Starstruck (8 page)

I
SET MY ALARM CLOCK
for three-thirty in the morning, which is ridiculously early for school, but no earlier than I’ve been waking up every day to help with the bakery. There’s still more to do, and I want to be prepared. The first thing I do is switch on the light and inspect my skin. No self-tanner streaks. Thank the fake-sun gods.

My mother’s heading out the door in her baker’s whites when I walk into the kitchen. “Are you feeling all right, hon?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m—”

“Your stomach’s okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to work out a little,” I say, pointing to the television.

I read in a magazine once that exercise boosts confidence. It releases endorphins, which is the equivalent of three glasses of wine. Since I need all the help I can get, I spend an hour kicking and jabbing, until I’m drenched in sweat. An hour of Tae Bo, coupled with not eating dinner or snacks the night before, and the only thing that feels lighter is my head.

Still, I make it into the shower without passing out and then spend an hour trying to curl my hair into nice, loose, flowy curls that don’t particularly look like any geometric shape. Then I apply all the makeup I laid out last night: mascara, eyeliner, blush, lip gloss. Then I pull on a pair of black capris and a really cute black top covered with white, yellow, and blue daisies. I throw on my black flip-flops and tousle and spray my hair again, and two hours after I started, I’m done.

Evie’s just coming out of her room, tossing her hair into a clip, when she spots me. “Oh” is all she says at first.

“Is that oh, good, or oh, yuck?”

“No, it’s …” She sniffs, overcome with emotion. She bounds over to me and touches my shirt, maybe to make sure I’m real. “Wow. Where did you get this?”

“Melinda’s daughter. She left all these clothes—”

“The prostitute?”

I’m about to tell her that it’s a long story when a car horn blares. Evie turns and bounces toward the window. She opens the slats and peeks through. “It’s Wish,” she says.

“You need a ride?” I ask.

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment, then waves me off. “No, that’s okay. It would probably be too crowded with Becca and me. Besides, I really think everything with you and Rick was just a misunderstanding. I mean—”

I grab my bag and put up my hand. “Fine. Gotta go.”

Taking a breath, I head outside. It’s a nice day; the sun is already warm and the birds are singing like crazy. When I step down the last stair on the rickety staircase on the side of the building, Wish’s truck comes into view. He’s standing on the curb, ready to open the passenger-side door, like a real gentleman. He takes one look at me and blinks. “Whoa. I’d say you’re feeling better.”

“Much.” I grin. I think about doing a little twirl to show off my stuff, but I decide I will probably trip and end up bleeding on the sidewalk. “Do you like?”

“Very much. You did your hair, right?” He reaches out and twists a curl around his finger.

“Um, yeah.” Well, at least he recognized that, even if he didn’t notice the thirty other things I did. I’ve heard men aren’t the most observant when it comes to that.

I climb into his truck. Again, I notice he has the mirrors tilted so that the sun is streaming into his eyes, making them look like pools of chlorinated water. To ward off any more uncomfortable silences, I thought of topics of conversation during most of the two hours I spent getting ready. Nothing heavy, just light, fun things. As he takes off toward the bridge, I see Rick’s BMW in the rearview mirror and pull one out of my arsenal. “So, how are the waves here compared to the ones in California?”

Wish doesn’t answer me. It was a good question, or at least I thought it was. Not too difficult, and it shows I care about his hobbies. In fact, it was at the top of my list of “safe” topics to talk about. Topics like bodily functions, sex, and body parts normally hidden by clothing were on my “extremely unsafe” list, but surfing, well, I figured that to be pretty harmless. Until now.

I realize he’s staring out the rearview mirror, too, at my sister as she hops into Rick’s convertible. “He’s not driving your sister to school, is he?”

“Who? Rick? Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “She says she’s infatuated with his car only, but I don’t buy it.”

He swings the truck into third gear, and I marvel at how manly his hairy forearm looks on the stick. I’m just deciding that there is nothing sexier than a guy shifting a manual transmission when he says, “If I had a sister, I’d never let her anywhere near that guy.”

“Believe me, I’ve warned her. It didn’t do any good.”

He pauses. “I know you did. But she’s not listening, because you’re too nice.” He thinks for a second. “Maybe I should talk to her.”

“Be my guest.”

