Teen Idol (5 page)

Of course, I couldn’t tell Scott this. You know—that his girlfriend was just picking a fight because she’s so upset about leaving him. Because it isn’t actually any of my business. And besides, he hadn’t asked Instead, I wrote,

J E N N Y G: Of course I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?

Scott wrote back.

O T E M P O R A: Yeah that’s what I thought. But Geri thinks you re mad. Of course, she doesn’t know exactly how much you've got on your plate.

No, Geri doesn't. Because she, like the rest of the world, has no idea I’m Annie.

O T E M P O R A: –but you would think she’d know you well enough by now to know you aren’t the type of girl who gets mad about stuff like that.

No, I’m not. I’m not that type of girl at all.

I told him not to worry about it, then turned to my trig homework. Because even not-that-type-of-girls have to do their homework.

Even girls who, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, are about to become close personal friends with a big star like Luke Striker.

Ask Annie

Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.

Go on, we dare you!

All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School
Register
.

Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.

Dear Annie,

I only like guys who are taken. You know, guys who already have girlfriends. I flirt with them until they dump whoever they’re dating, and then as soon as they’re available, I start not to like them anymore. What’s up with this? And what can I do to stop it
?

Wannabe Ur Girlfriend – Until I Am

Dear Wannabe Girlfriend,

You either fear commitment or get a thrill out of stealing someone else’s guy. Either way, the fact that you recognize that it’s a problem means that you are more than halfway there as far as solving it goes. Make a conscious effort to keep your mitts of your friend’s guys … because if you don’t, they won’t be your friends for long, and pretty soon you won’t have ANY friends, male
or
female
.

Annie

I
’d expected Luke
Striker to show up sometime the next week, or maybe the week after. I certainly didn’t expect him to arrive in Clayton the very next
day
.

But that’s exactly what happened. I was just sitting there in Latin, waiting for class to begin and scanning my copy of the newest
Register
, when all of a sudden the door opened, Ms. Kellogg peeked in, said my name, then crooked a finger at me.

I slid out from behind my desk and went out into the hall to join her and the tall, scruffy-looking person standing beside her.

"Jenny," Ms. Kellogg said, her eyes shining more brightly than usual. "This is Lucas Smith, the new transfer student we talked to you about yesterday."

I’d been so absorbed in Kwang’s story about Betty Ann—I have to admit, my layout job looked particularly good: There was a great photo of Betty Ann in her Clayton High cheerleader uniform with the words missing: reward underneath it, just like on the back of a milk carton—that at first I was almost like
What transfer student
?

Then I remembered. Luke Striker. Luke Striker was coming to Clayton to research a role, and he was going to pose as a transfer student.

And there he was.

Even though nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention to Ms. Kellogg or "Lucas," I felt myself starting to turn beet red with embarrassment. The second bell hadn’t rung yet, so most people were still scurrying around the hallway, not even looking toward us. I don’t know why I was so mortified.

I certainly hadn’t expected to feel this way. I mean, about seeing Luke Striker in the flesh. Or actually not even, since he had
way
more clothes on than he’d had in his last movie. Someone must have tipped him off about how boys in Indiana dressed, since he had the look down—baggy jeans, oversize football jersey, a pair of those really ugly cross trainers. He’d added to these a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, plus it looked as if he’d been growing his hair out. It was even longer than when he’d played Lancelot. And darker. Apparently, Luke’s not exactly a natural blond.

And he was taller than I thought he’d be. The guy standing there in the doorway, this guy who I was supposed to be in charge of "showing the ropes," actually looked no more like a movie star than I did . . .

Except, of course, if you knew he was one.

"Oh," I said lamely, since Ms. Kellogg just kept standing there, looking down at me all expectantly, smiling her giddiest smile "Yeah. Hi."

Luke just nodded at me. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be merciful, on account of he’d noticed my flaming cheeks or was just, you know, naturally cool. In any case, it was clear that I was about as interesting to him as an old rerun of
Heaven Help Us
.

"Well," Ms. Kellogg said, "I trust you’ll help Mrs. Mulvaney find, er, Lucas a seat. And that you’ll show him around. Right, Jen?"

