Love, Lies and Texas Dips (17 page)

“You still don’t remember?” She couldn’t
believe
he was callous enough to forget how he’d crushed the dreams of a girl still struggling to find herself. After his demoralizing comment, Ginger had even stopped with her art classes and put away her unpainted canvases, dyeing her hair pink and going punk for a while, and then going blond as a rock chick and then black all over as a Goth before she’d found environmentalism and embraced it.

“What did I say?” Kent asked, looking like he wanted to laugh rather than seeming ashamed.

“Ginger, please, you’re being silly,” Deena tried to dissuade her, but it was too late.

She raised her chin and said in a slightly quivering voice, “You remarked that my attempt at Impressionism looked like a cat had booted all over the canvas.”

“I said that? Oh, God. It’s kind of funny, don’t you think?” Kent said, and grinned, but it was an uncomfortable grin, and he looked across the room to Rose and Deena for help, though neither offered him any defense at all.

“Yes, you said it, and I didn’t think it was funny at all. Just plain mean,” Ginger blurted out, a tremor of anger rushing through her. How could he hurt someone like that and so easily block it from his mind? “I threw away my honorable mention ribbon and cried myself to sleep for, like, a week.”

Kent took a slow sip of cognac, cleared his throat, and said, “If I was an ass back then, I’m sorry.”

But there was something in his voice that sounded oily to Ginger’s ears, like he was doing what he had to do to appease her so he wouldn’t look like a total shit in front of Rose Dupree and Deena. Ginger knew how some guys liked to take advantage of gullible girls. She’d already been there and done that with Javier Garcia. She wasn’t about to go there again with Kent Wakefield.

Her grandmother had hired him to paint her portrait, nothing more. So that was all there would be between them, she told herself, not about to let him get to her.

Ginger straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “You’re right. It was forever ago.” She crossed her arms, hugging the bodice of the dress. “I’ve done a lot of different things since then, found more worthwhile ways to spend my time. Maybe you actually did me a favor.”

“Kids say stupid things.” He shook his head, gesturing toward her with his glass of cognac. “So I’m sorry if I did anything to hurt you … in the
sixth
grade,” he added, and Ginger felt like he’d come just short of calling her silly, like Deena.

If she’d been smart like Mac, she would’ve let it drop then and there. But she had more in common with Laura when it came to dealing with guys. Neither seemed inclined to use their common sense until it was too late.

Ginger wanted to show him that she was in charge this time, that nothing he could do would intimidate her.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Wakefield, why don’t you give me that glass so I don’t end up looking like something the cat booted all over the canvas,” she said, and reached for Kent’s glass, grabbing at the stem.

“What are you, the alcohol police?” He pulled the snifter back toward him. “I’m not finished.”

“Ginger … Kent, let’s not squabble over this,” Rose Dupree insisted, and Deena chimed in, “Yes, let’s move on.”

But Ginger didn’t listen.

“I don’t care if you’re finished or not”—she made a final attempt to snatch Kent’s glass from him, jerking it in her direction—“so give it to me ….
Oh!”

She felt liquid splash across her skin even before she glanced down and saw the deep amber stain on her white glove … and down the front of the Dress. Her mother and grandmother let out audible gasps. At that moment, Ginger figured it would have been better if she’d actually been stabbed. She’d ruined Rose Dupree’s vintage dress, which was
far, far
worse.

“I’m so sorry, it’s my fault completely,” Ginger heard Kent saying over and over again, though it wouldn’t undo the done, would it? It wouldn’t change the disastrous thing that had just happened because of his stubbornness.

She felt frozen in place, like she was going through an out-of-body experience, looking down on the room and herself from somewhere above, trying to stay cool while everyone else swirled around her.

“Try club soda!” she heard Rose squawk at Deena, and soon Ginger felt hands patting damp napkins all over her chest, all the while her mother muttered under her breath, “I knew something bad would come of your wearing this dress. I knew it.”

I’m sorry
, Ginger tried to get out, but her voice seemed paralyzed as well.

