Glitter and Sparkle

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “Where are you going to film your video now that you can’t use the guest house?” she asks, ignoring a gust of cold, autumn wind.

  I shake my head and groan. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll do it in my room.”

  “I can help after cheer.”

  “That would be nice,” I say, and then I stop and really look at her. She has a guilty expression on her face. “You just want to see Harrison.”

  My friend shrugs as she rubs her bare arms. “I’m a little curious.”

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes and get in my car. “Whatever.”

  “What’s your mom making for dinner?” she asks as she continues to shiver in the school parking lot.

  Cranking up the heat, I say, “I don’t know, but she won’t care if you stay.”

  Riley grins. I pull the door shut, and she races back to the building, waving over her shoulder.

  Try as I might, I can’t think of anywhere I have an excuse to be, so I head home. As I pull around the back, I see Harrison’s truck is gone. Good. I walk into the house, happy I won’t have to deal with him.

  When I shut the front door, Mom calls from the back, “Lauren?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  After tossing my backpack on the couch, I make my way into the kitchen to her. It’s the first chance we’ve had to talk since last night.

  She eyes me, her expression wary.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

  The stove timer goes off, and she pulls a loaf of homemade bread out of the oven. Normally she just uses the bread machine, so, clearly, she’s showing off.

  “Lauren,” she sighs. “You’re always so dramatic. I had been meaning to tell you, but then Harrison got here a few days early…”

  “How hard is it to give me some warning?” I pause. “I’m not dramatic.”

  She raises an eyebrow, and I shrug.

  The aroma of freshly baked bread makes me hungry, and I open the pantry to rummage through its contents.

  “Brandon’s going to be home in a few weeks anyway,” Mom says. “The boys will be so busy catching up with old friends, I’m sure they’ll leave you alone.”

  They’ll leave me alone all right. Because I’m an embarrassing lovesick puppy who’s apparently been pining away for Harrison for the last eight years.

  I slice an apple with more force than necessary and slather it with peanut butter. With my snack in hand, I walk out of the kitchen. “I have to work on the video for my blog.”

  “Dinner’s at six,” Mom calls.

  I turn back. “Riley’s going to stop by. Is that all right?”

  Mom’s busy chopping vegetables with her fancy crinkle cutter. “Sure.”

  I nod and jog up the steps.

  ***

  “So you’re going to be an architect?” Riley’s eyelashes flutter.

  Harrison smiles, obviously enjoying my pretty cheerleader friend’s attention. “That’s right.”

  Riley twirls her blond braid between her fingers, smitten.

  Honestly.

  It’s not like he’s studying to be a neurosurgeon or a biophysicist. He’ll design apartment complexes and community centers. Big deal.

  “I think that’s amazing,” Riley coos.

  We’ve finished dinner, and now we’re in the living room, drinking coffee. Well, my parents, Harrison, and Riley are drinking coffee.

  I dunk my tea bag demurely in my mug and then set it on the saucer.

  “How’s your tea, Lady Laura-Lou?” Harrison teases.

  I glance at him and give him a bored look of disdain. “Just lovely, thank you for asking.”

  For someone who says he’s going to stay out of my way, he’s still as obnoxious as ever.

  His mouth twitches. “You can have coffee when you grow up.”

  “You can have tea when you…” The retort dies on my lips when I realize I have absolutely nothing to say.

  “Learn some manners?” Harrison supplies.

  Grudgingly, I have to admit that would have been a pretty good comeback.

  Harrison leans forward, daring me to keep up the banter. My eyes flicker to his biceps, which are muscular under his almost-tight T-shirt. Once I realize where my attention has drifted, I rip my gaze back to his face.

  Why did Harrison, of all people, have to grow up to be so devastatingly good looking? It’s such a shame.

  It’s such a waste.

  “Why does Harrison call you Laura-Lou?” Riley asks me, her nose wrinkling as she says it.

  “Everyone called her Laura-Lou when she was young.” He turns to my parents “Didn’t they?”

  Mom laughs, nodding, and she and Dad launch into an embarrassing story from my youth. Ignoring them, I sip my tea and browse through my phone like I’m very important and can’t be bothered with this trivial conversation.

  Unfortunately, I have no emails and no messages. Nothing.

  When I glance up, I find Riley studying me.

  “Are you ready to help me?” I ask her.

  Riley glances at Harrison, and her expression morphs to wistful. She obviously has no desire to leave him.

  She’ll have to get over it.

