If he gives me the whole frowning-uses-more-muscles statistic again, I think I will projectile-vomit through the digital sound waves.
“Tell your dad all about Truman.”
I give him the abbreviated rundown, tidying up the blog-leakage story but still giving him the important details.
“People here want to run me out of town.” I twirl Moxie's stuffed mouse in front of her face. She only blinks and goes back to growling at her tail. “I was thinking I could move in with you for a while. Maybe try this again next year.” Or never.
Silence crackles in my ear. “Bella . . . I love you. You know that.”
Here we go.
“But my therapist says I'm in a selfish phase, and that's just not a good environment for you—not full-time anyway.”
It's good enough for his bimbo-of-the-month club.
“This is a learning experience for you. Your mom called me Friday, and we both agree that you need to walk through the consequences of your actions.”
Walk through the ... ?
“No, I don't! Yes, I get that posting my rant about Truman for the whole world to see was stupid. I won't do it again. Lesson learned. Send me a plane ticket.”
“I'm sorry, Bel. I really am. But I'll see you in a few weeks.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” And I disconnect from my dad.
Just like he's disconnected from my life.
chapter thirteen
When I enter the kitchen Monday morning, Budge is sneezing all over the table.
“Gross. Cover your mouth.” Neanderthal.
He lasers me with a glare, then sneezes again, sending Moxie scampering for safer, quieter territory.
“Bless you.” Robbie smiles at his brother. “Did you know that saying probably comes from the days of the bubonic plague?”
I glare at Budge. He is the plague.
Mom sits down, a nervous look on her face, and rubs my back. At last! I finally get some sympathy around here. “Honey, I have some bad news for you.”
I grab the bowl of oatmeal she slides my way and inhale its mapley goodness. “You mean something worse than today I'm going to go to school and be pelted with insults, spit wads, and stray pieces of gravel? I won't have anyone to sit with at lunch, and everyone in class will shun me and egg my car? Oh, wait. I don't have a car.”
“Um, yes, there's more.”
I drop my spoon.
“Sweetie, Budge is allergic to Moxie.”
He sneezes on cue.
“So? He can get some shots or something.”
He stands up and takes his bowl to the sink. “Or you get rid of your cat.”
I grab my mom's arm. “What? No!”
“I'm really sorry, but he's tolerated the cat for as long as he could. He didn't want to upset you.”
Budge stands behind Mom and smiles. He's evil! Evil, I tell you!
“He lives to upset me. You can't make me get rid of Moxie. She's all I have.”
“I wouldn't go that far,” Mom says.
“Well, I would. She and I have been together through thick and thin. And she's special—not just anyone would know that you have to moisten her food. Not just anyone would dig out her toys when she loses them. Not just anyone would know that she needs extra pets when she walks into walls or falls off of staircases. Moxie needs me!”
“Bella, we are part of this family now, and we have to make decisions that benefit everyone.”
“Besides,” Budge adds, “it's gross to have a cat in the house.”
“Oh yeah, because you Finley guys are really into hygiene and tidiness. Moxie could get lost in the dust in your room alone.”
Budge rears back and blasts another sneeze.
“That's so fake! Look at him—how can you buy into this?”
“Jake will find Moxie a good home, Bel.”
I stand up, my chair squawking across the linoleum floor. “Tell him to find me one too.” And I race upstairs.
Knowing I'd rather dance in the front yard topless than ride to school with Budge, Mom drives me herself.
“Have a good day, Bella.”
For seconds I stare at her. It's like telling someone on death row to keep her chin up. Closing the door, I walk away.
God, please get me through this day. I'm like Job in the Bible—losing everything. Okay, so, like, everyone he knew died. And I haven't lost any cattle or anything. But still—I got it had.
I crank up my iPod, bypass my locker, and head straight for English class.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
With room 104 in sight, I pick up my pace.
Mrs. Kelso jumps out of nowhere, stands in the middle of the hall, and blocks my way. “Miss Kirkwood, come with me, please.”
