It's All About Us

by Shelley Adina

  “She’s right,” Dad said. “Running away doesn’t solve a thing. Not when e-mail can beat you to wherever you’re going.”

  I had a sudden horrific vision of that video making the rounds of Pacific High, and actually had to sit down. I thought it was bad now, when only a handful of people knew me. What if all my friends saw it? If I went back and the news broke, I’d go from A-list to walk-on in less time than it took to say “Ooh!”

  “Come on, Lissa.” Gillian slipped an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “It’s nearly time to get dressed.”

  I stared at her. Was she crazed? “I’m not going to the stupid ball.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re going with Carly and me.”

  And face two hundred students, the trustees, the parents, and San Francisco’s philanthropists and media? I shook my head. “Not a chance. You can show Dad down to the assembly hall.”

  “You’re on the committee. The celebrity speaker is your job.”

  “I’m delegating it to you.”

  Gillian rocked back on her heels, crossed her arms, and stuck out a hip. “I refuse.”

  “Then I’ll ask—” Who? Vanessa? DeLayne? Dani? Not happening. “Carly.”

  “Nuh-uh. Major stage fright. Looks like you’re down to one. You.”

  I glared at her, then at Dad. Why wasn’t he jumping in to take my side? “What are you trying to do to me? Aren’t things bad enough?”

  She leaned in and gave me the I’m-gonna-drill-Genetics-into-you-if-it’s-the-last-thing-I-do stare. The one that had jump-started my brain and netted me a blessed C+ on that horrific project. “If you back down now, things will get infinitely worse. You’re going to put that dress on, go out there, and face them down with your best blond-princess impression. You’re going to walk to that microphone and introduce your father, and you’re going to do it with style. And after that, you’re going to stick to Ms. Curzon like white on rice.”

  If I did that, no one would have the guts to say anything. They’d laugh at their tables and probably make dirty jokes at my expense, but I wouldn’t hear it. I’d be there in the spotlight but—

  I gasped. The spotlight. “The committee dance! I don’t have a partner. I can’t do it.”

  “I’ll dance with you, L-squared,” Dad offered.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my dad and he knows it, but there was no way on this green earth that I was going to get out there in that spotlight with my father.

  “We’ll jump off that bridge when we get to it.” Gillian took me by the shoulders and pushed me toward the bathroom. “Makeup. Hair. This is supposed to be the fun part. Carly’s coming back with her dress and we’re going to have a party getting ready.”

  My dad grinned and kissed me. “Guess that’s my cue to exit stage right. I’ll find my way to the assembly hall and save you three beautiful girls a seat.”

  “And one for Carly’s dad, please,” Gillian said.

  Dad nodded and smiled at me one last time as he left.

  I took a deep breath and faced Gillian, who could probably take on an army of demons armed only with a toothpick and a length of dental floss. “I don’t deserve you.”

  She blew me a raspberry. “What else are friends for?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Being sworn at, dumped, not listened to, and generally abandoned.”

  “I knew you’d see the light eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be quite so . . . public.”

  “Me either. Friends forever?”

  She leaned in for a hug. “Now, get in there and make yourself pretty for the party.”

  For once, I did as she suggested. If I’d learned nothing else, it was that once Gillian gave her friendship, it was for good.

  And I mean that in every sense of the word.

  Chapter 27

  IN A DRESS like this, even Ugly Betty could pull off a blond-princess impression. The hidden bones in the bodice forced my chest out and my shoulders back, so that even Mrs. Mirkova, the social dance teacher Kaz and I had had when we were kids, couldn’t have complained about my posture.

  “Walk in like you own the place.”

  I stared at Carly as we crossed the lawn to the building that housed the assembly hall and the dramatic arts classrooms. The big double doors, flanked by Italian cypresses imported for the occasion and surmounted by a twenty-foot banner welcoming the benefactors to campus, were just ahead. To my knowledge, Carly was shy and insecure and prone to running errands for people who didn’t appreciate it. Where had she learned to own a room?

