Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later (2 page)

Still, David did have a great body, and maybe the tip thing was accidental. Right from the start Elizabeth could tell he was attracted to her. It had probably helped in the hiring, though she had decent credentials, but a little gratitude wouldn’t hurt. He was, after all, a nice guy.

A nice guy she didn’t feel like sleeping with.

On the other hand, in the eight months she had been in New York she hadn’t slept with anyone but Russ Klein, a friend of the rental agent for the building. With Elizabeth’s permission, the agent had given Russ her e-mail address. They e-mailed back and forth for a couple of days, and he seemed like a nice guy. Like Elizabeth, he was new to New York; he had come four months earlier for a job as a trader on Wall Street. Coffee turned into a three-week miniaffair spread out over two months. Definitely rebound stuff. She cried after every orgasm. How embarrassing, but he pretended not to notice. Russ was not a man to complicate a good thing with feelings.

Elizabeth had thought maybe they’d stay friends after—not that they had such a great connection—but she was in the market for new friends, people with no association to Sweet Valley. Whenever anyone asked where she came from, she said California. They immediately thought L.A., and she didn’t disabuse them.

But it didn’t happen, the friendship with Russ. His sister was in the middle of a divorce, and though Elizabeth thought she was good at hiding her own problems, he sensed another sad story and got out of the way.

She could feel David staring at her while she feigned deep involvement with her wineglass. Eventually, she would have to turn toward him. That would be the moment. The turn would be a Yes, let’s have sex, or a No way.

Beyoncé was having her heart broken in soft sounds.
“… don’t wanna love you in no kind of way, no no.”

A little more of this and she would cry
before
the orgasm.

“That was my sister. I mean, on the phone.” At the moment it seemed the lesser of two evils. Elizabeth stood, reached out, hit the Next button, and Justin Timberlake was in love,
“… holding hands, walking on the beach
 …
toes in the sand.”

She had to remember to change the CDs.

“We had a little something, nothing important. You know, sisters…”

Now she was standing, safe, having made the decision not to have sex with him. “I’m doing the Will Connolly interview Thursday; how long do you want the piece?”

David hesitated for a moment, adjusting to the loss, then spoke. “Seven hundred fifty words should be enough. Don’t go more than a thousand.” He finished his wine.

“Another glass?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m running early tomorrow morning.”

Pushing himself off the low couch was like doing a bench press, but he did it flawlessly.

There were a few awkward seconds when Elizabeth opened the door, but they pulled it together, and by the time David said, “See you tomorrow,” and patted her head, they were back to business.

Elizabeth leaned against the closed door. A faint hint of regret was wiped out by relief.

“Stupid!” she said to the stereo as she clicked Timberlake off, walked to the kitchen, and refilled her wineglass.

Almost one in the morning. But really only 10:00
P.M.
She always did that—went back to real time. Eight months and she was still taking off those damn three hours. Would she ever truly be free of Sweet Valley?

That was minor compared to being free of being a twin. How to explain something as natural and unlearned as seeing or feeling when you’ve never known anything different? It was always that way with a matching half: You only knew it by its absence.

She remembered a poem they had found when they were about ten called “The Twins.”

In form and feature, face and limb,

I grew so like my brother,

That folks got taking me for him,

And each for one another.

They both loved that poem, especially the ending:

And when I died, the neighbors came

and buried brother John.

Would anyone else ever delight in that silly poem?

Like the twins of that poem, Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield appeared interchangeable, if you considered only their faces.

And what faces they were.

Gorgeous. Absolutely amazing. The kind you couldn’t stop looking at. Their eyes were shades of aqua that danced in the light like shards of precious stones, oval and fringed with thick, light brown lashes long enough to cast a shadow on their cheeks. Their silky blond hair, the cascading kind, fell just below their shoulders. And to complete the perfection, their rosy lips looked as if they were penciled on. There wasn’t a thing wrong with their figures, either. It was as if billions of possibilities all fell together perfectly.

Twice.

Elizabeth finished the last of the wine in her glass, undressed and slipped into her oversized SVU T-shirt, and curled up on the couch.

The outside noises of a New York apartment in Midtown Manhattan were a constant: garbage trucks, standing buses spewing the sounds of endless pollution, an occasional police siren, a vagrant nut screaming obscenities, and now and then Con Edison digging. But in the last eight months it had become white noise for Elizabeth Wakefield, barely registering as more than background, never disturbing the silence of the apartment enough to keep her from feeling alone.

Especially tonight.

Bereft and abandoned, Elizabeth was overwhelmed with feelings of loss, with the ache that had been chewing at her insides day in and day out. The betrayal. Without trying, she’d become the lyrics to every sad love song.

That he didn’t love her anymore should have been the most important part, but it paled next to his deceit and betrayal. Elizabeth winced when she thought how blind she’d been, what a fool she must have looked like all that time.

And all that time may have been years.

