Rule #9 (4 page)

He’s wearing long shorts and one of those tight t-shirts that cling to his chest. Holy shit. My heart is no longer beating. I can’t breathe. He smiles. He waves. I smile back.

Then I just I stand there, frozen, looking like an idiot.

I’m sure my eyes are red and puffy. I start to talk. But the words don’t come out. It’s like a spell has been cast on me and my voice has been sucked out.

“Hey,” he says.

I wave.

He looks at the flyers in his hand and says, “I dented my sister’s car. Now I have to pay to get it fixed. As my mama would say, ‘Dumber than a coal bucket.’”

I nod but I don’t say anything. Instead I continue to stand here looking like an idiot because I don’t know what to do at this point.

“See you around?”

Yes, I’d like that. But I don’t say that. I turn and go back into my house. I run up the stairs, flop myself onto my bed, then scream into my pillow because somewhere between the wedding and today I’ve lost the ability to talk to cute boys or at least act like a normal human being around them. I’ll probably never see him again but if I ever do, I’ve lost all chances of ever getting to know him. Dumber than a coal bucket.

CHAPTER FOUR

My friends pound on the door to my room early. Okay, it’s ten thirty, but it’s Sunday and it’s the last week of the summer and I have the day off from work and it’s my last free weekend before school starts and soon I have to move into that other house and life is going to be hell.

Not like it already isn’t. I let the cute boy get away again because I’m such an idiot.

Natalie flings my curtains open, then pounces on the bed. “Come on, get up.”

Buster jumps on my bed and licks my face. I barely open my eyes. I grab my pillow to hide under, but I notice that Vianna’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Vianna’s eyes water. “Wendy’s so mean,” she whispers, then looks around like someone else might hear her. “I hate her.”

“What happened?” I sit up and rub my eyes.

Natalie stands. I hand her the dog and she sets him down in the hall. She shuts the door before pulling our friend onto my bed.

Vianna stuffs all of her feelings inside. She’s become her own Build-a-Bear. A person can only put so much stuffing into one of those bear shells before it explodes. Even Vianna can’t hold it in forever.

“I called my dad on his cell phone and his wife answered. I was really nice to her. I even tried to talk to her,” Vianna says.

“That was your first mistake. No talking to the bitches,” Natalie interrupts.

Vianna stands and paces the room. “I know, but I’m tired of my dad being mad at me. Anyway, she huffed when I asked to talk to my dad, a long and drawn-out huff. I can’t call the house because it upsets her, so I call his cell. And now
that
makes her mad. And then when my father got on the phone he told me he couldn’t talk. All I wanted to do was talk to him. I stopped going over there, what more does she want?”

She plops back down and I pull my knees to my chest and now it’s Natalie’s turn to stand and pace. An outsider looking in would think my room was a boat on the water the way these two are moving.

“What, did her son get in trouble again?” I lean forward and rub my friend’s arm. Wendy’s pot-smoking son, who almost graduated from high school four years ago, is the devil’s spawn. The school allowed him to walk at the ceremony with the class, but he needed to take some classes over the summer to actually earn his diploma, which he didn’t. He likes to party. He’s one of those boys in high school who has all the girls but at the twenty-year reunion he’ll still live in his hometown in his parents’ basement working at the local lube center, changing oil. When he messes up, Vianna always receives the backlash. It’s because she’s good and he’s a screw-off.

“That piece of you-know-what lost his job last week.” Vianna uses her fist to pound the mattress, which is good. I want her to let it out.

“Say it, Vianna. Just say it. The little prick lost his job at the car wash.” Natalie grabs my vanilla body spray and applies some on her wrist. She’s wearing a pair of my shorts that she borrowed a month ago, a cute sapphire tank, and blue-and-black plaid button-up top with pale blue flip-flops to match.

“No, that was two jobs ago. Last week he lost his job at the grocery store because he got caught smoking marijuana behind the building.” Vianna says. “Just because it’s legal doesn’t mean he can smoke it at work.”

