Teen Idol (15 page)

But she didn’t try to talk to me about it anymore. Which was such a relief.

But it was the thing with Cara that really got everybody talking about me. I mean, at first it was just Trina. You know, complaining to anyone who would listen that ever since I’d gotten asked to the Spring Fling by Luke Striker, I’d "changed."

Then, after what I said to Geri about moving on,
she
started in on it, too.
What’s wrong with Jen? Is Jen okay? She’s acting so strangely
. . . .

Nobody came right out and said it in front of me, but I knew it was happening. Voices fell silent whenever I walked into the ladies’ room, a sure sign I’d been the topic of conversation.

And at the lunch table, people steered far from the subject weighing most heavily on everyone’s minds Luke Striker.

The only person at school who treated me at all normally anymore—well, besides Mr. Hall, who still yelled at me about my jazz hands—was Scott. Scott went on being the same old Scott, taking over whenever he didn’t like what I was doing with the layout of the paper, helping me pick out which Ask Annie letters to print, making fun of whatever book I’d most recently loaned him, offering me bites of his homemade tortellini with four-cheese sauce at lunchtime.

Scott was still just . . . Scott.

Even my parents were treating me differently I don’t know if it was on account of knowing I’d been invited to a school dance—the first time this had ever happened—or if it was
who
had invited me. In any case, suddenly they started treating me as if I were closer to their age than to Cal’s or Rick's. For instance, my dad asked me when I wanted to go down to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my learner’s permit, something he’d never once brought up before, for fear, I’d always been sure, that he might actually have to get into a car with me behind the wheel.

My mom, meanwhile, surprised me by saying one morning over her corn flakes, as if I were a friend of hers and not her daughter, "I wish you’d ask Cara Schlosburg to go to the movies or something with you, Jenny. Her mother was telling me at the Y yesterday that Cara’s been very down lately. She even asked her parents if they’d look into getting her a transfer to the girls’ military academy over in Culver next fall."

Military academy!
Cara
? I was shocked. I mean, I didn’t blame Cara for wanting to go to school someplace where people wouldn’t moo at her.

But
military
school? Clayton High is bad, but not as bad as
military
school.

Or was it?

All I knew for sure was that, if it was, it wasn’t going to be that way for long.

I knew I didn’t have any time to lose, so I didn’t procrastinate. I walked up to Cara at lunch the very day my mom mentioned the Culver thing and asked, "What are you doing after school today?"

Cara had been nibbling on a lettuce leaf, pretending that was all she was going to eat for lunch. I knew, of course, that she had a locker full of Little Debbie snack cakes and that she’d be chowing down on them as soon as she thought no one was looking. I’d walked by and seen her doing it.

She looked up at me and went, "
Me
?" Then she glanced behind her, as if to make sure I was really speaking to her and not someone else. "Um. Nothing. Why?"

"Because I need to talk to you about something," I said. "Can I come over to your house?"

She looked as shocked as I’d felt when my mom had dropped the bomb about Culver. A wave of guilt washed over me when I realized that I was probably the first person—ever—to ask Cara if I could come over to her house.

"
You
want to come over to my house?" Now Cara looked suspicious, as if she thought I might be playing a trick on her. "What for?"

"I told you," I said. "I need to talk to you about something. What bus do you take?"

"Number thirty-five," Cara said. "It leaves from school at three ten. But—"

"See you at three ten," I said. And I turned around to go back to my table.

"Wait a minute." Cara’s face was slowly turning red. I guess because she was starting to realize how many people had been observing our conversation I am, after all, going to the Spring Fling with Luke Striker You could say that I attract a certain amount of attention from my peers everywhere I go. "Are you sure . . . are you sure this isn’t some kind of mistake?"

"I’m sure," I said. And walked away.

I had to skip my after-school
Register
meeting in order to fit Cara into my schedule, but I figured the paper could get along without me for one day Cara, I knew, needed me more.

As soon as I got to her house, I saw that my job was going to be easier than I’d imagined. That’s because it turned out Cara lived in a totally normal house—not a trailer, with moonshine-mixing parents, as was rumored—but a blue-gray split-level with white gingerbread trim and potted geraniums along the driveway.

