Reel Life Starring Us (13 page)

“We know. We all know.”

If life were a TV show like
Sasha Says So
, she'd ask me how was I doing, how my whole family was doing. She'd come over with pints of ice cream, and we'd sit and talk and she'd be a nice friend.

“You do?”

“Yes. And we can't believe it. We also can't believe you kept it from us for so long. My parents knew this whole time, and I overheard them talking. It was so easy, almost too easy. Did you really think you'd keep it from us forever?”

But this isn't a TV show. This is the part where I lose all my friends because I can't get the newest jeans, because I don't get a car when I turn sixteen, because my parents can't afford to go to Riverbay on Saturday nights.

“How come you didn't tell us?” she asks. But the thing is, her voice doesn't have a tone of concern; it has a tone of annoyance, like she's mad because she didn't hear the latest gossip. She sounded the exact same way when Lance Friedrich broke up with Hope Allen and no one told her.

“Well, I was hoping it would pass.” I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I literally have no control over the words that are coming out of my mouth.

“What would pass? Like it was just a phase or something? And he'd get his job back?” Now her tone isn't so much annoyed as condescending. Molly can go from annoyed to condescending in about ten seconds flat.

“It's a really hard thing.” That's all I can manage to say, and it's nothing at all. I'm wasting the rest of my brainpower trying to figure out how I can get off the phone.

“You should have told us.”

This isn't
Sasha Says So,
because she doesn't say things like,
I'm sure it's so hard
or
I can't even imagine
or
We're here for you.

Those things would be condescending, too, but they're the kinds of things you're supposed to say.

“I'm sorry. I just couldn't. I'm still having trouble processing it myself.”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters.

Molly is actually mad that I didn't tell her about this. It's so obvious that she doesn't care at all about me, she just cares about herself.

“Well, everyone's gonna know eventually, just like we found out,” she says. “And as your friend, I felt like you should
know that.” She pauses. “Aren't you worried that our friends know? Soon everyone at school will know.”

She sneezes, and I don't say “Bless you.”

“I guess.”

“Why are you, like, dead right now, Chelsea?” she asks. “You're, like, speaking in this zombie tone. I can't even tell how you feel.”

“Molly, I have to go.”

“No, don't get off the phone with me, Chelsea.” She drags out the last syllable of my name. I've always hated when she does that, but I hate it even more right now. “We've been friends since forever. You can't just run away. I need to know if you're friends with that new girl now. Is she your BFF? Is that why you didn't tell us? Because you were so busy telling her all about your problems?”

“Molly, I have to go,” I repeat. It feels like my whole room is spinning. The pastel spirals on the wallpaper rotate around each other like I'm in some kind of special, wacky room at the amusement park. The darker pink threads of my carpet look like they're sticking up and growing taller and taller above the other pale pink threads.

“Fine, bye,” she says. “I thought you'd at least thank me for preparing you for tomorrow.”

I hang up without saying good-bye.

Video tip: A transition can really help bring
together two moments, but don't overuse transitions,
because they can also be distracting.

Chelsea and I are in the library
after school. I'm looking through old yearbooks again, trying not to bother Chelsea. She's been weird all day, barely talking to me during social studies when we were supposed to be working on our project. She kept looking to the back of the room at her stupid friends Kendall and Molly and the rest of them. Kendall and Molly are the only ones I know because they're the main ones. The rest are stragglers. And besides, they all sound and look exactly the same to me.

I shouldn't say they're stupid. They're not.

It's pathetic but true. Even with all their meanness, they seem to have fun here. That's really all I'm looking for.

I close the yearbook I've been looking at, and I wonder if this is the time for me to bring up the thing about her dad. “Are you okay?” I ask finally.

Chelsea lowers her eyes. “You've asked me that a million times. Stop.”

I nod. Guess it's not the time. I open up one of the library laptops and find the info on Sasha Preston's agent again. “Okay, here's the number. Her agent is this person Charlotte Weingarten, at International Talent Management and Associates.” I point at the computer screen.

“Okay.”

“I'm calling her.”

“You are?”

I'm not sure how she thought I'd get in touch with her. Smoke signals?

“Don't you think you should try e-mail?” Chelsea asks.

Oh, yeah. E-mail. “No. My e-mail address is supergirl922@ hotmail.com. She won't take me seriously.”

Chelsea laughs. It bursts out like she hasn't laughed in a million years.

“Good point,” she says. “Okay, call.”

I take out my cell phone. “Is Mr. Singer gonna get mad? Are we allowed to use cell phones in the library?”

Chelsea shrugs. “It's fine. Just talk quietly.”

I dial and the phone rings three times, and when a voice answers, I say, “Hi, may I speak to Charlotte Weingarten, please?” in my most adult-sounding voice.

“May I ask who's calling?” the voice on the other end of the phone asks me.

“Yes, my name is Dina Gross. I'm inquiring about a project for Ms. Sasha Preston.”

Chelsea pats me on the arm and opens her eyes really wide. She thinks I'm doing a good job.

“Please hold.”

International Talent Management and Associates has this very intense-sounding voice on their hold button, going on and on about the kinds of services they offer their clients.
The finest in talent management and promotion. We've been a leader in this field for over fifty years, enabling the most successful talents to reach the highest levels of success.

