Airhead

by Meg Cabot

Chapter 20

  I could see that the Walking Dead were in fine form when the cab I’d been lucky to snag let me off in front of TAHS the next morning. They were all leaning up against the chain-link fence around the construction site across the street (because why have a high school if it isn’t across the street from a former thread factory they’ve imploded to make room for more condos, so you can listen to the BEEP BEEP BEEP of trucks backing up all day?), text-messaging one another. All but Whitney Robertson and Jason Klein. They were making out. I felt some throw up come into my mouth, just looking at them. But it might have been the Danish I’d snagged at deli near the loft and made the mistake of trying to eat for breakfast. It turns out Nikki Howard’s digestive system and Danish? Not so much. I just hadn’t had time to make myself a decent breakfast. I’d hardly believed it when the alarm had gone off. It seemed like I’d only just closed my eyes, and it had been time to wake up again. I’d wanted to die when I saw what time it was. One thing I knew for sure – no more going out on a school night. Not for me. And then, as I’d lain there, staring at Nikki Howard’s plain white walls – a housekeeper or someone must have come to clean, because Gabriel’s roses were gone. I guess they’d finally wilted and died – with Cosabella licking my face, eager for breakfast and a walk, it had occurred to me that I didn’t have to go. Really. No one was making me. Nikki Howard was an emancipated minor. She didn’t have to go to school if she didn’t want to. I could roll over and go right back to sleep – lovely, delicious sleep. The limo wasn’t coming to pick me up for the Elle shoot until three. I could stay in bed all day if I wanted to. It was tempting. So tempting. Especially because I’d been too wired to go right to sleep when I’d gotten home last night and, after listening to Mom’s messages – seven of them, each one more aggravated than the last – had finally gone to Lulu’s room and checked her laptop while she slept and found that hers too had the same keystroke-tracking software on it that Nikki’s had. I’d disconnected the modems to both, and found the keyboards worked perfectly when I plugged them back into the modems again. It was true I still had only a Stark-brand PC . . . but once it was functioning without spyware, who needed school? I’d have to set up a whole new online identity for Nikki, since I knew my parents had disconnected my old ones (too much temptation, they’d told me, especially since I was supposed to be dead). But it was going to be so good to be online again! I could play Journeyquest, and IM Christopher – Oh no, wait. I couldn’t. Because how would Nikki Howard know Christopher Maloney? In order for her to get to know him, she was going to have to go to school today . . . Which, I will admit, is the only thing that sent me stumbling out of bed, grabbing blindly for clothes, pulling on the first things my fingers came into contact with, which turned out to be some kind of high-waisted dress I was supposed to wear over black leggings with these cowboy boots and a lot of long necklaces (Lulu had laid them out for me last night, giggling about how I needed to look good on my first day of school). The ensemble actually turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. I mean, for something that wasn’t a T-shirt and jeans. And after I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face and run a brush through my hair (careful of my still-tender surgery scar), I noticed in the mirror that . . . I actually looked kind of good. Who knew you could look good and actually FEEL good at the same time? I mean, obviously you always feel good in sweats. But hardly anyone LOOKS good in them (at least, according to Frida). Not that I have ever let that stop me from wearing them to school, except on the occasions Frida spotted me and made me turn around and change into something else. But when she didn’t, the Walking Dead would often stop and stare at me, because I so didn’t match their uniform of pressed khakis and collared shirt . . . never a drawstring at the waist! Maybe that had something to do with why, when I got out of the cab and started heading up the steps for the main office, every single person loitering in front of the school stopped what they were doing and simply . . . stared at me. Then I heard the whispered words Nikki Howard and remembered that it wasn’t me, Em Watts, they were staring at, or the fact that I was wearing a non-standard-issue Walking Dead uniform, but the fact that I was actually wearing a celebrity’s body. Oh, yeah. That’s right. A second later, I saw one of them detach itself from the nest and slink over. It took a second for me to register that it was my sister, Frida. That’s how much she’d been assimilated to resemble all the others. ‘Uh, Nikki?’ she said, pretending like she didn’t know it was actually me. I stopped in my tracks and stared at her. That’s because she was wearing a red and gold TAHS cheerleading uniform. And looked totally adorable in it. ‘Did you change into that when you got here?’ I blurted. It was the first thing that popped into my head. Fortunately, we were far enough from everyone that there was no way anyone could overhear us. ‘Because Mom would never have let you out of the house in that. Does she even know you made the squad?’ ‘I changed when I got here,’ Frida said impatiently. ‘And no. And you’re supposed to act like you don’t know me. ’ ‘I don’t know you,’ I said, taking in the short pleated skirt. ‘But . . . it looks . . . it looks . . . ’ ‘Don’t even say it, Em,’ Frida said, her eyes narrowing. ‘ . . . cute. ’ Frida’s jaw sagged. ‘Wait . . . did you just say what I think you said?’ ‘I think Nikki is catching or something,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m starting to like all kinds of things I used to hate. ’ ‘Like Brandon Stark?’ Frida wanted to know. ‘Because there was a picture of you on TMZ this morning, being carried out of Cave last night by him. Also one that showed you with your legs spread apart as you fell into the limo, and you could see your—’ My blood went cold. ‘Mom didn’t see it, did she?’ ‘Like she checks PerezHilton first thing in the morning. She’s too busy trying to call you. Are you ever going to answer that cellphone she gave you? All I can say is, good thing you were wearing panties. Oh my God,’ Frida said to me under her breath. ‘Don’t look now, but, like, everyone is checking you out. They’re all staring – I said, DON’T LOOK. But they’re all looking. They’re – hey. Where did you get those necklaces?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They’re Nikki’s. I think they’re from her Stark clothing line. I can get you some, I think—’ That’d be awesome. Just look at them,’ she said with relish, glancing back at Whitney and the other dead-eyed wannabes. ‘They’re trying to figure out what I’m doing, talking to you. I said, DON’T LOOK. ’ Then she added, ‘Oh my God, Whitney is looking over here. WHITNEY ROBERTSON IS LOOKING OVER HERE – this is amazing. Whitney Robertson is actually looking at me. ME. She’s never looked at me before, ever. This is the best day of my life. ’ ‘Yeah, well,’ I said, brushing by Frida to head into the school, so I could get to the Administration Office. ‘Welcome to Nikki Howard’s world, Frida. Good to know someone appreciates it. ’ As I slipped through the doors, I glanced over my shoulder and saw about thirty people rush up to Frida, all clamouring to know what she and I had talked about. Frida played it cool, shrugging and playing with her hair. But it was clear she was in heaven. Too bad that for her to get that way, I was going to have to go through hell. They assigned me my old locker. I should have known that they would of course. It’s not like anyone else had dropped out mid-semester. And even if someone had, I’m sure there’s a waiting list to get into TAHS, which, in spite of its high population of Walking Dead (or perhaps because of?), is considered a very good school. I was pretty sure, in fact, that Stark Enterprises had paid a hefty ‘endowment’ in order to get me to the top of that waiting list. So it wasn’t any wonder that I ended up with my old locker . . . and in many – though not all – of my old classes. There was apparently some concern that Nikki Howard wouldn’t be able to keep up in the AP courses Em Watts had originally been enrolled in . . . especially in light of her alleged ‘amnesia’. I had to do some fast-talking back in the Admin Office, but did manage to get Nikki Howard enrolled in AP English, bio and trig (I assured them that if I couldn’t keep up with any of my classes, I’d drop out
of them). Of course, having missed a month’s worth of school, there was a very good likelihood I actually wouldn’t be able to catch up . . . but I was willing to try, if it meant I could be in some classes, at least, with Christopher. How else was I going to strike up a friendship with him otherwise? It was weird pretending like I didn’t know my combination so my student guide, this freshman I’d never met before, wouldn’t think I had ESP or something. The freshman, Molly Hung, was totally freaking out over the fact that she was showing Nikki Howard around her school. She was really shy, and I saw her fingers shaking as she showed me how to spin the combination lock. After she’d let me try the combo myself a few times, to get used to it – and after I’d pulled the locker open and seen, to my dismay, that all my stuff was gone (although of course I should have expected that) she finally worked up the courage to ask a question. ‘Do you really go out with Brandon Stark?’ she wanted to know. ‘B-because I saw a picture of you with him once . . . ’ ‘Uh,’ I said. ‘Yeah. I mean, we’re kind of keeping it casual. I had, um, an accident, and I—’ ‘Oh!’ Molly flung a hand up over her mouth and looked horrified. ‘Right! I forgot! You can’t remember. I’m so sorry! Really. God, I’m so stupid. ’ ‘It’s OK,’ I told her. ‘Don’t worry about it. ’ But she went around looking like she wanted to kill herself anyway. She walked me to my first-period class – I’d been lucky enough (sarcasm) to get back into Public Speaking – and, at the door, she said, ‘Um . . . I know how hard it must be, starting at a new school, where you don’t know anyone. So if you want to sit with me at lunch, that – that would be cool with me. ’ ‘Uh,’ I said. I hadn’t even thought about the crucial lunch-seating situation. Who would I be sitting with anyway? I had just assumed I’d sit with Frida, but I realized now that would be absurd. Why would Nikki Howard sit with some girl with whom she’d had a casual conversation on the steps in front of the school? The truth was, Nikki Howard would probably go out to lunch anyway. Oh, who was I kidding? Nikki Howard would never have been in a regular high school in the first place. Except as some stunt for a reality show. ‘Thanks,’ I said to Molly. ‘If I have lunch in the caff, I’ll try to look for you. ’ ‘Well, have a good class,’ Molly said, blushing with pleasure. ‘And if you need me, here’s my cell. Call me for anything. ANYTHING. OK?’ ‘OK,’ I said, and smiled at her. To my surprise, Molly blushed even harder. Then she hurried away, giggling, and looking really . . . well, pleased is the only way I can describe it. Can I just say it’s totally weird to smile at someone and have them seem so excited about it? After all, it was just a smile. No one EVER used to react like that when I smiled at them back in my old body. But in Nikki’s body, when I smile, everyone practically seems to have a heart attack. Except Brandon’s dad. And I knew things were only going to get weirder when I walked into Public Speaking – late, thanks to all the forms I’d had to fill out in the office, and the fact that I didn’t know stuff like Nikki Howard’s Social Security number. Every time someone asked me for it, I had to look it up (I’d remembered to charge her Sidekick), but that was OK though, because I was supposed to have lost my memory anyway. I walked into Public Speaking, interrupting an oral presentation McKayla Donofrio was giving on the importance of reading to your children. She stopped dead when she saw me, and just stared. Soon the rest of the class woke up and did the same thing. It took a second or two for Mr Greer to notice no one was talking, and to open his own eyes and see me standing there. ‘Oh,’ he said, pretending he’d been awake the whole time. ‘Yes. They told me to expect you. Nikki Howard, right?’ ‘Right,’ I said, holding out my late pass and admission slip. ‘Hi. ’ ‘Great, great,’ Mr Greer said, taking both slips and not even looking at them. ‘Class, this is Nikki Howard. She’s a new student who’ll be joining us for the rest of the semester. Nikki, grab an empty seat . . . I think there’s one over there . . . ’ He pointed to my old seat. Of course. I went towards it, my head ducked, pretending I couldn’t hear all the whispers as I slid into my old seat. Christopher, I’d noticed when I’d risked a glance at him, was awake, for once. And that wasn’t the only thing about him that had changed: He’d cut his hair. I didn’t mean to suddenly stagger to a standstill and stare at this guy who was supposed to be a stranger to me, but it was pretty hard not to, since I hadn’t – ever – seen Christopher with hair above his neck. Gone was the long blonde curtain that had swept past his shoulders for as long as I could remember – certainly since middle school, and all through high school. He now wore his hair in a cut indistinguishable from Whitney Robertson’s boyfriend, Jason Klein. In fact, if I’d just glanced in Christopher’s direction, I might even have mistaken him for Jason Klein, that’s how close the resemblance was now. There was nothing at all to tell him apart from the rest of the Walking Dead. He was even wearing what appeared to be a pale green polo shirt with his jeans. What had happened? I know it must have been upsetting and all, watching me die (sort of) right in front of him, and going to my memorial service and all that. But upsetting enough to have turned him preppy? ‘So, Nikki, just to get you up to speed,’ Mr Greer said, startling me from my full-on open-mouthed astonishment, ‘we’re doing five-minute persuasive arguments on a topic of the student’s choice. I won’t expect you to have anything ready for this week, but if you feel up to it you can try next week. ’ ‘OK,’ I said quickly, tearing my gaze from Christopher and sliding into my seat. I automatically flipped open my brand-new notebook – anything to take my mind off what had happened to Christopher – and stared blindly straight ahead. But it was really hard to concentrate on what McKayla was saying. I couldn’t stop thinking about Christopher