Mrs. Schlosburg, who greeted us at the door with a plate of still warm-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies (Cara had obviously called ahead to warn her mother that she was bringing home a guest), was an attractive woman in a Talbots sweater—no missing teeth, no pack-a-day habit, as had been rumored—who went out of her way to make me feel welcome I should've figured as much, seeing how she belongs to the same aquasize class set my mother does. She kept asking me if there was anything I wanted—anything at all—and letting me know I was totally welcome to stay for dinner.

I could perfectly understand Mrs. Schlosburg’s enthusiasm. Being the girl-next-door type, I am very much a favorite among the parental set. It’s sickening but true.

But Mrs. Schlosburg had no idea that it wasn’t the girl next door she was dealing with. Oh, no.

The first thing I did when Cara showed me to her room—which was every bit as frilly as my own—was fling open her closet door and pull out all the capri pants that I found hanging there.

"What are you doing?" Cara asked curiously.

"I once told you to be yourself," I said. "And you told me you don’t know who that is. Well, I’m going to show you. Go wash your hair."

Cara just stared at me. "But—"

"Go get in the shower."

"But—"

"Do it."

Somewhat to my surprise, Cara did as I told her. I had to hand it to Luke. For a guy I couldn’t figure out to save my life, he’d sure figured out
me
. I was a natural born leader. It was like in my blood or something.

I was still going through her closet, nibbling on the chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Schlosburg had brought me, when Cara emerged from the bathroom in a towel, her hair curling damply around her face.

She looked from me to the mounting pile of clothes on her bed.

"What are you doing?" she wanted to know.

"These you may wear to school," I said, indicating the things I’d left hanging in her closet. Most of them were what my mom would call fashion
classics
—some button-down shirts, a jeans skirt, a few sweaters, a couple of pairs of flat-front khakis—darker shades only—black jeans, a pair of Nike's, some clogs, a cute pair of platform sandals, and a few A-line skirts.

"These," I said, gesturing to the three-foot pile of capri pants, miniskirts, halter tops, cargo pants, and low-riders—clothes my mom would have labeled as
trendy
—"you should really give to Goodwill. I know Courtney and those guys wear clothes like these. But just because something is in style doesn’t mean it’s right for you. It’s more important to look good than to look fashionable."

Cara stared at me. "But isn’t that the same thing?"

I could see we had a long road ahead of us.

After that, it was time to work on Cara’s hair. I had spent enough time around Trina—who dyes her own locks every chance she gets—to know what a difference mousse and a few well-placed highlights could do. I decided—since Cara said she didn’t know—that she should go auburn. Not red. Nothing too flashy. Just a deep, interesting, Mary-Jane-from-Spider-Man auburn.

I hadn’t come armed only with beauty products, of course. I knew I couldn’t just give Cara a makeover and call it a day. I had also brought over some of my favorite books and DVDs, including the later seasons of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. One of Cara’s problems had always seemed to me to be that she wasn’t the world’s best conversationalist. You can’t blame her, really, since the only people she ever hung around—not that they ever actually spoke to her, but whatever—were girls like Courtney Deckard, who talk more about
things
—apres sun cream, the Zone—than
ideas
. Boring.

I thought it might help if, while I was improving Cara’s looks, I tried to improve her mind. Just a little. So she’d have something to talk with people about. Besides her diet, that is.

Plenty of mousse, a spritz of hair spray for volume, a general toning down of the whole eyeliner thing, and a lot of covering up what she used to let all hang out later, and Cara was transformed. She’d gone from
why me
? to
look at me
! in just a couple of hours. By the time I finally got through with her, Mr. Schlosburg had gotten home from work So I had him and Mrs. Schlosburg sit in the living room, then "presented" the new and—in my opinion, anyway—improved Cara to them.

The completely stunned expressions on their faces were all the proof I needed that I had done a good job, Mrs. Schlosburg even took photos.