  I grab her arm and yank her up. “Say goodnight, Riley.”

  She giggles and gives Harrison this little nose scrunch that the boys at school can’t seem to resist. Voice just on the side of breathy, she says, “It was very nice to meet you.”

  Harrison raises his eyebrows at me and then winks at her. “Nice to meet you too, Riley.”

  Gag. Gag. Gag.

  “Okay, we’re done here,” I say as I pull her along.

  Once we’re safely in my room and the door is shut, she turns to me and gapes. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  She shakes her head as if I don’t understand. “No, I mean he’s just…so…yummy.”

  Already getting a headache, I rub my temples. “Can we focus?”

  “Can I have him?”

  “What?” I look up sharply. “No.”

  Her face falls. “I thought you didn’t want him.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t want him.”

  “So why can’t I have him?” she demands.

  “Why are we doing this?” I ask. “We’re supposed to be working on the video.”

  “I’m taking that as a ‘Yes, Riley, of course, you can have him.’”

  “Would you drop it?” I snap.

  Ignoring me completely, she does a little happy dance and finally takes my phone.

  “What are you making today?” she asks.

  “We’re spray painting the tips of these feathers, dipping the ends in glitter, and then making a wreath.”

  Riley eyes the white feathers with confusion. “Festive.”

  “It will be, see?” I show her the finished project, which is also decorated with sprigs of holly and berries.

  She shrugs. Riley’s not really the crafty type.

  “Do your parents care that you’re spray painting in your room?” she asks.

  “I’ve already done the actual painting.”

  In the garage. The cold, smelly garage.

  I’ve gathered the supplies, and Riley starts the video. It’s going well, and I’m halfway through when Penelope, my cat, jumps directly in the middle of the project, sending feathers everywhere.

  I shriek, which scares Penelope, and then she scrambles off the table. As she’s jumping down, her hind foot kicks the aluminum pie plate of glitter, and it flies into the air, dousing me in gold sparkles.

  Riley’s squeals join mine as she leaps away from the mess. The cat tears about the room, terrified. Two seconds later, my door flies open.

  “What in the world—” Dad says, and then his eyes go wide.

  Penelope rushes into the hall, a blur of white and gold glittery fur.

  “Not in your room!” Mom cries. “Lauren!”

  I tip my head back and try to shake the glitter out of my hair so none will
fall in my eyes (which hurts, let me tell you), and then I look at Mom. “Where did you expect me to do it?”

  “Watch your tone, young lady,” Dad says, crossing his arms.

  I almost—almost—lose it, but he’s right. I’m not an angst-riddled teen. I’m a good girl who gets good grades and doesn’t talk back to her parents. Not very often, anyway.

  Mom has her hand over her eyes as if she can’t bear to witness the mess. “Go brush off in the backyard. Then you’ll have to vacuum everything.”

  “I think I’m going to go,” Riley whispers.

  She makes a quick exit, and I follow her down the stairs.

  “And, Lauren,” Dad hollers down. “Get the glitter off the cat!”

  ***

  It’s freezing outside, and it’s started to snow. I shiver as I attempt to shake myself free of glitter.

  “What happened to you?” Harrison asks from behind me.

  I refuse to turn. “Don’t you have poor people on the Internet to harass? You seem like the type who would enjoy that.”

  “Feisty,” he mutters, and then he swipes his hand over my shoulders.

  I flinch away from him.

  “Would you just relax?” Harrison says, and then he steps closer. With a firmer hand, he begins brushing the glitter off. His hand drifts down my shoulder blades to my lower back.

  My pulse jumps (out of anger, I’m sure), and I step away. “Watch your hands.”

  Harrison snorts. “Like I’d want to go there.”

  “I’ve got this.” I motion him away. “You can scamper off now.”

  I look back at my cardigan, which is not coming clean. On the ground, gold glitter twinkles over the snow, lit by the dim glow of the porch light.

  A breeze blows through the yard, and I shiver.

  “You’re going to freeze out here without a coat,” Harrison says.

  I just keep brushing.

  Harrison rocks on his heels. “Come in the guest house. The tile’s easy to clean up.”

  Another violent shiver runs through me. “Fine.”

  I follow him in. Once I’m through the doorway, I gape at the space—my space. There are auto magazines on the kitchenette counter, and a suitcase of clothes spills over on the couch. It looks like a boy lives here. A messy boy.

  But it’s warmer than outside.

  As soon as we’re in, I pull off my cardigan. When I toss it onto the tile and look back at Harrison, his eyes dart away. A strange flutter travels through my stomach, and I smooth imaginary wrinkles on my tank-top.