“Kids these days …” He puts on his best old-fogey voice and pumps his fist in the air. “I feel sorry for her.”

“What for?”

He sighs. “Being beautiful. It’s not fun. People want things from you. They suck you dry.” He gives me a half smile. “So I hear.”

So he has noticed Evie’s beauty, even though he hasn’t noticed my lack thereof. He’s obviously speaking from personal experience. I can’t add anything to the conversation, so I just shrug.

“You’re too nice. I would scream at her to stay away. I would smack it into her,” he says.

“Sure you would.” The thing is, even though he’s calling me nice, he’s the one who should be applying for sainthood. He hardly knows Evie, yet he doesn’t want to see her hurt. And here I am, related by blood to Evie and actually a little excited to see Rick teach her a lesson so I can say, “I told you so.” In fact, I get a small thrill thinking about it. “You think Rick is going to break her heart?” I ask as we sail over the bridge to the mainland. The windows are open, letting in the cool bay breeze, and seagulls are perched on every streetlight, almost like an audience, wondering what stupid question I’ll ask next.

“I think he’s going to show his bad side to her, sooner or later. It always comes through, eventually, but the sooner it does, the better off she’ll be.”

“He already did show his bad side,” I say, thinking about that day in the bakery. “She seems immune.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“She’s never really dated anyone before,” I explain, kind of embarrassed, since I’m not Miss Experience myself. “She’s only fourteen. It’s all new to her.”

I don’t bother to add that it’s all new to me, too. He doesn’t have to be Einstein to know that, anyway.

We pull into the school’s driveway, and I’m happy I still have almost my entire arsenal of conversation topics intact. Wish and I didn’t have a pause in conversation at all, and I never once felt like I wanted to throw up. Things are going great.

But right then, Wish downshifts to second, then reaches over and puts his hand on my knee. Before I can tell my mouth to behave, I let out a little scream.

He snatches his hand away. “Oops.”

I want to say something smooth, like “Hot hands,” since he did practically burn me the last time with his finger, it was so warm. Or was that just my nutty imagination? But I’m wearing pants, so I have no idea what temperature his hand is. It was just a nice, friendly gesture, something a parent would do to a child, or a teacher would do to a student, Dough. It did not warrant a scream or a shriek or anything of the sort. Moron. “It just … surprised me,” I say, wooden. “You can do it again.”

He doesn’t bother. I don’t blame him. The invitation was like “Oh yes, please stick needles in my eyeballs.” He just slides into a parking space in the junior lot and looks at me. “I know, I know. We can take things slow,” he says, reading my mind. He pats my cheek gently, the heat from his hand radiating over my face, making it burn again. Ouch. He gives the word “hottie” a whole new meaning.

I smile shyly, realizing that no girl in her right mind, Erica or anyone, would need to take it slow. Not with a guy like Wish. She would have jumped on him by now. Ravished his body, stuffed a house key and a slip of paper with her phone number into his pants. I want to grab his hand and put it back on my knee, but that’s when I notice that though it’s again over eighty degrees, he’s wearing the same black shirt he wore yesterday. Or maybe a different one, but it looks the same. For a guy who just came from California, isn’t that weird?

I kind of like it. It’s nice that there’s one weird thing about Wish, as it makes the hundreds of weird things about me seem slightly less apparent.

Just slightly.

Cleansing breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

As we get closer to the crowd of students waiting outside for the first bell to ring, it occurs to me that I don’t look normal. Rather, I look like I’m in labor or doing a stair climb of the Empire State Building. I try to hide it by breathing through my nose, but I know that my nostrils are probably flaring like two big black holes, and then my chest hurts and I begin to feel dizzy. Oxygen. I need more oxygen.

Before I can go looking for a mask and tank, we somehow end up in the crowd. I’m only slightly aware that I’m trailing behind Wish, like some ugly boil on his backside, instead of walking beside him, like his equal. In an echo chamber, to my own heartbeat, I hear someone call, “Wish, yo, Wish!” and Wish turns and starts to head there, so I follow. This time, I’m positive I look like a butt boil. When Wish stops, I nearly step on the heels of his Vans and smack my nose between his shoulder blades. I take a step to the side and the same crowd from Wednesday’s lunch table’s there, in a tight U, open just enough so that Wish can fill the space and make it a circle.

