by Libba Bray
Sweet 16
Kari
Libba Bray
To the three people who’ve made me braver:
Barry, Josh, and Charles.
And to Ann Brashares, for playing midwife.
Contents
Chapter 1
There are all kinds of hell. Bowling. Getting your first…
Chapter 2
It was just past 8:30 P.M. when we drove up…
Chapter 3
It took twenty minutes to cross town into North Greenway,…
Chapter 4
“You’re doing what?” Jared, apparently, wasn’t totally behind the party…
Chapter 5
Dee and I had been friends since the time in…
Chapter 6
The next morning dawned bright and clear to mock me.
Chapter 7
By Monday morning I was nearly bursting to talk to…
Chapter 8
“Oh my God. You had a close encounter of the…
Chapter 9
I was the first person at Magnolia. It gave me…
Chapter 10
Let me just go on record as saying that on…
Chapter 11
I avoided Jared the rest of the week. I avoided…
Chapter 12
Before I could say “major panic attack,” Saturday night had…
Chapter 13
Mom sat on the bed and rubbed my back like…
Chapter 14
The last week of school passed painfully slowly. Each day…
About the Author
Other Books in the Sweet 16
Copyright
About the Publisher
chapter 1
There are all kinds of hell. Bowling. Getting your first period during sleep-away camp. Any Celine Dion song. My personal hell began unfolding as a Friday night trip with my younger brother and sister to the Couch Potato Video Emporium, “the finest collection of blockbuster hits in Greenway, South Carolina,” to return what passed as family entertainment around my house. It was chore number three on my Friday night to-do list.
Couch Potato happened to be right next to one of the most happening spots in town, Café Vortex, a Zen coffee bar hangout where the hipsters and other beautiful people went to hear live music and just generally see and be seen. I’d personally never been there, not really fitting into that whole hip-beautiful-see-seen thing.
Since it was Friday night and every sixteen-year-old worth knowing was probably at a big Sweet Sixteen blowout, I figured no one would see me in my dateless state. Still, just to be sure, I parked the car in the middle of the nearly empty lot, far away from the action, and advised the sproutlings to sit tight if they knew what was good for them.
I dashed across the parking lot, keeping a firm grip on the humiliation fest of titles in my arms: Vampire Go-Go Girls in Zombieland (my sister’s pick), Stewardess Party III (my brother’s choice), The Care and Feeding of Bats (my grandmother, Lila), and Steel Magnolias (Mom). The plan was to slide the videos through the night drop box and walk away at warp speed. What was not in the plan was the videos getting stuck, which is exactly what happened.
With a big sigh I stuck my arm through the mouth of the Couch Potato Video Emporium, jamming my face up against the brick wall and sticking my butt out for balance. Not my most attractive moment. That’s when I found myself staring into the most gorgeous pair of knees ever to grace a pair of khakis.
“Are you trying to rip off the place, or could you use some help?” The knees were connected to a voice. A mellow, coffee-rich voice with a hint of a drawl. The kind of voice that makes a girl forget she’s left the house wearing a Looney Tunes scrunchie in her hair. I’d heard that voice once or twice in the halls at school and at least a thousand times in my daydreams. I’d just never heard it this close before. I peered up into the gray-green eyes of Connor I’m-So-Beautiful-It-Hurts Reese.
That face had played a starring role in my study hall fantasy for years. It was always the same fantasy with me as director: Open on wide shot of school commons. Zoom in as girl with larger-than-average brain and larger-than-average nose (that would be me) meets gorgeous boy with serious cool quotient (Connor). Lower boom mike as he says, “You know, I’ve been watching you for a whole year now. You’re always in the commons, reading that same dog-eared copy of Intro to Filmmaking. Nobody could possibly be that dull. So I figure you have to be a genius feigning dullness to throw people off. Wanna rob banks together and raise a pack of wild genius children?” Cut. Print it. Roll credits.
Only in my head the script didn’t include meeting my romantic destiny crouched in a potty-training position.