and his hair, even though, now that my back was to him, I couldn’t see him any more. What had happened to him? Had the Walking Dead assimilated him, just like they had my little sister? How could this have happened in such a short time? I realize I’d been gone over a month, but still! How could he have cut his hair like that? He’d resisted the Commander for so long- And then I died, and bang . . . resistance was suddenly futile? No! No, that was just so wrong! Not that his haircut looked bad. Quite the opposite, actually. Even Frida would have to admit Christopher looked good. Really good. This was an alarming development I wished she’d warned me about. Supposing Christopher, now that he had this new look, was actually attracting female attention? I mean, besides mine. No. It wasn’t possible. The only female attention Christopher had ever attracted before was mine, and he hadn’t even been aware of it (or at least, that I’d been female). But he looked really, really good now. I mean, I always thought he looked good. But now everyone had to have noticed how good he looked. What if he was going out with someone? Oh, why hadn’t I thought to ask Frida what was going on with him, romantically? A lot can happen in a month – obviously. I mean, look at me. Talk about makeovers . . . I had a whole new body. Not to mention a new face, name, Social Security number . . . As if the fact that I suspected my best friend might be cheating on me with other girls (only not really, because he never knew I’d liked him that way in the first place, plus, he thought I was dead) wasn’t bad enough, I kept getting the feeling that everyone in class was looking at me. I was probably only being self-conscious. But a quick glance up from the doodles I was making in my new notebook confirmed it: I wasn’t imagining things . . . everyone was staring at me. The minute I looked up, every head in the room swivelled quickly away from me . . . except, when I pretended to drop my pencil and swung down to pick it up and took a quick look in his direction, Christopher’s head. Christopher’s gaze was fastened on to McKayla. He hadn’t even noticed me! What was up with that? Why was he even awake anyway? He always slept through first period. Was Christopher going out with McKayla? No way. McKayla was head of TAHS’s business club. Business club. No way could he like her. All she could talk about was how after she graduated from Harvard, she was going to revolutionize Wall Street. Christopher couldn’t like her. He couldn’t possibly . . . I could see I was going to m
ake a lot of progress thinking in that direction. Frustrated, I began doodling harder. I drew a tiny poodle, this one of Cosabella. Lulu had promised last night to look after her while I was in school all day. The poor thing had whined and yelped when she’d seen me leaving the loft without her. I didn’t know much about dogs, but this didn’t seem like the most stable behaviour. Had Nikki really taken her dog EVERYWHERE with her? Because Cosy certainly acted like it was a federal offence if she was left behind. I was dreading the mess I’d find at home when I got back. I highly doubted Lulu was the most responsible dog-sitter. I was fairly certain there’d be some major carpet-scrubbing to do tonight. Oh well. Nikki’s fingers needed limbering up anyway. They were basically useless. I couldn’t draw a thing with them . . . not even a measly poodle. What had Nikki Howard done with her hands all day anyway? You can only put on so many layers of nail polish, right? ‘Psst. ’ I looked over my shoulder, hoping Christopher was the one pssting me. Only he wasn’t. Whitney Robertson smiled at me. Yeah. Whitney. Smiled. At me. The next thing I knew, a folded-up piece of paper sailed in my direction. I caught it. When I unfolded it, I realized it was a note. A note from Whitney. I didn’t know what to do. Whitney had never thrown me a note before. I saw her fellow Walking Dead member, Lindsey, twinkle her fingers at me. Like, hello! She was smiling, as well. Instinctively, and before I could stop myself, I smiled back. Wait! What was I doing? Smiling at the Walking Dead? Ducking my head so that Nikki’s hair fell down to hide my face, I looked at the note. Hi! it said, in curlicue writing with a flower dotting the i. Welcome to TAHS! We’re so excited to have you here. I’m Whitney Robertson. I know you probably get this a lot, but seriously – I’myour biggest fan. I know a lot of people say that, but in my case, it’s really true. I’ve been an admirer of your work since you first started back in print ads. Anyway, I know it must be weird for you, starting a new school and all. So I just wanted to say Hey! And if you have Period B lunch, there’s totally a place for you at our table! We’re by the salad bar. XXX000 Whitney Then she put her cellphone number. I stared at that note for a long time. A lot of different responses went through my head as I read and then