I accepted the Schlosburgs’ invitation to take me to dinner at Clayton Inn, Clayton, Indiana’s fanciest restaurant (the place where the Spring Fling would be held). I figured it would be a good opportunity to give Cara her next lesson . . . that it was healthier to fill up on a rib eye and baked potato at dinner than it was to nibble a dinky salad with no dressing, only to scarf down seven hundred Little Debbie snack cakes later in the evening. From now on, I instructed Cara, she was to eat three full—but healthy—meals a day. No more plates of iceberg in the caf, please.

Where, I informed her, she’d be sitting at my table from now on . . . a statement which caused her eyes to go very wide.

By the time Mr. and Mrs. Schlosburg dropped me off at home, they were both gushing with appreciation over my having taken their daughter under my wing. I have to admit that made me a little uncomfortable. Oh, not that they were so deeply touched or anything. But the fact was, I ought to have stepped in and taken Cara under my wing long before I finally had. I’d let her flounder around by herself for far, far too long.

But, I told myself, as I got ready for bed, all that was changing. Cara wasn’t the only one undergoing a transformation.

Buh-bye, nice little Jenny Greenley, everybody’s best friend. Hello, Jen, effector of social change.

And anybody who hadn’t realized it by noon the next day certainly knew it by the end of lunch. That’s when Cara and I made our entrance to the caf.

She had, I was satisfied to see, forgone the blow-drying that morning. Her newly darkened hair sprung in naturally curly waves all around her face, framing it beautifully. What little makeup she had on enhanced instead of smothered. And there appeared to be a new spring in her step that I couldn’t remember ever having seen before.

Standing outside the cafeteria doors, where we’d agreed to meet, Cara tugged on her split-sleeved blouse and made sure the hem of her knee-length—no more minis: some things a girl should keep a mystery—rayon skirt was even. I reached up and adjusted an auburn curl so that it lay across one shoulder.

"Ready?" I asked her.

Cara nodded nervously. Then she said, "Can I ask you something first though, Jen?"

"Shoot," I said.

Cara’s gaze was steady. "Why . . . why are you doing this for me?"

I had to think about that one for a second. I couldn’t say anything about Culver, because I didn’t want her to know that her mother had been talking to mine about her. And of course I couldn’t say anything about how Luke had told me that it was the job of people like me to help people like her.

Except that, when I really thought about it, I realized that neither of those were the reason why I’d helped Cara. I’d helped Cara because . . .

"Because I like you, Cara."

Maybe I’d realized it a little late But it was still true.

So that’s what I said, with a shrug.

Except maybe I should have kept that information to myself, because Cara’s eyes filled up with tears, jeopardizing her mascara. . . .

"Oh my God!" I cried. "Stop it'"

"I can’t help it," Cara said, starting to sniffle. "That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me—"

I couldn’t get those cafeteria doors open fast enough.

"In!" I commanded, pointing imperiously.

The din hit us with as much force as the scent of today’s special—turkey chili. I felt Cara take a step backward, jolted by the roar.

But retreat was not an option. I reached behind me, found a clammy hand, and pulled.

We were inside. And heading down the catwalk.

Don’t hesitate—
, I’d advised Cara the night before.
If you hesitate
—
if you show so much as an instant of indecision
—
they’ll attack. Remember, I’ll be right there with you. Keep your gaze straight ahead. Don’t slouch. Don’t shuffle
.

And for the love of God, don’t make eye contact.

I was trying to play it casual, so I didn’t look at Cara. I had no idea whether or not she was following my instructions.

But I could tell by the slowly decreasing decibel level in the room that something was happening. People were pausing mid-conversation. Soon, you couldn’t even hear a fork scrape. Silence—for the first time in the history of Clayton High School—reigned in the cafeteria. The only sound I could hear were those of my own footfalls . . . and the click-clack of Cara’s platform sandals.

I risked a glance at Cara then. Her cheeks were turning as pink as her blouse.

But to my relief, she didn’t waver.

She didn’t hesitate.

And she didn’t make eye contact.

I stooped and picked up two trays I handed one to her. We made our way down the concession line. I took a bowl of turkey chili, a tossed salad—with the dressing on it—some cornbread, a diet soda, and an apple. Cara did the same. The lunch ladies eyed us, but not because of our food choices.