  Gillian, between the two of us, took our hands in a brief grip as we walked up. “It’s all about us,” she said. “Not the video, not what people think or say. It’s all about us and God, together. And don’t forget, we’ve got an army of angels at our backs.”

  It didn’t have to be us. It could have just been me out there for everyone to stare at, with Gillian and Carly floating in the background and God out even further, a vengeful presence saying, “You had this coming, girlfriend.”

  But instead, I felt like a conquering army—or at least, part of something bigger than me, with love and courage and friendship trickling in to blot out the shame. Was it proof that God had forgiven me? I wasn’t sure, but one thing I knew: This feeling was something I could count on to get me through the next couple of hours.

  Or maybe I was overdramatizing just to get myself through that door.

  We swept past the greeters and into the assembly hall. Vanessa and her army of decorators had gone all out, with sweeping swags of gold cloth, blue and gold banners hanging from the ceiling, potted trees festooned in fairy lights, and blue damask napkins folded between place settings of gold at every round table.

  Dad waved at us from a table at the front, where he was sitting with my mom and a slender guy about the same age.

  “Papa!” The man got up and Carly ran into his arms, her skirt making a froufrou of motion around her ankles.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “The flight from Narita was delayed.”

  “You’re in time for the fun, and that’s what matters. Papa, these are my friends, Gillian Chang and Lissa Mansfield.”

  “I’m very happy to meet your friends, mi hija,” Mr. Aragon said fondly. “You look lovely, ladies.”

  “Gracias,” I said. “It’s all thanks to Carly. She took us to the garment district and saved us from ourselves.”

  I hugged Mom, who, as predicted, looked completely fabulous in Vera Wang, and introduced her to Carly.

  A sudden rise in the noise level off to the right was my only warning when Vanessa appeared, fuming and gorgeous in a black strapless Miu Miu minidress. Very, very mini.

  “There you are,” she said, as though I’d been leading her on a merry chase all evening. “Who have you got?”

  “Sorry?” For what? A dance partner? A celebrity speaker?

  “For your Plan B.” Man, if she didn’t ease up on the orthodontia, she was going to crack a molar.

  “Oh, that.” I gave her a big smile. “You look great, Vanessa. Have you met my parents, Gabe Mansfield and Patricia Sutter? And Carly’s father, Mr. Aragon?”

  She shook hands with barely concealed impatience before I took pity on her. No matter what she’d done to me, the success of this event was on her shoulders. I didn’t envy her that one bit. We’d deal with what lay between us after it was all over.

  “My father has agreed to do the welcome,” I told her. “I think everyone in the room knows his name. Now they’ll have a face to put with it.”

  Since he was standing right there, Vanessa could do nothing but put on a public smile and accept reality as gracefully as possible. No matter what else she might be, she wasn’t a fool.

  Not like some of us, sometimes. Sigh.

  She wrote his name in the slender planner that fit in her evening bag, and glanced at me. “So. Who can I put down as your partner for the committee dance?”

  Ow. Way to slide the blade between the ribs, Vanessa.

  �
��Isn’t it in the program?”

  “No, of course not. But the—your dad will announce each of the committee members and their partners as they take the floor.”

  And she stood there waiting for me to reply, malice sparkling in her eyes.

  “She’ll get back to you on that,” Gillian said from beside me. “She’s got a couple of options.”

  I did?

  “She does?” Vanessa’s tone told me she saw right through that one. “Be sure to let me know before showtime, won’t you?”

  Then she turned on her Manolo heel and left.

  We sat at the table, and a college-aged guy in a tux took our drink orders.

  “Who, exactly, are my options?” I murmured to Gillian on my right. Mom and Dad sat on my left, then Carly, then her dad. “Or maybe I should say what are my options? As far as I can see, I’ve got two—making a run for the bathroom, or dancing with Dad.”

  “Don’t panic,” she whispered back. “It’ll all work out. Hey, check out DeLayne Geary. I’ll bet you a semester of room cleaning that that dress came from the same designer as Carly’s.”