“But I need to get to—”
“Now.”
The blonde woman leads me to her office and motions to a less-than-plush seat, and I sit. She props a hip on a corner of the desk and looks into my eyes.
“I'd like to pick up where we left off Friday afternoon.”
Oh yes please. I'd love to relive every moment of Friday!
“I don't really care that Mrs. Lee thinks you bring bad vibes to her art classroom. But we did schedule too many students in there that hour, so somebody has to go.” She raises her brows. “And it's you.”
Like I care. Right now dropping out and joining the circus sounds more my thing anyway.
“The question is where to put you.” She moves to take her seat behind the massive oak desk. “I got online and read your blog postings—oh yes, they're still out there. Captured for all eternity in numerous places.” She taps her acrylic nails together. “It occurred to me that since you like to write, you might do well on the newspaper staff.”
“Or I might not.” I p i c a string from my Betsey Johnson skirt. “I'm not interested, but thanks.”
“I really wasn't giving you an option.” She returns to her seat and clicks away on her computer. And before I can say, “Home-schooling sounds fun,” I'm clutching my newly revised schedule.
“I'll meet you after English class to escort you to your new destiny as a journalist.”
“I know nothing about writing for a newspaper.”
Her passive face breaks into its first smile. “Oh, but you're a smart girl. Let's just hope they don't ask to see any of your previous work.”
I suffer through English class, showered with only a handful of slurs. When I wasn't writing my hand to the bone on an essay, I was praying for an Old Testament curse upon Budge's frizzy head.
When the bell rings, I find Mrs. Kelso waiting for me in the hall. “Right this way, please.” She stops a few doors down, and we're in an officelike space, with old framed newspapers hanging from the walls, as well as row upon row of awards and certificates. “This is Mr. Holman. He is the paper advisor.”
I smile at the white-haired man who shakes my hand. “New student, eh? Can she write?”
“Oh, she's got all sorts of experience. She has a revealing . . . honest approach to her work.” Mrs. Kelso sends me a wink. “Now Mr. Holman just oversees the paper. You'll learn the ropes from his editor.”
And that would be me.”
I turn around, my eyes widening at the vision in front of me. A vision with hostility flaming in his blue eyes. Mr. Holman might not be familiar with my attack on Truman, but this guy sure is.
“Isabella Kirkwood, I'd like you to meet my editor, Luke Sullivan.”
I hold out my hand for Luke to shake, but he ignores it, staring at me like I'm contagious.
“This is our new staff member?” He runs a hand through his black hair. “We have a waiting list two pages deep to get on the paper, and this is who we get?” Luke shakes his head and huffs. “Unreal. I can't work with this.”
“You can, Mr. Sullivan,” the counselor says evenly. And you will. Like all staff members, you will teach Bella the ropes of writing for a newspaper. Are we clear?”
Luke Sullivan walks away as the ten other peopl
e in the class openly stare in my direction.
“He cares a lot about this paper.” Mr. Holman looks toward his protégé. “It's very important to him. We are an award-winning publication, Miss Kirkwood. I hope you're ready to do everything you can to maintain our standard of excellence.”
I smile weakly. The me from last week would say something about Truman's standard of excellence. “You can count on me, sir.”
Satisfied that no one is going to tar and feather me today, the counselor leaves. Mr. Holman shows me around the room and introduces me to the other staff members. None of them embraces me in jubilant greeting. Nobody cries tears of joy at my presence.
“Luke here will get you started. Our first edition comes out next week, and the back-to-school issue is an important one.” Mr. Holman pats me on the back, shoots a warning glance at his editor, then leaves us alone.
I stand next to Luke's desk and wait for him to turn around and look me in the eye.
Two minutes pass. I clear my throat.
Sixty more seconds. “Look, Luke—”
“You think you can just waltz in here and play the prima donna?”
I check behind me. Is he seriously talking to me? “Um . . . no.”
