The Fruit of My Lipstick (26 page)

Lissa got up and tossed the last of the popcorn in the trash, then put her glass soda bottle in the recycling container by the door. “I’ve gotta go pack, you guys. We’re heading down to Santa Barbara at nine or some horrible early hour. See you at breakfast.”

Within a few minutes, Shani and Carly had melted away, too, leaving me alone on the couch with Jeremy and a couple of random kids on the other side of the room watching TV.

“That was nice of you,” he said. “To invite her home with you.”

“I had no idea I was going to until it just . . . popped out. I hope it turns out okay.” I looked down at my hands. “We haven’t exactly had a beautiful friendship up until now.”

“You will.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“She’s nice. A little in-your-face, but so are you.”

I smiled. “Thanks a lot.”

“I meant that in a good way. You’re honest. Most people know where they stand with you.”

More honest with other people than with myself sometimes, but I didn’t say that to him. Maybe being honest with yourself was something you had to learn. I was a work in progress.

He closed one hand inside the other, then switched them. “So . . . where do I stand?”

I blinked and focused on him. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Gillian. Are you going to make me say it?”

“Say what?” What was he talking about?

His knuckles turned white. “That I think you’re amazing, and it’s taken me almost three months to get you alone to tell you?” The words fell out of him in a rush.

For the second time in a week, my mouth opened and nothing came out.

“I know you’re probably still recovering from Lucas and everything, but if you think that maybe you’d like to do something together—not now,” he said hastily, “but sometime—then I’d be . . . available.”

I could feel the hot color creeping into my cheeks. In fact, my whole body temperature seemed to go up ten degrees and my heart began to pound.

“Would that be before or after the two hours on the train to come and see us?” I said carefully. “You promised, remember.”

“That would be after. When we’re back here. And just for your information,” he added, the dimples deepening in his cheeks, “I always keep my promises.”

When You yank two people into a room, Lord, You don’t mess around, do You?

“You’re not the only one,” I said, and smiled at him.

Spring break—and maybe even next term—were definitely looking up.

About the Author

Shelley Adina wrote her first teen novel when she was thirteen. It was rejected by the literary publisher to whom she sent it, but he did say she knew how to tell a story. That was enough to keep her going through the rest of her adolescence, a career, a move to another country, a B.A. in Literature, an M.A. in Writing Popular Fiction, and countless manuscript pages.

Shelley is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends and loves writing about fun and faith—with a side of glamour. Between books, Shelley loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies.

IF YOU LIKED

the fruit of my lipstick,

check out the third book in the All About Us series:

be strong and curvaceous

available January 2009

wherever books are sold

Chapter 1

B
E CAREFUL WHAT
you wish for.

I used to think that was the dumbest saying ever. I mean, when you wish for something, by definition it’s wonderful, right? Like buying a new dress for a party. Or getting a roommate as cool as Gillian Chang or Lissa Mansfield. Or having a guy notice you after six months of being invisible. Before last term, I used to think having wishes like that come true would be the best.

I don’t anymore.

Let me back up a little. My name is Carolina Isabella Aragon Velasquez . . . but that doesn’t fit on school admission forms, so when I started first grade it got shortened up to Carolina Aragon—Carly to my friends. Up until I was a sophomore, I lived with my mom and dad, my older sister, and little brother in a huge house in Monte Sereno, just south of Silicon Valley. My dad’s company invented some kind of security software for stock exchanges, and he and everyone who worked for him got rich.

Then came what Dad calls Black Thursday and the stock market crash, and suddenly my mom was leaving him and going to live with her parents in Veracruz, Mexico, to be an artist and find herself. Alana finished college and moved to Austin. Antony and I stayed with Dad in a condo about the size of our old living room, and since he spends so much time on the road, where I’ve found myself since September is boarding school.

