On cue, Izzy’s Aunt Alicia appears, her hair in foils. “Hola, Luisa!”
“Hola,” I say. “Another transformation?” Alicia’s hair had black-and-cherry streaks the last time I saw her. The time before that it was blond with very dark roots.
“I like to keep the boys guessing,” she says. Alicia is still happily playing the field at thirty-six, with no signs of settling down.
It’s obvious where Izzy learned to like variety, because her mother is the exact opposite—mousy and conservative. The house is mainly a study in beige, although there are splashes of color here and there in the form of gifts from Izzy that her mother feels obliged to display.
I head down the hall to the door with the prominent KEEP OUT sign and I call, “It’s me.”
Inside, a riot of color assaults the eye, from red curtains, to an orange bedspread, to yellow cushions. Books and makeup and hair accessories are strewn all over the desk, and clothes are piled high on a chair. The top of the dresser is barely visible among the photographs in bright, sparkly frames. Front and center is a picture of the three of us in second grade, wearing matching outfits and long, dark ponytails. As always, I’m in the foreground, the short one even at age seven.
Izzy is lying on her unmade bed, holding up a small mirror and applying blue eye shadow to her lids, while Rachel is sprawled on the floor, sorting through CDs. The wall behind them that used to be terra-cotta has recently become cobalt blue.
“I see you’ve started matching your hair to your walls,” I tell Izzy.
She raises the mirror to admire her locks. “It’s my blue period.”
Rachel gives me a knowing smile. “You’d better be nice to Izzy.”
“Or what?” I ask, noting that she is wearing false eyelashes. Rachel usually rebels against being Izzy’s guinea pig, but I guess Jason has weakened her. “She won’t glue Astroturf on my eyelids?”
“Or she won’t share the new issue of The Bulletin,” Rachel says.
“But it’s only Thursday. How did you get your hands on it a day early, Iz?”
“I waited on the school steps until the delivery truck arrived and flirted with the driver until he gave me one,” Izzy says. “Some people like blue hair.”
“Everyone likes blue hair,” I assure her, grinning. “So what does Scoop have to say this week?”
Rachel hands me the paper. “We waited for you to read it.”
Newshound got one thing right last week: the women of Dunfield do belong out front—so that the men can enjoy the view from behind.
Yes, the Date Auction was more successful than Casino Night, but Scoop feels compelled to comment on Newshound’s blatant hypocrisy. After whining that the Bootylicious Calendar was no more than an excuse to sell sex, she fully endorsed an event that had women literally selling themselves to the highest bidder. It was practically prostitution.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it—for men and women alike. But don’t bill it as romance. Fifteen hundred students didn’t swarm the backfield in search of a spiritual connection.
Admit it, Newshound, the calendar’s success showed Dunfield women that sex brings in the real coin, and you wanted in on the action. But we don’t mind your stealing our ideas if it helps you to stay in the game.
In the meantime, with you up front we can avoid your bellyaching and nonstop chitchat. Newshound stated that men don’t communicate enough, but how would you know when you never stop talking yourselves? Concert tickets don’t come cheap, and Scoop would have liked to have heard The Strokes last week. Unfortunately, the girls around him would not stop talking to each other long enough to enjoy the music. So how about giving those mouths a rest? Unless we’re making out, that is.
Newshound claims girls want to know guys from the inside out, but Scoop begs to differ. If you got inside our heads, you’d be shocked at what you found there. You could analyze and spin it for all it’s worth, but you still wouldn’t be happy. The truth is, you don’t actually want us to speak our minds, you want us to follow some script that’s in your minds. And when we get our lines wrong, you freak out.
So a word to the wise, men of Dunfield: to keep a girl interested, keep your mouth shut. That way she can tell herself that you’re mesmerized by what she’s saying instead of thinking about how hot her best friend is and whether they might consider a… But no, this is a school paper and I’d better not go there.
If you don’t like what I’m saying, ladies, blame it on the Newshound. She’s the one who wanted me to express what I’m really thinking.
