A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  I push through the office door and the secretary greets me.

  “You’ve got a visitor.”

  I turn around and there in a torn vinyl seat is Hunter Penbrook.

  For a minute I remember what I first saw in him. His dashing good looks. His impeccable dress. His sense of fun.

  But then he cheated on me. And now he’s just a picture on my bulletin board for target practice.

  He stands up. “Bella, it’s good to—”

  “What do you want, Hunter?” I grab his hand and lead him outside to the courtyard. I motion for him to sit on a picnic table while I remain standing.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Who are you staying with? Why are you here?”

  “My dad had some business in Tulsa, so I took the rental car for the day. We’re leaving tonight, but I had to talk to you.”

  “Uh-huh. So tell me about this medical condition you have.”

  He shakes his head and looks away. “I really don’t want to talk about it. They think something is seriously wrong with my stomach, but don’t have any clue what it is yet. I’ve been to the ER a few times. My dad is making them run every test known to man.”

  “But you could die?”

  He shrugs it off. “There are a lot of things uncertain right now. But Bel, I want to make things right in my life.” His hand rests on my arm. “I needed to tell you in person that I’m sorry for all the hurt I caused you.”

  Right now I’m kind of regretting the darts sticking out of his eyes on my bulletin board. “I’ve forgiven you.” Okay, I haven’t forgotten it, but when you see your best friend’s face mashed to your boyfriend’s, it’s a little hard. “Maybe you just need to forgive yourself.”

  His smile is weak. “How do you do that? How do you just forgive somebody for totally devastating you?”

  “I wouldn’t say devastate.”

  “I cheated on you with Mia and ripped your heart open—”

  “More like a slight snag. A paper cut.”

  “—and you just forgive me?”

  I really want to roll my eyes here. “Yup. It’s kind of what you’re supposed to do.”

  Hunter’s hand drops away, and he watches the lunch activity around us. Students play basketball. A couple shares a Powerade and some nachos. “I want that. I want what you have, Bel.”

  I snap to attention. “Well, you can’t have it. Your all-access pass to Bella Kirkwood has expired.”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it, as if struggling for words. “I mean . . . I’d like to understand your faith better.” Hunter meets my eyes. “I think I need that in my life.”

  I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my relationship with Hunter. One would be dating him in the first place. Hunter is not a Christian. I knew this. Knew I wasn’t supposed to go fishing for a boyfriend in unsaved waters. And there might’ve been some other mess-ups, but if God can wipe my slate clean, why rehash?

  “So you’re here in Truman because you want me to tell you about Jesus?”

  Hunter rubs a hand over his face. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just felt compelled to see you. Like I’ve been led here this week.”

  “I don’t really know what to say.”

  He tightens his jacket around him. “I know this is all really awkward. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I won’t be back . . . I’m sorry.”

  And he walks away.

  Sometimes being a good person is a serious pain.

  I run after him. “Hunter, wait.” My arm reaches out, clinging to him until he turns around. “Don’t go yet.”

  “I just need a friend, Bella. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I slowly nod. “Okay.”

  And he enfolds me in a hug.

  I allow myself the moment, remembering how I used to love these arms, these hugs. His smell. His strength.

  Hunter breaks away, his eyes wide. “What is that?”

  I follow the direction of his finger and blanch. “Nooo.”

  There across the street is a two-man camera crew.

  “Bella, what is that?”

  I give my back to the camera. “That is the end of life as I know it.”

  chapter four

  It’s hard to have a mature conversation with someone in a spandex onesie.

  “I have cameras following me around.”

  Jake looks up from his choke hold in the middle of the wrestling ring. “We’ve talked about this. Marv Noblitz told us what to expect.”

  “Hi, Bella. Good day at school?” This from the man whose head is trapped in the crook of Jake’s arm.

  “Hey, Squiggy.” Squiggy Salducci is actually John Pederson, but that doesn’t make for a good name in the ring. His persona is a nerd, complete with high-waisted pants and dork glasses. He calls himself “the intellectual wrestler.”