Rose threw open the library doors and started howling, “Serena! Serena, come here right this minute! It’s an emergency! God help us all.”

It was like someone had died, not just spilled a drink.

Ginger squished her eyes closed, fighting tears and wishing she was anywhere but there, sure that Rose would kill her if the Dress was ruined for good. And if she didn’t, Deena surely would.

A man can have a love affair that means
no more to him than a good meal.

—Barbara Cartland

Guys who cheat on hot girls obviously
can’t tell dog food from Texas prime.

—Jo Lynn Bidwell

Nine

Jo Lynn took an impatient sip of her Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte, set it down with a thwack, and scowled at Camie and Trisha across the table.

“Thank God
that’s
over,” she said, and her two comrades nodded. They surely knew exactly what she meant: the first Rosebud meeting, where she’d had to endure Laura Lard-Ass Bell getting up in her face yet again. “How am I going to make it through the next eight months without her provoking me into doing something crazy?” she moaned. “Just looking at her makes me want to spew.”

Trisha reached over to pat her hand while Camie murmured a sympathetic, “It’s too bad she wasn’t the one who got booted instead of Mindy Sue.”

“But deb season’s just begun, hasn’t it?” Jo replied, looking on the bright side. “There’s still plenty of time for her.”

Her two friends had followed her to the Starbucks on San Felipe, not far from the Glass Slipper Club’s building. She’d been tempted to drive to Antone’s instead so she could stuff down a mayo-drenched tuna po’boy. She’d loved those
things ever since her daddy had first taken her to Antone’s when she was, like, five. But Bootsie had cut her off as soon as she’d started entering pageants, and Jo wasn’t sure she could stomach one now. What she did need was a jolt of caffeine and a little advice from her BFFs, which was exactly what she was getting.

“I’d rather have that freaky Angela Dielman as a Rosebud than Laura,” Trisha blurted out, obviously showing she was Team Jo-L.

“Angie Dielman?” Camie squawked. “Are you high?”

That actually got Jo to crack a smile. Like Angie Dielman—the bucktoothed, chain-smoking editor of the school newspaper—would’ve made a worthy Rosebud.
Ha!
But Trisha wasn’t far off. Jo almost didn’t care who’d replace Laura, so long as the Cupcake got dumped.

Trisha stirred her coffee overzealously. “Okay, maybe that’s not the best example. But it’s true that Laura has no respect for herself or anyone else. She’s just not fit to be a debutante.”

Jo rolled her eyes, wanting to say,
No shit, Sherlock
.

Camie wrinkled her nose like she’d smelled something foul. “She’s totally disrespectful,” she agreed, her slim forehead rumpling. “And I think she’s up to something, Jo Lynn. Why else would she show up at the country club yesterday afternoon, conveniently bumping into Avery, when she was there just that morning?” Cam flipped her dark hair over her shoulder, green eyes flashing fire. “She’s still after Avery, I know it, despite all your warnings. It’s so damned obvious.” Her navy-blue-tipped fingers tightened around her cup as she raised it to take a slow slip.

“Hey, rewind there, will ya! What’s this about Laura
going back to the club?” Jo asked, because that was the first she’d heard of it. Why hadn’t Camie told her earlier? “When was this?”

“Like, right after Avery left Dillon’s barbecue. He said he drove straight to the club to work out in the cave. Trish and I bumped into him when we were coming out of the spa,” Camie explained while Trisha nodded. “I lost it when I saw the slut with her hands all over him.” Her cheeks turned even pinker than the shade of her MAC blush. “I went off on her, and she gave me some lip. Then she waddled out before I could kill her! But Avery swore he didn’t take her with him to Dillon’s party.” Camie shifted in her chair, biting on her bottom lip as she peered at Jo Lynn. “She wasn’t there with him, was she?”

