by Alyson Noel
Faithfully yours,
Eleanor Rigby
Fifteen
So, every day at lunch for the past week and a half, I just sit at our table, hunching over my healthy, heart-smart sandwich and accompanying bag of contraband chips that I shove in there when my mom’s not looking, and eavesdrop on Rey’s excruciatingly cute, increasingly romantic, seemingly never-ending, cell phone conversations with Shay.
And the worst part is, since I’m the one who accidentally blessed this whole unholy union to begin with, I’m pretty much forced to just sit back and act like I couldn’t care less and can’t possibly be bothered to notice that the calls just get longer and longer as the two of them just grow closer and closer with each and every passing day.
I mean, since clearly this is all my fault to begin with, what choice do I have but to nod and smile and basically just play along every time he snaps his phone shut and relays all manner of adorable facts, useless information, and vital statistics that I never, ever wanted to know? Like:
”Did you know that Shay’s new golden retriever puppy is named Nola, after the Scarlett Johansson character in Match Point?
“Did you know that Shay’s spending the summer volunteering in New Orleans? Aiding flood victims and helping to rebuild the city?
“Did you know that Shay modeled in Paris two years ago? And that she had so many jobs she could barely keep it straight, when she decided to give it all up so that she could have a normal high-school experience and graduate with her class like everyone else?
“Did you know that Shay is perfect in every single freaking way, and that she’s the bestest thing that ever happened to me in this whole wide world?”
Okay, maybe he didn’t exactly say that last one, but still, he may as well have.
And after last night’s tortured reading of his latest blog entry that veered from his usual insightful, relevant, highly entertaining subject matter, to a full page musing on the challenges of house-training Shay’s adorable puppy, Nola, I knew I just wasn’t up for any more of that. So I grabbed my lunch, and hauled it over to the library where I could eat in peace. And even though, technically, you’re not supposed to do that, the librarians don’t seem to mind when it’s me. But that’s probably because I’m one of the few people in this entire school who actually knows them by name.
And then just a few minutes before the bell rings, I’m gathering up my trash when I hear someone whispering from somewhere among the bookshelves. And even though normally I wouldn’t pay any attention to that since it’s a library, and that’s what people are pretty much forced to do in libraries, there’s something about the way this sounds, something kind of frantic, upset, and whimpery that makes me want to investigate further.
I grab my stuff, fling my backpack over my shoulder, and figure I’ll just stop by for a quick peek on my way out the door. And just as I round the corner and peer down the aisle, I see some girl all curled up on the floor, crying into the sleeve of her sweater, and pressing her cell phone tight to her ear. And I stand there in shock when I realize it’s Sloane.
Then she says, “Okay. I will. Bye, Dad.” Then she closes her phone, buries her face in her hands, and breaks into these major, shoulder-shaking tears.
And acting on nothing but pure instinct and an obviously impaired memory, I head right for her, kneel down beside her, and in a tentative voice go, “Sloane?”
And when she looks up, I see that her eyes are all puffy and red.
“Are you okay?” I ask, gazing at her and knowing she’s not.
But she just shakes her head, and hides her face in her hands again, breaking into even louder, more violent sobs.
And even though I feel kind of awkward and uncomfortable to even be here in the first place, that doesn’t stop me from asking, “Do you need to talk?” Then I sit there patiently waiting for her to respond. I mean, I know it seems crazy that after everything that’s happened I would even care enough to ask, but I guess there’s still this small part of me that retains a little hope. Besides, I think it’s safe to assume that this is not the kind of stuff she can share with her cool, new friends. ‘Cause from what I’ve seen they’re pretty strict about limiting all of their conversations to the topics of tanning, shopping, food purging, and guys.
But even so, I can still hardly believe it, when she actually looks up and smiles, before wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, which transfers most of her mascara to her thick, ribbed cuff.
And when the bell finally rings, she looks at me and whispers, “You’re the only one who knows.”
