Kristen didn’t have an answer for him. At least not one that didn’t make her seem like a skater-stalker. So she ignored his question and went to greet her “student.”
“Ready to hit the books?” Kristen slapped Ripple on the butt, aware of how dorky her entrance was. It was the first time she’d ever butt-slapped anyone or said “hit the books.” But her heart was all aflutter and sending unreliable information to her brain.
“No thanks,” Ripple muttered dismissively, as if Kristen was an annoying waitress, wondering if she’d like a sixth refill on her soda. Then she turned to Jax and rolled her eyes.
“Laundry day?” Skye jumped off her pink board and stretched her hammy. She glared at the gray cargoes and lifted her blond brows. But Kristen was too consumed with Skye’s outfit to care.
“Where did you get that?” Kristen asked the orange T-shirt dress with the daisies across the bottom.
Skye tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Quiksilver/Roxy,” she said, like it was someplace she shopped all the time, even though everyone knew she only wore clothes from her parents’ boutique at the Body Alive Dance Studio.
“Rasssssie.” Kristen pulled Ripple off Jax’s board and yanked her close so no one could hear. “Please tell me that the dress thing is a coincidence.” Her voice shook. She didn’t need an answer to know she had been betrayed.
“It was the weirdest thing.” Ripple twirled the turquoise Roxy beaded bracelets around her wrists—the same ones Skye was wearing. Only Ripple had paired them with a bold green shift dress that had white blades of grass rising up from the hem. “Right after we said goodbye, Skye called and asked me to take her shopping. Turns out she has the same taste in boys as you do.”
Kristen’s mouth went dry.
“And you
took
her?” she managed.
“At first I said no because I thought it might be unfair to you.” Ripple tightened her high, parched ponytail. “But then she offered to buy me an outfit, so . . .”
Sweat started to trickle down Kristen’s back. “So why didn’t you tell her to get
these
?” She hate-tugged her shorts.
“Because you bought the last pair.”
Kristen’s skin prickled and her legs twitched. Pre-soccer-game-like adrenaline zipped through her body, begging her to get physical. If she didn’t kick something or run somewhere, she’d explode. But the only open field was on the other side of the fence—and she wasn’t a member. So she dug her home-manicured nails in her palms and willed herself not to pummel her crush’s baby sister.
“I quit!” Kristen blurted, opting for the verbal beat-down.
“Too late.” Ripple smirked, crossing her arms over her green dress. “I already fired you this morning.”
“What?”
Kristen hissed, suddenly grateful that Dune and his friends were too distracted by the DSL Daters to realize she was getting worked by an LBR nine-year-old with wannabe issues.
“Yeah, I told my dad math finally clicked and that I was done.”
“Why?
”
“I want to have fun.” Ripple shrugged as if it should have been obvious. “And no offense, Ms. Gregory, but
this
”—she pointed from Kristen to herself and back to Kristen again—“is not, not,
not
fun.”
“Who wanted to try doubles?” Jax called from the half-pipe.
“Meeeeee.” Ripple tossed her hair over her shoulders the way Skye always did, then hurried away.
Kristen shock-stood off to the side of the park, watching her crush flirt with a blond alpha in a dress
she
had wanted to buy. Skye was bragging about sneaking into the country club after hours and going for illegal midnight swims. The sheer daring of it made Dune’s light brown eyes get even lighter. The he told her about his illegal phosphorescent surf and gladly returned her oh-my-gawd-we-are-like-sooo-much-the-same hug.
Standing solo, wearing temperature-inappropriate clothes, envy and longing seeping from her sweat-clogged pores, Kristen felt like a party-LBR. The kind who always stared at the Pretty Committee as if weighing her choices—
Hmmmm, I could try and join in the fun, or slash them to death with my cuticle-clipper key chain.
After they finished hugging, Skye changed topics and began bragging about some ultra-exclusive performing arts boarding school called Alphas that she had applied for. Kristen started to search Dune’s face for hints of sadness at the possibility of Skye leaving town, but her cell phone vibrated before she could get an accurate reading.