  Clothes-watching, my favorite spectator sport, was for once not enough to make the heavy clump of nerves in my stomach go away, or to keep my knees from rattling together. Thank goodness for the filmy layers of silk chiffon.

  I managed to choke my salad down with the help of a lot of ice water. But the entrée—medallions of pork and eggplant with a white wine pepper sauce—was more than I could take. Luckily Dad had no such difficulties, and soon my plate was as clean as his.

  “Your dresses are gorgeous, girls,” my mother said. “Lissa, I would never have put you in that, but I have to say, it’s a terrific choice.”

  “You’ve got to check out the designer, Mom. I got her card for you. She’s from Hungary, and her brother worked on one of Dad’s films.”

  “I absolutely will. The Babies of Somalia benefit is almost on us and I could use something unusual. What about Gillian’s? Where’d it come from?”

  Get my mom started on clothes and new designers, and she’s good for at least two courses. Dessert came, and then it was time for the speeches. Suddenly I lost interest in my cheesecake. And that takes a major crisis, let me tell you.

  I won’t go into all the speeches and rich people thanking each other, or you’ll be as bored as I was, minus the stomach cramps and the sense that since the day wasn’t over, it must hold one final disaster.

  After all the suits, Curzon introduced Vanessa, who had her moment in the sun as the organizer of the event. And then she looked at our table.

  Cue disaster.

  “Unfortunately,” she said into the mike with a beautiful smile, “our advertised celebrity guest was unable to be with us due to a family emergency. However, I’m very happy to introduce one of our school’s own parents, who agreed to step in at the eleventh hour. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Gabriel Mansfield, director of Crossing Blades.”

  Huge applause—way more than Vanessa got. Dad walked up to the podium and read the welcome off the TelePrompTer as if he’d written it himself. I’d have felt proud of him if I hadn’t been trying not to throw up. Just a few more seconds . . .

  And there it was. “Now, for the first dance, I’d like to introduce the members of the committee who worked so hard to make Benefactors’ Day such a golden success.” The band swung into a tune I vaguely recognized from swing-dance class, years ago. Kaz would know what it was. His musical vocab was way bigger than mine. I gulped and tried to hold it together as Dad called Vanessa’s name along with Brett Loyola’s.

  Carly slid down in her chair about two inches, her gaze riveted to the dance floor, where Vanessa and Brett whirled and swung in the spotlight.

  “DeLayne Geary, publicity and public relations, partnered by Michael Thomas.” The audience applauded politely. “Christina Powell, catering, partnered by Todd Runyon.”

  “Ew,” Gillian said in my ear.

  “Lissa Mansfield—”

  I gasped and stood up, feeling like a deer in the headlights. Who? Who would I ask? Would Carly’s dad dance with me? How could I let Dad know to call his name? Oh no oh no . . .

  “—relations, partnered by Charles Canfield Griffin.”

  Charles what? Who?

  I swayed, certain I was about to faint.

  And then the spotlight swung onto a tall guy in a black morning coat, with a spotless white shirt and black tie. And that was where formality ended.

  Shaggy surfer hair.

  Brown eyes, smiling under his bangs.

  A dimple big enough to put a finger in.

  Kaz took my ice-cold, limp hand, and Gillian gave me an unobtrusive push in the small of my back. The spotlight blinded me, but I trusted Kaz as he guided me out onto the floor and whirled me into a swing pattern we’d learned years ago. My dress floated out and the silver tracery caught the light, just the way I’d imagined it. It probably caught the tears in my eyes, too.

  “Surprise,” he whispered, pulling me into a dance hold and whirling me out again. “Nice dress.”

  “Kaz.” I couldn’t get anything else out. I was too busy gazing pathetically into his face, hoping he wasn’t a hologram, about to vanish in a puff of electrons. “Your dad said you were gone for the weekend.”

  “I am. Here.” He turned me into a sweetheart hold and passed me in front of him, then back. “I swore him to secrecy in case you called. I drove all day. Made it here in the nick of time.”

  “But how did—how—?”