“I know who you are, and I know about your little gossip column.”
“It was an advice column, and I'll thank you not to use the word 'little' like it was nothing. I mean, granted, the last few postings weren't my best work, and I'm sorry about those, but it's time we all get past it and—”
“If you bring even a hint of trash to this paper, I will go to the school board to get rid of you.”
“Calm down.” I drop my own volume. “What is your deal? You know, you really ought to get some help for your anger issues.”
Luke stands to his feet and towers over me. I inhale a light, musky cologne. “The only thing that makes me angry is having to work with some debutante just because the counselor has nowhere else to put you. I have Ivy League schools watching my work, Bella. And when I graduate next year, I don't want to have to go to the community college just because the princess here brought our paper down and I lost all my scholarship opportunities.” He takes a step closer until I can smell his Dentyne. “See, my daddy isn't on E! on a regular basis and he isn't going to write me a check for college. Do you think you can wrap your little brain around that?”
My cheeks are hotter than a flatiron. “Gee, I don't know. You use such big words.” I pout my glossy lips. “They make my head hurt.”
“I'm warning you, Kirkwood. One misstep, and I'll see that you're transferred to advanced competitive weightlifting.”
I grind my teeth together to keep from totally unleashing on this pompous pig.
“Do you know what the inverted pyramid is?”
I snap my gum. “Um . . . something in Egypt?”
Luke glowers behind his glasses and tosses me a binder. “Read this. It's my tutorial on the basics of journalism. I'll quiz you tomorrow.”
“I can do this, you know.”
“Whatever. Just stay out of my way.” He points to a desk. “Go study, rich girl. Writing is more than just cheap shots and a cutely turned phrase or two. You can't buy your status in here. You gotta earn it.”
Straightening my spine, I pivot on my heel and walk away. Will I ever live down the Great Humiliation? Everyone thinks I'm some sort of celebutante with nothing in my head but hundred-dollar bills.
“He's intense.” A dark-complected girl sits down beside me. “But he's good.”
Yeah, good at being perfectly horrible.
“I'm Cheyenne, by the way.”
I force a smile. “Bella Kirkwood.”
“I know. Good luck—with everything.” She glances at Luke's back. “You're gonna need it.”
Twenty minutes later, Luke's shadow falls over my binder. I take my sweet time looking up. “Yes?”
He hands me a sheet of paper. “Here's your first assignment.”
“Already?” My heart flutters with excitement. “I knew you'd come around. I really am responsible and a hard worker, and I—” My eyes focus on the description on the page. “The cafeteria Dumpster?” I read it again. A story on the excessive waste at Truman High? You want me to investigate the school trash heap?”
He lifts a coal black brow. “What's the matter, princess? I thought you could handle it.”
I'd like to handle my fist up your nose. “It will be my pleasure to observe the activity surrounding the Dumpster.”
He laughs and it lights up his eyes. “Surrounding the Dumpster? Oh no, Bella. You'll be observing in it.”
My.
Life.
Stinks.
chapter fourteen
Is there anything lonelier than eating lunch by yourself?
I might as well be the only girl on the planet for all the attention I'm getting. The embers of anger have died down, and now instead of battering me with insults, everyone is just flat-out ignoring me. Looking through me.
I take my yogurt and apple outside and sit under a distant tree, where the occasional ant scurries by.
My favorite song plays in my pocket, and I reach in and grab my phone. “Hunter!” I instantly feel better.
“How's my favorite Oklahoman?” His familiar voice has my lips curving into a smile. I fill him in on the latest. “Can you believe I have to give Moxie away?” Pain shoots through my heart.
“So you're basically friendless, carless, and catless?”
“And those are the bright spots in my life.” I lean back into the big elm and sigh. “I miss you. I'll be home in a few weeks though. Not that Dad cares. I think somebody used the cellulite sucker on his brain.”
“Things definitely haven't been the same since you left.”
