“No, but thanks for reminding me. There are too many events to attend, that’s all.”
Izzy rolls her eyes. Unlike Rachel and me, she’s adapted quickly and well to being a fully participating Dunfield student. It makes me wonder if we were holding her back last year.
“I’m not saying the events aren’t fun,” I continue. “But between homework and my job, I don’t have much time left over for my family, and they need me right now.”
“You need time for yourself, too,” Izzy insists. “And you said this column is an opportunity.”
“I’ve had second thoughts. I don’t think it’ll lead to anything.”
“Tons of successful writers launch their careers at a high school paper,” Izzy protests. “Right, Rachel?”
Rachel doesn’t say anything. She’s remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout this discussion.
“Success doesn’t exactly run in my family,” I say.
“So you’ll break the mold,” Izzy says. “You have so much going for you.”
“Please. I couldn’t even keep track of my niece. I’m useless.”
“I knew it!” Rachel bursts out. “This is about Grace, isn’t it? She said something, didn’t she?”
“She said a lot of things. I lost her kid, Rachel.”
“It was an accident.”
“I wasn’t paying attention and it could have been a disaster.”
“But it wasn’t.”
Izzy chimes in. “You made a mistake, Lu, that’s all.”
“Grace has made plenty of mistakes herself,” Rachel says. “Big ones, some of them. She should cut you some slack.”
Izzy stops walking again. “Don’t be mad at me for saying this, Lu, because you know how much I like Grace. I think she’s a good mother, I really do, but I don’t think she’s always a good sister. I think she’s jealous of the fact that you have more options than she does.”
That it’s Izzy saying this somehow gives it more weight. Still, in this instance I was definitely in the wrong. “It’s not just Grace. My mom said I’m spreading myself too thin—that I need to focus.”
It’s harder for them to argue against my mother, but Rachel takes it on. “Focusing is important, but you need to have dreams, too. The only reason I can drag my butt into this dump every day is that I’ll never become a conservationist otherwise.”
“A conservationist?” Izzy says. “I thought you wanted to run a lodge.”
“A lodge in the Serengeti, Izzy,” Rachel says. “I want to lead wildlife safaris.”
Izzy stares at Rachel as if seeing her for the first time. It’s that “how could we be so different and still be friends” look. Whereas Rachel loves communing with nature, Izzy prefers communing with her blow dryer. She always denies it, but Iz fully intends to take over her parents’ salon one day. I know she’ll expand far beyond its current Mom-and-Pop status, too. She’s already pushing them to try new things, but they’re satisfied with being an unchanging neighborhood institution.
“My point is, you can’t let this thing with Grace hold you back,” Rachel says. “Like my father always says, ‘If you dream big and work hard, you’re sure to succeed.’”
Izzy nods in agreement. “Now, let’s go find Newshound a story.”
Both girls smile, satisfied that their work is done. Feeling better, I link my arms through theirs and start walking. I may not be able to choose my relatives, but I did a great job of choosing my friends.
If I were a regular reporter instead of an anonymous columnist, I could simply chronicle Izzy’s journey through today’s auction. She’s decided to bid on someone, and we are shopping for the lucky guy now.
“Rico didn’t do it for you?” Rachel asks. She’d hoped we could all hang out together with Jason, Tyler, and Rico.
Izzy shakes her head. “First, there was the thing with Paz at the diner. Then he told me about his girlfriend who lives in Mexico. He sees her every summer, but in between they’re supposedly allowed to see other people, as long as it’s casual.
“You mean he’s looking for a friend with benefits?” I ask.
“Correct,” Izzy says. “I mean, do I look like that kind of girl?”
She doesn’t. Izzy is fond of glitter and trendy clothes, but she doesn’t show much skin or flaunt her chest size. And while she believes in taking the initiative with guys if she likes them, she’s still a traditional girl underneath.
“I need a guy with some class,” Izzy continues. “And I’m hoping forty-eight dollars will buy it.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I say. “Are you sure you want to throw it away on a single date?”
