A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  “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 pick 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?”

  “That you’re a pathetic loser?”

  I bite my lip. “Okay, do you understand what else I’m telling you?”

  She draws in a deep breath and contemplates the sky. “My problem’s name is Matt Sparks.”

  “Is he harassing you?”

  “No.” Lindy almost smiles. “I wish. Matt Sparks is the running back for the Truman Tigers. And . . . he’s my best friend.”

  “And you’re afraid all his head injuries are affecting your friendship?”

  “No.” Her hazel eyes drop to the ground. “I . . . Look, it’s obvious that you know a thing or two about fashion and crap like that.”

  “It’s true. I know both fashion and crap.”

  “I want you to teach me how to be all girly so Matt will notice me—really notice me.”

  I study this girl in front of me—her cheeks colored a pink shade of embarrassed, her baggy athletic shorts revealing toned leg muscles, and her school t-shirt hiding who knows what beneath it.

  “I don’t know . . .” I twist my hair around my finger. “Have you tried just being yourself?”

  She snorts. “All my life. It’s time for drastic action. Whatever it takes.”

  “Anything?”

  “Except that waxing business.”

  “And what do I get in return?”

  “The satisfaction of helping a sister in trouble?”

  I shake my head. “Nah.”

  “You get friends. I’ll need you to hang around me so you can get to know Matt and me better. We’re not exactly on the bottom of the social food chain around here, so I think you’ll see some benefit to associating with us.” She looks across the courtyard at all the students not paying attention to me. “Your scandal will blow over eventually. People will forgive you.”

  “Not likely.”

  “You just need to . . . I don’t know, do something to get back on their good side. Maybe show them you’re serious about getting to know them and Truman a bit better.”

  And if I’m not?

  “It’s not as if you really meant all that stuff you said on the Internet, right?”

  “Right.” Well, maybe .01 percent right.

  “Think about it. But whatever you decide, keep this to yourself. I’m trusting you with this information—I don’t know why, but I am. But if you tell anyone about our conversation, I will sic the entire Truman cheerleading squad on you.”

  I draw a cross over my heart. “I won’t say anything.”

  “If you’re up for the challenge, call me.” She hands me a piece of paper with her number on it. “See ya, New York.” Lindy walks away, her steps quick and efficient. And not an ounce of grace to be found.

  The three o’clock bell rings, and I jump out of my seat and am the first in the hall. Still leery of the full-size lockers and my nightmares of being sh
oved into one, I adjust the weight of my four-hundred-pound backpack and—

  “Oomph!” Plow right into an argyle sweater. “Sorry.”

  Luke Sullivan glares down at me, his hands clutching my shoulders. “Going somewhere?”

  His eyes cloud, and I notice they’re a strange, deep blue. Like spilled ink. “I . . .” Focus, Bella. “I’m going home.”

  “You have an assignment to do. That’s an ongoing investigation, and it starts today.”

  “I think the stinky Dumpster can wait a day. I’m not wearing my ‘sit in trash’ outfit, but I’ll be sure and pack it tomorrow. And get your hands off me.”

  “Only if you remove yours.”

  I startle as I realize my palms are splayed across his chest. His surprisingly hard chest. I tuck my hands behind my back, and Luke releases my shoulders, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Luke, seriously, I need a little notice. My mother is waiting in the parking lot, and I have things to do at home.” Like lie on the floor and scream until Mom says I can keep Moxie.

  “I knew you couldn’t do this. You don’t have it in you.”

  “No! I totally have it in me.” I have no idea what we’re talking about here. “Tomorrow. Really, I’ll investigate your Dumpster tomorrow. I think one day won’t hurt our foray into the many things I’m sure the cafeteria is covering up.” I wince when I hear the mockery seep into my tone.

  “Forget it. I’d hate for you to miss a nail appointment or something.”

  “I don’t have a nail appointment!” You jerk. “Um, but if I did . . . where would that appointment be?”

  He growls low and pivots on his heels. “Consider your assignment revoked.”

  I’m so sick of everyone’s low opinion of me. If it’s going to change, I’m going to have to make it change. Whatever it takes. You can do it, Bella. You can do it. “Fine!”

  Luke stops and walks back my way. “What’s that?”

  I swallow. “I said fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Today. Now.”

  I force a smile. “Can’t wait to get out there. My journalistic fingers are just itching to . . . to . . .” My forced enthusiasm falters. “Look, I’ll go sit in trash. That’s all I can give you right now.”

  “I want a full report. Dig around in that Dumpster for at least two hours. Got it?”

  “And you promise this isn’t some way to make me disappear? Some big truck isn’t going to show up and scoop me up, right?”

  For a millisecond I think I see a flicker of humor in his eyes. But if it was there, it’s gone now. Just his cold, assessing stare. “Any trouble you get into will be of your own making.”

  Oh, I would love to rake that prim and proper smirk off his face. “Yes, sir, Mr. Editor. And maybe if you’re nice to me, I’ll bring you back a souvenir. Like a petrified burrito or a decomposed hot dog.” Because that’s all I’m going to find on this pointless errand.

  His eyes flicker over me again before he turns around and walks away. That pompous, arrogant little— Outside I find my mom in the parking lot. I slide into the passenger seat but leave the door open.

  “I’ve got news,” I say.

  “Me too. I got a job!” She pulls me into a fierce hug. I close my eyes and drag in her comforting smell. I remember when I was little I would count her hugs like prizes. They were few and far between, unlike Luisa’s open arms. Mom was rarely home. And when she was, her ear would be connected to her phone or she’d be taking care of someone else in one of her charity organizations. I always wanted to start a charity for myself. The Where in the World Is My Mom Foundation.

  “I’m going to be working at Sugar’s Diner downtown.”

  “What? ”

  “Yeah, I start tomorrow. I’m going to wait tables.”