"Sure," I managed to croak What was
wrong
with me? I swear I am
so
not the type to be impressed by celebrities. All the celebrities I like aren’t technically even celebrities . . . you know, like authors, like Stephen King or Tolkien or whoever.

And here I was blushing because
Luke Striker
had nodded at me.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Great," Ms. Kellogg said. The second bell rang. Behind the lenses of his glasses, Luke winced, as if the sound hurt his head.

"Well, I’ll just leave you here, then, er, Lucas," Ms. Kellogg said. People were starting to stream into the classroom—or trying to, anyway. It was kind of hard, with us blocking the doorway the way we were. "All of your teachers should be aware that you're, uh, here. We sent around a memo late yesterday."

"Great," Luke said. From behind him, I could hear Mrs. Mulvaney crying, "
Eo! Eo
!" which means
go
, or in this case,
Get out of the way
.

We got out of the way. Mrs. Mulvaney finally made it into the classroom. I noticed that she didn’t look at Ms. Kellogg or Luke, even though they’d been blocking her way. At least, not right away. Instead, her gaze went directly to the spot where Betty Ann had been.

Seeing that the doll was still gone, Mrs. Mulvaney turned her attention to the newcomers . . . but not before I saw her face twitch, just a little. I was more sure than ever that she missed Betty Ann. I mean,
really
missed her.

"Mrs. Mulvaney, this is that new pupil we spoke about, Lucas Smith," Ms. Kellogg said. "The one Jenny will be student guiding?"

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Mulvaney said, showing no sign that she’d guessed Luke’s true identity. Probably because she hadn't. Latin teachers aren’t usually all that in touch with popular culture. "Let’s have everyone behind Jen move back a seat—there’s an empty desk over by the pencil sharpener. That’s it."

Luke sank down into the seat behind me. I had to hand it to him. He even had the whole I-am-so-not-thrilled-to-be-here walk thing down. His posture and gait were indiscernible from those of Kurt Schraeder and his friends, when they came strolling in a few seconds later, just before the third and final bell.

Mrs. Mulvaney introduced the new pupil to the rest of the class—in Latin—and we all dutifully greeted our new
amicus
. Luke raised one hand and went, "Yo," in a bored voice.

Even his voice, I was mortified to note, made me blush!

As soon as Mrs. Mulvaney turned away, Luke stabbed me in the back with his pencil (eraser-end first, thank God) and whispered in my ear, "You seriously have class this early
every day?
"

It took a few seconds for the meaning behind his words to sink in. That was because chills were going all up and down my spine. Having a movie star like Luke Striker whisper in your ear? I’m telling you, my
mom
would have gotten chills.

I was trying hard to act cool about the whole thing, though. I whispered back, "Um, yes."

"But it's, like,
eight,"
Luke said with some incredulity.

"I know," I whispered back. Then, trying to be encouraging, I added, "But we get out at three."

"
Three
! That’s seven hours from now."

Luke’s breath tickled my cheek. It smelled like he’d just downed a Listerine strip. I wondered if all movie stars walk around with such minty fresh breath. Maybe that’s what sets them apart, you know, from the rest of us. Naturally nice-smelling breath.

"Um," I said, trying to keep my wits about me. But all I could manage to come up was a witty, "I know."

Luke sank back in his desk in disbelief. "Holy—"

Mrs. Mulvaney, who heard this last part, turned around and asked Luke and me, in Latin, if there was a problem. I told her there wasn't.

But there was Oh, yes, there was. Because I wasn’t expecting Luke to be such a complete and utter hottie in real life. Not, you know, that I’d thought his on-screen hotness had all been special effects, or whatever . . .

Except that I guess maybe I had.

But it wasn't.

And I wasn’t the only girl in school who noticed. Seriously. Luke followed me everywhere—to my locker, to class, to the water fountain. And though nobody recognized him—nobody even went, "Hey, you know who you look like? Luke Striker"—I noticed that the gazes of the female population of Clayton High School seemed glued to the guy. He couldn’t lift a hand to so much as smooth away a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes without causing half the people in my English class to catch their breath.

