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Authors: Lauren Barnholdt

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BOOK: Rules for Secret Keeping
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If I had a little sister, and Jake was my boyfriend, I wonder if he'd watch the Disney Channel with her while I got ready for our dates. I'd be up in my room, drying my hair and trying on five different outfits, and he'd be downstairs, totally pretending to be into the latest Disney shows. And of course he wouldn't really
want
to watch Disney, but he'd know it was a nice thing to do for my sister, so he would. Thinking of Jake taking me on a date makes my face start to feel hot, so I press it against the window of the train so Taylor doesn't notice.

When our train pulls in, my dad's car is waiting for us right outside the station.

“How was it?” he asks as we pile in. He slides his BlackBerry into his shirt pocket. My dad is always on his phone after hours, since he works with a lot of stocks and things, and the markets are open in other places when they're not open here, because there are time differences.

“It was fun,” I say, settling into the backseat and buckling my seat belt. Taylor always gets the front, because she's older. I'm not sure who made that rule. Probably Taylor. She's big on making rules. Especially ones that make no sense.

“And how was the first day of school?” my dad asks, turning his car onto the highway. “Any potential for new business?”

“Loads,” I say. “There are so many new kids, it's crazy. Oh, and Daphne made me some posters so I can start advertising.”

“That's wonderful,” my dad says, “But perhaps you should look into digital media to advertise. Everyone—music companies, television and movie studios—they're all looking to digital and social media as the wave of the future.”

“There's a digital media class at school,” I say, “Maybe I'll get into it.”

“Does anyone care how
my
first day of school went?” Taylor asks, pouting her lips and pretending to be upset. Honestly, the only reason my dad asked me first was because Taylor tends to monopolize conversations. Once you get her going, she won't shut up.

“How was your first day of school, Taylor?” my dad asks. His BlackBerry starts beeping, and he checks the screen and then sends it to voicemail.

“Horrible,” Taylor says. “They're going to be voting for homecoming court next week, which gives me no time to campaign.” She turns around and looks at me. “Maybe while you're at it, you can see how digital media might help
me to win homecoming princess, since Julia Peterson came back from summer vacation with a nose job, and everyone is going to vote for her.”

I settle back into my seat and listen to my dad explain to Taylor that she shouldn't
mock
digital media, and how she could launch a web campaign, and how he's sure that Julia Peterson didn't really get a nose job. To which my sister replies, “Trust me, Dad, her nose is, like, an inch shorter.” So I decide it's time to pull my iPod out of my bag and listen to music for the rest of the ride home.

I'm so caught up in the music that I don't realize that Tom's outside when my dad pulls up in front of our house to drop me off. He's on the front lawn, raking leaves and wearing a baseball hat.

My dad slows the car to a stop in front of the house, his jaw set in a straight line. He does not turn into the driveway. Taylor, oblivious to the situation, keeps blabbering on about homecoming.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, not mentioning the fact that my dad has refused to pull into the driveway. I start to fumble with my seat belt.

“You can at least wait until he pulls into the driveway, Samantha; I mean, you don't have to be in that much of a—” She trails off as she sees Tom raking in the front yard. His back is to us, sparing me from more of a scene. The thing
is, my dad doesn't like Tom. Like, really,
really
doesn't like him. Even though my parents have been divorced for five years, he just hates the idea of my mom being remarried. Weird, right?

“Bye, Dad,” I say brightly.

“Bye, Dad,” Taylor says. She's out of the car and halfway up the driveway before I'm even done with my seat belt.

“I'll call you tomorrow, sweetheart,” my dad says.

I slam the door and run up to the house. I can hear the slight squeal of tires as my dad pulls away.

“Oh, Samantha!” Tom says. “I didn't see you there.”

“Really?” I say. “My dad just dropped us off.”

“Oh, good,” he says. “How was the photo shoot? Must have been interesting, eh?”

“You have no idea,” I say, and head into the house to call Daphne.

THE NEXT MORNING, EMMA AND CHARLIE
are waiting for me at my locker. Emma's holding one of the flyers Daphne and I put up yesterday. “Do you really pass secrets?” she asks.

“Ye-ess,” I say slowly. I spin the dial on my locker. I hope they don't think it's babyish. The secret-passing, I mean. There are two secrets waiting for me in my locker. One of the secrets is for Ronald Hughes, the kid from my elementary school who's crazy. Ronald actually gets a lot of secrets passed to him—usually they say things like “Ronald, YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR TREE” and “Ronald, please return the eraser you took out of my desk” and “Ronald, I think it would be funny if you farted during the Presidential Physical Fitness Test in gym today!”

The other secret is for someone named Kayleigh Mills. I
have no idea who that is. Occupational hazard, I suppose, of starting to expand my business. “Hey,” I say, “do you guys know who Kayleigh Mills is?”

“Are those the secrets?” Charlie asks, leaning in to get a better look. The tips of her long hair brush against the note. “Who sent that to her?”

“I dunno,” I say.

“Let's open it!” Emma says excitedly.

“I can't open them.” I clutch the notes closer to me, just in case they try to pry them out of my hands. Wow. I never thought of that. I could totally get secretjacked. Like carjacked, only with secrets.

“You don't open them? Like, ever?” Emma looks shocked.

“No way,” I say. “I can't, it would ruin my business.”

“How much money do you make?” Charlie asks.

“It depends. This morning I only made two dollars.” She looks disappointed. “But last year I was making tons, especially around Valentine's Day.”

I spot Ronald heading down the hall in the other direction. “Hey, Ronald!” I yell. “You have a secret.”