Connor was looking at me quizzically. “Seriously, do you need help?”
“Nope. I’m fine,” I said. I went to stand up and toppled over, landing facedown on Connor’s vintage 1940s wing tips. Even his feet smelled cool, like leather chairs and pipe tobacco and years of sun-drenched memories.
Connor reached down and picked me up under my arms. It tickled, and I couldn’t help sort of giggling and snorting at the same time. It was an awful sound. This was the time in the spy movies when the hero started looking for his cyanide capsule. Unfortunately all I had on me were two crusty Midol and some dental floss.
“Thanks,” I said in my best late-night DJ voice. I was trying to undo the giggling damage.
“Oh, hey. You dropped these.” My family’s horrible rentals were splayed out on the pavement for all to see. Before I could bust a move or take my life in dramatic fashion, Connor was picking up the plastic boxes and tucking them under his arm. “That drop box has been jammed for aeons. My advice? Let’s drop these off with Norman Bates behind the counter inside.”
He opened the door for me in the sort of gallant move that keeps a girl buying hair products. My mind was racing. What was Connor Reese doing at Couch Potato Video Emporium on a Friday night? Didn’t he have a Sweet Sixteen party to attend? Or at least a marble statue to pose for? And how was I going to convince him that I wasn’t the total bottom feeder of the high school food chain that I really was? I had to think. But how could a girl think standing next to such perfection?
The night crawler behind the cash register yawned, ruffling his three-day-old attempt at a goatee. “Those returns?” he asked.
“Yeah. Here,” I said, trying to bury them under the boxes on his desk.
“Not so fast. I have make sure you rewound them.”
“Oh, they’re rewound. The residents at the home are very conscientious about that,” I heard my voice saying.
It’s bad to lie, I know. But I was nervous, and sometimes when I’m nervous, my brain disconnects from my mouth and my mouth just says things.
“You rent videos for old people?” Norman Bates had found the energy to raise a slacker eyebrow.
Swallow. “It’s a small thing, but it means so much to them. Look, I’ll be right back. Maybe you should take care of…ah…er…” I was pointing at Connor.
“Connor Reese. At your service.” He tipped his trademark fedora to me, revealing a head of close-cropped brown hair with bleached-blond tips and long sideburns. Cut to dream sequence of teenage girl running through fields of Connor Reese hair, stopping to kiss each babenificent follicle. Fade out on very happy ending.
“Thanks for the line cut,” Connor said, sauntering up to the counter. I’m not being cute. The guy knew how to saunter.
I forced myself to walk away like I had something important to do. Safely hidden behind a stack of rentals, I peeked out at Mr. Gorgeous, straining to hear every syllable. Connor looked over and winked at me. I pretended to be extremely interested in the foreign film section. I debated how to begin our next conversation.
It’s so great bumping into you like this. I’ve only been mooning over y
ou since junior high. Do you suppose a popular guy and a girl who was raised by wolves could ever be an item?
Connor came up behind me. I instinctively picked up a random video box and pretended to read the cover. He peered over my shoulder. I could smell the Dial soap on him. I used Dial soap. It was a start.
He looked perplexed. “Deux Petit Hommes. Can’t say I’ve seen it at the local megaplex.”
“I…I’ve always…wanted to see it, actually. As an artistic exercise, of course.”
Connor read from the back cover. “ ‘Two Siamese twin dwarves leave their provincial town and join the foreign legion in this uproarious French comedy from the director of LesBicycles’ Uproarious French comedy. There are words you don’t hear very often.”
I quickly put the box back on the shelf. “Dwarves move me.”
Fortunately he laughed. Another box caught his eye. “The Seven Samurai. Somebody told me this is supposed to be good. Have you ever seen it?”
“No,” I said. Honest answer. Another good start. “But I’ve read about it. It’s a classic.”
“You know a lot about movies.”