Then she gathers her things and heads for the door saying, “I’ll call you tonight.”
THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY
Wednesday, October??, 2006
10:05 P.M.
Current Mood—Gobsmacked
Current Music—My sister’s lame iPod mix
Quote of the Day-”You cannot teach a crab to walk straight.”
—Aristophanes
Oops! . . . I Did It Again
Seen: curled up and crying, our recently crowned Princess Pink on the verge of a complete emotional collapse, and ready to lean on old Eleanor’s shoulder.
Did she, you wonder?
Not a chance.
And in honor of ex-best friends who dingdong ditch you, I present to you a special edition of The List, with one extra bonus secret thrown in for free.
9. As part of her self-created popularity boot camp, P. P. spent the entire summer memorizing a homemade stack of 3 χ 5 note cards with imaginary questions written on the front, and their appropriate responses scrawled on the back. Think of it like flash cards for social retards. For example, the front of a card might read, “Omigod, love your skirt!” And when you flip it over to the back you’ll note that the correct response is, “Oh, please, this is so old!”
10. P. P., who is taking prealgebra again this year, somehow managed to craft an intricate, detailed, color-coded graph depicting every teen movie queen going back to the mid-eighties, noting not only their commonalities, but also their individual strengths and weaknesses, which she then translated into a USA Today-type brightly colored pie chart showing the ratio of blonde to brunette, cheerleader to class president, athlete to mathlete, so that she’d know just exactly who to emulate.
11. If asked, P. P. will pretend that she never, ever, not even once, cried herself to sleep because the only thing she wanted in the whole wide world was to meet Britney Spears. But don’t you believe her.
12. In second grade, Princess Pink’s show-and-tell presentation was cut short when she stood before the classroom with her mom’s fully charged vibrator in hand, offering a free neck, back, and shoulder massage for anyone interested.
Good night and good luck!
Your friend,
Eleanor Rigby
Sixteen
The next day, I admit, I’m totally scanning the campus for Sloane. But even though I don’t actually see her anywhere, it’s not until lunch that I can truly confirm that she’s a no-show. I mean, she isn’t in the library, and I happen to know that because, like the total retard I am, I checked. And she also isn’t anywhere near her lunch table, which makes me wonder if she’s home sick, or maybe even somewhere in the desert, scaling the barbed-wire fence surrounding her dad’s new government- sponsored home.
Basically I guess I’m just wondering why she never called.
But then I’m also wondering why I even care.
And I’m so preoccupied with all of this self-created drama in my head, that it isn’t until I actually sit at my table that I notice the new addition.
“Hey,” I say, gazing at this guy with shaggy, dark hair that partially obscures his face, smooth olive skin (save for the two zits on his chin), nice, kind-looking, hazel eyes, and a black T-shirt with a picture of the leader of that eighties band, A Flock of Seagulls, which I really hope is meant to be ironic.
“Winter, Elijah,” Rey says, taking a bite of his sandwich and nodding toward the
newcomer.
And no sooner do I say “Hey” again, when we’re joined by two more guys, both brown-haired, one skinny, one normal, and a girl with long, black, straight hair, heavily lined dark eyes, and pale, pale lips. And then Rey informs me that their names are Clark, Evan, and Hayden, respectively, and I’m wondering if we’ve just formed a new band.
As soon as they settle in they all start talking about music, universally agreeing that Hendrix is a god and that every single one of the American Idols is a sucky sellout. And I just sit there, eating my lunch and not saying a word. I mean, it’s not that I hate Jimi Hendrix, it’s just that my mom loves him, which makes it kind of hard for me to even sort of like him. But then, when they move on to books and movies and TV shows, I start feeling so good about hanging with a new group of people who I actually have things in common with, that it’s not until after the bell rings and I’m on my way to class that I realize how I totally forgot to stare at Table A. I mean, seriously, that whole entire time, I didn’t so much as glance over there, not even once. Though I guess that could actually have more to do with Sloane’s absence than any newfound camaraderie.