“No, she wasn’t at the barbecue with Avery, and I personally reamed him out for not taking you,” Jo assured her. She debated whether to tell them about finding Laura’s name in Dillon’s cell phone with the Cupcake’s number listed as one of his recent calls, but decided it was too humiliating to talk about. So instead, she said what she’d been mulling over for the past twenty-four hours, her heart thumping a million miles a minute: “I’m not really sure that Laura’s set her sights on just Avery anymore. I think she might be after Dillon.”

Trisha made a choking noise and stopped slurping on her latte. “Did you say
Dillon?”

Camie nearly knocked over her espresso, sloshing brown liquid over the edge of her cup. “Why would you even say that? The bitch can’t be dumb enough to pursue Big D. Everyone knows he’s your boo.” She shook her head, indignant. “And there’s no way Dillon would give her the time of day besides. She’s the size of an offensive lineman.”

“Yeah, she’s a hippo all right,” Trisha echoed. “He’d have to be stupid to fall for her.”

Okay, even Jo Lynn realized the “size of an offensive lineman” remark was a stretch, but it was good to know Camie and Trisha were firmly on her side.

Jo folded her arms on the table and leaned toward them. She kept her voice low as she confessed, “I’m so freakin’ tired of that girl being all up in my business. Since using that messed-up photo of Laura blew up in my face and having loads of chocolate delivered from a made-up secret admirer isn’t working fast enough, it’s time to move on to Plan C.”

“I thought porking her up on the chocolate
was
Plan C,” Trisha said, twirling a red-gold strand of hair around her finger and looking befuddled.

Jo Lynn ignored her and pulled their debutante handbook from her brown leather D&G bag. “Check out all the rules we’re supposed to follow for the next eight months,” she said, running her finger down the list of them and reeling off, “Good grades, high morals, ladylike demeanor, no visible tattoos, no drugs or alcohol.”

She snapped the book closed, stuffed it back in her tote, and propped her elbows on the table. Smiling, she settled her chin atop her interlocked hands. “There are
so
many ways a girl could stumble.”

Camie’s face lit up. “You’ve got something cooking, haven’t you? Another way to trip up Ding-Dong Bell.”

“Yeah, Jo-L, spill, spill,” Trisha begged, bouncing up and down in her seat like a little kid.

Camie looked fit to burst too.

“That’s just it.” Jo Lynn sighed and settled back in her chair. “I don’t know exactly what my next step is yet,” she
admitted, “but it’s going to have to be something dirty and über under the radar.”

So
under the radar that the GSC could never trace it back to her, she realized, thinking of Bootsie’s warning:
“You need to watch yourself. All it takes is one slip, and the GSC will review your Rosebud status. If that happens, I won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

“Come on, Jo, you were in, like, a trillion beauty pageants,” Camie reminded her. “You must have plenty of tricks up your sleeve.”

“You mean like lacing brownies with laxatives? Rubbing poison ivy inside a competitor’s sequined gown? Spiking protein drinks with Everclear?”

Cam and Trish both began giggling.

Jo Lynn flicked a manicured hand. “Unfortunately, none of that will work here.” She pushed away her Skinny Latte, which had gone mostly untouched. “That irritating stepmother of Mouse Mackenzie’s is totally on to my, um, pageant history. So I can’t do anything that’ll leave fingerprints.”

“The only thing that never seems to leave a trail is gossip,” Trisha suggested, popping the top of her latte and stirring it with a fingertip. “Think of the buzz that went around the Web about the Lauren Conrad sex tape. No one could ever prove who started the rumor. It was the perfect lie.” Trisha’s round face screwed up thoughtfully. “I wonder if Laura has a sex tape floating around somewhere?”

Bingo
.

Jo Lynn stared across the table at Trisha and goose bumps prickled the hairs on her arms. She was tempted to shriek,
Oh. My. God. That’s it!
But she bit her lip and kept mum.
Somehow, she figured it’d be better if she plotted Plan C all by herself. She’d be less likely to get caught if no one knew precisely what she was up to.

She couldn’t use the sex tape thing, not with Trisha just having mentioned it. So what kind of lie would do the trick?