“And the job before that? How did the little prick lose that one?” Natalie grabs the lavender aromatherapy spray that sits on my dresser collecting dust. My mom keeps bringing samples home from work. She squirts some onto Vianna’s wrist.

“Busboy at the Mexican restaurant. He didn’t show for a shift because he didn’t feel good. All he had to do was call in.” Vianna stands and wipes her arm on Natalie’s shirt. “That stuff stinks.”

“And you’re the bad one. I don’t get it,” I say.

Natalie pulls the gardenia spray from my dresser and then grabs my hand.

I yank my hand back. “Don’t you dare! That crap reminds me of my father’s wedding. And you’re driving me crazy. Quit touching everything.”

Natalie releases the bottle into the trash, then drops backwards on the bed. My room now smells like one of the perfume stores in the mall.

“I’ve worked at The Breakfast Stop for three years.” Vianna stands and walks to the corner, then to my door, then back to the corner. “But Wendy is always telling my dad I’m spoiled and lazy.” She’s still in her pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. She doesn’t have an ounce of makeup on, and even though she’s been crying, she’s still gorgeous. The only thing that is perfect is the ringlets in her hair. Vianna never goes anywhere without her hair looking adorable. Even when she has it up in a ponytail, it always looks perfect.

“Say it. Your stepbrother is a little prick,” Natalie says.

“What are you gonna do?” I ask. I want to ask for a motion-sickness pill but I don’t. Vianna is really upset.

“About what?” Vianna sits on the end of my bed.

“Wendy,” I say.

“What can she do?” Natalie chimes in. “She’s already tried telling her dad that she’s being pushed out. He obviously doesn’t care.” It’s hard to compete with the his-kids-vs.-her-kids thing.

“Yeah, we always lose.” Vianna grabs one of the three stuffed beanies from my bed and holds it close. She’s chosen Schweetheart the monkey, who in my opinion is a very good choice. He’s been a perfect friend when I’m sad. Not as good as my Grey Kitty, but close.

“Off-topic,” Natalie says. “You should have seen the boy passing out flyers in the neighborhood. He was cute.”

“If you only knew,” I say.

“Knew what?” Natalie asks.

“Boy at the wedding,” I say.

“Do tell,” Vianna says.

They both lean in to hear the tale of me being a big chicken shit. At least they’ve stopped the pacing. After I tell them the story, they decide their mission is to find the boy. I’m glad that Vianna has something to keep her occupied, but I’m not sure how I feel about this, especially considering I’m not really sure if I’m over my ex Blake. I wish I were working today.

After I stopped wearing clothes from Trendy Teen, I started hitting consignment stores. I was sick of looking like the rest of the girls at Pine Gulch High School. Finding my new look also helped me find the best job in the entire universe: I work at Jillian’s Second Time Around.

Jillian, the owner, passed away, and now Jillian’s daughter Gaby runs the store. Gaby claims she’s the spitting image of her mother, so the store kind of became her mom’s a second time around.

I love my job. I love sorting through the things people bring in. I also love when Gaby brings back goods from auctions or estate sales. She always passes by the expensive pieces of furniture and seeks out the tackiest and most obscure clothes and jewelry. My latest favorite piece is a vintage 1950s Hawaiian sarong. It fits me perfectly.

Two months before my father’s wedding, my ex-boyfriend Blake broke up with me so he could go out with some girl from the Bagel Shop. Bagel Shop Girl was completely out of his league, with huge boobs and skinny waist. She used him for concert tickets. Natalie and Vianna were doing homework at the Bagel Shop when they overheard Bagel Shop Girl tell her coworker about her date with Blake Coleman. Blake had asked Bagel Shop Girl to go to the Sir Lancelot concert. These were the tickets he purchased for him and me—for my birthday. Jerk.

I called him after I found out, which was at work. Gaby stood by me for support, just in case I lost my nerve. My voice squeaked, which I’m sure he took for excitement. “Blake, I just wanted to tell you how excited I am for the concert. You’re the best boyfriend ever. I still can’t believe you found tickets. People would kill for them.”