“It’s sort of a hobby of mine.” Yeah, like breathing was a hobby of mine. Film was my life. I loved everything about it: the idea of crafting a story, shooting it, editing it just right. Art as total control. Not like life. “Actually,” I said, straightening some out-of-order videos, “I’m applying to film school. To be a director.”
“Whoa,” Connor said, giving me a thumbs-up. “Planning to be the next Spielberg, are you? That’s cool. I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl who wanted to be a director before. I’ll have to catch one of your movies sometime.”
I could feel my face getting hot and knew it would be turning blotchy from a combo of pride, embarrassment, and devotion. Simultaneous emotions confuse my skin. I wanted to respond with something mysterious and femme fatale like, “Sometime ees not so ver-r-ry far away, n’est-ce pas?”
“So…were you ordering a video?” I said, settling for the indirect. Like I hadn’t been dogging his every move.
He nodded; “Ocean’s Eleven. Frank Sinatra. Sammy Davis. Dean Martin. Gotta love the Rat Pack.”
“Definitely. Frank rules.”
Connor and I walked outside into the night air, which seemed warmer and more alive than it had earlier. “You’re Kari, right?”
“Kari Dobbins. Right.” One hundred percent right. So right, you can’t imagine.
“Most girls don’t dig Frank. How’d you get so cool?”
“My dad. He was a fan.” Was. I couldn’t get used to saying that word.
“Oh,” Connor said, aware that we’d entered a too-serious-to-go-there-on-a-first-meeting topic. He elbowed me in the ribs like guys do when they don’t know how to change the subject. “So…you like Rat Pack movies, foreign dwarves, and suburban-mom tearjerkers starring Julia Roberts. Interesting. I wonder what else lurks behind the calm exterior of Miss Kari Dobbins, budding film director.”
I was beyond mortified that he’d seen my family’s rentals. But then he stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled that megawatt smile, and all I could think about was the movie starring me and Connor Reese. If I didn’t take this opportunity to ask him out, I would kick myself. Years later I would bore my grandkids with the story about “the one who got away.” With my heart beating wildly in my chest, I cleared my throat to speak. A girl’s voice rang out, but it wasn’t mine.
“There you are!” I turned around to see a moving Gap ad of sophomores, all fresh scrubbed and color coordinated, coming out of Café Vortex. There were three Gap girls, two Gap guys. I could do the math.
Nan Tatum’s tinkly laughter floated on the breeze as she skipped up to Connor and threw her arms around him. “I missed you, baby,” she purred. The sleeve of her pastel evening dress slid down, revealing a shoulder devoid of any blemish. It was the kind of shoulder men fought wars over. “What took you so long? I thought you said you were just checking on a video.”
Connor took his hands from around Nan and let them hang at his sides. “I was. I did. Now I’m through.”
“Good,” Nan said, looking up at him through thick, dark lashes. She whispered the next part in his ear, but I heard it all. “You don’t want me to be late to my own Sweet Sixteen, do you? I bet everybody’s already there by now!”
Everybody but yours truly. So Nan Tatum was throwing the party of the season, and everybody who was anybody would be there. That would explain why I hadn’t heard about it.
Deeper mortification began to set in. The whole time that I’d been blathering on like a complete dweeb in the video store, acting like I had even a chance with Connor, he had known he was on his way to Nan’s big bash and that I was definitely not.
My stomach hurt at the thought. Could my life possibly get any worse? That, by the way, is a question you should never hurl out at the universe. The universe will answer big time.
Just then I was vaguely aware of a bleating sound in the distance, like a cross between a sick cow and a mariachi band. My brother, Theo, was leaning on our car horn.
“Yoooo-hoooo!” Theo called out in his best falsetto. “Time to make the doughnuts!”
Nan’s best friend, Jen Appleton, flicked her long hair behind her shoulders and rolled her eyes. “Ex-cuse me…”
Theo leaned on the horn again and screamed as if he were being beheaded.
Connor gave me a sweet smile, which made me feel even worse. “I think someone’s trying to get your attention,” he said kindly.
