Pretenders Read online

  “What will you be doing, exactly?” Mom asked, applying her signature red lipstick.

  “Selling.”

  “Cars?” Dad asked.

  “No, stolen jewelry.”

  “A.J.!”

  “Of course, cars. They just got the M3 GTR. Mr. Spencer said I’ll get a thousand dollars on top of my commission if I sell it before the end of October. I’m dying to test that thing.”

  Dad handed Oskar his Visa, then leaned toward the center of the table. “How did you get such a good… opportunity?”

  “I know Mr. Spencer from the car wash. He requested me all the time ’cause I treated his M3 like an object of beauty, not a car. I told him that’s because it is an object of beauty and a pleasure to wash.”

  “Vomit,” I said.

  “He gave me his card and told me to keep in touch. I did.”

  My parents stood up to hug A.J.

  “Oskar, looks like we’ll be seeing you tomorrow,” Dad said.

  “Congratulations, Vanessa,” said the waiter.

  “It’s me this time,” A.J. announced.

  Oskar gripped his chest and stumbled backward like he was having a heart attack. Then he hugged my brother too. It was hilarious.

  Ver? I didn’t feel jealous at all. How could I? Everyone was legitimately happy and A.J. was finally doing something he cared about. Anyway, it’s just as hard to stay in trouble as it is to stay out of it, and we both needed the break.

  Instead of asking “what’s the problem?” ask “what’s the creative opportunity?”

  —Deepak Chopra

  Sunday, September 23, 2012

  While my hands were on Duffy’s body, sparks, akin to static-electricity-sweater-shocks, passed between us. If I had been blessed with Sheridan Spencer’s wardrobe or a fetching opening line, I could have fanned those sparks into a flame. But it had been thirteen days since the armpit hoist, and only one measly spark remained. I had to revive the passion or risk losing it forever. I had to get jeans.

  Ideally, I would have been watering the grass in my new denims when the dusty 4Runner returned. Duffy would be unloading the camping gear when I caught his eye. He’d wonder if dehydration was having its way with his mind because girls like this don’t go unnoticed. He’d drop his fishing pole to the driveway and get swept up in the rip current of love at first sight. Mr. Duffy would ask where he was floating off to. Then insist he come back and help. Duffy wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The pull would be too powerful. He’d finally be close enough to inhale my exhales. He’d say, nice jeans. I’d say, nice lips. He’d place his hand on his heart, for the words to describe his feelings would have escaped him. He’d lean toward me for a kiss. I’d meet him halfway. Then I’d nail him with the hose and we’d crack up.

  This should have been our story. But Vanessa Riley had my Algebra quiz, which messed it all up. I couldn’t get my A+ money without my A+. I couldn’t get my seduction jeans without my money. And I couldn’t get Duffy without those jeans.

  I wanted to skate to her house and get the quiz but Blake made me call instead. He said showing up when I hardly knew the girl made me look like a stalker. I thought calling was more stalker-ish. Blake disagreed. I almost said, “I should know what stalking is because I am a stalker.” But I didn’t. I just flopped down on my bed beside Blake and dialed.

  I listened to the rings and prayed Vanessa would answer.

  “What if she isn’t home?”

  “Leave a message.”

  “What if she says she’ll bring it to school tomorrow?”

  “Say you need it today.”

  I hung up.

  “She’ll think I’m a freak.”

  “So.”

  “So, what if she asks why I need it so badly?”

  “Tell her.”

  “Tell her what? That I was rejected by the style club? That I can’t buy anything flattering unless I pay for it myself? I can’t tell her that!”

  “Why?” Blake asked, flipping through my X–Y encyclopedia. Yep, I still use encyclopedias. They’re faster than dial-up.

  “Because Vanessa Riley is perfect.”

  “Then why did she get a B-plus on the Algebra quiz?”

  “Valid.”

  I dialed again. My heart, desperate for me to reconsider, thumped harder. I swiped a puff off Blake’s inhaler.

  “Lil, you have social anxiety, not asthma!” he said, reaching for it. I licked it.

  “Ew, don’t give me your Coxsackie,” he squealed, wiping the inhaler on his Ashcroft plaid.