“I know—it's like I took all the cool out of New York, right?” I laugh. “Hunter, tell me what to do. Give me some advice. How do I win these people over?”
“Why would you want to?”
I frown and pik a weed. “Because I live in their town. Go to their school.”
“They're obviously beneath you. Get over it. Find some people to hang out with that are more like you. Have some class.”
“Hunter, you haven't even met them.”
“I read about them on your blog.”
Yeah, you and the rest of the northern hemisphere. “I was mad when I wrote that. Angry.”
“So they're none of those things you said?”
“Well...”
“Exactly. You can do better than that.”
“I don't think you understand. Are you hearing yourself? You can't just discount these people because they dress differently or don't know the significance of Forty-second Street.”
“All I know is the Truman folks are making you miserable. And I don't like to see my girl unhappy. It makes me unhappy.”
Aw. Hunter's mad on my behalf. Isn't that cute? Like a knight in shining armor, he wants to defend me. Slay my dragons.
“Your girl's unhappy because every person in this town wants to torture me—like pluck out my nose hairs or force-feed me pig snouts. I'm not used to not having friends.” I hear the whine in my voice. “People usually like me, Hunter.”
“I know they do.”
“But I need these people to like me.”
“There's my bell. I'll talk to you later, okay? Hang in there. I'll tell Mia you said hi.”
“Oh, are you going to be seeing her?”
“Yeah, there's a back-to-school party at Viva's.”
My bottom lip pooches out like I'm two. “Have a good time.”
“You know it won't be any fun without you.”
Right.
We hang up. After I scoop the last bite of yogurt, I rest my head on my knees and send up another S-O-S to God.
All right, Lord—me again.
I need a miracle. Anything—I'll do anything to get back in good graces with everyone I've offended. I can't stand this—being hated. I want to be popular again. And I want to show them who
I really am.
Please ...just one miracle?
“You Bella?”
I lift my head so fast it hits tree bark. “Ow.” A girl with the body of an Olympic hopeful stands before me, looking none too pleased to be there. “Um . . . yeah.” I look around and survey the area. Are you here to beat me up?”
“Depends. Are you gonna say something stupid?”
“I will sincerely go out of my way not to.” And then I see a flash from last Friday. “You're the girl in art class—the one who took up for me. That was really nice of you. I know you didn't—”
“I'm Lindy Miller. Do you mind?” She points to a giant root sticking out next to me and sits down.
“If you're here to tell me off, you probably need to take a number. You might get a turn about mid-December.”
She shakes her head and her ponytail bounces with hair the color of an Oklahoma wheat field. “I... um ...” Lindy traces a pattern in the dirt with her Nike running shoe. “I need your help.”
I drop my apple. “I'm sorry . . . I didn't hear you right.”
Her brow furrows and she stares at me. Hard. “I said I need your help.”
I lean in. “Look, if you need money, there's not much I can do for you. I've been cut off like Lindsay Lohan and the booze, you know what I'm saying?”
Her voice booms. “I don't need your money.” She glances behind her, like she's afraid our conversation is being bugged. “I need you to make me more girly.”
“Whoa—“ I hold up a hand. “Just because my dad is a plastic surgeon—”
She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Forget it. I knew you were a waste of my time.” And she jumps up and stomps away.
That girl may be weird, but she also could be my only ray of hope here. I mean, she did actually speak to me.
“Wait!” I run after her. “Stop! Lindy!” At this point I would totally hit my dad up for a boob job for her. Anything. “Please—“ I catch up to her and tug on her shirt.
She spins around, her eyes burning hotter than a campfire. “I said forget it.”
“No, come on.” I brave a smile. “Look, I'm going to be honest with you. I've got no one here. My home life is a disaster, the bathroom walls are filling up with my name and number, and not because I'm a good time. And I can't get a soul to so much as look at me—well, not without flipping me off. The only people left on the planet for me to talk to are in a totally different time zone. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”
So Not Happening (2009) Page 7