Finally, the voice stops and I hear, “Charlotte Weingarten.”

“Oh, hello, Ms. Weingarten,” I say. “My name is Dina Gross. And I'm hoping you can help me. I have a very exciting project for Sasha Preston.”

“What is it?” This Charlotte Weingarten lady's voice is harsh and aggressive, and I start to feel a little less confident.

“It's a video, I mean, um, a documentary.” Chelsea kicks
me and makes a face like I'm totally lying to this person. But I'm not. I just used the word “documentary” to make it sound more important and official.

“I'm not sure how Sasha Preston fits into a documentary. Is this about the controversial fire in the studio from a few years back? Because seriously, move on.”

A controversial fire seems intriguing, but I don't have time to wonder about it now. “It's actually about her hometown. Her middle school, specifically.”

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and I wonder if I should repeat myself. At that same second, I see Mr. Singer coming toward the back of the library with one of the blue carts overflowing with books to be shelved. I put the phone between my ear and my shoulder and tilt my head, hoping Mr. Singer doesn't see it.

“She doesn't have time for nonsense like that,” Charlotte says finally.

“What? No, I mean, it's not nonsense. See, my, um, friend and I are working on this video for the fiftieth anniversary of our school, and she went here, and we thought it would be interesting to have her take—”

Ms. Weingarten interrupts me. “I am running a business here. If you're in some kind of silly fan club, please just visit her site.”

“No, it's not a fan club.” I laugh because saw a bunch of Sasha Preston fan sites in my research and they were so cheesy. Then I remember who I'm on the phone with and swallow. “Please just give her my number. I'd like to discuss it with her.”

“I'm not sure who this is, but I'm beginning to think this is some sort of joke. And I do
not
have time for jokes.”

I ask again if I can give her my number and if she can pass it to Sasha. She says yes, but I can't be sure she actually writes it down.

After the call ends, all I can really focus on is how I just called Chelsea my friend on the phone to Sasha's agent. I wonder if she's mad that I said that, because it's pretty hard to tell if she's actually my friend or not.

And I'm annoyed at myself for focusing on this seemingly trivial but yet not at all trivial thing after a very important phone call.

Chelsea looks at me and says, “You're hilarious.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, and the funniest part is, you don't even realize it.”

So maybe she's not annoyed? Maybe we are friends.

“Well, I doubt that's gonna work.” I roll my head from side to side trying to get my neck to stop aching. “We're just going to have to go into the city and find her on our own.”

“What?”

“Sure. Next time she writes on Twitter where she is, we'll hop on the train and go.”

I open Sasha's eighth-grade yearbook again and look at the photos for the millionth time. I have to find her. I have to prove that I can do something cool, and make a good video, and actually accomplish something at this school.

“Look at this message this girl Eleanor wrote:
Million Cup Masquerade, 4-ever.
What does that even mean?” I ask Chelsea.

“No clue.” She points to the next page. “Look at this one:
Never forget Ladybug and the tags.”

“So weird!”

“I guess we could go try to get some more footage,” Chelsea says. “These yearbook jokes are funny, but we can't use them for the project, and we can't just wait on this Sasha thing to happen. We'll end up with nothing.”

I'm kind of shocked Chelsea just suggested that, but I try to act calm.

We're walking down the hall when we see all of Chelsea's friends. All together, laughing and smiling and having the best time ever. They look like the characters on
Sasha Says So
, the ones who are always in the background in the hallway, making it look like there are more than three people at the school.

Did she know they were all hanging out without her?

They stop walking. Then we stop walking, and Chelsea goes over to talk to them. I stay back a little.

Their conversation goes on longer than I expect. Luckily, we're near the main office, so I sit down on one of the benches in the hallway.

After a while, I feel like a total idiot. How long is she going to talk to them? We're supposed to be videoing people—it was her suggestion! And now I'm sitting here all by myself. It's always worse to sit by yourself when other people can see you. If people can't see you by yourself, it's really not so bad. It's kind of like that whole if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest-can-anyone-hear-it thing. If you're sitting by yourself and no one sees you, are you really alone?

I don't understand why Chelsea can say that I'm hilarious and laugh at what I say and be impressed with how I talked to Sasha Preston's agent, but I'm not good enough to be an actual friend.

I didn't expect it to be this hard.

I don't know what it takes to get into their group. What am I doing wrong?

Sure, I don't have those fancy jeans. Not yet, anyway. But I'm getting them. I just need to work on my mom a little more.

But is it only the jeans? I mean, my hair is pretty shiny, like theirs. I look okay, and I even have my pretty days.

She's still talking. It's been five minutes already.

I watch her down the hallway, the way she stands, leaning all of her weight on her right leg. Her jeans are tucked into her tall leather riding boots perfectly, without any gaping or bulging. Her long cardigan sweater hits the back of her legs at the perfect spot, like it was made for her.

Yeah, I can see why everyone thinks Chelsea Stern has the perfect life. It certainly looks perfect.

But I know the truth.

Once she knows that I know, she'll be my friend. Not in a blackmail kind of way. In an
I understand
kind of way.

“Sorry,” she says, walking over to me. She looks sweaty and her hair is flat, like she's been pushing it down over and over again.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“It seemed like something serious was going on.”

“Oh, no.” She shrugs. “Nothing really.”

She's lying. Again. I can tell.