The spring term started in April, and as I got out of the limo Dad sends me back to Spencer Academy in every Sunday night even though I’m perfectly capable of taking the train, I couldn’t help but feel a little bubble of optimism deep inside. Call me corny, but the news that Vanessa Talbot and Brett Loyola had broken up just before spring break had made my ten days off the happiest I’d had since my parents split up. Even flying to Veracruz and being introduced to my mother’s boyfriend hadn’t put a dent in it.

Ugh. Okay, I lied.
So
not going there.

Thinking about Brett now
. Dark, romantic eyes. Curly dark hair, cut short because he’s the captain of the rowing team. Broad shoulders. Fabulous clothes he wears as if he doesn’t care where he got them.

Oh, yeah. Much better.

Lost in happy plans for how I’d finally get his attention (I was signing up to be a history tutor first thing because let’s face it, he needs me), I unlocked the door to my room and staggered in with my duffel bags.

My hands loosened and I dropped everything with a thud.

There were Vuitton suitcases all over the room. Enough for an entire
family
. In fact, some of them were so big you could put a family
in
them—the kids, at least.

“Close the door, why don’t you?” said a bored British voice with a barely noticeable roll on the
r
. A girl stepped out from behind the wardrobe door.

Red hair in an explosion of curls.

Fishnet stockings to
here
and glossy ankle boots.

Blue eyes that grabbed you and made you wonder why she was so . . . not interested in whether you took another breath.

Ever.

“Who are you?” How come no one had told me I was getting a roommate? And who could have prepared me for this anyway?

“Mac,” she said, returning to the depths of the closet. Most people would have said, “What’s your name?” She didn’t.

“I’m Carly.” Did I feel lame or what?

She looked around the door. “Pleasure. Looks like we’re to be roommates.” Then she went back to hanging things up.

There was no point in restating the obvious. I gathered my scattered brains and tried to remember what a good hostess was supposed to do. “Did someone show you where the dining room is? Supper is between five and six-thirty and I usually—”

“Carrie. I expected my own room,” she said, as if I hadn’t been talking. “Who do I talk to?”

“It’s
Carly
. And Ms. Tobin’s the dorm mistress for this floor.”

“Fine. What were you saying about dinner?”

I took a breath and remembered that one of us was what my brother calls
couth
. As opposed to
un
. “You’re welcome to come with me and my friends if you want.”

Pop went the latches on one of the trunks. She threw up the lid and looked at me over the top of it, her reddish eyebrows lifting in amusement.

What was so funny?

“Thanks so much. But I’ll pass.”

Okay, even I have my limits. I picked up my duffel, dropped it on the end of my bed, and left her to it. Maybe by the time I got back from dinner, she’d have convinced Ms. Tobin to give her a room in another dorm.

The way things were going, she’d probably demand the headmistress’s suite.

“WHAT A
MO
guai nuer
,” Gillian said over her tortellini and asparagus. “I can’t believe she snubbed you like that.”

“You of all people,” Lissa said. “Who wouldn’t hurt someone’s feelings for anything.”

“I wanted to,” I confessed. “If I could have come up with something scathing. But you know how you freeze when you realize you’ve just been cut off at the knees?”

“What happened to your knees?” Jeremy Clay put his plate of linguine down and slid in next to Gillian. They traded a smile that made me feel sort of hollow inside—not the way I’d felt after Mac’s little setdown, but like I was missing out on something. Like they had a secret and weren’t telling.

You know what? Feeling sorry for yourself is not the way to start off a term
. I smiled at Jeremy. “Nothing. How was your break? Did you get to New York?”

He glanced at Gillian again. “Yeah, I did.”

Argh. Men. Never ask them a yes/no question. “And? Did you guys have fun? Shani said she had a blast after the initial shock.”

Gillian grinned at me. “That’s a nice way of saying my grandmother scared the stilettos off her. At first. But then Nai-Nai realized Shani could eat even my brothers under the table no matter what she put in front of her, so after that they were best friends.”

“My grandmother’s like that, too,” I said, nodding in sympathy. “She thinks I’m too thin so she’s always making pots of mole and stuff. Little does she know.”