Izzy, Rachel, and I stare at each other, dazed. Then Rachel’s false eyelashes flutter down to rest like wings against her cheek as she shakes her head in silence.
“Puerco!” Izzy says.
“Pig,” I echo. “He’s talking about threesomes. In the school newspaper! I cannot believe Mr. Sparling approved that.”
Rachel shrugs. “Well, Mr. Sparling is a guy, too. God knows what he thinks about when his wife is talking.” We collapse in disgusted laughter at the thought. “Apparently we haven’t got a clue what goes on in guys’ heads,” Izzy says. “I’m not sure I want to,” I say. “If that’s how their minds work, count me out.”
Rachel reaches over and puts a CD into the player. “That’s just what Scoop wants you to think, Newshound. He’s trying to throw you off your game.”
“On the other hand, reading more into his words is doing exactly what he says we do, right? Maybe we should take it at face value.”
“Not all guys are pigs,” Rachel says. “At least, Jason isn’t. I may not know what goes on in his head, but I’m pretty sure he’s not imagining any”—she pauses to collect herself—“three-ways.”
I cram the newspaper into my bag. “Because if you thought he was, you’d… ?”
“Kill him,” Rachel says. “Or myself. But according to my mother, men do have more primitive brains than women, and the only way to survive a relationship is to turn a blind eye to some things.”
“And what you can’t ignore,” Izzy picks up, “you try to train out of them. My mom has to tell my dad how to think all the time.”
“I see I missed a lot being from an all-girl family,” I say.
Izzy starts collecting her makeup and beckons me over. “I’ve got a new look in mind for the dance next Friday. Let me do a trial run.”
“Work your magic,” I say. “I want something that will get Mac Landis to forget he ever forgot he knew me.”
After I’ve told them about my encounter with Mac at the diner, Rachel says, “I still think he might be Scoop. There’s puerco potential in that boy, and you know it. He practically jumped you at the planetarium.”
“I know, I know.” I’d rather dismiss all the negative things I know about Mac right now, because today he was a nice, normal, gorgeous guy who dropped by the diner to hang out with me. If he oinks now and then, is it really such a big deal? Maybe my standards are too high.
I pull out the column and scan it again. “Aha! Scoop says he went to The Strokes concert, but Mac went to Casino Night. So they can’t be the same person.”
“Do you notice how happy she looks about that?” Rachel asks Izzy.
“So happy I can’t get eye shadow on her,” Izzy says, closing my eyelids by force.
Chapter 8
Crossing from one side of Colonel Dunfield High School to the other is like a journey backward through time. The building has been renovated gradually over the decades, turning the interior into an odd patchwork of architectural styles.
As the fire alarm blasts, my history class leaves via a long, beige corridor built in 2003. Principal Buzzkill christened it Senior’s Hall and assigned the new lockers to twelfth grade students. Her theory was that seniors would be least likely to deface them, and she’s right: it’s the dullest stretch in the school.
Giving the rest of my class the slip, I hang a left at the end of the hall and catapult into the 1980s, where terracotta lockers complement the peach-and-turquoise decor of
the library.
A sharp right beyond the library takes me to the well-traveled cafeteria expressway. The cafeteria itself dates back to the 1970s, and features orange-and-white floor tiles and purple plastic chairs.
Next comes Frosh Alley, a narrow hall lined with powder blue lockers that have rusted considerably since their installation in the 1950s.
A narrow concrete hallway then connects the “new” wing (if you can call something built in 1944 new) to the old. Apart from ceilings that are a little higher, and windows that stick when the ancient boiler heats classrooms to tropical temperatures, the old building is similar to the new one.
Finally I reach the main foyer, with its worn marble floors and oak paneled walls. On one side is a life-size portrait of Colonel Dunfield himself; on the other, a painfully bright mural painted by the Class of ’77 in a weekend raid.
Standing at the top of the wide stone staircase, I scan the crowd of students on the front lawn until I locate Rachel and Izzy by the curb. No matter how far apart we are when a fire alarm sounds, we convene here. It usually takes at least ten minutes for the fire department to determine that it was just another prank, which makes a brisk jog across six decades completely worthwhile.