  “Your friend Gillian called me. Damsels in distress—can’t resist ’em.”

  “Bless her,” I breathed, back in a waltz hold again. “And bless you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t—if you weren’t—”

  “But I’m here,” he said. I felt the warmth of his hand on my back, guiding me in and out of the steps. “Gillian and your other friends are here. God’s here. We’re all in this together, and we’re not leaving.”

  I felt the truth of it, as though someone had struck a tuning fork deep inside. No matter what I had to face on Monday, or next week, or next year . . . no matter how often I made mistakes . . . I had my friends. I had my family. And most important of all, I had the Lord behind me. It was all about us, after all.

  Bring it on, Spencer Academy.

  And we’ll see who wins.

  About the Author

  Shelley Adina wrote her first teen novel when she was thirteen. It was rejected by the literary publisher to whom she sent it, but he did say she knew how to tell a story. That was enough to keep her going through the rest of her adolescence, a career, a move to another country, a B.A. in Literature, an M.A. in Writing Popular Fiction, and countless manuscript pages.

  Shelley is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends, and she loves writing about fun and faith—with a side of glamour. Between books, Shelley loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies.

  IF YOU LIKED

  it’s all about us,

  check out the second book in the series:

  the fruit of my lipstick

  available this August!

  Turn the page for a sneak peek. . . .

  Chapter 1

  TOP FIVE CLUES that He’s the One:

  1.He’s smart, which is why he’s dating you and not the queen of the snob mob.

  2.He knows he’s hot, but he thinks you’re hotter.

  3.He’d rather listen to you than himself.

  4.You’re in on his jokes—not the butt of them.

  5.He always gives you the last cookie in the box.

  THE NEW YEAR . . . when a young girl’s heart turns to new beginnings, weight loss, and a new term of chemistry!

  Whew! Got that little squee out of my system. But you may as well know right now that science and music are what I do, and they tend to come up a lot in conv
ersation. Sometimes my friends think this is good, like when I’m helping them cram for an exam. Sometimes they just think I’m a geek. But that’s okay. My name is Gillian Frances Jiao-Lan Chang, and since Lissa was brave enough to fall on her sword and spill what happened last fall, I guess I can’t do anything less.

  I’m kidding about the sword. You know that, right?

  Term was set to start on the first Wednesday in January, so I flew into SFO nonstop from JFK on Monday. I thought I packed pretty efficiently, but I still exceeded the weight limit by fifty pounds. It took some doing to get me and my bags into the limo, let me tell you. But I’d found last term that I couldn’t live without certain things, so they came with me. Like my sheet music and some more of my books. And warmer clothes.

  You say California and everyone thinks L.A. The reality of San Francisco in the winter is that it’s cold, whether the sun is shining or the fog is stealing in through the Golden Gate and blanketing the bay. A perfect excuse for a trip to Barney’s to get Vera Wang’s tulip-hem black wool coat, right?

  I thought so, too.

  Dorm sweet dorm. I staggered through the door of the room I share with Lissa Mansfield. It’s up to us to get our stuff into our rooms, so here’s where it pays to be on the rowing team, I guess. Biceps are good for hauling fifty-pound Louis Vuittons up marble staircases. But I am so not the athletic type. I leave that to John, the youngest of my three older brothers. He’s been into gymnastics since he was, like, four, and he’s training hard to make the U.S. Olympics team. I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen—he trains with a coach out in Arizona.

  My oldest brother, Richard, is twenty-six and works for my dad at the bank, and my second-oldest, Darren—the one I’m closest to—is graduating next spring from Harvard, going straight into medical school after that.

  Yeah, we’re a family of overachievers. Don’t hate me, okay?

  I heard a thump in the hall outside, and got the door open just in time to come face-to-face with a huge piece of striped fiberglass with three fins.

  I stood aside to let Lissa into the room with her surfboard. She was practically bowed at the knees with the weight of the duffel slung over her shoulder, and another duffel with a big O’Neill logo waited outside. I grabbed it and swung it onto her bed.