  “Jake, I just didn’t expect it to be so intrusive.”

  He laughs as he pins Squiggy to the mat. “If you think that’s bad, just wait ’til the crew sets up in the house.”

  Yeah, I have tried to block those details out. I’m in reality show denial.

  “The main focus will be on me, Bella. Don’t worry too much about it.” Jake releases Squiggy from the floor. “Hey, Luke. Right on time.”

  Turning around, I find my editor-in-chief approaching. His eyes land on me briefly before turning their full focus on Jake. “Are you ready for the match this weekend?” he asks my stepdad.

  “It’s the first round of elimination for the show. I think I’m ready.” Jake shakes Luke’s hand.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Covering the reality show for the local paper. Sometimes I work freelance for them. That way I can run the stories in the Truman High Tribune too.”

  “How convenient. Who called you?”

  “Your mom.”

  Perfect.

  “Who’s the guy you were talking to at lunch?” he asks.

  Oh, just my boyfriend. He goes to Princeton. “An old friend.

  Jealous?”

  Luke smiles. “No. Just needed to know if this was someone of interest for the show.”

  “I’m headed to the diner. You boys have fun talking.” I throw my bag over my shoulder and walk away. “And Jake, if you want a real writer, you know where I live.”

  I think Sugar’s Diner was new sometime when Lincoln was in office and women still wore corsets. Any updates to the Truman establishment were made in the fifties, and things haven’t changed since. Pink walls. Jukebox. Red barstools.

  When I swing open the door of Sugar’s, I find my mom on one of these barstools. She has a cup of coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other. My mother used to be a Manhattan socialite. That was before Dad traded her in for a newer model. She went from the country club in New York to the blue plate special in Truman.

  I sidle up beside her. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Hey, sweetie.” She gives me a side hug and brushes the hair out of my eyes. “Just going over the family budget.”

  “Yeah, about that. No more off-brand deodorant please. My pits know the difference.”

  She laughs, but it’s short-lived as her face grows serious. “Want a milk shake?”

  Anxiety does the rumba in my stomach. “You only offer me a shake when something’s wrong. Spill it.”

  Mom chews on the end of her pencil before tucking it into her blonde ponytail. “Talked to your father today.”

  That’s never good. The two have nothing in common now but me. And Dad only calls Mom when there’s something bad he needs to communicate to me but doesn’t have the guts to do it himself. Dad is a brilliant plastic surgeon. But when it comes to parenting, he’s as effective as a crooked nose job.

  She blows on her coffee. “Your dad has run into some financial troubles.”

  “But he has an accountant.”

  “Not anymore. Seems she took his money and left for an undisclosed location. Your dad is in pretty hot water with the IRS.”

  “Didn’t h
e check the accountant’s credentials?”

  “I think thirty-six–D was all he needed to know.” Mom rolls her shoulders and looks me square in the eye. “This means no more under-the-table daddy payouts for you. Your days of visiting him and maxing out his credit card are over.”

  Mom believes we should all live on her and Jake’s income, so my child support checks get put into a trust. I think it’s the stupidest idea ever. But it hasn’t been that bad because I do get in some serious shopping when I visit Dad once a month. I had high hopes for some splurging this weekend in Manhattan.

  “Bella, you’re seventeen. I think you know what this means. It’s time to live like other people your age.”

  “I have to get my purses off eBay?”

  “You need to get a job.”

  “I’m already on it.”

  My mom just stares.

  “Seriously. I got my own regular feature in the Tribune, and I have to write a series of articles on the working teenager.” I roll my brown eyes. “It should be one swell time.”

  “A little part-time work won’t be so bad. Something to give you some spending money. Besides, it’s going to be good for you.”

  “That’s what you said about the Raisin Bran this morning.” Ew.

  “Logan works.” She’s referring to my stepbrother, who is also seventeen. Everyone on the planet calls him Budge but my mom.