My friends are hopping up and down in their purple and white gym shorts. “Another fruitless audition for the Understudies?” I ask, joining them.
“Remind me to laugh later, after I’ve thawed out,” Izzy says, jealously eyeing my jeans and thick wool sweater.
“I’m freezing too,” I say. “I collided with an iceberg coming over here: Tyler Milano.”
“Still avoiding you, huh?” Rachel says. “He hasn’t spent much time with Jason and me, either. Do you want me to see if Jason can talk to him?”
I shake my head. “It wouldn’t be fair to get him involved. And I doubt it would make any difference. I’ve tried to talk to Tyler three times, but he just walks away.”
“Rude!” Izzy says.
“He’s doing me a favor. At first I felt terrible about what happened, but now I’m starting to think I’m better off without him. Besides, it’s not like I can really explain.”
Izzy gestures toward the student parking lot, where Mac is admiring a motorcycle with his crew. “Who needs Tyler when the most popular guy in school is after you?”
“Mac Landis is not after me. The only thing he’s said to me this week is hello.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Rachel says. “You don’t have any classes together, so where would he strike up a conversation?”
“In the cafeteria? Or the hallway? I’ve seen him half a dozen times, but I don’t think he’s even noticed me. If someone is interested, they make an effort, right?”
“Girls do,” Izzy says dubiously. “I don’t know about guys.”
“Jason tracks Rachel down all the time, right, Rach?”
“Now. But remember, I staked out his locker for weeks.”
Izzy starts running on the spot, which attracts the interest of several guys who don’t even pretend they’re not staring at her chest. “You’d probably make better progress with Mac if you came to more of the fund-raisers,” she says.
“Not that we mind covering for you, Lu,” Rachel interjects, stepping in front of Izzy to block the pervs’ sight line. “The guys’ yard sale was my favorite. Jason bought me the cutest ceramic dog, and Izzy got a lava lamp for her room.”
“A lava lamp? Aren’t they a little retro?”
“Carson was selling it,” Rachel explains.
“Carson, the rock-climbing senior?” I ask.
“He gave me a deep discount,” Izzy says, grinning. “Besides, it’s blue.”
I’m glad they don’t mind attending events for me, because I have even less free time than before. Grace is making me take some of her shifts at the diner because she says doesn’t trust me to babysit. That wouldn’t be so bad if I got to keep all the cash, but lately I’ve had to pitch more money into the family coffers than usual.
“You’re still coming to the dance tonight, though, right?” Rachel asks.
I nod tentatively. Grace is scheduled to work, but until I am actually out the door, I won’t fully believe it. This Cinderella’s coach could very easily remain a pumpkin.
The bell rings to signal the all clear. Once again, our hopes that the school is actually burning down have been thwarted.
We linger for a last moment on the curb as students begin filing back up the steps.
“I’ll be at your place at seven with my gear,” Izzy tells me. “Prepare to be transformed.”
We’re going to pool our favorite clothes and jewelry to create fresh looks for the dance. Izzy and Rachel have more and better stuff than I do, but at least I own a few vintage finds they both covet.
One of the gym teachers blows his whistle in our direction. “Move it, girls!”
As we migrate toward the stairs, Mac Landis jogs over from the parking lot and intercepts us. His posse has dispersed. “Hey, Stargazer,” he says. “Pegasus was shining bright on Tuesday night. I stopped by the diner to point it out. Did your sister tell you?”
Uh, no. She must have conveniently forgotten that a gorgeous guy came by asking for me. “Sorry I missed you,” I say. “I mean, sorry I missed Pegasus.”
“It’s not going anywhere,” Mac says, before taking the stairs two at a time. He turns at the top. “Next clear night, okay?”
Rachel shoves me playfully after the door closes behind him. “He practically asked you out!”
“We’re just pals,” I insist.
“That’s going to change tonight,” Izzy says. “I’m coming over even earlier to make sure you’re not just hot, but all-star hot.”