I admit I was trying to make him feel bad. I don’t think I succeeded. Or if I did, it didn’t make him come to his senses.

“Massie, the thing is…”

Silence from my end. It’s not like I could’ve talked anyway, at least not without crying.
Why
I wanted to cry over that snake makes no sense.

But what really doesn’t make sense is me replaying this scenario in my head over and over.

“I’m not gonna be able to take you anymore.” Blake’s voice cracked. Obviously his puberty spurt wasn’t complete.

I said nothing. Saying something would only make it easier for him. I wanted Blake to squirm.

According to Gaby: Silence condemns. Silence rejects. Silence retaliates. Silence wins. Gaby says that secretly, boys would much rather we yell. Then they can say we are whacked out and psycho. They like the quiet between themselves; she says it’s a guy thing. But when they mess up they don’t want a girl to stay mute. They don’t know what to do with the quiet. It freaks them out. They grow all fidgety.

Gaby told me to try it and see how it worked. She also warned me, “Some guys don’t give a rat’s ass. But in the end, they aren’t worth much anyway. And you can’t play the silent card too much or it backfires. Save it for when it counts.”

I’m not sure how well it worked out, considering Blake didn’t take me to the concert. He finally blurted out, “I think we should break up. I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

What a wuss. Call me later? Yeah, right. He couldn’t handle my reaction. I bet he thought I’d cry. I didn’t cry, even though I wanted to. I held it in. My mom taught me better. She never cried when my father cheated. She just told him to leave.

After the breakup, Gaby tossed me a pair of chocolate lace-up oxfords with heels. I couldn’t believe it. She’d saved them to finish off my outfit for the concert. I had a purple skirt (one of the few items I still own from Trendy Teen), my gray Sir Lancelot t-shirt, and a purple suede jacket I’d found at the shop. Gaby had been keeping an eye out for the perfect shoes to finish my ensemble…and she’d found them.

Then Gaby pulled me from behind the counter. She told the single customer, one of our regulars, “Be right back.”

With a death grip on my arm, she pulled me out of the store.

“Wait. What are we doing?” I asked. “Where are you taking me?”

. “It’s time for a change.” She was dressed in Eighties Madonna attire, including black rubber bracelets she’d found at an estate sale, black parachute pants, and a jean jacket. Her hair was big and wavy with blond-on-blond highlights pulled up with a white scarf. It would have been over the top for anyone besides Gaby. She marched me down to the beauty salon two stores down and had me sitting in a chair within seconds.

“A new look makes everything better,” Gaby said. “Remember, he’s trash and you deserve better. No more dumpster diving for you.”

I told the stylist to do something to my hair that she would do to hers, “but not all black.” I had limits. The Goth look doesn’t appeal to me. I can’t get away with it, since I don’t have flawless white skin. My pink undertones always turn blotchy in the sun, and there’s not enough foundation at the local beauty supply store to cover up the mess.

Gaby snuck over at least a hundred times to see how we were doing and to give her opinion on the shades we had chosen. She brought over pictures of Madonna in every era and thought I should take on one of those looks. I told her to stop bringing over pictures and to grab my charcoal pencils and my sketchpad instead. I needed something to do while waiting for the new colors to take.

While I sat with foils in my hair, I drew a pollywog with jet-black, short funky hair and tattoos. The froglike creature had full red lips and extreme, arched eyebrows. I left it for the girl that cut my hair, because she was the model for the image I created. (She loved it and later made it into a tattoo for her ankle.)

Three hours later, I walked out with my dirty blond mane replaced with fiery auburn spunk. Platinum steaks splashed through my hair. The black bangs were to piss my dad off. More than eight inches of my mop had been removed, tied in a band and donated.

When I walked back through the door of the boutique, Gaby screamed “I love it!” so loud that she scared a middle-aged customer out of the store. She spun me around.

“Even the bangs?” I asked.