  “You’re the one with Coxsackie!”

  “S’cuse me?” Vanessa said.

  “Oh god. No. Not you. Sorry. I was talking to Blake and—”

  “Blake?”

  “Yeah, hi, it’s Lily.”

  Blake was cracking up and I was trying not to but I couldn’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Sorry. It’s nothing.” I leg-swiped Blake off the bed. He fell with a thud, which cracked us up all over again.

  “If nothing’s so funny, why are you laughing?”

  “It’s just that for some reason the word ‘Coxsackie’ kills us. And Blake said it right when you picked up the—”

  “The disease kills more than you two,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “My grandpa had Coxsackie.” She sniffled. “Had.”

  The line went dead.

  My blood stopped mid-flow. Blake’s brown cheeks faded to beige. We stared at the phone.

  “This is all your fault!”

  “How is it my fault?”

  “You made me call her.”

  “You told her Coxsackie makes us laugh!”

  “How was I supposed to know her grandpa—”

  The phone rang. I made Blake answer.

  “Kidding!” Vanessa shouted.

  We all had a good laugh, at the end of which Blake bellowed, “Love this girl!”

  We laughed for at least ten more minutes before Vanessa asked why I called.

  Next thing I know she was at my house with the quiz and the three of us were off to the mall to buy me some discounted love jeans.

  J.Crew was packed and Trike was in a tizzy, so we hit the food court. It was packed too, so Blake and I snagged a table while Vanessa went in search of kettle corn.

  “I think she likes you.”

  “Easy, Emma,” he said, accusing me of matchmaking, like the title character from Jane Austen’s novel. (Homie humor.) “She’s just being nice.”

  “Nice is offering to buy snacks,” I said. “Like is everything else she’s been doing.”

  “Proof.”

  “You have such good style, Blake. I’ve always wanted to skateboard, Blake. Blake, will you teach me, Blake? Blake, what was it like being homeschooled? Blake, you’re so tanned. Blake—”

  “Okay!”

  “Can I please tell her you’re dating Tr—Mike?”

  “No!”

  “Why?”

  “Lil, I told you, I don’t want to be known as the gay guy.”

  “I know, but do you want to be known as the straight guy?”

  “I want to be known as Blake.”

  “It’s cruel.”

  “What’s cruel?”

  “Leading her on.”

  “I’m not treating her any differently than—”

  “Kettle corn!” Vanessa said, handing us our bags.

  Blake glared at me. I blinked once: a promise not to tell.

  IRONY ALERT! IRONY ALERT! IRONY ALERT!

  What started out as me feeling bad for Vanessa ended up as me feeling worse for myself. Much worse.

  Everyone who passed our table slowed to check her out. I wasn’t totally surprised because her face is worthy of an extended look. Astroturf-green eyes. Curls that don’t frizz. Butterscotch-colored skin. Cheekbones. She was wearing long sleeves so I know people weren’t gawking because she’s slutty
. It’s because she’s beautiful. More beautiful than me. I wanted to punch her.

  And then it hit me.

  I, Lily Bader-Huffman-Duffy, have been admiring my reflection through Homie-colored lenses; lenses that had me thinking I was beautiful too. Because, in our group of seven, I was. Blake, Hamilton, and Legend are male. Wendi shaves her head for swim meets, Maple has a lazy eye, and Sylvie picks her pimples. In Homie world I was the hot one. But I live in Pub world now. Where I’m “meh” at best.

  Suddenly, this expedition seemed futile. Guys like Duffy want exotic girls like Vanessa or actress-pretty types like Sheridan. I know this because I never see Duffys with Lilys. And no amount of denim will change that.

  Not that it mattered. The jeans never happened. We went back to J.Crew. Blake told Trike the Coxsackie story, which made everyone laugh all over again, everyone but Trike. He just stood there, arms folded, leg jutted, face pinched as if he’d just chugged sour milk. He obviously felt left out, or threatened, or resentful, because he claimed “employee discounts” were an urban legend, then pivoted toward the “Looks We Love” display in search of something to fold.

  “Mike!” Blake said, hurrying after him.

  Vanessa thought nothing of the lovers’ quarrel. She assumed they were two buddies in a scrap and agreed that we should wait for Blake outside.

