My Own Worst Frenemy

by Kimberly Reid

  “Because I told,” she says, seeming not to care one bit that I now have an ex-con gunning for me. That’ll be the last time I mind someone else’s business.

  “I also heard MJ isn’t talking to Chanti because she double-crossed her.”

  “Tasha, how come half your sentences start with ‘I heard’?” I say, angry not so much with Tasha’s gossiping than with the fact that she’s probably right on both counts.

  “You used to ask me for the scoop all the time, Chanti. Now that it’s about you, suddenly you don’t want to hear it.”

  Tasha doesn’t understand. I’m starting eleventh grade and never had a real boyfriend, I have to keep my mother’s job a secret on a block where the truth would get us run out at gunpoint, and I have to start a new school tomorrow. With all that going on, I really don’t need to hear two crazy ex-cons might have it in for me.

  Chapter 2

  Okay, so Donnell DTS truly is a crazy ex-con. But MJ is a true friend, or was. Right now, she probably wants to kill me. I can see how Tasha and Michelle might be skeptical. They never got to know MJ like I did, even though I was hanging out with them when I first met her a couple of months ago. I was at a party Tasha and Michelle talked me into driving them to. They couldn’t get the keys from their parents and didn’t want their hair to get messed up on the walk over even though it was less than a mile away. That was the only reason I agreed—if it was the pure torture I expected it to be and I had to leave, they could always walk back or find another ride. Parties are so not my scene. I’d rather be home with a good book, but my friends act like reading is the death knell of a social life, so I went and regretted it immediately.

  It almost never rains in Colorado, and since it’s practically the desert, we have single-digit humidity in summer. It’s probably the only place on the planet where nearly every day is a good hair day. So that was a completely bogus excuse to ask me to drive them. When they got to my house, I saw the real reason was on their feet—platform stilettos so high that they could barely walk down the driveway to the car, much less seven city blocks. And even if they could manage seven blocks in Denver Heights on a Friday night in those shoes (Michelle in leopard print and Tasha in hot-pink patent leather), people would mistake them for being the party, if you know what I mean.

  “Chanti, I cannot believe you’re wearing high-top tennis shoes,” said Michelle, apparently forgetting who her transportation was.

  “Why?” I asked, looking down at my black Converse All Stars. “They look good with skinny jeans.”

  “Yeah, if you were going to a basketball game, and even then they’d be questionable. We’re going to a par-ty.” I was half expecting her to spell it out for me as though I’d never heard the word before. Just because I never go to any doesn’t mean I don’t know what they are.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get the memo that I was supposed to shop at Sluts ‘R’ Us.”

  “Don’t even. We look good,” Tasha said as she and Michelle got into the car, convinced it was true.

  The party was in a house on the last block of the Heights on the south end, so it looked a lot like Aurora Avenue. When we got there, I expected music blaring and people out in the yard dancing (okay, so my experience with house parties is mostly old movies from back in Lana’s day), but we could have been pulling up to an empty house from the looks of it. The only indication there was a party in there was all the cars out front. But you see lots of cars outside a wake, too.

  We went inside and someone immediately shoved plastic cups of something into our hands. A good dance beat was playing, just not loud enough to hear it from the street. One girl demanded that our host, whoever that was, turn up the music, but her request was denied since the neighbors had already threatened to call the cops. People danced to it anyway, but most of the kids were just talking in small groups. There was a couple making out in the darkest corner, on the verge of needing to get a room. I recognized a lot of people from school—no one I hung out with and a few who actually made me glad I wouldn’t be going to North High in the fall.

  “This party is tired. I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming.”

  “If anyone knows tired, it’s you, Chanti,” Michelle said. “All you ever do is sit at home with your books and TV. And when you really want to live on the edge, maybe an On Demand movie. I’m sorry, but anybody who opens a book that isn’t part of a homework assignment is seriously tired.”

  “Leave her alone. There’s nothing wrong with being different. It’s okay if Chanti likes to read,” Tasha said.

