License to Spill Page 6

  MORGAN: Doubt it. Megan, fact-check please.

  MEGAN: 150 calories.

  MORGAN: Serving size?

  MEGAN: 22 pieces.

  MORGAN: Fat grams?

  MEGAN: 8.

  MORGAN: Mandeee!

  MANDY: Yikes. That’s high.

  MORGAN: Sodium?

  MEGAN: 125 mg.

  MORGAN: Seriously?

  (Sound of crisps being dumped into the sink. Then the garbage disposal.)

  MEGAN: Ohmygod, I’m going to look like Erin Applegate!

  MORGAN: (Sings like LMFAO) There’s a carb-face in the house tonight / Everybody just have a good time…

  (Laughter.)

  MANDY: It’s not carb-face. She’s on steroids. Hashtag ulcer. You heard it here first.

  MEGAN: Sucks.

  MORGAN: Poor thing.

  MEGAN: Right?

  MORGAN: Ugh.

  MANDY: Highlight-delete the pity. That girl was a Phoenix Five. She got early acceptance to Yale and Princeton. If anyone should have an ulcer, it’s me. I only have 2 AP classes, 1 after-school job, and 4 extracurriculars. I’ll be lucky to get into McDonald’s College. Hashtag HamburgerUniversity.

  MEGAN: At least you have Gardner. I’ve been single for 3 weeks.

  MORGAN: Try 5! Soon to be 500, thanks to those Snap peas.

  Feeling = I swear, I’m about to Van Gogh my ears off. I don’t care how hot a girl is. Any girl who bad-mouths a snack while it’s still in her mouth can’t be trusted. Sheridan eats whatever and doesn’t filibuster about it. It’s cool.

  She asked if I wanted to grab a bite with Audri and Jagger on Thursday. We’ll probably end up at Rosco’s because everyone goes there after school, including my entire team. Maybe if Hud and Coops see me hanging out with new people they’ll realize how much they miss me and they’ll take me back.

  I just put on my headphones. Blasting “Sex on Fire.”

  Feeling = Kings need a new album. I’ve listened to Only by the Night 600 times this week.

  Feeling= I need friends.

  Oct. 24.

  Audri and I baked trout by the bike rack before first period this morning.

  The tip of her nose was cold. Her tongue tasted like a candy cane.

  I thought of that blond girl from the Orbit gum commercial. Only for a second and only because she reminds me of frost.

  We kept at it until some jerk yelled, “Get a room!”

  I removed my lips from her face. Not to Google “rooms in Noble, NJ” or anything.

  Lie #29: But because “get a room” is such an unoriginal thing to say. Like, “thank god it’s Friday” or “chillax.” And predictability turns me off.

  That’s what I told Audri. Better that than admitting I was scared we’d get caught baking trout on campus. Scared my parents would get called to the principal’s office. Scared I’d have to explain why two death row inmates rolled up in a red Mercedes coupe, Ralph Lauren wardrobes, and Caribbean suntans.

  Then Audri says, wanna know what turns me off?

  So I say, sure.

  Liars.

  Me too, I lied, for the thirtieth time.

  Wednesday, October 24, 2012

  Day One at Pub v. 2.0.

  Invisible and off-putting, my first day back at Noble had me feeling like a fart.

  Correction. Off-putting implies that I mattered enough to be offensive. I didn’t. I was on the wrong side of popular when my parents pulled me out, now I’m not even important enough to bully.

  The moment I entered the locker zone Blake walked off with Vanessa. I managed to hold back my tears by telling myself he didn’t see me. But that became harder to believe after he blustered past me. Twice. I swear, he moved so fast I felt wind. The worst part? It’s been a week and I still can’t figure out why he’s ignoring me. Is it because:

  a) I accidentally took his English binder, costing him a paltry 10 percent on his homework?

  b) I was involuntarily removed from Pub and inadvertently left him behind.

  c) The nonstop rain is doing nothing for his olive skin and he needs someone to blame.

  The Homies strongly believe it’s b) because they’re convinced Blake is in love with me. If only I could say they have me confused with someone more male, perhaps I’d be further along in this investigation. But Captain Closet won’t let me. So their input was useless.