When the light finally came, she’d followed her first instinct and fled. And now here she was, self-exiled, stranded alone in strange territory.

Everything about New York was unfamiliar. Yes, she had been here before. In her freshman year at SVU she had won a competition to have her one-act play produced in New York during spring break.

It had been one of the most exciting times in her life, in fact, so exciting that she’d barely noticed where she was. And then to make it even more fabulous, she’d gotten some good reviews that turned into raves when Jessica took over the lead.

But this was a different New York. Now she was really living here and alone and miserable. And she knew every ugly detail of the apartment.

To begin with, it was old. Growing up in Sweet Valley, nothing was old. Old was more than thirty years. And nothing seemed to have more than a couple of coats of paint. Not enough so that you could see it. Here, the old paint, maybe eighty years’ worth, was so thick it looked like plaster but bumpier and more uneven. No sharp corners anywhere. And no matter how much she cleaned, the dirt seemed painted in. Nothing had that bright, crisp feeling of home and what used to be.

She didn’t even have any real friends. Sure, she’d gotten to know some people, even a woman in her building, but there was no one she trusted. Good. About time she learned not to trust.

It was still early enough to call her best friend, the only friend she still had from Sweet Valley, Bruce Patman. It still made her smile when she thought of that impossibly arrogant and conceited boy of high school. Actually, she could hardly remember him that way anymore.

She could call. It wasn’t even eleven there. Not that she hadn’t called him a lot later than that. In fact, there were a few three-in-the-morning beauties when she first arrived in New York—whiny and complaining—she was almost too embarrassed to remember them.

She could call him now. But she wasn’t going to. Not when she was feeling so low. He took it too seriously, like a good friend would, and she just didn’t want to upset him. Bruce Patman upset by someone else’s trouble? That almost made her smile.

But she didn’t call and she didn’t smile.

The room was still. And silent. Until she hit the Replay button on the answering machine.

“Lizzie. Pick up. Please. I really need to talk to you.”

Never!

“Please, Lizzie. I really need to talk to you.”

Exactly the same words. Only it’s eleven years earlier and Jessica and I are sixteen. And it’s not on an answering machine, it’s face-to-face.

“No way, Jess,” I tell her, “Daddy said no car for the whole month, and I’m not giving you the keys.”

“You’d think I totaled the whole car. It was just a tap on a way ugly little mailbox.”

“And half the rear fender.”

“That really sucks. You can’t even see it from the front.”

“Forget it. I’m
so
not giving you the keys.”

But Jessica is not one to give up, and for the whole ten-minute ride from home to Sweet Valley High, she pleads with me, nags, cajoles, bribes, and finally threatens, but I don’t budge. My parents have given instructions and, unlike my twin, I follow instructions.

When Jessica sees that it’s hopeless, she resorts to punishment.

“Todd called.”

I bite. “Todd Wilkins?” Now she has my complete attention. “For me?”

“No way.”

“For you?” I can feel my voice creeping up about two octaves from my normal tone, like a squeak from a disappointed eight-year-old.

“Like you’re surprised that the captain of the basketball team would call the captain of the cheerleaders? Can’t you see we’re a natural?”

“I guess.”

For a flash, I think I see Jessica feeling a tiny prick of guilt, but it’s gone in a flash. Maybe it was never there. Truth is they are a natural, she and Todd, and besides, he’s a jock, and everyone knows I’m not interested in jocks.

Except for this one.

Ever since I first saw him in kindergarten hanging on to his ratty baby blanket with the pulled-out fringes, his face shiny with big fat tears because his mommy was leaving him. I try not to remember that his nose was running right down to his lip.

Are there pheromones at five?

And
coups de foudre
?

I tried to give him a tissue, but he threw it on the floor. Was that a portent of the future that I was too love-blind to see?

And just in case any shred of hope lingers, Jessica jolts me back to reality. “He called to wish me luck with Pi Beta today. I think he’s going to ask me to the Phi Epsilon dance.”

“Cool,” I say as my stomach drops. A stomach can drop even if it doesn’t really go anywhere. The sliding sensation, along with what feels like a whoosh of empty air, is absolutely physical. Especially when, as in my case, that person is struggling with an important crush.

Jessica gets quiet, so deep in some kind of plan—she is a planner, often devious—that she doesn’t even notice that I’ve stopped the car to pick up Enid Rollins, whom Jessica refers to as Wuss of the World.

Enid jumps into the backseat.

“I have to talk to you about something,” Enid whispers to the back of my head.

Enid is my dearest friend, and I really love her, but the jealousy between Jessica and Enid sometimes makes things very uncomfortable: divided loyalties, but not really. No one could be closer than my sister. I wouldn’t know how to do that.

“What?” I don’t quite hear what she’s saying.

“Later,” she says.

Jessica sticks her head between us. “I am so not interested in anything you say. Especially anything about boring Ronnie Edwards.”

Enid lets out a yelp. “Who told you? And he is
so
not boring!”