  “Or watch cop shows. What is your obsession with cops, anyway? Unless he’s exceptionally hot, I got no love for a cop, in real life or on TV.”

  “Michelle, lay off. Chanti’s here to have fun, not have her social life critiqued.”

  I was thinking there was nothing more sad than having Michelle’s pity, except for needing Tasha to defend me, when I noticed Robert Tice, one of the cutest boys at school and way outside my realm of possibility, checking me out from across the room. At least that’s what I thought he was doing. It may have something to do with what Michelle said about me not having a life, but I’m pretty clueless about boys—what they want (okay, I know at least one thing they want), or what it means when they look at you the way Robert was looking at me right then. Since I didn’t know the proper response to his flirting, if that’s what he was even doing, I looked away. I’ve always found that in the face of danger, the best thing to do is run. So not only did I look away, I turned my back to him and pretended I was suddenly interested in whatever had torn Michelle and Tasha away from critiquing my lame life.

  “I can’t believe she showed up here,” Michelle was saying. “Do you think she was invited?”

  “From what I’ve heard, she doesn’t need an invitation. She can crash whatever party she wants. Who’s going to stop her?”

  People stopped dancing, talking, and making out to watch the new girl’s entrance at the front door, but only for a second. Conversations started up again and people went back to dancing. Not a single person greeted her or stuck a plastic cup of Red Bull and I-don’t-know-what in her hand like they had when Tasha, Michelle, and I showed up.

  “Who is she?” I asked Tasha, since she seemed to know so much.

  “She just moved to Aurora Ave. She was in a gang in Los Angeles.”

  “The Bloods,” Michelle offered.

  “You don’t know anything. It was the Crips.”

  “Why can’t they ever be from something other than the Bloods or the Crips?” I asked.The new girl’s alleged gang affiliation just made all of Tasha’s information suspect to me. Because to hear the world tell it, either there really are no other gangs in the universe, or the Bloods and Crips have some serious marketing skills.

  “She did some time,” Tasha continued, “and had to move out here to stay with her grandmother. Like that’s supposed to keep her out of trouble.”

  “What did she go to jail for?” I asked.

  “That’s the part nobody knows. But I have my theories,” Michelle said.

  I wasn’t interested in Michelle’s theories so I told them I needed to find the bathroom. Really I just wanted to be home, sitting on my bed and reading one of the books I’d checked out of the library. Maybe I was lame, but Robert Tice must not have known it because he was still scoping me out. So I escaped all of them by going out the back door and into the yard of whoever’s house it was. I didn’t even know. My circle of friends is pretty small—Tasha. And now Michelle, thanks to Tasha.

  So I was standing with my back to the party and the noise, considering whether to drink my Red Bull and Whatever to dull the pain of being at the party, when someone pushed me from behind. A four-finger push can really send you flying when the perpetrator sneaks up behind you and you never see it coming. Now I had Red Bull down the front of my shirt, and I was thoroughly pissed. I’d hoped that by the time I turned around, either the pusher would be gone or I’d have found some unknown courage with
which to kick his or her butt. But neither thing happened.

  “I saw you in there checking out Robert. That’s my man. You must not know who I am.”

  She was right, I had no idea. But I do know she was a whole lot more pissed off with me for looking at Robert than I was about her ruining my shirt. So I was willing to forget about the shirt and go back inside before anyone got hurt. Like me. Unfortunately, she wasn’t so forgiving, and stepped right up in my face. The top of my head came to her chin. This was truly a big girl, like a pro linebacker, and just as intimidating. Though I was scared out of my mind, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Robert Tice.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  I wanted to tell her that I didn’t, but I did know from her breath that she’d had a lot more from the plastic cup than I had. From the looks of her bloodshot eyes, her cup hadn’t contained much Red Bull, either. It must have been all Whatever. But I didn’t say any of this because she had her hand on my throat by then, and I couldn’t talk, anyway.