  By lunch I was desperate and decided to try the one thing—besides the slightest mention of Coxsackie—that was guaranteed to make Blake laugh. I crept up behind him and placed a Baked Lay ever-so-gently on his shoulder. Faster than I could say, “Why is there a chip on your shoulder?” he crushed it in his fist and shook the crumbs on the floor. He didn’t even bother turning around.

  Should you ever wonder what dead feels like, put a Baked Lay on your best friend’s shoulder and watch him pretend it’s not funny. You could also wave to the only boy you’ve ever loved (besides the fictional Seth Cohen from The O.C.), then smile expectantly while he does NOT wave back.

  Still not feeling adequately deceased? Join the Noble High style club, then leave school for six days. When you return to discover you’ve been replaced by Brianna Plume because she too “has a flair for European androgyny” and “someone said you died,” you’ll feel it. Believe me, you will.

  Eight years of straight A’s and social sacrifice for what? I’m nothing but a Homie without a home. A friendless phenom. A Pub-fart.

  Sure, intellectual superiority counts for something, but not enough. Ask anyone who’s ever graduated what they remember most about high school. Actually don’t bother. I’ll tell you. They remember their first kiss. First date. First love. Best friends. Winning goal. Prom.

  Not calculus. Not history or biology or AP English.

  So scrape the rose-colored tint off your glasses, America, and take an honest look at what it really means to succeed in high school. Good grades, you say?

  Ha! I say. Right to your rose-tinted eyeballs.

  If grades mattered, I, Lily Bader-Huffman, would be Noble royalty. Those checkerboard tiles would be my catwalk. Teachers, my butt-kissing sponsors. Students, my entourage. I’d need a twenty-four-hour security detail. I’d be paid to design school supplies for Target. I’d be Phoenix one, two, three, four, and five. I’d still miss out on being a typical teen. But in this scenario I’d accept my fate more willingly. Because I, Lily Bader-Huffman, would no longer be a silent but deadly Pub-fart.

  I’d be seen.

  October 24th

  Dad’s favorite band is named… wait for it… The Band.70 Ver. I’m not making that up. Anyway, they have this song called “Life Is a Carnival.” The last time I heard it we were driving upstate to go apple picking. That was two years ago. The fighting wasn’t so bad back then. Nothing was.

  “Kids,” Dad said, eyeballing A.J. and me in the rearview mirror. “If life really was a carnival, what would you be?”

  “Owner!” I called.

  “Kissing booth,” Mom announced.

  Gross, A.J. mouthed.

  Dad rubbed his stubble and in his best falsetto said, “I’d be the bearded lady.”

  “Fun house,” A.J. said.

  “Yes. Yes you would,” Mom said. I swear I could hear her smiling.

  If we had that conversation today, A.J. would be an upside-down roller coaster, Mom would be half woman, half fire-breathing dragon, and Dad would be the barker.

  Me? I’d be Whac-A-Mole because right when I solve one problem, another pops up.

  The latest, which also happens to be my greatest, is Lily. If life was a carnival, Lily would own the deed to the land. Just as I was starting to make a profit she’d show up and shut me down.

  Competing with her for grades and Blake is completely demoralizing. Both come so naturally to her. So you can imagine my relief when she, like a blister, was lanced from my life.

  Lily’s swift removal upgraded me to smartest female freshman after only three days of tenacious classroom participation and intimid
ating posture. It also gave Blake an unobstructed view of me, which in turn eliminated my need to humble-brag.

  Noble became so unequivocally rewarding my arms stopped itching at school. Mom’s been working late now that Dad’s back from the tech convention, so there hasn’t been much conflict at home either. Like, none. Today I wore my short-sleeved blouse with the flouncy bow71. Normally, I might have humble-bragged with something like, “The crossing guard told me my shirt was the same blue as my eyes. But my eyes are emerald green. Do you think he’s color blind?”

  Only I didn’t have to.

  First thing this morning, Blake stopped by my locker. He wanted to know if I had seen Jagger and Audri’s colossal makeout session by the bike stand.

  “Jagger is getting some satisfaction,” I said. His expression changed from delight to confusion. My arms began to tingle. “You know that Rolling Stones song?” I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from scratching. “Sorry, I’m corny sometimes. I get it from my dad.”