“Foster kids,” I deadpanned. “Troubled youth. We’re hoping to rehabilitate them through video rental therapy. You know, The Sound of Music. Rudy. Barney’s Greatest Hits. That sort of thing.” I made a mental note to torture Theo later by replacing his Korn CD with Britney Spears.
“Whatever…,” Jen said. “Nan, your mom will be majorly torqued if we’re any later to your party. I can’t wait to check out what the decorator did to the backyard. And Janice says DJ Dimitri is so unbelievable—”
“Jen…” Nan interrupted by glancing in my direction, then looking away. Jen followed her quick gaze to me and stopped midsentence.
“Oops.”
“You know, I think some of my invitations didn’t get out on time.” Nan was speaking very slowly to me, like somehow being unpopular also made you partially deaf. “Did you get yours…Crystal?”
“Kari. I haven’t checked my mail in a while. I’m out of the country a lot. Wow, look at the time. I better go. Happy birthday.” I fumbled for my keys in my pocket, dropped them twice, then started walking in the opposite direction of the family car.
“Hey! Isn’t that your car over there?” Jen called after me.
I shrugged and kept walking. “My car’s over by the bookstore. Silver Honda.” I clutched my keys so tightly, I could feel the imprint of them in my hand. Behind me I could feel Connor Reese disappearing from my life, moving toward a future of glittering parties and Friday night football games.
I wondered how the scene would play if I rewrote it for a movie. Open on medium shot of heroine walking through empty parking lot. She wears a determined look and a stylin’ new dress. Climbing into her shiny silver Honda, she stops to open a handwritten note left by a mysterious stranger in a fedora: You are invited to my amazingly swank life. Be there or else.
I waited behind OfficeMax till I saw Nan and gang soaring out toward town. Then I ran toward my real car and my soon-to-be-annihilated brother.
“You are so dead,” I hissed at Theo as I threw open the driver’s-side door of our family car, aka the Jesus mobile. The 1967 Dodge Falcon had been called that ever since one of my grandmother’s more artistic boyfriends spray painted a replica of the Last Supper on the hood. Fortunately my grandmother—Lila, as she insisted we call her—dumped the artist for a vegetarian bullfighter before he could program the horn to play “Away in a Manger.” Still, the car was a source of major humiliation for me.
“Let’s get this show on the ro
ad. I have band practice at eight,” Theo said through a mouthful of Taco Bell. He was playing Power Ranger of the radio—turning the dial so fast, we were treated to a postmodern playlist of static broken up by occasional bits of music. I reached over and turned off the radio. “Either play a whole song or leave it off.”
Theo folded his arms across his chest. “Oooh, she gets her license and becomes a radio Nazi. This is how the corruption of power starts, folks.”
“Shut up, Theo,” I snapped.
“I don’t remember taking a vote on keeping the radio off. Isis, do you remember taking a vote?”
“On. Off. In the final analysis, all is pain.” Isis sighed and stretched out in the backseat, her long, black granny dress trailing in tattered spiderwebs over the cracked vinyl where the foam padding was coming out. She seemed much older than twelve.
“Are they teaching existentialism in sixth grade now?” I asked irritably. The car stalled, and I started it again, trying not to flood the engine, the way my dad had shown me years before. The engine stalled, then changed its mind and burped into action.
“Isis doesn’t see you.” Isis pulled her hand in front of her face. Faded henna markings crisscrossed her palm like a detailed road map to nowhere.
“What is this, goth Sesame Street? Stop referring to yourself in the third person, Rachel. It’s so beyond annoying.”
“The name is Isis now. Rachel no longer exists.”
“Yeah, well I miss her. And her normal wardrobe.”
Theo grabbed at the wheel. “Could we get going, please? Tonight I’m laying down my rockin’ clarinet part for ‘White Rabbit’ at band practice. This is the one that’s gonna take us all the way to the top, ladies and germs.” Theo rocked his head from side to side, moving his fingers in front of him in an air-clarinet solo.
