by Alyson Noel
At first it was awkward, watching them go from beer- swigging gripe sessions to not even speaking, but then Sloane’s mom got pregnant and married (yes, in that order), and in a matter of weeks, they moved to a swanky gated community in south Laguna, an older gay couple moved into their old space, and I became a regular on the Laguna Beach shuttle bus, making the daily commute from my neighborhood to hers.
When I get to Sloane’s, I find her mom in the driveway, struggling to get a screaming, pink-clad baby Blair into her car seat.
“Sloane’s in her room,” she says, barely glancing at me.
I stand there cringing as I listen to Blair shriek at the top of her lungs. “Um, do you need help?” I ask, even though I have no idea how I could possibly assist, other than risking bodily harm by grabbing hold of those tiny, furiously kicking limbs and pinning the baby down. But when she doesn’t answer, I just head straight into the house and upstairs to Sloane’s room.
“Perfect timing,” Sloane says, removing her earplugs and tossing her iPod onto her big, wood, canopy bed. “They’re on their way to Mommy and Me. Did you notice the matching outfits?” She rolls her eyes.
“I didn’t know Juicy made clothes for one-year-olds,” I say, plopping onto her furry zebra print butterfly chair, which is one of the few things she was allowed to transfer from her old life to her new one.
“They don’t. My mom had it made special just for Blair. I swear, that kid was born to be homecoming queen.” She laughs.
“And speaking of.” I look at her, smiling with anticipation.
“Follow me.”
I trail her into her bathroom, which is practically bigger than the bedroom Autumn and I are forced to share, and make myself comfortable on the edge of her oversized Jacuzzi tub.
“Okay, so this is what I got,” she says, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two bulging plastic bags that seem like they just might possibly contain the entire hair and beauty section of the Monarch Beach CVS Drugstore. “I chose Frosty Latte for you, since I figured with your medium to light brown hair color you can probably go about two shades lighter and still look natural, and then I bought Macadamia Fizz for me.” She tosses me the box with a picture of a smiling woman on the front, her thick, coffee-colored hair rippling in the wind as her eyes focus directly on mine, daring me to try it.
“Are we supposed to drink this or pour it on our hair?” I laugh, staring at the color swatches on the back and trying to imagine myself with a frosty latte head.
“And check this out, I went crazy with the lip glosses and eye pencils. I figured with your brown hair and eyes, and me being blond and blue-eyed, it should be pretty easy to divvy it all up, right?”
She pours a pile of makeup onto the rug, and we kneel down around it, sorting through it, popping off tops, and coloring on the back of our hands. And when I gaze up at her, I can’t help but feel this overwhelming surge of gratitude that she’s actually gone and done this for me, because it’s not like she has to dabble in drugstore makeup anymore. I mean, even though she may have grown up kind of poor, now, since her mom’s remarriage, she’s actually pretty rich. Which is kind of like having an all-access, backstage pass to the aisles of Sephora and all the best hair salons. And even though, technically, I’m not poor, I’m not exactly wealthy, either. Not to mention how my mom would never agree to pay for stuff like this. And all the money I saved from slaving in the café all summer? Well, that’s already been spent on some image-altering, life-changing school clothes.
“Sloane, thanks,” I say, smiling shyly, as part of me considers telling her about the humiliating smoothie incident I’d just barely survived, while the other part, the smarter, more careful part, doesn’t allow it.
I mean, we’ve been planning this makeover and social coup since the last day of ninth grade, so there’s no way I can tell her how just one day before the first day of school and our well- planned debut, I may have already blown it.
But she just shrugs. “Please, it’s way more fun this way. Besides, we’re in this together, right?”
I look at her and smile. “Who goes first?” I ask, opening the box and retrieving a pair of rubber gloves, knowing that no matter what happens with our plan, whether we succeed or fail, we’ll always be friends.
Two
Today is the first day in the history of my life that I woke up without a hassle. I mean, usually it’s a pretty big, long drawn- out ordeal, where I hit the Snooze button the absolute maximum number of times, and even then, once it’s stopped cooperating and starts shrilling, I can still manage to eke out another ten minutes just by going all the way under the blankets and placing the pillow on top of my head.
