Skater Boy (6 page)

The boy snorts, but doesn't follow up. Instead he pulls out a Nintendo 3DS and starts battling space aliens or whatever you do on those things.

“That's Stuart,” Starr says. “Obsessed with all things medieval and all things video-game related.”

“And all-around pain in the butt,” groans the girl to his right. She's really pretty, with brown curly hair and bright green eyes. She reaches out her hand. “I'm Sophie Sawyer.”

“Sophie is an amazing computer genius,” Starr says. “She can, like, hack websites and everything.”

“Shhh,” Sophie says, putting a hand to her lips. But I can tell she's pleased by Starr's description. “You're gonna make her think I'm some kind of nerd or something,” she admonishes.

But I don't think that. That's the funny thing. In fact, to me, these people all seem a hundred percent cooler than any of my so-called popular friends.

“Dawn, are you, like, okay?”

Speak of the devils. I look up to see that all three Ashleys have paraded over to the table and are staring down at me, arms folded across their chests, overly concerned expressions on their faces.

“Yeah, did you, like, hit your head or something?” Ashley #2 chimes in. She's so clever.

“No, I'm fine,” I say, biting my lower lip. I knew they'd be ticked at me for walking away mid-makeup convo, but I had no idea they'd actually come after me, intervention style. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

“Then what are you doing here? Sitting with these … skanky losers?” asks Ashley #1, tossing back her long blond hair.

I cringe. What do I do now? Do I laugh it off, get up and rejoin my friends? Not rock the boat of my precarious high-school existence? If I diss them now, I know for a fact, that'll be it. I'll be a reject for the next two years of high school. Blacklisted from prom committee. Not invited to any of the cool parties. Looked down upon, made fun of. Do I really want to subject myself to all of that? All because of what? I don't like to chat about shoes?

 “No, you have it wrong,” Starr interjects. “Dawn was sitting with skanky losers. She moved seats and now she's sitting with intelligent, interesting people.”

“Shut up, freak. We're talking to Dawn.”

I draw in a deep breath. I feel like time has frozen in place as practically everyone in the caf seems to stop eating and await my response.

Do I get up and pretend it was all a joke? Rejoin the friends I've had since kindergarten? Or do I stay put and defend the high-school helpless? The innocent people who the Ashleys trample on each and every day?

I steal a glance at Starr, who is staring at me with raised eyebrows. I realize she thinks I'm going to sell her down the river. That I'm still a Barbie underneath my brave new exterior. That I don't have the courage to stand up for my convictions or my new friends.

She's wrong.

“Uh,” I stammer. “I think, um, I'm going to hang here for a bit?”

(Okay, a totally lame and not at all empowering-the-downtrodden speech, but it's the best I can come up with on such short notice.)

“Whatever, Dawn,” Ashley #2 snorts. “God, when did you turn out to be such a social reject?”

And with that very snappy, clever comeback, the three Ashleys turn heel and strut back to the “cool” half of the lunchroom. It's like one of those stereotypical scenes you see in teen movies where the populars stride down the hallway in a slow-motion row, pushing away the peons who inadvertently stand in their path. It'd almost be funny if I weren't so freaked out about what I just did.

 I can't believe I just told off a) the most popular girls in school, and b) my best friends. A nagging guilt immediately starts poking at my insides. It's not like the Ashleys haven't been good friends to me. I mean, sure, they're shallow and silly, but they always treated me with respect. Included me in everything …

I shake my head. No. They deserve this and more. Okay, they've been cool to me, but they're not cool to my new friends. Or the other three-quarters of the school lunchroom. They think they're better than everyone else and they need to be taken down a peg or two. And I'm the only person who can do it effectively. Maybe I'll end up being a high-school crusader for geeks.

I turn back to my lunch tablemates. “Sorry about that,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Some people have no manners.”

Stuart lets out a whoop and the whole table combusts in excited conversation. It's score one for the loser table and I'm their new champion. They excitedly recount the pissed-off looks on the Ashleys' faces.

Starr elbows me and I turn to look at her. She smiles and pats me on the shoulder.