Kristen dug deep into her pocket and checked her phone. One new text message:
Your shoelace is undone. Tie it!
She quickly scanned GAS Park, in case one of Dune’s friends was trying to sucker punch her. But they were too captivated by the bikini blondes to bother with jokes.
Then came a follow-up text:
Now!
And without another thought, Kristen crouched down and reached for her very tied, very tight laces. She was about to stand when she heard someone yell, “I’ve been hit!”
Kristen looked up just as a mass of white golf balls sailed over the fence and rained down on GAS Park like a plague of locusts.
“Owwww!”
“Oof!”
“What the
. . .
?!”
“My back!”
“My coccyx!”
The cries of pain did not stop until the last ball settled on the pavement.
Finally, all was silent. But one by one, the skaters rose like zombies shaking off the night fog and hungry for revenge.
“Spies!” shouted a boy as he picked up a golf ball and whipped it at an abandoned pink DSL Dater board.
“Terrorists!” shouted another young boy in head-to-toe pads, nursing a bloody nose.
“Get ’em!” someone else yelled.
“AHHHHH!”
Kristen took cover under the brown wood roof of the snack shack as a flurry of balls forced the intruders to shriek loudly, kick off their sandals, and climb like Spider-Men back over the fence. They didn’t stop until Ripple and her mirrored makeup caddy had joined them.
Once they were gone, everyone applauded—even Dune, Jax, and Tyler. Kristen clapped her palms raw and didn’t stop until another text buzzed through to her phone.
Offer payback. Meet @ the CC 11 P.M. Tonight. Instructions will be with your doorman.
Kristen quickly deleted the message, then approached Dune.
“Wanna get them back?” she offered calmly as her baggy boy shorts flapped in the breeze.
Dune slowly nodded yes, as if still in shock. Seconds later the light in his eyes seemed to reappear, like a blackout that had suddenly ended. And under that light it didn’t matter if Kristen was wearing the same shorts as Bill Gates. She felt pretty again.
“Guys, listen to this.” He waved over his buddies, who surrounded Kristen like hungry sharks.
“Meet me at the country club service entrance at eleven o’clock tonight,” she whispered. “Make sure you’re not being followed. I have to go get ready.”
“What’s the plan?” Tyler asked. “How do we know it’s gonna work?”
“Do
you
have any ideas?” Dune challenged his buddy.
“Yeah, but most of them are illegal.” He snickered. “Is
yours
?”
“Probably,” Kristen said with fake nonchalance.
Dune put his arm on Kristen’s shoulder. Her back sweat returned.
“I’m not crazy about your clothes, but I love the way you think.”
Kristen half smiled. Because half of his declaration was a whole lot nicer than anything a hawt boy had ever said to her.
WESTCHESTER, NY
Tuesday, July 21
7:07 P.M.
Every time Kristen pictured herself dressed in those horrible boy clothes, she pedaled her bike a little faster, as if she could somehow liquefy the embarrassing memory and sweat it out through her pores.
Not that her current outfit was much better.
There had been a lot of things she’d had to keep in mind when selecting that night’s ensemble. It had to be:
A) Dark and unassuming for her secret mission.
B) Flattering enough to make Dune forget he ever saw her kick it Cesario-style.
C) Conservative enough for her mother to believe she was rushing out to help Ripple cram for a math quiz.
D) Comfortable enough for her to crouch behind a bush for four hours while she: 1) Waited for everyone to show up. (Her mother would never let her go out at 11 p.m., so she’d had to leave at 7 p.m. and hide out.) 2) Figured out how to use the Witty Committee’s invention.
E) Something that had not yet received the OCDiva treatment (e.g., replacing cheap plastic with Chanel buttons).
F) Narrow enough to keep her pant legs from getting stuck in the bike chain.
G) Free of David Beckham fur. Nothing says
I smell like cat pee
like a girl covered in hair balls.
H) All of the above.