It’s a fact that I have way too much junk in my trunk. Part of the reason I’m majoring in history with a minor in fashion design is that when I make my own clothes, I can drape and cut to accentuate the positive and make people forget that big old negative following me around.

“You aren’t too thin or too fat.” Lissa is a perfect six. She’s also the most loyal friend in the world. “You’re just right.”

Time to change the subject. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my body in front of a guy, even if he belonged to someone else. “So did you guys get to see
Pride and Prejudice: The Musical
? Shani said you were bribing someone to get tickets.”

“Close,” Gillian said. “My mom is on the orchestra’s board so we got seats in the first circle. You’d have loved it. Costume heaven.”

“I would have.” I sighed. “Why did I have to go to Veracruz for spring break? How come I couldn’t have gone to New York, too?”

I hoped I sounded rhetorical. The truth was, I didn’t have any money for things like trips to New York to see the hottest musical on Broadway with my friends. Or for the clothes to wear once I got there—unless I made them myself.

“That’s it, then.” Gillian waved a miniature tomato on the end of her fork. “Next break you and Lissa are coming to see me. Not in the summer—no one in their right mind stays in the city in July. But at Christmas.”

“Maybe we’ll go to Veracruz,” Lissa suggested. “Or you guys can come to Santa Barbara and I’ll teach you to surf.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said. Either of Lissa’s options wouldn’t cost very much. New York, on the other hand, would. “I like warm places for my winter holidays.”

“Good point,” Gillian conceded. “So do I.”

“Notice how getting through the last term of junior year isn’t even on your radar?” Jeremy asked no one in particular. “It’s all about the vacations with you guys.”

“Vacations are our reward,” Gillian informed him. “You have to have something to get you through finals.”

“Right, like you have to worry,” he scoffed.

“She does,” Lissa said. “She has to get
me
through finals.”

While everyone laughed, I got up and walked over to the dessert bar.
Crème brulée,
berry parfaits, and German chocolate cake. You know you’re depressed when even Dining Services’
crème brulée
—which puts a dreamy look in the eyes of just about everyone who goes here—doesn’t get you excited.

I had to snap out of it. Thinking about all the things I didn’t have and all the things I couldn’t do would get me precisely nowhere. I had to focus on the good things.

My friends.

How lucky I was to have won the scholarship that got me into Spencer.

And how much luckier I was that in two terms, no one had figured out I was a scholarship kid.

Come on, Carly. Just because you can’t flit off to New York to catch a show or order up the latest designs from Fashion Week doesn’t mean your life is trash. Get ahold of your sense of proportion.

I took a berry parfait—blueberries have lots of antioxidants—and turned back to the table just as the dining room doors opened. They seemed to pause in their arc, giving my new roommate plenty of time to stroll through before they swung shut behind her. She’d changed out of the fishnets into a simple leaf-green dress with a black sweater and heels that absolutely screamed Paris—Rue de la Paix, to be exact. Number 11, to be even more exact. Gaultier.

My knees nearly buckled with envy.

“Is
that
your roommate?” Lissa asked.

Mac seemed completely unaware that everyone in the dining room was watching her as she floated across the floor like a runway model, collected a plate of Portobello mushroom ravioli and salad, and sat at the empty table next to the big window that faced out onto the quad.

Lissa was still gazing at her, puzzled. “I know I’ve seen her before.”

I hardly heard her.

Because not only had the redhead cut into line ahead of Vanessa Talbot, Dani Lavigne, and Emily Overton, she’d also invaded their prime real estate. No one sat at that table unless they’d sacrificed a freshman at midnight or whatever it was that people had to do to be friends with them.

When Vanessa turned with her plate, I swear I could hear the collective intake of breath as her gaze locked on the stunning interloper sitting with her back to the window, calmly cutting her ravioli with the edge of her fork.

“Uh oh,” Gillian murmured. “Let the games begin.”

Chapter 2

V
ANESSA, DANI
, and Emily formed a fighting V and strolled to the table with their plates.