“You know, Barbie doesn't really fit you, namewise,” she says. “In fact, I'd better start calling you Dawn.”

Chapter Eight

 

“So listen,” I say after lunch, as Starr and I head to our next class. “Sean texted me this morning.”

Starr grins and pokes me in my side with a black-painted fingernail. “Ooh, lover girl,” she says. “I told you he likes you!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I know I'm completely blushing. Who wouldn't be? “But anyway, he says there's a rave tonight and him and Eddie are going and—”

“Really?” Starr squeals. Literally squeals. “I love raves. Have you ever been to one? I went to a ton in Europe. They're so fun!” She grabs my hand. “We have to go.”

I smile at her enthusiasm. “Yeah, I'm sure it'd be a blast. I can't go though, so I thought if you wanted to, you should call Eddie and—”

“No. You're going. Definitely. This'll be a great place to hook up with Sean. Why can't you go?”

“Are you kidding? The Evil Ones would never let me attend some all-night dance party. And I have a billion commitments on Saturday that I can't be tired for. I volunteer at a nursing home in the morning. Then I have—”

 “Dawn. Darling. Let's get those priorities straightened out,” Starr reprimands. “You want Sean. Sean wants you to attend the rave. End of story.”

I shake my head. “You don't get it. My parents won't let me go. That's the period, end of story, we're talking about here.”

“What if they didn't know?” “Huh?”

“You can tell them you're sleeping over at my house,” Starr suggests. “My dad's the headmaster. Surely they trust him to guard your virtue for the evening. I can even have him call your parents and talk to them.”

“And he won't mind us going to the rave?”

“My bedroom's in the basement and I have my own exit. We can come and go as we please and he'll never know. He's a super-heavy sleeper.”

A thrill of excitement bubbles in my belly as I consider her plan. It's so crazy it just might work. And I'll get to see Sean. Better yet, I'll get to dance with Sean. All night. How can I pass up this opportunity?

“Okay,” I say, making my decision. “I'll call them and let them know I'm spending the night with you.”

 

*

 

“Goodnight, girls.”

“Goodnight, Dad,” Starr says sweetly as her father closes her bedroom door. She waits a beat, for his footsteps to fade away, then jumps up and locks it tight.

“That takes care of him,” she says with a grin.

Those pesky butterflies are country line dancing in my stomach again. I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe what we're about to do.

The Evil Ones were surprisingly receptive to my sleeping over at Starr's house. Of course when I asked, I used her given name (Ashleigh, if you can believe it!) and casually threw in the fact that her father is headmaster of our school. My Dad went as far as suggesting I sweet-talk the guy into a Harvard recommendation letter. He always has an agenda.

Starr's home is small, but cozy, in a middle-class subdivision on the east side of town. The house is a split-level, with her bedroom taking up the entire refinished basement. It's a pretty cool room, with a futon bed, beanbag chairs, a TV with DVD and PlayStation 2, and scads of musician cutouts and posters covering almost every inch of wall space. She even has a black light, which allows for some cool glow-in-the-darkage from the star stickers she pasted to her ceiling.

“So do you just live here with your dad?” I ask, after we've changed into cozy flannel Gap pajamas.

“Yeah,” Starr says, flopping on her bed and grabbing the remote control.

“Where does your mother live?” I wonder what it'd be like to have divorced parents. Mine are like the only ones on the planet who are still married. Such weirdos.

Starr drops the remote control without flipping on the TV and rolls over onto her back, staring at her starred ceiling. “Nowhere,” she says after a long pause. “She's dead.”

Oh, nice one, Dawn. Open mouth and insert foot.

“I'm sorry,” I say, joining her on the bed. “I didn't mean to—”

“It's okay,” Starr assures me. “She had breast cancer. Died a year ago next week.”

 I look over and catch her swiping at the corner of her eyes with her sleeve. Is she crying? It's weird to see this tough, punk-rock chick looking so vulnerable.

“Sorry,” she says with a choking laugh. “I never cry. It's just … well, I miss her sometimes, you know? And it, like, just hits me.”