Confidence, I tell myself, quickly attaching myself to Wish’s side before the circle can close. The guy on my right, Skull, elbows me in the boobs. It only hurts like hell for a second.

I don’t think he recognizes me at first, but then he gives me a nod. “Word.”

I’m not sure why, but I take it as an apology. “It’s okay!” I burst out really loudly, grabbing his massive, muscle-bound arm and squeezing it a little. I never knew this, but the Confident Me likes to touch people. A lot. It doesn’t cross my mind that Skull might be one of those people who hate being fondled by strangers until I catch him looking at my hand, on his arm, with dark, murderous eyes. Slowly, I release my grip, and it becomes obvious to me that all eyes in the group are on me.

“Oh, hey, all!” I say, giving a big wave. Again, I’m loud enough for residents of China to hear. Terra’s standing across from me, biting her lip in a rare speechless moment. “Wow, fantastic …” My eyes trail down her body as I look for something to compliment. What? Blouse, jeans, shoes. What? They’re all pretty fantastic. I can take my pick. Nails. Bag. No, nails. Wait, bag. I finally spit out, “Nag.”

She stares at me. Destiny snorts, then looks at Erica. “Did she just call her a fantastic nag?”

“I mean, bag,” I say more softly so the entire continent can’t hear me this time. I move into the center of the circle, which I think might be against their Laws of Social Interaction, from the way they’re all staring at me, open-jawed. But Confident Me makes her own rules. I start to touch the rough fabric. There I go again, Miss Happy Fingers, fondling everything that doesn’t belong to me. “What is it?”

She gives me a look, and I know she’s on to me. The Hanes wardrobe I’ve sported over the past four years might have given her the tip-off that I’m not exactly a member of the Versace family. She says a name, something obviously foreign, probably spelled with a bunch of accents and squiggles and silent letters.

It must be a big deal, because Destiny raises her eyebrows, and suddenly, even she can’t keep her hands off the bag. “Seriously? Love it.”

It’s freaking burlap. But I don’t bother to mention that it looks like something horses would eat out of. After all, I’ve already called Terra a nag. Considering her unfortunate resemblance, it’s best to avoid any more horse associations for the rest of … well, for the rest of forever.

“Trés chic,”
I find myself saying. What the … I don’t speak French. But Confident Me can speak in many tongues, I guess. I might have gotten that from an episode of
Project Runway.

Strangely, none of them thinks it sounds as pretentious as I do. Erica looks me over, and right when I’m sure she’s about to point out my rolls of flesh, she says, “Speaking of chic, nice top. It’s Marc, isn’t it?”

Oh my God. Erica the Amazing just complimented me. Me! I fish for the sarcasm in her voice, but there is none. She’s genuinely admiring my blouse. But who is Marc? Marc, Marc, Marc. I think there was a kid in our class in second grade named Marc, but he moved away. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s somehow magically reinserted himself into the circle, but there’s no one new there, just Skull and Wish, discussing something sports related again.

The confusion on my face must be a glowing beacon, because she says, “Jacobs? The designer?”

“Oh. Yes.” Obviously it’s not but I can’t stop my head from nodding like it’s on a puppet string. I can’t even tell you my own name right now.

Destiny’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t know Marc made things that size.”

Terra snorts. But Erica waves her off. “Stop it, Des,” she says, moving closer to me. “It’s really nice. Brings out the color in your eyes.”

My heart starts to twitter. She has seen past my designer shirt, to my eyes. To me. And not the part of me that’s immediately obvious, either. I have to fight the momentary compulsion to leap into her arms. “Thanks,” I gush.

Then silence. Crap.

“So,” I say, making the word really long and loud, mentally sorting through the topics of conversation I planned. I’m on her radar. This is my moment. I have to pounce on it now, before I become invisible again. “You guys going to the party tonight?”

Terra laughs. “Well. I guess I should. Since it’s at my house.”

“Oh. Right,” I say as Destiny giggles into her fist. I point at her and Erica. “I meant these guys.”

Erica nods. “We’ll be there. You?”

I nod back, maybe a little too eagerly. “Oh, yeah. I need to wind down. It’s been a tough week.”

Destiny grins wickedly at Terra. “Great. You’ll have to do some of the Goldbar family’s famous Jell-O shots.”