  Twenty minutes later I suggested we spend my twenty on a movie. Something formulaic and meaningless. Perfect for Pub.

  She peeked inside the store. “Nah. I should get back and study for AP World History.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Did you study already?” Vanessa asked.

  “I’ll look over my notes during lunch or something.”

  “Veritas? That’s all you do?”

  I shrugged like it was no big deal because it wasn’t.

  “Wow.”

  I slipped out from under her awestruck gaze and feigned interest in the Crabtree and Evelyn’s fall-hued candles.

  “What’s it like being so naturally smart?” Vanessa asked.

  What’s it like being so naturally pretty? I wanted to ask. But Blake showed up and suggested we see a movie.

  “Can’t,” I said. “Vanessa has to stu—”

  “Sure!”

  “Really?”

  “You’re right, Lily. We can study at lunch.”

  I’m in bed now. I just kicked off my covers because the thought of cramming with Vanessa fills me with warmth. I made a Pub friend. A smart one. A funny one. A beautiful one. I want to tell her the truth about Blake. I made a promise, though, so I won’t. Still. It’s going to be hard watching her waste feelings on a guy who will never like her back. I know. I watch myself do it every day and it’s seriously pathetic.

  September 23rd, aka Best Day Ever!

  Have to hurry. We’re leaving for Beni’s in five. Love you, A.J.!!!

  I digress…

  Today started with a prank call from Lily and Blake. Coincidentally, I had just completed my research36 when they called. So, I wiped my tears away, put extra ointment on my arms, and called right back with a sense of humor. And guess what? It worked!37 Blake actually said he loved me. I’m not kidding. He really said that.

  This leads me to three conclusions:

  1) The prank was his idea but he had Lily38 call because he was shy. Classic boy behavior.

  2) He likes me.

  3) His friend Mike may be a problem.

  I sensed him checking me out the moment we were introduced. After Blake told him about the Coxsackie thing I added the “Love this girl” part. After that Mike got all testosterone-y. My guess? He realized Blake and I have chemistry. Who knows, maybe they have a history of liking the same girls. Maybe Mike always loses to Blake. A natural assumption, because if hotness was graded, Blake would have a 4.0 average and Mike would be struggling to maintain a 2.75.

  I wanted to ask Lily for some backstory but I didn’t want her to think I was using her to get to Blake. Because I’m not…39

  Mom’s calling. Time to leave for dinner. I’ll get serious about studying tomorrow.

  (Sorry, no time for a quote.)

  9.24.12

  EXT. NOBLE HIGH PICKUP CURB—LATE AFTERNOON.

  It’s raining. Campus is empty. MOM’s car battery died. DAD is training a new salesman. According to the note SHERIDAN got from the office someone will be here eventually.

  SHERIDAN’s black dress is soaked. Too numb to care, she sits on the bench by the Pick and Flick. The sky is stormy. She puts quill to paper.

  FLASHBACK. LAST WEDNESDAY.

  I slept with the Wicked soundtrack (original cast recording) under my pillow and woke feeling refreshed and prepared for my audition. My Glinda glitter gown had been fluffed, my hair curled to perk-fection, and my throat coated in honey.

  There were about twenty-five people in the Starlight Auditorium when Audri and I arrived. So I chose two seats in the front to keep us from analyzing the competition and getting all intimidated. Audri kept turning around anyway. I assumed she was nervous and/or looking for Mr. Kimball until I heard:

  Owdeee! (Octavia.)

  What is she doing here? (Me.)

  Audri was too busy waving to answer.

  I can’t believe she came. (Audri to me.) I can’t believe you came! (Audri to Octavia.)

  A deal’s a deal. (Octavia, bouncing over in her knee-high Converse.)

  What deal? (Me.)

  Octavia lowered her celery butt onto the arm of “Owdie’s” chair and angled her fat-free torso toward my best friend.

  Oh m’gad, Sheridan, you have to hear this. (Audri, leaning over Octavia’s lap.) So O shows up in the cafeteria today all angry and stuff because—

  Wait, didn’t you say she has tennis practice at lunch? (I said it like this because I wanted “O” to know how creepy it feels to be talked about like you’re not there when you are.)