“Quality doesn’t come cheap, Lu.”
“How will you know you’re bidding on quality?” Rachel asks. “You can’t always see that from a distance.”
Fortunately, Mariah has eliminated some of the guesswork by preparing a complete list of the auction participants, along with a description of the “dream date” each is offering. To raise extra money, she’s selling that list half an hour before the auction begins. Meanwhile, everyone on the list will be working the crowd so we can check out the merchandise up close.
“You can tell a lot about a guy from his dream date,” Izzy says.
I find it hard to believe that any Dunfield guy has the imagination—or money—to offer a classy date at a charity auction, but Izzy is less cynical than I am.
The crowd parts to reveal Mariah heading for the stage. Her leather jacket is undone, and I can see that in honor of the occasion, she has actually abandoned her usual workout gear in favor of the short leather skirt she wore in the Bootylicious Calendar, heels, and a low-cut tank. She climbs the stairs and turns to face the crowd.
“I know you want this,” she says, displaying the pre-auction package teasingly. “But you’ve got to wait another twenty minutes. In the meantime, start mingling. If you see someone wearing one of these”—she points to the number pinned to her tank top—“talk to them. If you fall in love, you still have time to run to the ATM.”
Coming down the stairs, Mariah’s eyes light on me. “What, no number, Coconut? I’m pretty sure zero’s still available.”
“Thanks, but I could never compete with you.”
She takes my comment at face value. “So true. We’d have to give money back to get someone to take you off our hands.”
It’s another beauteous day at Dumpfield.
Leaving Rachel and Izzy to study the auction guide, I start circulating. It’s not long before I come upon the tech nerds, who have gathered in a conspiratorial clump beside the bleachers. They’re emptying their pockets, handing their money to a guy wearing a faded Star Trek baseball cap.
“What’s the total, Curtis?” a guy with greasy, straw-colored hair asks the Trekkie.
Curtis’s lips move as he counts. “We’ve got one hundred twenty-three dollars and sixty-one cents.”
“That should do it,” the greasy-haired guy says. “Let’s review the strategy. Curtis: you’ve got to hold off until everyone else has finished bidding, and then shout a last-ditch offer. If you fire too soon, she’ll beg someone to outbid you.”
I think I’ve found my story: Guys pool their money to give nerdy pal shot at a real date with hot girl. That is so sweet!
“Do not forget your mission,” Greasy Hair says. “You won the bet, but you have an obligation to the rest of us. Did you hook up the spy cam?”
Curtis points to his cap. “Operational.”
“Okay, you know the drill. Start with cleavage shots. Then stand behind her and ask her to reach for something, because we want thong action. And belly ring. I’m talking extreme close-up. We want to know if that girl waxes or shaves.”
Ew. EW. EW!!! I have to report this to a teacher. The pervs must be stopped.
“Are you kidding?” Curtis asks. “Mariah wouldn’t shave.”
On the other hand, who am I to ruin an underdog’s big chance?
Tyler finds me on the bleachers. “I’v
e been looking all over for you,” he says.
So Grace hasn’t scared him away after all! “You have?”
“I want you to do me a favor,” he says. “It’ll cost you, but I promise to pay you back. It’s for a good cause.”
I notice he’s holding a folded number in his hand. “You’re going on the block?”
He nods sheepishly. “My cousin is on Mariah’s planning committee, and she pressured me into it. But I’m afraid no one will bid on me.”
“Of course they’ll bid on you. You’re Mr. Fantastic.”
“I’ve got news for you, Lu: you’re the only one who thinks so.”
I smile. “Well, I could help you out, but I’d need to know what entertainment’s on offer. To quote Izzy, you can tell a lot about a guy from his dream date.”
“The Bulls are providing the entertainment,” he says, pulling two tickets out of his pocket. “I’m just providing the seats.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Basketball? What happened to a nice Italian dinner?”
“The game will be way more fun than fettuccine, I promise. How about it? I’ll be humiliated if no one bids on me.”
“So it’s not so much that you want to go out with me as that you want me to save you from public humiliation.”