After school, I’m walking home with Rey, who’s actually headed straight for the café to start his shift, and Evan, who, I just discovered, lives right around the block from me, when my cell phone rings.
And the way they both turn and look at me, complete surprise so clearly defined on their faces (especially Rey’s), makes me feel so embarrassed that I’m no longer sure if I’ll answer it. I mean, as pathetic as this is to admit, I think it’s safe to assume that it’s probably just my mom or Autumn. So why should I risk flipping it open and saying “hello” just so I can confirm all of our suspicions that: (a) it’s definitely one of my three closest blood relatives, and (b) I truly am the world’s most unpopular, undesirable, grade-A geek.
But then right before it’s about to go into voice mail, I realize how I just might be overthinking this. So I flip it open and go, “Yeah?” in this kind of breathless, hurried way.
Then this male voice, that I don’t even recognize, goes, “Hey, it’s me. Easton.”
So I glance at Rey and Evan, switch the phone to my other ear, and sort of turn away from them, in an attempt to look a little more mysterious as well as get some privacy.
“Hey,” I say. I mean, that’s pretty much all I can come up with since it’s not like I thought I’d ever hear from him again.
And he goes, “Guess where I am.”
And since I’m supposed to guess, I go, “Um, New Delhi?”
And he laughs and says, “No, L.A. I’m up here for an audition, and a friend of mine loaned me a car so I thought I’d head down and see you.”
And I go, “Seriously?” And then I glance at my friends again since we planned to all hang out at Rey’s tonight and I’m starting to realize how this could actually work out to be so amazingly perfect in so many ways.
“Seriously, I arrived yesterday, but I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I know it’s short notice and all, so if you can’t make it work, it’s cool.”
I peek at Rey and Evan, who are talking about how Chris Martin lost his already tenuous hold on rocker credibility the day he married Gwyneth, but then I catch Rey sneaking a peek at me, so I turn away again and go, “Um, no, actually it’s perfect. But I told some friends I’d hang with them tonight, if that’s okay?”
And he goes, “Just give me your address. I’ll MapQuest it and see you by nine.”
And when I close the phone, I can’t help but smile. Especially after seeing Rey’s expression.
“You should wear the Republican jeans, the wedge heels, and that white tunic top,” Autumn says, lounging on her bed and looking at me.
“He’s seen those jeans like a million times already. And, by the way, the Republican joke is totally played.” I shake my head and glare at my closet and my pathetic collection of useless, go-with-nothing, outdated clothes. “God, I hate my stuff,” I say, kicking at a line of shoes, watching as they tumble, one after the other, like gymnasts performing a well-practiced floor routine.
“Believe me, guys don’t even notice stuff like that,” Autumn says, nodding her head with authority, like she just might really know a thing or two about this.
But I just roll my eyes and turn back toward my closet, not hating it any less than I did a second ago.
“Seriously, they just don’t care nearly as much as you think,” she insists.
And when I turn to look at her again, I wonder if she’s right. I mean, after all, this is the same little artsy freak, who somehow, against all reason, logic, and odds, spurred the undying affection of Cash Davis’s little hottie brother, Crosby. And to hear her tell it, the drama is anything but over.
“Okay,” she says, standing up and taking charge, since obviously someone has to. “This is what you do. You wear the dark denim stovepipes, the black, spiky, ankle boots. And the white ribbed tank with the black bra, and make sure the strap is showing. Then add all three of your chunky silver chain necklaces, which means no earrings ‘cause you don’t want to overload the whole face-to-neck ratio, but definitely throw in some cool bangles to kind of load up your arms. And then top the whole thing off with either a funky cardigan, that shrunken, black, tight little blazer, or your old denim jacket, in case you get cold. And oh, yeah, flat iron your hair, and wear one of those hats like Madonna does when she’s out riding her bike in the English countryside.” She looks at me, nodding with the confidence of prepubescent authority.