But today I rose with the sun. Partly because I was excited, and partly because I had some major prep time ahead of me.
Tiptoeing past Autumn’s bed, I go into our bathroom and squint at my new frosty latte hair, which is actually more the color of tea with honey and lemon than anything resembling Sumatra blend. Then I get in the shower and perform my usual routine of hair washing, leg shaving, and body cleansing, only today, all the products are new.
“A whole new life calls for all new toiletries,” Sloane had said, handing me a bag full of citrus-scented shower gels, moisturizing shampoos, and conditioners that promised to make the most of my newly minted frostiness.
And now with a towel wrapped around my head and another around my body, I’m like a fresh, blank canvas, eagerly awaiting the stroke of color that will turn me into a masterpiece. Or at least keep me from blending into the wall.
I’m sick of being invisible. Tired of being bumped in the halls without apology, of being chosen last for a team (if chosen at all), and of drooling over guys like Cash Davis who wouldn’t even notice if he ran over me with his Hummer.
It’s like, last year, when we became freshmen, Sloane and I were so excited about getting a fresh new start, in a brand-new school, falsely believing that we could just walk away from our former junior-high nerdiness and ease into the higher social ranks, beau monde, in crowd, A-list, popular clique, cool kids, or whatever you call them at your school. But just three days into the very first week, the roles were already cast, and Sloane and I, denied the chance to audition, stood on the sidelines among a sea of faceless extras, watching as girls like Jaci, Holly, and Claire took the parts of homecoming princess, frosh-soph cheerleaders, and collective varsity jock bait.
And after yet another year of watching everyone else have all the fun that we could only dream about, Sloane and I made a pact to do whatever it takes not to go unnoticed in our sophomore year. So we spent the entire summer holed up in her room, with an arsenal of fashion magazines, Dr. Phil books (Sloane read one, while I read another, then we gave each other the gist), that book where some guy tells you how pretty much no guys are into you (duh!), and endless TiVoing of makeover shows, including Queer Eye, because let’s face it, good advice really does transcend all genders.
And now, leaning so close to the mirror the tip of my nose is practically pressed against it, I start applying my new makeup, beginning with a light dusting of powder to hopefully even out my skin tone (and soak up some of that pesky midday shine), followed by some goldeny-beigey-taupey- colored eye shadow, a smudgy line of brown pencil along my upper and lower lashes, two coats of mascara, a pop of peach blush, a light coat of peachy-gold lip gloss, and like a pound of concealer to cover the zit on my chin that somehow manifested itself during my sleep. And when I’m done with all that, I tackle my hair with a blow-dryer, some product, a big round brush, and my new ceramic flat iron, until it’s sleek, smooth, straight, and virtually unrecognizable. Then I tiptoe back to my room, hoping I can get dressed and out of there without waking Autumn.
And just as I’m grabbing my backpack and preparing to sneak out the door, she rolls over and mumbles, “Winter?”
“Shhh! Go back to sleep,” I whisper, anxious to escape, sight unseen, knowing that my extreme makeover will only spawn a ton of questions that I’m ju
st not willing to deal with yet.
“But, what’re you doing? What time is it?” She squints at the clock between our beds, and then back at me.
“I’m meeting Sloane. So just go back to sleep. You have another half hour ‘til you have to be up.”
“But-”
“Autumn, jeez, get a life already!” I say, in my totally annoyed older sister voice. Though I gotta admit, I feel pretty guilty just seconds after it’s out.
I mean, for the most part Autumn’s a pretty sweet kid. But that doesn’t mean she’s not annoying. It’s like, I’ve always wanted a sister who was more like a friend and an ally, someone who would unite with me against our parents. But the reality is, I ended up with a twelve-year-old version of my mom—an art-loving, bead-stringing, vegetarian baby hippie. And most of the time it feels like a losing battle of me against them.
I walk out the door and head straight for Dietrich’s, just as Sloane and I planned, figuring we could meet before school, sip some java, and strategize for the day ahead.