  “No,” Blake said, fanning away my apology. “It’s that color. It’s great on you. Honestly? I can’t tell where that blouse ends and your eyes begin. Hurry, you take a selfie while I alert Pantone.”

  Giggling, I drew my hair over my left shoulder, thusly accentuating my “good side.” I held the phone at a forty-five-degree angle to capture my scratch-free arms, then angled my face toward the light. I was close to locking in the shot when Blake said, “Uh-oh.”

  I followed his gaze to the front doors, where the sun had cast a yolk-colored parallelogram on the checkered floor. There stood a girl. She was backlit but her silhouette was unmistakable. Wild hair, loping gait, skateboard tucked inside her armpit; either Shaun White had transferred to Noble High or the blister was back.

  Of all the questions running through my mind, only one required my immediate attention. Now what? Staying meant scratching. But if I left, Lily would occupy Blake Street and kick me to the curb.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to choose. Blake grabbed me by the itchy arm and dragged me away.

  The itching should have ended there but as a habitual competitor and former captain of the eighth-grade track-and-field team, I knew that if I wanted to stay in first position I had to fight harder than ever. I had to stay focused on my goals and not let Lily or her former, albeit flawless, track record intimidate me. I had to put some serious distance between us. I had to apply the 10 percent rule.

  Yesterday, during warm-up, Coach Speedman said the smartest way for a runner to increase her speed is to increase her efforts by 10 percent each week. Anything more could cause injury or burnout, anything less wouldn’t be enough. In other words, if I work 10 percent smarder72 than Lily each week I will always stay 10 percent ahead.

  Increasing my study time by one hour per subject was the obvious way to improve my performance in class. But I was struggling with the Blake aspect. Lily had years of history with him. Six days of lunches and hallway banter couldn’t possibly compete with that. Humble-bragging was an option, but I want courting not campaigning. I want everyone to marvel at how fetching we look together. I want to be the first couple in Noble history to be part of the Phoenix Five. I want to apply to the same colleges, somewhere far away from the fighting.

  Ver? I want to believe that love can still be done. I want what Audri and the Orphan have. I want to Blake-out.73

  -You can fly off a mountaintop if anybody can.

  The Band, “Life is a Carnival.”

  Wednesday

  Like two seconds after I got home from school the bell rang. I opened the door but no one was there. Just a black box from Trendemic. There were seven things inside. Eight if you count the death threat from Anton.

  It Guy #71470,

  Bloody noses are red,

  Violence is blue,

  Pay me back by December 1, 2012

  Or you will regret it big-time.

  (So will your face.)

  —Anton Pryce, Style Sensei/Debt Collector

  In other words, I have 37 days to find $2,074.00. I am supposed to do it by selling these things:

  WhispHer for Him: A seductive body spray made from the sweat glands of German stud horses. Dry and woodsy with hints of vanilla and dark chocolate. Guaranteed to attract women. ($12.95) Coming soon: DenHim for Her.

  The Calm Dome: A wool beanie with built-in scalp massager. ($9.75)

  Heavy Metal Bands: Now you can sweat in style. Gold cuff bracelets lined with moisture-wicking terry cloth. ($19.25/pair)

  The Girlfriend Sweater: A rugged cable-knit sweater with a single side pocket so your girl has a place to warm her hand while you stroll arm in arm. ($36.00)

  The Love Glove: For the couple that can’t let go, these gloves have been specially designed to fit two hands. ($15.75)

  Toolery: Like a Swiss army knife, this silver ring contains seven flip-up tools guaranteed to turn every man into an alpha male. ($24.99)

  Electrick Jeans: Loose fit with a back pocket that charges your smartphone. ($39.99)

  I’m supposed to wear these slick embarrassments, wait for a bunch of suckers to compliment me, then tell them how they too can dress like a Brookstone mannequin. My mission is to make them believe I’d rock this look even if my life didn’t depend on it.

  Feeling = I wouldn’t.

  I searched Trendemic box one last time before I tossed it. I was looking for my soul. No luck. Anton still has it.

  Oct. 25.

  Audri and I are a “thing” and everyone knows it.

  It’s obvious because no one talks to us when we’re together. We get plenty of closed-mouth smiles and wassup head nods but no one actually stops and hangs.

  Audri says it’s a respect thing.