The guy was
hot
. There was no getting around it. I didn’t blame Angelique for the tattoo one little bit.

The only thing I couldn’t figure out was why she’d dumped him.

Although I can’t say I noticed that Luke was much of a conversationalist. He barely spoke three words to me all morning. I couldn’t figure out if it was because he’s just by nature a quiet guy or if he was mad at me or something. Except that I hadn’t done anything that I knew of to make him mad. It wasn’t until, trailing after me to second period trig, I got a clue as to what the problem might be when he asked blearily, "Look, is there someplace around here I can get an espresso?"

"Espresso?" Can I just say that
espresso
is not a word you hear a lot in Clayton? I tried to be nice about it though. "Well, there’s a Starbucks downtown."

"You mean I gotta
drive
somewhere if I want to get a coffee?" Luke’s blue eyes—so gorgeous on screen but in real life (even when hidden behind glasses) even more impressive, like twin swimming pools, they were so blue—widened. "What is
with
this place?"

"Well, nothing, really," I said. "I mean . . . it’s high school."

Luke pretty much slept through trig and French. He didn’t start waking up, really, until around fourth period. Which was good, because that’s when I had Troubadours. Luke was going to have to be on his toes around Trina. Because if anyone was going to see through his "disguise," it was Trina.

I warned him about her on our way to the music wing. The more time I spent around him, the less tongue-tied I was becoming.

But that didn’t mean I was, you know, exactly
at ease
in his presence. Because I still hadn’t exactly figured him out. Which is weird, because I’m usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

"If you really want to stick with this anonymity thing," I said to him, "you’re gonna totally have to watch your step around Trina, She’s got theatrical aspirations. And she has every episode of
Heaven Help Us
memorized, practically."

Luke wasn’t even paying attention to me. He’d finally opened his eyes wide enough to spy the soda machine.

"Caffeine!" he said, and practically threw himself on it. Then his face fell. "I don’t have any change!"

I fished a dollar out of my jeans and handed it to him.

"I’m serious, Luke," I said, as kids poured into the band room behind us. "Trina’s my best friend. I know what I’m talking about."

I've never seen anyone drink an entire can of Coke without pausing for breath. But Luke Striker managed it. When he was done, he let out a gentle burp and tossed the empty can over his head—backward—at the nearby trash can.

And made it.

"No problem," he said in the most animated voice he’d used all morning.

Then he smiled. And I felt my insides give a lurch. Not a good sign.

After the soda, Luke perked up a lot. And when we entered the choir room, which is like this sunken pit of carpeted risers in slowly descending steps, he even visibly brightened at the sight of his reflection in the wall of mirrors on the far side of the room, where we’re supposed to watch ourselves breathe. Or at least, those of us whose views aren’t impeded by Karen Sue Walters’s hair.

It was right then that Trina came in. I could tell she must have already heard about the new guy I was student guiding, since she looked all around the room and then, when her gaze fell on me and Luke, she got a very determined expression on her face and came barreling down the steps toward us, going, "So, Jen, aren’t you going to introduce me to your
new friend
?"

"Trina," I said quickly. "Hi. This is Lucas Smith. Lucas, this is my friend Trina."

It was at that point that Luke turned around and said to Trina, "Hi. You’re the actress, right?"

Trina looked up at Luke—he was pretty tall, over six feet—and practically melted into a puddle right in front of him.

"Why," she said, in a voice I’d never heard her use before. "Yes. That’s me."

"Nice to meet you," Luke said. "So what’s the theater department like here? Is it any good?"

I wanted to elbow Luke and be all,
Cool it on the theater stuff
, because I was afraid Trina would make the connection—Lucas Smith . . . theater . . .
Luke Striker
.

But I guess I overestimated Trina’s obsession with the guy, since she just started going off about how it was a shame he’d transferred too late to audition for the spring musical and how the local paper had called her portrayal of Auntie Mame "inspired" and how lucky Lucas was that Mr. Hall had let him into Troubadours at all, that the audition process had been really arduous. . . .