“Hey,” I say, walking inside and finding Sloane already waiting with two coffees and a scone for us to share. “How’d you get past your mom?” I toss my bag onto the table and take the seat across from hers.
Sloane’s mom is always in her business. It’s like, now that she’s traded in her friendship with my mom so that she can hang with all the wealthy alpha moms who live in their new neighborhood, it seems like she’s been pushing pretty hard for her daughter to do the same. And even though part of me thinks it’s cool the way her mom pitches in, helping her with her hair and clothes, I mean, that’s something my mom would never do, I also know it’s part of the reason why she’s not all that crazy about me. She acts like I’m holding Sloane back or something, keeping her from reaching her full social potential. And even though I have to admit how that really hurts my feelings (especially when I remember how she used to be like a second mom to me), I also feel pretty lucky that Sloane just kind of rolls her eyes, and does her best to ignore all that.
“Last night when Blair was having her usual bedtime meltdown, I told her we had an early-morning orientation.” She smiles.
“Why would sophomores have an orientation?” I ask, breaking off a piece of chocolate chip scone, and popping it into my mouth.
“Beats me.” She shrugs. “By the way, you look great. I like your hair like that.”
“It’s not too straight?” I ask, grabbing a handful and inspecting the flat-ironed ends. I mean, I’d read all about how curls and waves were supposedly back, but since that was my hair’s natural state to begin with it felt kind of wrong, like it shouldn’t be that easy. Like I should work a little harder, and make it do the opposite.
“No, it’s good, kind of edgy.” She nods.
“Edgy’s not good,” I say, suddenly feeling completely panicked. “Edgy’s like, alternative. And in case you haven’t noticed, there are no alternative cheerleaders, prom queens, or class presidents at Ocean High, or any other high.” I shake my head and glare at my coffee, feeling like the world’s biggest loser, with the world’s worst odds. I mean, here I am, just entering the starting gate, and I’d already scratched.
“Relax, it looks cool,” Sloane says, smiling encouragingly. “Really.”
I gaze at her sitting across from me, with her big blue eyes, long blond hair, shiny pink lips, Mystic tanned skin, overpriced jeans, hundred-dollar T-shirt, and three-inch designer wedge heels, and feel a little nauseous when I realize how she totally fits in. She looks like a combination of the Olsen twins, the Simpson sisters, and that spoiled blond chick on The Real OC. Seriously, she looks just like one of them.
While I, with my stupid, edgy hair, cheap knockoff clothes, and junior-high pop star fragrance with a name so embarrassing I’ll lie if anyone asks what it is, am like some pathetic outsider on the wrong side of the velvet rope. It’s like, I was aiming for cool and stylish, but somehow I ended up looking like the world’s biggest wanna-be. I shake my head and wonder which is worse, being invisible, or being visible in the wrong way?
“Besides, you have to find your own unique look,” Sloane says, using perfectly manicured nails to flick at a stray scone crumb.
“Unique is bad. Edgy is bad. I’m so not cut out for this,” I say, filled with a massive amount of despair and self-loathing.
But Sloane just shakes her head, grabs her bag, and pushes away from the table. “Come on, time for us to get noticed,” she says, as I reluctantly follow behind.
As usual, Sloane and I don’t have any classes together, so I’m pretty much living for the ten-minute break between second and third period when we’ll meet at my locker as planned, so we can swap stories of our social conquests, even though I really don’t have anything to share. I mean, maybe I haven’t had my toe stepped on or my books knocked out of my arms, but it’s not like Cash Davis has asked me to go to the prom, either.
Hurrying out of my AP English class, I head for my locker, keeping an eye out for Sloane as I toss my copy of Catcher in the Rye inside, knowing it’ll probably live there for the next three weeks since I’ve already read it twice before, and yes, both times by choice. And even though I realize I’ve just revealed what a major dork I truly am, the truth is, I love to read. And even worse than that, I like most of the books they make us read in school.
“Winter!” I look up to see Sloane coming toward me, with a huge, fake smile spread across her face.