“Not to mention ugly bidders,” he adds.
“Tyler! That’s terrible.”
He grins. “I’m just saying I’d be proud to leave the stage with you. And as a special thank-you, I’ll throw in the nice Italian dinner.”
I pretend to think about it. “Including dessert?”
“Three courses. And that’s just the beginning.”
He reaches over, grabs the zipper on my hoodie, and pulls me toward him. We’re surrounded by people, yet I feel quite comfortable kissing my Arty FB because Dunfield is the last place on earth you’d ever find Grace.
When he finally pulls away, Tyler says, “Consider that a sneak preview.”
“You think one kiss is going to convince me to bid on you?” I ask.
His smile falters as I climb down from the bleachers. “Where are you going?” he calls.
“To round up some cash.”
I collect my purse from my locker and check my wallet. Thirty bucks. That might be enough to win Tyler, especially since he’s not up till later in the program. By then most of the girls will have blown their budgets on the seniors and the jocks. So few Dunfield girls recognize a superhero in disguise.
Just in case, I decide to make a quick pit stop at Mr. Sparling’s office on my way back to the field. He offered me some petty cash to cover my costs at events. I doubt he’ll foot the entire bill for a dream date with Tyler, but he said a good journalist dives into the action, so maybe he’ll give me a top-up.
I hear Mr. Sparling’s voice before I reach the door. “This is not the kind of writing I expect from you,” he lectures. “I’m very disappointed.”
“Oh, come on,” a familiar voice says. “It’s funny.”
I place the voice: it belongs to Mac Landis. Taking another step, I peer through the crack in the door. Sure enough, there’s a blond mop of hair in the chair opposite Mr. Sparling’s.
“It’s juvenile,” Mr. Sparling replies. “You’re capable of so much more. That’s why I gave you this opportunity.”
“But you gave us free rein to share our opinions. That’s the purpose.”
“No, the purpose is to stretch your mind and your writing skills.”
Mac murmurs something I can’t quite catch, but it’s obviously not apologetic enough for Mr. Sparling, because he says, “Whether you aim low or aim high, you’ll reach your target, Mac. Do you want to settle for low?”
The blond head droops. “Okay, I’ll rewrite it. Sorry, sir.”
“Just do your best. That’s all I ask.”
I back away before Mac leaves the office. As soon as I turn the corner, I start to run. If I hurry, I can still make it to the ATM.
Back in the field, Mariah is already on the stage, warming up the crowd with some dance moves as loud music thunders out over the field. I fill Rachel and Izzy in on the details of my scouting mission, ending with Mr. Sparling’s conversation. “It looks like you guys were right about Mac being Scoop,” I tell Rachel. “Mr. Sparling sounded really disappointed. I’m surprised he expected more of Mac. He must see something we don’t.”
Finally, the auction begins. Eighty students parade around the stage before lining up. The cheers are almost loud enough to drown out the music.
Griffin Gonzalez has volunteered as auctioneer. He’ll be working from his fellow seniors down to the sole freshman who had the nerve to put himself on the block.
Determined to take the plunge, Izzy bids on the very first guy. And the fourth. And the seventh. Each time, she is defeated by girls with deeper pockets. Number seven, who offers a limo ride and theater tickets, pulls in a whopping sixty-eight dollars.
Izzy is down but not out. When number fifteen steps up, she tries again. He’s tall and cute but more rugged than her usual type.
Rachel says, “In case you didn’t notice, he wearing hiking boots, Izzy.”
I consult the auction guide. “This guy’s dream date is rock climbing. You’re afraid of heights, Iz. And you only wear heels.”
“But I like seniors,” Izzy says. “And sometimes you have to compromise.”
Only one other girl is willing to compromise, and Izzy lands number fifteen for a bargain: twenty-two dollars.
When Mariah’s turn comes, she struts to center stage and does a pirouette before settling into a contrived pose. Before the auctioneer even opens the bidding, hands soar. There are a few hoarse shouts—the sound of desperate men with money to blow.