While I stand there, trying to piece it all together. “Who am I supposed to be?” I finally ask. “Chrissie Hynde?”
But Autumn just shakes her head, plops down on her bed, and focuses back on her book. “Just trust me,” she says.
So I did. I trusted her. And believe me, it worked. Because right after Easton met my mom (which by the way, was not at all the nightmare I’d anticipated), we were headed for the borrowed car (which turned out to be some big, silver, four-door BMW sedan that belongs to his agent), he leaned in, smiled, and said, “You look hot.”
And then he kissed me on the cheek, and held the door open as I got situated in the passenger seat.
And even though I felt all giddy and happy when he said that (since it’s not like anyone’s ever said it before), there was still this part of me that wished he could have maybe waited just a little bit longer, told me that just a little bit later. You know, like when Rey would be around to hear it.
By the time we get to Rey’s, I’m starting to feel a little nervous, wondering if my cool new friends will be cool enough for Easton. I mean, let’s face it, he’s definitely one of those hip, seen-it-all, big-city-dweller types, so I think it’s pretty obvious that he’s used to some pretty urbane, sophisticated stuff.
But he just parks on the street, grabs my hand, and leads me to the front door. And when we go inside he looks around the formally decorated space, and says, “Nice.”
We head for the media room, where everyone’s hanging out, drinking beer and listening to music, and basically being all quiet and mellow, which of course gives me a whole new set of worries, making me wonder if I somehow oversold this. I mean, on our way over, I think I might have actually referred to this as a “party,” which, you know, basically translates to a night of beer drinking, vase breaking, music blaring, neighbor complaining, cop raiding, and just overall teenage debauchery. When actually, from what I can see, this is really more of a “gathering” since everyone’s just hanging out, and acting like they aren’t even thinking about trashing the place.
So, hoping he’s not too disappointed, I introduce him around, then Easton grabs a beer for himself and a bottle of water for me, and we settle onto the deep, cushy love seat.
I twist the top off my water and gaze across the room, noticing how the flat screen on the far wall is showing Trainspotting. And even though it’s on mute so we can listen to a Led Zeppelin CD instead, I quickly avert my eyes, determined not to see any more of t
hat movie than I already have. I mean, I watched it once before, when my dad rented it on DVD (yup, that’s his idea of good family fare), and despite the fact that it was totally tragic, contained a fair amount of heroin shooting, out-of-control puking, and one totally disgusting bathroom scene that gave me the creeps for more than a week, I really did kind of like it. Though I don’t need to see it again. So I sip my water, and lean into Easton (but only because the size of the couch pretty much leaves me with no other alternative, and not because I’m trying to prove anything to Rey by trying to make him jealous, or anything remotely like that), while everyone’s talking about just how scripted and fake reality TV really is, when Shay leans forward, cocks her head to the side, and looking right at Easton and me, says, “Oh, my God, I should take a picture. You guys are so adorable together.”
And even though I guess in a way that might sound kind of nice, it’s actually mostly embarrassing. But I don’t tell her that. Instead I just shrug and focus all of my attention on my nasty, shredded cuticles, trying to act like Easton and I are way too cool and secure to even comment on that. But when I do finally look up, I’m just in time to catch Rey staring at Easton.
And then Shay, apparently still dazzled by our unmitigated cuteness, goes, “How’d you guys meet, anyway?”
And I just shrug, leaving the storytelling to Easton who uses all of his well-honed actor skills to tell a much improved, slightly abridged version of my New York adventure, leaving out anything that’s either too embarrassing, too personal, or that he wasn’t exactly privy to.
And even though his version leaves me looking way more cool and far more daring than I’ve ever actually been in real life, it’s not like I can really stop and enjoy the moment, since I’m so caught up in the way Rey is watching him, almost like he’s scrutinizing him, that I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he feels like a big brother to me, and just wants to be all protective.