  “I don’t know who you are and could not care less, but I do know you’d better let that girl go.”

  This voice came from behind the girl pressing her hand against my larynx. My assailant looked a little confused, and a lotta angry. She let go of my neck and turned to whoever had just threatened her. I stepped away to see who it was I’d be forever grateful to, and found it was the Blood/Crip girl. I must have been the only person at the party who didn’t know who she was because the girl willing to kill for Robert Tice’s love seconds earlier just walked back to the party without another word.

  That’s how I met MJ Cooper, former BFF and now my sworn enemy.

  Chapter 3

  My mother also missed out on knowing the real MJ and agrees with Tasha that she’s bad news. Lana figures the only way to keep me out of trouble is to keep me away from The Ave and MJ Cooper. Her solution? Langdon Preparatory School. They don’t usually let new kids enroll past ninth grade, but they were doing some community outreach to give poor kids a chance not to be poor, and opened up three scholarships into the eleventh grade. Lana called in a favor and got me one of the scholarships. She didn’t tell me what the favor was, but all the favors anyone ever owes Lana have something to do with crime. Something going down at Langdon Prep bad enough for someone to owe Lana a favor sort of defeats the whole point of sending me there to keep me out of trouble. When I pointed this out to Lana, she wasn’t interested in the irony.

  After I walk the mile from the nearest bus stop, and I swear half of that is the long winding driveway, I see that everything about the school involves money. There’s grass everywhere, not something you see a lot of in Colorado, and it’s as green as Ada Crawford’s lawn. They must spend tall dollars on their water bills. All the buildings look like they were built a couple centuries earlier than 1957. That’s the year etched into the marble sign, along with LANGDON PREPARATORY SCHOOL, planted in a round of grass and flowers inside the circular driveway. There are three castle-looking buildings made from huge gray stones, built around a big stretch of the unnaturally green grass. They look like they should be somewhere in New England, not where the buffalo used to roam. And, of course, the walls are covered in ivy—new money trying too hard to look old.

  I see a woman at the front entrance holding a sign with my name on it, like they do at the airport.

  “You must be Chantal Evans. Let me introduce you to our other scholarship winners . . .”

  Before she can finish, the girl beside her makes her own introduction. “I’m Bethanie, with an i-e, not a y,” she says, without bothering to look at me.

  She’s more interested in checking out the driver of the Escalade that just pulled up. Someone has gotten it into her head that she’s too good for the rest of us, which is a little misguided considering she’s here on the same scholarship I am. But later for her. I’m more interested in the guy standing next to her, who is most hot. Way too hot for me to think I have a chance, but a girl needs a fantasy to get her through the day, right? Lucky for me, I’ve found mine as soon as I hit the school grounds.

  “Marco Ruiz,” he says, holding out his hand.

  Sadly, it takes me more than a second to realize he wants me to shake it, so I leave his hand hanging in midair before I reach out to grab it, but only for a moment. Even if he thinks I’m lacking social skills, I’ve already touched my fantasy guy. I never get to touch my fantasy guy on the first date. Well, to be accurate, I never get to touch my fantasy guy, so already I’m ahead in the boy department. Maybe Langdon Prep won’t be so bad, after all.

  A bell starts clanging somewhere on the campus. “Time to get moving. We’re going to start with a tour of the school and grounds,” the woman says. “Oh, and I’m Headmistress Smythe. You can call me Headmistress Smythe.”

  She pronounces it with a long I, and already I know she’s a fraud. Especially with that fake accent. I watch a lot of detective shows on the BBC, and she’s about as British as I am. I roll my eyes at her, thinking there is no way I’m calling anyone headmistress anything, like I’m in a Dickens novel or something. Marco catches me giving her the eye roll and smiles. Nice smile. I wish I could make up another reason for him to shake my hand.

  “All the academic buildings are here, built around the quad,” Smythe says, starting the tour. “Your classes will be in these three buildings.”