  Like we’re mobsters? I ask.

  No. They respect the bubble and don’t want to infiltrate it.

  What bubble?

  The lo-like bubble. It’s invisible but people know it’s there.

  Huh?

  Think of it as a cage for sugar gliders.

  I say, ahhh, like a dude who suddenly gets it.

  LIE #31: I don’t.

  I don’t even care. My insides are dinging and flashing like a pinball machine because Audri meant to say love-like bubble.

  She knows it too. She’s blushing and the body doesn’t lie. The brain does, though.

  It can’t help itself. Lies infest it like termites. They come in droves and mow the cerebral cortex like some all-you-can-eat buffet. Soon it’s all holes and droppings where the truth used to be.

  I’m already mostly holes and droppings so I can pretend I don’t hear the “lo” part. Not because I’m afraid to go there with Audri. I’m not. But because walking to Rosco’s with Sheridan and Duffy is not when you want to admit you’re in lo-like.

  Or that you don’t know jack about double dates.

  All I know is that Duffy and Sheridan are kind of a thing and Audri and I are kind of a thing and since Audri and Sheridan are a thing we’re supposed to start doing things together.

  So there we are. Jammed around the hostess podium waiting for a table. A few guys from the Flames are ahead of us. They see Duffy but don’t say hi.

  I assume it’s because he’s with me and they know I’m a Ponnowitz. But they haven’t figured that out yet so that can’t be it.

  Then I get it.

  They know he’s in a lo-like bubble with Sheridan and they’re showing respect.

  But Brandy the hostess? She couldn’t care less. She pokes her nose right through it and takes a big sniff of Duffy’s neck.

  She says he smells crazy-good.

  Like a chocolate bonfire.

  Whatever that means.

  Then she goes, Mmmmmm.

  Meanwhile Sheridan just stands there looking all proud. Now that’s confidence.

  If some waiter poked through my lo-like bubble to sniff Audri, I’d stuff his nostrils with those pee-covered mints by the cash register.

  Anyway, the guys on the Flames are staring because Brandy is
being kind of loud with her Mmmmms, and of the entire Rosco’s staff she’s the blondest.

  Then she goes, if my boyfriend smelled like you I wouldn’t have dumped him. What is that?

  It’s WhispHer for Him, Duffy says. Go to Trendemic.com and enter the code #71470 for a special discount. You didn’t hear it from me.

  The guy is suave. I’ll give him that.

  Jagger is not one for high-maintenance grooming but when a girl loses it for a dude’s neck smell it doesn’t matter who you’re pretending to be. You want that neck smell for yourself. So instead of entering Trendemic.com #71470 on my phone like some of the other eavesdroppers, I memorize it. Because cologne is not the kind of thing emancipated orphans spend their pennies on.

  We sit and the girls go right into how excited they are that The X Factor got renewed for another season. I have nothing to say about that so I look around the place like I’ve never seen anyone serve fries before.

  Then I need air.

  For one thing, I’m all knee-to-knee with Duffy and I don’t want him to think I’m okay with that because I’m not. For another thing, Audri is wearing her tennis skirt. The one with the J on it for good luck. My initial is so close to her thigh that my upper lip starts to sweat.

  I tell her that.

  Lie #32: My initial is J.

  Audri puts her hand on my knee. My upper lip floods. I fan my face with the menu. She asks if I’m okay.

  Yes, why?

  Audri says I look like I’ve been sitting in front of an open dishwasher. I know she’s talking about the steam that pours out when you open the door mid-cycle. But I’d never admit that, so I go, what’s his name?

  Whose name? she asks.

  The dishwasher’s.

  This cracks everyone up and we forget I’m sweating. Next thing you know we’re coming up with dishwasher names like Reese WitherSPOON (Sheridan), CLEAN Abdul-Jabbar (Duffy), RINSE William (Audri), and SOAP John Paul II (Me.)

  Audri is laughing so hard her glasses fog. She wipes them on my Rolling Stones shirt.

  I say it’s no big deal. Wipe away. I got this shirt from the Goodwill. It was like fifty cents.

  Lie #33: The shirt is vintage. It belonged to Georgia Jagger, Mick’s daughter. Father was offered $1500 for it by the Hard Rock Cafe. He said no.