“Sloane!” I say, all overanimated, making a big show of hugging her even though we just saw each other less than two hours ago. But let’s face it, if you wanna be popular, then you have to do as they do. And I’ve seen Jaci and her posse go through this same lame routine like twice a day for as long as I can remember.
“Omigod,” Sloane whispers, leaning in and glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “You won’t even believe this. But in Algebra, Mr. Jansen goes by this alphabetical seating chart, which puts me like smack in the middle of Jaci and Claire. So when he was at the chalkboard writing all kinds of crap on it, Jaci turned to say something to Claire, but since I’m sitting right between them she looked at me and went, ‘Oh, hey.’ So I said, ‘Yeah, hey.’ And then she looked me over and went, ‘Nice shoes.’ So I just smiled and said, ‘Thanks.’ And then like, two more times after that she turned in her seat to smile at me. And then, when class was over, she looked at me and went, ‘Bye’!”
I just stare at Sloane, standing before me, and she’s so excited and happy, and even though I’m happy and excited for her, I suddenly feel pressured to report something too. So I smile and go, “Get this, when I passed Cole Sawyer on the way to English, he kinda bumped into me, and then he looked back and went, ‘Oh, sorry bro.’ ”
But Sloane just stares at me with her nose all scrunched- up. “He called you ‘bro’?”
“Well, yeah. But remember how last year he didn’t even say sorry?” I remind her, knowing deep down inside that was hardly what you’d call progress.
But she just shrugs, and then the bell rings and she goes, “Okay, well, see you at lunch.”
And as I watch her walk away, I can’t help but notice how easily she blends into the crowd, and I get this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, knowing I’m going to have to work a lot harder to match that, yet doubting I ever will.
But then I remind myself of our promise, and how we swore that if one of us got there first, she would hold the door open for the other. And knowing that Sloane would never leave me behind, I pick up the pace and head to class, determined to get there on time.
Okay, so maybe lunch wasn’t as great as we’d hoped, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t moving forward. It’s like, just last year we were brown bagging it in no-man’s-land, sitting so far from the action we were practically off campus. But today, we sat right next to Table B, which I guess means we were at Table C, but hey, it was closer to Table A than we’d ever been before. I mean, let’s face it, the high school cafeteria is just another form of real esta
te, and it all amounts to the same exact thing—location, location, location.
And when the bell finally rings at 3:35, I’m rushing out of class, speeding around the corner so I can get to my locker before meeting up with Sloane, when I crash head-on into Cash Davis.
“What the fu—?” he says, regaining his balance and glaring at me.
“Oh, jeez, I’m so sorry,” I mumble, my face growing all red and hot as I lean down to pick up the pile of books I just dropped. And when I come back up to face him, books all askew and haphazard in my arms, I see that he’s squinting at me. And the sight of that immediately makes my heart thump even faster, as my palms get all nervous and soggy and weak. I mean, not to state the obvious but—Cash Davis is squinting at me!
I just stand there, speechless, mesmerized, a complete bag of sweaty, overexcited nerves. Just taking in every flawless pore on his amazingly beautiful face, watching as his perfect brows merge together as he opens his succulent mouth to say, “Oh, man, you’re that chick who spilled that purple shit all over the place yesterday.” Then he shakes his shiny, beach-bleached hair, and narrows his Pacific blue eyes in disdain. “You’re a fuckin’ hazard, bro.” Then he laughs and walks away, leaving me standing there, still red-faced, still sweaty palmed, still completely mortified, but no longer sure if I like him.
“Omigod! What did he just say to you?” Sloane says, running up and gripping my arm so hard she’ll probably leave a bruise. “When I saw you two together just now I though I was gonna faint!”
I look at Sloane, staring at me with eyes all wide and bugged-out with excitement, and I know there’s no way I can tell her what really just happened. How just seconds after the official end of our very first day of our fresh new start, I may have already blown it. And not just for myself, but possibly for her as well. Since after having just engaged in my second unfortunate episode with Cash in less than twenty-four hours, I think it’s probably safe to assume that it’s better not to be seen in my presence if you’re a card-carrying member of the “I love Cash Davis” fan club.