  “I’m not sure where I’ll work, but I do know I am not serving hot dogs at the Wiener Palace.” I have my pride. “But as far as Dad’s money issue is concerned, I’m sure he will have this all cleared up soon.” And I’ll be back in business with the occasional shopping sprees.

  Mom stands up and stretches her back. She grabs her order pad and sticks it in her apron. “You can talk to him about that this weekend.”

  Dolly O’Malley busts through the kitchen doors with an ample hip and an armload of shopping bags. Like my mom, she’s a waitress. Unlike my mom, who still drips the occasional coffee and drops a plate a week, Dolly waitresses with as much finesse as a prima ballerina.

  “What’s in the bags?” I ask.

  Dolly’s face glows beneath her too-pink blush, and she looks to my mom. “I need your opinion. We know it’s a boy, so do I go with a blue crib set?” She holds up a small quilt the color of a robin’s egg. “Or maybe something more neutral like yellow?”

  “Who’s having a baby?” I reach for the yellow comforter as Mom hands me a chocolate-and-banana shake.

  Dolly takes a deep breath and grins. “I am!”

  I nearly spew ice cream out my nose. “What?” I look back and forth between my mom and her friend. “But you’re single . . . and you’re, like”—fifty or something old like that—“so mature.”

  Dolly gives her big, blonde hair a toss, a pointless act since it hasn’t moved since 1985. “I’m only forty-six.”

  My mom swats my arm with a towel. “Dolly is adopting. A young woman at church contacted her last month about taking the baby.”

  “It was such a God thing. I wasn’t even considering anything like having any more children.” Dolly brushes her hand over a soft baby blanket.

  Once upon a time Dolly was married to Mickey Patrick, who happens to be Jake’s manager and trainer. Their two young daughters were killed in a car accident a long time ago—with Mickey at the wheel. He moved out not long after that, and let’s just say Truman is too small a town for two ex-spouses to avoid each other.

  I’m still trying to wrap my mind around someone offering Dolly a baby. “So this woman is pregnant and saw you one day, and thought you were the rightful mother?”

  “I used to work with her mother here at Sugar’s. The girl’s only nineteen. She’s got a long way to go before she gets her life together. The father’s out of the picture, she’s living with her mother, and she has no job. She’s in no condition to raise a child.”

  “Congratulations,” I say for lack of anything else. “You’ll be a great mom. Hey, you know what else would be great?”

  Both women raise their brows, suspicious of my segue.

  I plunge on. “It would be supercool if you could get me an after-school job here, Dolly. Maybe you could talk to the manager?”

  She cracks her gum. “Sorry, kid. We don’t need any help. But I guess I could use some assistance out at my farm.”

  Dolly’s farm is more like a ranch. It’s a total mystery to me. She’s worked as a waitress for years, yet she has a house and property any movie star would be envious of. She must make some really nice tips.

  “Uh. Okay. I go to my dad’s this weekend. Can I start next Monday?”

  “I’ll warn the livestock.” She glances over the counter at my ballet flats. “And don’t show up in those.”

  chapter five

  I delete my lame attempts at my first article on teen occupations.

  What do I know about working? Other than doing a little detective work for some cash, I’ve never had a job. This is not going to be as easy as I thought.

  Luke walks by, and I try to look busy. “Are things not going well?” His face shows zero ounce of concern.

  “Things are going fine, thank you very much. I am loving the idea of having my own weekly column.”

  He sits on the edge of the table. “Have you finished the other assignment I gave you? You know, the new weekly assignment doesn’t replace the other reporting duties. Just adds to it.”

  “I’m aware of that.” I plaster a smile on my face. “Check your in-box.”

  He leans a little closer. “You should be happy I sent you on assignment.”

  “Sending me to the band’s oboe concert of Mariah Carey hits is not exactly what I’d call field reporting.”

  “Oboe players have a story to tell too. Speaking of stories, are you going to be at tonight’s wrestling match? I wanted you to get me in to see Jake before it started. I have a few pre-match questions for him.”

  “I’m leaving for my dad’s right after school.” I click on the Internet and pretend to search for jobs online.