  “Mom, you don’t even know your way around a kitchen.” I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but this is a disaster in the making. “Wouldn’t you like to find something more suited to your skills?”

  And then her lower lip trembles. She drops her head to the steering wheel. “I don’t have any skills.” She sniffs and wipes away a falling tear. “It’s so hard.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Okay.” She blows her nose and holds me with a watery gaze. “I married your dad when I was so young. I was in love.” She shakes her blonde head. “I dropped out of college to marry him and support him through med school.”

  “See, you’ve got work experience. What did you do back then?”

  “I mean I supported him emotionally. I kept the apartment pretty—myself pretty. Then your dad’s career took off and you came along.” She smiles and pats my knee. “And I just forgot about my own dreams. Your dad became this giant personality . . . and I seemed to have lost mine. Bella, I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  Aha! “Mom, it’s okay. We can go back to New York and figure it out. You were confused when you married Jake. I understand.”

  “Oh no.” She closes her eyes, further smearing her mascara.

  “Marrying Jake was a turning point for me. He encourages me to be . . . me. And now I’ve got to figure out who that is.”

  Yes, please hurry. Because I think the real you will want your Manhattan address back.

  “I need to figure out what I’m good at. What my interests are.”

  Mom smiles slowly. “I need to get to know my daughter. I’ve missed out on a lot. But no more, Bella.” She swipes at her smudged under-eye area. “You want to know what I decided today?”

  “Mom, I don’t know if I can take any more of your life changes.”

  “I’m going back to school!” She giggles. “Isn’t it great? Just a few classes next semester, but I’m on the right track. I know it.”

  I glance at my watch and feel the dread coat my stomach. “I’m really glad for you.” Aren’t I? “But I’ve got to go. You’re looking at the newest staff member of the Truman High Tribune, and my first assignment starts right now. I couldn’t get out of it.” Or avoid getting in it.

  My mother straightens and turns the key. “Oh. Well, I was hoping you could help me with dinner tonight. It’s my turn to cook, and”—she shrugs—“you know what a disaster that is. Plus I thought it would give us a chance to talk more. But I’m glad to see you making connections already! I told you all that would blow right over.”

  Yeah, like a dead tree.

  I stick a leg out the door and force the rest of my body to follow. “I’ll call you when I’m done. Shouldn’t be but a few hours.” And then a couple more hours of showering. My hand hesitates as I shut the door. “Mom . . . I really am proud of you. But promise me you’ll keep your eyes and ears open. I really think Jake might be—”

  Her cell phone erupts in an obnoxious chime. “Oops, got to take this. Call me when you’re done, sweetie.”

  And my mom drives away. Still oblivious to Jake’s deception.

  And the fact that her daughter is about to get totally violated by a Dumpster.

  chapter fifteen

  Assignment Rules: Garbage Exposé

  1. Investigation is confidential and will not be discussed with anyone not on Tribune staff.

  2. Reporter is to secure the area and make sure no one sees entry into Dumpster.

  3. Reporter is to stay concealed within Dumpster for a minimum of two hours.

  4. Reporter is not to do anything but observe and take pictures during this time.

  5. Anything confiscated during the investigation is the sole property of Truman High School; should anything be kept by reporter, it will be considered stolen property.

  I refold my assignment description from Luke and grab a few necessary items from my backpack. Can you believe those rules? I’m so sure—like I’d want to keep anything from the trash. That boy needs to get over himself. Mr. Power Trip.

  “Okay, here goes nothing.” Throwing my bag on the ground, I “secure the area” and find the coast is clear. Unfortunately. I walk to the back of the rusted
brown Dumpster. And stop. If I get hepatitis or some sort of rash out of this, I will have Luke Sullivan’s head on a platter.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Ew! Too deep. Breathe through the mouth.

  I grab a milk crate from a nearby stack and set it beside the Dumpster. Right now I think I would rather pluck out my own fingernails than do this.

  I plant one foot on the crate.

  This is so unfair. The nerve of that guy. You know he created this assignment just to smoke me out of the class.

  Both feet on the crate.

  I’m through being a disappointment to Truman High. If Luke tells me to swim across the Mississippi River in my winter coat with my arms tied behind my back and weighted fins, I will do it.

  My hands clutch the top of the metal wall and I peer in.

  Truman High is going to see that no matter what they throw at me, I can handle it. I can do anything. I am Bella Kirkwood. I am made of tough stuff—strong resolve, tons of courage, heaps of strength—sick! Is that a dead mouse?

  With a final look behind me, I stick my heel into a foothold, heave myself up, and hurl my body over the side.

  “Yuck!”

  And face-plant into a puddle of old spaghetti. My breath coming in gasps, my hands fly to my face and swipe the red stuff off. I think I’m going to be sick. I lift the tail of my top and bury my head in it. There’s one shirt ruined. Along with my dignity.

  God, I don’t know why I’ve got a front-row seat on this little journey into humiliation, but whatever You’re trying to teach me, I’m here.

  And if we could hurry the lesson along, that would be great too.

  My feet find the floor, and I find a spot and sit on a trash bag. Time to start opening some of these bags, I guess, because I sure don’t see anything suspicious here. Five giant trash bags. A batch of old spaghetti that was stronger than the bag and worked its way to freedom.

  A few plastic bottles that should’ve been recycled. And a paint can.

  I grab my notebook and jot the items down. Oh yes, I can see the story already. Cafeteria has perfectly normal, smelly garbage. Front-page news. Can’t wait to have my name attached to that.

  Reaching for a bag, I breathe through my mouth and untie it. On second thought, I am not digging through that. I don’t have gloves. I don’t know if my tetanus shot is up to date. And I could get cut on something like glass or metal. Or the cafeteria’s rock-hard cookies.