I don't know. I have no idea what it would be like to lose a parent. A mother. As much as I can't stand mine half the time, I do love her and couldn't imagine her not being there every night when I came home from school.

“I'm sorry, Starr,” I say, reaching over to grab the box of tissues on her night table. I hand her one and she dabs her eyes. “I can't imagine how hard that must be.”

I wonder if that's why Starr dresses the way she does. Acts all tough. Gets kicked out of boarding school. I wonder if she was completely different before her mother's illness and death.

“It's okay, thanks,” Starr says, sitting up in bed. “I'm fine. But let's change the subject, okay?”

I nod, but am suddenly unable to think of a single other topic. Some friend I am.

Starr groans. “Okay, fine. I'll pick then. New topic of the night is boys.”

“Any particular boys?” I ask, making an innocent face.

She taps her chin with her forefinger, as if pretending to think. “What about … Eddie and Sean?” she says with a grin.

So we talk about the skaters and way overanalyze everything they've said or done and how much fun we're going to have with them tonight and what we should do if they want to dance with us, kiss us, etc. Soon we're giggling like crazy.

After a bit, Starr turns on her PlayStation and we occupy ourselves with video games. I completely suck at them. Since video games are considered “uncool” with the Ashley crowd, I've hardly ever played. But even though my character dies on a regular basis, I still have a blast playing. Maybe I'm destined to be a geek….

At nine o'clock, Starr suggests we start getting ready. She heads to her closet to find us outfits. No way am I going to a rave in my Barbie school uniform, she says.

Now dressed in a pink baby-doll T-shirt (that nicely shows off my new piercing), low-rise baggy jeans, and colored sneakers, I feel like a new person. A cool individual, not an Ashley clone. In fact, I'm so psyched about my new look, I keep peeking in the mirror to make sure it's really me.

Starr chooses a more gothed-out outfit of black on black, of course, but she could look cool in anything.

Next it's makeup time. Starr slathers the stuff on her face while I content myself with a dab of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara. Then, feeling brave, I add a little eyeliner. Not so much as to make me look like Avril Lavigne, mind you, but enough that you'd actually notice I'm wearing makeup. It looks pretty cool, if I do say so myself.

Makeup application completed, Starr pulls me in front of her full-length mirror and we check each other out.

“We look fab, darling,” she pronounces in an over-the-top English accent. “Let's go.”

My heart beats wildly as Starr opens the door to exit her bedroom. This is it! The cool night breeze hits my bare stomach as we tiptoe through the yard and out to the street.

“I told Eddie to meet us in the cemetery,” Starr whispers, gesturing to the graveyard down the road. How appropriate that the goth chick lives near a cemetery.

As we reach the wrought-iron gates, car headlights flicker twice in greeting. We scamper over to the parked car, which turns out to be a beat-up red Mustang. Starr hops in the front with Eddie, the driver, and I duck into the back, where Sean is sitting. He smiles at me and places a hand on my knee. Gulp.

“Hi,” he says. “I'm glad you could come.”

“So am I,” I say, trying not to squirm at the sensation his hand is creating on my knee. He's so yummy it practically hurts.

Eddie revs the motor and soon we're on our way. He turns up the CD player and loud, angry, punk-rock music blares from the speakers, cutting off conversation. Which is fine, actually, considering I'm almost too nervous to breathe, never mind come up with intelligent dialogue.

This is the first time I've ever ridden alone in a car with boys. Pathetic, huh? But The Evil Ones say no car dating

‘til I'm sixteen and that's not ‘til next month. I'd be so grounded if they knew what I was doing now, it isn't even funny.

But all the potential trouble I'd be in is soon forgotten as Sean reaches over and takes my hand in his. His callused thumb rubs against my palm, evoking a sensation that you wouldn't believe. I swallow hard and concentrate on the raucous, decidedly unromantic music, hoping I can avoid melting into a big soppy puddle on the car floor, which would be way embarrassing.

About ten minutes later, Eddie turns left into the parking lot of a giant warehouse, set back by the river. He parks and the music dies with the motor.

“We're here,” he announces. He pulls out a flask from his leather-jacket pocket. “Want a drink?”