  Luke peeks over my shoulder, blatantly reading my screen. “If you’re lucky you’ll find a job that utilizes your skills with hair, makeup, and shopping.”

  I bite back a retort as Mr. Holman approaches. But that would be totally cool.

  “Just the two I wanted to speak with.” He lays a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Luke, I looked over the preliminary notes on the wrestling reality show. I think it’s going to be a great piece.”

  Luke sits straighter. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But I think we’d be remiss if we didn’t take advantage of Bella’s insight here. I mean she is living this reality show. Why not put her on the story too?”

  Fiery blue eyes zero in on me. “I’ve got it covered, Mr. Holman.

  I can handle the story. Have I ever let you down?”

  “Of course not. I just think we can run companion pieces here.

  Your take from the outside, and Bella’s take from the inside.” He slaps Luke on the back. “Okay, good conversation. Let’s talk again soon. Bella, can I see you in my office?” Mr. Holman walks away.

  You couldn’t burn through the tension with a flatiron. I ease out of my seat and squeeze by Luke. “I guess he thinks I’m cut out for more than band recitals.” And humming a Mariah tune, I go get the details on my assignment.

  At lunch I take my tray and sit next to Lindy Miller and Matt Sparks. My salad tastes like grass, and I look longingly at Matt’s cheese fries. The boy plays football and basketball and works out about four hours a day. He could eat a whole vat of cheese sauce if he wanted to.

  I pick at a purple thing in my salad. “Did you guys know Luke Sullivan has a girlfriend?”

  “Dude, she’s hot.” This from Matt, who probably thinks anything with boobs is hot.

  “Did you know she goes to Harvard?” asks Lindy.

  I stab a bite. “Yeah. Seems like I heard that.”

  “Luke said she’s going to be in soon for Christmas break,�
�� Matt says.

  “Hey, guys.” Anna Deason slides her long, chocolate-colored legs into the last remaining seat at the table, her cheerleading skirt fanning around her. “Lindy, when are the nominations open for prom queen? I think this could be my year.” Anna is a grade older than us and has been talking about her senior prom since August. Or maybe since kindergarten.

  Lindy bites into an apple and shrugs. “I don’t know. I, um . . .”

  “The race for prom king and queen is not something to put off. It’s important to this school. It’s a long-held tradition that must be continued.” Anna grabs a carrot stick. “Plus my Grandma Ruby’s already bought me a dress.”

  Lindy looks to me for help. I focus on squeezing more ranch on my salad.

  “We’re having a class meeting next week. We’ll get some prom details settled then. We have plenty of money to work with, so you know it’s going to be a sweet event.” Lindy proudly nods at her first official statement as class president.

  “And make sure there’s some good food there.” Anna scrunches her nose. “None of the pizza roll things like last year. Those things are just nasty.”

  The entire cafeteria grows quiet, and I lower my fork. Mr. Sutter, the principal, walks down the rows of tables, eyeing every student.

  “Uh-oh.” Matt frowns. “He never comes in here. Somebody’s in some deep dookie.”

  My pulse speeds as the principal comes closer and closer to where we sit. I scan my brain and review the last month. Does he know I used my cell phone this morning? Is calling Barney’s in NYC to hold a pair of shoes really a crime? Because if it is, I would totally suffer detention for it.

  Mr. Sutter stops at our table. He eyes every one of us, and I feel my skin grow hot. I might’ve clogged the toilet yesterday and not told a janitor. Sometimes I use too much toilet paper and don’t know when to stop.

  “Anna Deason, you need to come with me.”

  Anna’s dark cheeks stain pink. “Why?”

  “Because I asked you to, that’s why. You have some explaining to do, young lady, and I don’t think you want to do it in front of two hundred witnesses.”

  “Anything you have to say to me, you can say right here. I didn’t do anything. I’m a straight-A cocaptain of the cheerleading squad. I don’t do bad stuff.” Her voice is rising. “I made a thirty-four on my ACT. I’m in select choir. I did not do anything wrong.”