  She does. That’s the point. Cat, her doubles partner, bailed because Octavia was hogging the ball.

  Mine, mine, mine. (Octavia.) Mine, mine, mine. (Audri.) Mine, mine, mine. (Both.)

  Oh m’gad, so hilar. (Audri, uttering “hilar” for the first time ever.) Anyway, she asked me to be her new partner and—

  You? (I said like it was the most outrageous thing ever. Because it was.) Talk about “hilar”! Did you say no?

  I said only if you try out for Wicked.

  What? (Me.) Why would you say that?

  Because she thought I’d say no. But I didn’t. Obviously. (Octavia.)

  Do you even act?

  I’ve dabbled.

  Dabbled? What does that mean?

  It means I’ve tried it.

  I know what dabbled means. But what does it mean in terms of acting?

  It means I was in a play once and thought it was boring so I took up tennis.

  Bor-ing? How can you say—

  So the deal is if Octavia gets a part in the play, I’ll try out for the tennis team. How hilar is that? (Audri.)

  I’ve heard more hilar.

  Octavia’s back was now more like those cubicle walls in my dad’s office with me on one side and Audri on the other. They started whispering. I closed my eyes so they’d think I was getting into character, but really I was channeling a canine for maximum hearing. It worked. Octavia was telling Audri about her crush, Logan.

  We talked two times in the last five days. Not small talk, either. Big talk… remember, I told you how I wished him luck before his basketball tryout last Friday… turns out he didn’t make it because Hudson had his dad buy him a spot on the team… Logan figured it out and busted the whole scam wide open… now he’s on… he told me today… anyway, can you believe he told me all of that?… good sign, right?… have a party when my parents go to New York… perfect excuse to invite him over and—

  It’s your fault he didn’t make the team. (Me.)

  Sher! (Audri.)

  Come on, Audri, you know it’s tru
e.

  She pulled off her glasses and cleaned a spot that wasn’t there.

  ’Scuse me? (Octavia.) How is that my fault?

  You said good luck. (Audri.)

  You never wish someone good luck before an audition. Sports or otherwise. (Me.)

  Why?

  You say break a leg. (Audri.)

  Why would I say that?

  Um, ever heard of a superstition? (Me. Condescending.)

  She scratched her airhead. I took that as a no.

  During curtain call, when actors bow or curtsy, they place one foot behind the other and bend at the knee, thus “breaking” the line of the leg.

  And they only bow when people are clapping so it means they did well. (Audri.) So breaking a leg is a good thing.

  But he’s a basketball player. He doesn’t bow.

  And he probably never will, thanks to you. (Me.)

  Mr. Kimball clapped once to announce himself and twice for silence. He looked at his clipboard and began calling hopefuls to the stage and having them sing. There were some solid contenders in the mix but no one as good as me. I wasn’t being conceited. Just real.

  When Mr. Kimball said Sheridan Spencer I literally jumped. I was that ready.

  Break a leg! (Audri.)

  Thanks. (Me.)

  I closed my eyes and waited for Kristin Chenoweth to appear. The golden blond hair came first, then the high-beam smile, then—

  GOOD LUCK! (Octavia.)

  Audri gasped.

  Kristin’s forming image disintegrated into an anthill of glitter.

  Uh-oh. (Mr. Kimball, glancing up at the theater lights to make sure they were secure.)

  Always the professional, I took a steadying breath and somehow managed to sing “Popular” perfectly. The proof was in the applause.

  I couldn’t help wondering if somehow my talent was God herself. I mean, who—other than the Great Almighty—could triumph after “good luck’s” deadly kiss? I was touched by an angel.

  At least that’s what I thought until Octavia auditioned with “Popular” too. If I was touched by an angel, that lucky devil was groped.

  Everyone, including Mr. Kimball, cheered. I clenched my jaw and silently blamed Audri for allowing this demonic parasite to infiltrate our lives.

  Hey, Sheridan. (Parasite, in my face.) That play I dabbled in? It was Wicked. Then she grabbed her Big Cat bag, hooked it over her shoulder, and before leaving said, I was Glinda. Oh, see you on the court, Owdee.