“You’re burning my scalp,” I say. “When you said hot, I didn’t think you meant literally.”
“Suck it up,” Izzy replies, holding the curling iron in place. “Beauty takes effort and sacrifice.”
She should know. Two hours ago she left school looking like a funky student. Now she looks like a glamorous movie star, with shiny jet-black hair, smoky eyes, and fake lashes.
Rachel steps out of the bathroom modeling a pair of gray pin-striped pants (Izzy’s), with a red satin halter top (my best-ever Chinatown deal). Izzy has already painted Rachel’s nails and lips a bright crimson to match the top, and pinned her curls into a low knot adorned with a shiny black chopstick.
“Wow,” I say. “You look amazing, Rach.”
“Va-va voom!” my mom exclaims, joining us in the living room. She sets a tray holding a bowl of popcorn and three glasses of Coke on the coffee table. “That boyfriend of yours is one lucky fella, Rachel.”
My mom loves helping us dress up, and our floundering social life has probably been as disappointing to her as it has been to us. I assume that’s why she’s here tonight instead of taking an extra shift, but I haven’t asked. It’s enough that she’s smiling and happy.
Izzy finishes my hair and starts on my face. “No peeking till we’re done,” she says, leading me into my former bedroom to put on the outfit she’s selected for me.
I emerge from the bedroom to applause from Rachel and my mother.
“I don’t think I like my daughter looking that sexy,” Mom says with mock disapproval.
Sexy? Me? Is it possible that I’ve become a sexy Lu Perez with all-star appeal?
I stare into the full-length mirror Izzy has propped against the wall. My eyes look huge, my cheekbones chiseled, and my hair is double its usual volume. Izzy’s high-heeled boots and skinny jeans give my legs a boost, and Rachel’s long, scoop-necked sweater hugs curves I never knew I had.
“Izzy…” I start, but words fail me.
“I know,” she says, beaming. “You’re gorgeous.”
I turn to check out the rear view as the doors open and Grace comes in, with Keira on one hip.
“Oh my God,” she says, stepping into the living room. “It looks like a bomb went off in Barbie’s playhouse.”
Izzy clears a place for
her on the couch. “Do you want a makeover, too?”
Grace snorts and jerks her thumb at me. “Not if I’d come out looking like that.”
I pat my hair anxiously. “Does it look stupid?”
“It doesn’t look like you,” Grace says. “What if you meet some guy who thinks this is what you actually look like? Monday morning he’ll catch sight of the real you and freak.”
“Grace!” my mother says, and for once there’s an edge to her voice. “Lu always looks nice.” She pulls my hand away from my hair. “Leave it. You’re bootylicious.”
As this is not a word she’s likely to use in any context, I ask, “Did you read my columns?”
Grace prevents my mother from answering by shoving Keira into her arms. “I need someone to babysit so that I can meet Paz for coffee.”
“I thought you were working,” I say.
“I thought meeting my ex was more important,” she says.
I resist asking if she found someone to cover at Dan’s. This is not my problem.
“I’ll watch Keira,” Mom says. She doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe the reason she turned down work was to make sure Grace didn’t prevent me from going to the ball.
“Are you and Paz getting back together?” Izzy asks.
“He should be so lucky,” Grace says, throwing herself onto the couch and picking up the remote. She turns on the TV to end the conversation and helps herself to our popcorn. “You guys had better hurry. The losers are always the first to arrive.”
The music is thumping and the dance floor is packed by the time we arrive. Obviously we didn’t need to kill an hour at Starbucks, but after what Grace said, we weren’t taking any chances.
The gym is barely recognizable. Long, flowing white curtains hide the bleachers, and banks of colored lights bounce off half a dozen twirling disco balls. If it weren’t for the sign overhead that reads The Dunfield Groove, and teachers circulating with crossed arms, it would feel like a nightclub.
As we ease our way into the crowd, something strange happens: heads start to turn in our direction. I glance over my shoulder to see if Mariah has come through the door behind us, but I can see only guys. Guys who are looking at us.
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