  “It’s a beautiful campus, especially the botanical garden,” Bethanie says, already kissing up to Smythe. The plaque in front of the garden shows it’s named after our tour guide.

  “I designed it myself, ordered all the flowers, even helped plant it,” Smythe says, all smiles and sunshine. Two seconds later, she’s scowling. “Unfortunately, our new science teacher convinced the board that the garden requires too much water and sets the wrong environmental example for our students. Soon my garden will become a xeriscape of rock and cacti, or something equally horrid.”

  “That’s too bad,” Bethanie commiserates.

  “It truly is. But what’s done is done. Let’s get on with our tour.”

  We’re about to go inside Main Hall when I remember the manicure set I have stashed in my bag. I just know the cuticle scissors will set off the metal detector, so before we get to the door, I stop to fish them out.

  “Ms. Evans, have you lost something?”

  “No, I need to get something out of my bag. I don’t want to set off the detectors.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, the metal detectors at the entrance.”

  “I can assure you there are no metal detectors anywhere on the Langdon campus. There’s no need for them. At least not until you arrived. Pray tell what is in your bag?”

  After that comment, I consider giving her a heart attack by telling her it’s a Glock, which she clearly expects, but I show her the manicure set instead.

  “Well, that’s a relief. Please, let’s move on. We’re already two minutes behind schedule.”

  Bethanie with an i-e gives me a look like she’s taken a whiff and thinks I stepped in something, but Marco leans in and whispers, “I’m used to metal detectors, too. I guess rich kids don’t commit crimes.”

  And if they did, they could afford to get someone else to do it for them. Based on the Jags and Benzes we saw rolling up, the Kate Spade bags on the shoulders of girls getting out of them, and the swagger of boys who have never been pulled over for Driving While Impoverished, I bet Langdon’s budget can cover paper and whiteboard erasers without having to pimp out students to sell overpriced candy bars and stale popcorn in Christmas tins. The “nonessential” classes they cut at my old school—like PE and art—not only exist at this school, they come in assorted flavors. There’s fine art, musical arts, and theater; team sports, recreational sports, and dance classes. Instead of half lockers, we each get a full-sized locker, and none of them squeak the need for WD-40 when opened. An hour later, I’m relieved when the tour of tennis courts, soccer fields, and libraries (two!) finally ends, until Smythe announces we�
��ll be attending an immersion workshop for the rest of the day.

  “What’s an immersion workshop?” Bethanie asks.

  “We realize you come from a different background, and we thought it might aid in your success if we helped you understand our history and culture here at Langdon.”

  Oh, I get it. She means we’re all broke and not used to the bling lifestyle at old Langdon Prep.

  Marco leans in again and whispers, “This is bull.”

  See how he wants to get near me all the time? He smells good. So good that I’m caught off guard, and all I can whisper back is, “Yeah, this is bull.”

  He probably thinks I’m an idiot. Right then it hits me that he is more than hot. He is beautiful, and I can’t stop making a fool of myself in front of him. Brown eyes framed by lashes so long I’d normally say they were wasted on a boy, but look perfect on him. They don’t look girly on his otherwise straight-up masculine face. And how sexy is that name? Like a character from the soaps. I say it in my head several times, rolling the R in a way I could never pull off if I said his name out loud.

  Smythe leads us to a classroom where we find a woman vacuuming. She looks up at us for just a second before she goes back to pushing the Hoover.

  “Mildred, why are you still running the vacuum when classes have begun?”

  “I’m a little behind schedule this morning. This is the last room, and I’m just about done.”

  “You’ll have to finish it later. And perhaps you need to work on your time-management skills.”

  “My skills are just fine,” Mildred says in a tone that suggests it’s about to be on between her and the headmistress. “The only reason I’m off-schedule is because you told me to repot that ficus tree in your office and clean out the ashtrays in your car before I started my rounds.”

  “I do not smoke,” Smythe says, looking busted. “Just say no to tobacco, right, children?”

  “Well, someone broke into your car and filled the trays with cigarette butts.”