“Opening at thirty dollars for a night of dancing at an all-ages club,” the auctioneer says. “Do I hear forty?”
With each new bid, Mariah strikes a new pose. When it crosses the hundred-dollar mark, she does a high kick, which in that short skirt nets another flurry of bids.
A football player bellows, “One twenty. Final offer.”
There’s laughter followed by a long silence. Finally Griffin says, “I have one twenty. Can anyone do better? Going… going…”
“One twenty-three,” Curtis the tech geek calls. “And sixty-one cents.”
Mariah is still smiling as she scans the crowd for the voice. Her eyes land on Curtis, and the smile vanishes. She rushes toward the auctioneer, calling, “Wait!”
It’s too late. He has closed the bidding at $123.61.
Although successful bidders are supposed to wait till the auction is over to claim their prize, Curtis is already stumbling up the stairs to the stage. Mariah clutches the auctioneer with one hand, while Curtis pulls on her other arm.
“Sorry, Mariah,” Griffin says. “He won fair and square. It’s for charity, remember?”
Izzy, Rachel, and I laugh hysterically as Curtis half carries Mariah off the stage. This is one of the moments in life that you always, always remember.
Mac takes center stage to the sound of whistles and catcalls from Dunfield’s female population. A junior I recognize from the Bootylicious cheerleader photo shoot raises her hand. “Twenty dollars.”
“I have twenty dollars from Brianna Mills for Mac Landis and his so-called mystery date on Friday,” the auctioneer says. “Do I hear thirty?”
“Thirty,” I call.
The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s an involuntary reaction, like a sneeze.
“I have thirty from”—Griffin struggles to identify me—“some girl wearing a purple hoodie.”
“Thirty-five,” Brianna says.
“Forty,” I say.
There’s a series of other bids, but I’ve been restrained by Rachel and Izzy. “What are you doing?” Izzy asks. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I want to know if he’s Scoop,” I say.
Rachel stares at me. “Does this have anything to do with the burrito incident? Tell me you’re not into Mac Landis.”
/>
“Please. My FB is not a brainless jock.”
I can understand why my friends are confused, since I’m a bit confused myself. This Luisa Perez isn’t the type to bid on the hottest guy in her year, even in the name of research. I’m not deluding myself that my two recent exchanges with Mac meant anything, especially when he hasn’t even said hello to me since. But there was something about Mac’s conversation with Mr. Sparling that made me want to talk to him privately. That can’t happen in the hallway, where the school hierarchy barely allows him to acknowledge I exist.
Wrenching my wrist out of Izzy’s grip, I wave and shout, “Ninety dollars.”
“One hundred,” Brianna says. She stands on tiptoe to give me a menacing glare.
“One ten,” I say. It’s muffled because Rachel has her hand over my mouth, but the auctioneer hears it.
“You won’t have anything left to bid on Tyler,” she says. “You promised.”
Rachel is right. In all the excitement, I forgot about Tyler. I drained my bank account earlier, but I only have one twenty in total.
“Brianna says one fifteen,” the auctioneer calls. “Do I hear one twenty from the Hoodie?
Rachel pinches my arm and I hesitate.
“Going once…”
“You guys can lend me money, right?” I ask. “I’ll repay you with petty cash from Mr. Sparling.”
“Going twice…”
I don’t wait for an answer. “One twenty-five!”
Brianna’s superior smile collapses, and I know I’ve won the bid.
My head is spinning as the auctioneer calls, “Sold to the Hoodie.” Still, I register Mac’s incredulous look in my direction as he steps back into the line. I don’t blame him. I can’t believe it happened either.
* * *
It turns out I seriously underestimated the appeal of the arty type. Although I amassed thirty-seven dollars from Izzy and Rachel, it’s nowhere near enough to buy a date with Tyler. After bids from at least five attractive girls, he sold for a very respectable seventy-three.
If the highest bidder had been one of those attractive girls, Tyler might have forgiven me. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t even an ugly girl. In fact, it wasn’t a girl at all. And as a result, he is no longer speaking to me.
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