Ronald grabs the paper out of my hands. “Thanks!” he says as he takes off down the hall.

“You know him?” Emma asks. She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows. How does she get them like that? They're
like two perfect half moons over her eyes. “He's cute.”

I almost drop my backpack. Ronald Hughes,
cute
? Is she crazy? Cute makes me think of puppies, or the color pink. Ronald Hughes is definitely not cute. Disturbing, maybe. Weird, even. Maybe kind of crazy on a good day. But definitely not cute. Wait a minute. Is this one of those things you always see in movies? Where the guys who weren't popular somehow grow up and become virtual girl magnets overnight? Also, why does this never happen to girls? How come I can't grow up and become a virtual boy magnet? Taylor is a boy magnet, but she was always a boy magnet. This seems very unfair.

“Anyway, I think this is a fab idea,” Emma says, and Charlie nods. “I mean, you're going to have access to the whole school's gossip and secrets.” Her face is getting flushed with excitement. “Samantha! You are totally going to rule the school!”

“Guys, um, it doesn't really work that way,” I say nervously. “I can't just go around reading them, that would totally—”

Charlie waves her hand at me. “Of course you would still keep it a secret, even if you read it,” she says. “Sometimes it's fun just knowing.” A song comes tinkling out of her purse, and she pulls out a small silver and blue cell phone. “Ugh,” she says. “It's Mark.” She says this like it should be enough
of an explanation and then flounces off down the hall.

“Okay, listen,” Emma says, once Charlie is out of earshot. “I want to pass a secret.” She pulls a tightly folded piece of paper out of her binder. There's a dollar clipped to the top.

“Cool,” I say, reaching for it. But she pulls it out of my reach.

“Now, listen,” she says, “I want to make it clear that usually I don't do things like this.” She pulls a piece of her long red hair and twirls it around her finger. Then her tone turns serious. “I don't believe in playing mind games.” Yikes.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly.

“But I think this is a totally cute and fab way to flirt, keep a guy guessing, you know?” She smiles. “So here you go!” She shoves the note in my hand.

I look down at the note in my hand. It says “Jake Giacandi” on the front. Oh. My. God. My heart starts to slide down into my stomach, and I try to stop it by telling myself that this note means nothing. In fact, it probably says something really stupid. For example, maybe Emma wants to ask Jake about what kind of skateboard to buy. But then, how would she know that Jake skateboards? Actually, how would she really know Jake at all? Besides their little chat in homeroom the other day, have they even talked?

I want to ask her what's in the note, but I can't really
come out and say that, now, can I? After my whole big spiel about how the secrets are private and anonymous, it probably wouldn't look too good to go around asking her what's in it.

“So when will you give it to him?” Emma asks.

“Um, usually I give all the secrets out after lunch.” This isn't totally true. In fact it's pretty much a complete lie. Usually I just give the secrets to people whenever I see them. But I can't just go give Jake a note from Emma immediately. This is an emergency situation, and I need some time to think about this, so that I can come up with some kind of brilliant plan. A slight delay in the passing of the secret is totally justified. After all, this is a previously unencountered situation. One of those “new business challenges” my dad is always talking about.

“But you just gave Ronald his secret, and it's the morning,” Emma points out. She flips her long hair over her shoulder and narrows her eyes at me. The look on her face reminds me of yesterday when she saw I was in her seat.

“True,” I say. “But that's only because I wanted to get it over with. Ronald's crazy.” Emma looks at me skeptically, so I twirl my finger around by my ear to kind of drive the point home. “Totally crazy. One time last year he stole our teacher's coat and wore it out on the playground.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “Weird,” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It was this really long black fur thing that he kept tripping over. He wanted to take the teacher's snow boots, too, but he couldn't get them out of the classroom without getting caught.”

“Well, anyway,” Emma says. She's looking at me strangely. I'm pretty sure she didn't buy that whole coat story, even though it's true. “Can you just let me know when you give it to Jake? I really want to see his reaction, you know, like if he acts different around me once he gets the note.”

If he acts different around her once he gets the note?
Is she crazy? She's only known him for one day! How can he possibly act different around her? She doesn't have anything to compare it to. Not like me. I have tons and tons of Jake memories. And not just TSSI, either. I have the time that we Photoshopped Daphne's head onto a picture of a clown for her birthday party invitations in fifth grade. And the time Jake came over to my house for dinner and he ate four whole corn on the cobs, and my mom and Tom couldn't believe it, and they totally thought we were hiding the corn somewhere. Or the time that I went with Jake's family to the water park, and I got completely drenched by this really big wave and Jake and his brothers said I looked like a drowned rat.

And okay, fine, maybe those aren't the most romantic
memories ever (especially that last one—I mean, a drowned rat isn't exactly a compliment), but that's not the point! The point
is,
if
I
told Jake I liked him, if
I
was the one who was sending him a note,
I
would have something to compare it to.
I
would know if he suddenly got weird and didn't want to eat four corn on the cobs in front of me, or if he wasn't calling me a drowned rat and was instead trying to help me dry off at the water park, that then things would have changed.

But Emma. How could
she
tell? They have no history!

But I don't say that. Because I can't.

So I just slip the note into my bag and say, “Of course I'll let you know.”

And then the bell rings and we head to homeroom.

That note taunts me all morning. It stares up at me from my book bag, laughing and pointing. It's almost enough to make me regret the way I begged my mom for the bag I wanted—a very cute tan suede that is sophisticated and cool, but is not a normal book bag. It's one of those bags with an open top. So all through the day, every time I look down, I can SEE THAT NOTE.

BOOK: Rules for Secret Keeping
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