reread it. I thought about crumpling it up and throwing it back in her face. Then I thought about writing a response, and saying that I’d heard all about Whitney and how mean she’d always been, and that I wouldn’t sit with her and her friends at lunch if they were the last people on earth. But I didn’t end up doing either of those things. Because – and I know this sounds bizarre – but I really didn’t think Nikki Howard would do either of those things. Not that I was actually trying to BE Nikki Howard of course. At least, not at school. But since I WAS her, I just . . . I don’t know. I just couldn’t see Nikki Howard – what I knew of her anyway – caring about what some twerpy girl like Whitney wrote to her in a note. I guess that’s because, when I looked deep down within myself, I just couldn’t be bothered to care about Whitney any more, or her stupid one-upmanship. I had too many other problems. Like that my best friend couldn’t even bring himself to make eye contact with me. Still, I knew if I didn’t acknowledge her note at all she’d feel slighted. And I didn’t need to make a new enemy my first day. Even if she wasn’t exactly a NEW enemy. So I flipped my hair back, turned in my seat and smiled at her. And something extraordinary happened. Whitney Robertson blushed. Seriously. I never thought I’d live to see the day. But her cheeks turned bright pink with pleasure, and she smiled back at me and waved, and Lindsey, behind her, waved too. And Whitney mouthed, Call me! And pantomimed making a phone call. I smiled again to acknowledge her, then turned back in my seat. This being Nikki thing was easier – in some ways – than I’d thought it would be. Whitney was all over me the minute class ended. Which wasn’t cool, because I’d just been about to turn to Christopher and make a little comment as a sort of icebreaker, like, Is this class always this boring, or what? Only I couldn’t, because the Prom Queen From Hell was on me like ketchup on a steak. ‘How ARE you?’ she hurried over to ask me as soon as the bell rang. ‘I saw on Entertainment Tonight about your . . . you know. It must be so awful, not being able to REMEMBER anything!’ ‘I can remember some stuff,’ I said as I gathered my things. For instance, I could remember all the times Whitney and her friends had laughed at my underwear in the girls’ locker room, because they were Hanes Her Way briefs and not Victoria’s Secret thongs, which is what they all wore. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ Whitney said. ‘Well, like I said, I’m Whitney and this is Lindsey—’ ‘Hi!’ Lindsey cried. ‘I’m, like, totally your biggest fan. I loved that spread you did in Vogue in July, with the gold accessories, and the tiger—’ ‘– and we’re just so excited to have you here at TAHS,’ Whitney went on, speaking right over Lindsey as if she hadn’t said anything. ‘It is such an honour that out of all the schools in New York you chose ours—’ ‘Are you guys going to move any time soon?’ Christopher, who was standing behind us, inquired. ‘Because some of us need to get to our next class. ’ Whitney glanced at him over her shoulder, then rolled her eyes and moved out of the way. My heart swooped at that eye roll. Because it meant that, haircut or not, Christopher hadn’t been accepted by the Walking Dead. He wasn’t one of them! He may have looked like he was, but he wasn’t. He was still safe! He was still him! ‘Thanks,’ Christopher said as he walked by. ‘See you later,’ I said to him. He threw me a distracted look over his shoulder – as if he’d heard someone speak, but wasn’t sure who – before disappearing into the throng in the hallway. Beside me, Whitney sneered and said, ‘Sorry about that. Don’t pay him any mind. One of our resident freaks. So you know, if you have any questions about TAHS or need anyone to show you around, I’d be more than happy to help. What are you doing for lunch, for instance? You definitely don’t want to go to the caff. The food there completely reeks—’ ‘Is that the new Marc Jacobs hobo tote?’ Lindsey interrupted, pointing to the bag slung over my shoulder. ‘Because I’m on the waiting list for one—’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I just found it in my closet this morning. ’ Waiting list. Ha! ‘Well, I have to get to Spanish. So if you’ll excuse me . . . ’ ‘Me too!’ Lindsey squealed. ‘I think we must be in the same Spanish class! Room Six Eleven? Oh my Dios! Here, let me show you where it is. ’ ‘God, Lindsey, calm down,’ Whitney said crabbily ‘I’m sure Nikki can find her own way. ’ ‘That’s OK,’ I said, turning to look Whitney square in the eye. ‘Lindsey’s being a great help. Well, bye, Whitney. It was nice to meet you. ’ And I walked off arm-in-arm with Lindsey, conscious of being the recipient of a hundred envious stares as we made our way down the hall – Whitney’s the most envious of all. But this time, it didn’t bother me. Because for once I was having too much fun to worry about it.