  “You still have some…” Harrison steps forward, his hand hovering over my head.

  When I don’t flinch away, he runs his fingers through my hair and fluffs it out. Sparkles fall, surrounding us both.

  Trying to hide a gulp, I say, “You’re getting it on your shirt.”

  “No,” he says, and our eyes meet. “You’re getting it on my shirt.”

  I don’t like him. He’s a jerk. He made my summers miserable.

  So why am I running my hand along his arm, wiping away glitter? Why are my fingertips brushing his chest while I pretend it’s not because I want to touch him?

  Harrison’s eyes darken, and he whispers, “Lauren, what are you doing?”

  Suddenly, my imagination runs wild. His hands are still in my hair. What if his fingers were to shift, no longer shaking glitter free, but wrapping in the strands…?

  What if he gently tugged me closer, leaned in…?

  “Lauren?”

  I blink at him, jerk my hands from his chest, and then swat him away from my hair.

  Get a grip, Lauren.

  “What?” I ask.

  Harrison gives me a weird look, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Um, thanks,” I say as I swipe my cardigan off the floor, give it one more hearty shake, and walk to the door. “I’m sure that’s most of it.”

  “You still look like a casualty of a glitter factory mishap.”

  I’m feeling all fluttery and off. “Whatever.”

  Harrison frowns at me and shrugs out of his jacket. “It’s too cold without a coat.”

  “It’s only about fifty feet to the house.”

  “Still.”

  He tosses me the jacket. I try not to think about how warm it is as I pull it on and escape through the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  November 16th

  I pretend to read a book, adjust my fake eyeglass frames, and then look startled when Tyler enters from stage right. He smiles. I smile. And we continue our lines.

  The huge stage lights shift as our tech crew adjusts them, and I try to ignore the distracting changes.

  It’s three days until opening night, and we’ve started our late-night rehearsals. Lines are memorized, and we’re finally working with the set. The auditorium smells like paint, dusty costumes, and the starch used to tighten fabric flats.

  I love it. Theater is what I will miss about high school the most.

  Tyler and I finish our scene, and then we go down to the auditorium while the other actors run their lines. I take off my fake glasses and twirl them in my hand as I scoot into an aisle and take a place next to Riley. Tyler finds the spot in front of us, pushes the seat down with his knees, and drapes his arm over the back of the chair.

  “That was really good,” Riley says.

  I tap my heeled boot on the tan cement floor. “I stumbled over that last line.”

  Tyler rolls his eyes. “Barely. No one noticed.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Riley agrees.

  The dark blue curtains close as the first act finishes. With a scurry of movement onstage, the tech crew works to quickly change sets.

  Hopefully, they’ll get better at it before Thursday. It’s taking an awfully long time.

  Someone hollers for Mrs. Camberly, and the curtains slide open. A few guys in the tech crew ask our theater teacher questions about placement.

  Tyler and Riley discuss their plans for Christmas break, but my attention, however, is on the stage.

  “Is that Grant?” I ask, disbelief lacing my voice.

  Riley looks up. “Oh, yeah. Coach told him he can’t do basketball if he doesn’t get his grade up in his theater theory class, so he’s doing some extra credit for Mrs. Camberly.”

  Mr. All-Star High School Golden Boy is helping with the tech crew? There’s so much wrong with that.

  I glance at Riley. I guess if a cheerleader can coexist in this world, Grant can too.

  Tyler snorts. “Who fails theater theory? That’s the easiest class. It’s filled with freshman.”

  “Why did he even take it to begin with?” I ask Riley.

  She shrugs. Friendly with nearly everyone, she knows most of the school’s gossip, but she doesn’t know everything.

  They apparently get the set in place because the crew disappears into the back. Mrs. Camberly calls for us to begin again. I’m not in the beginning of the second act, but Tyler is, so he hurries to the stage.

  Looking out of place and more than a little uncomfortable, Grant emerges from the side door and jogs down the auditorium steps.

  “Grant!” Riley waves him over.

  Grant spots her, looks relieved to see someone from his usual crowd, and walks to us.

  “Hey, Riley,” he says as he takes the seat that Tyler just vacated. Then his eyes drift to me. “Lauren.”

  There’s a little flutter in my stomach like there always is when Grant talks to me—which isn’t often because our classes don’t usually overlap, and we don’t exactly have the same extracurricular activities.

  He runs a hand through his blond hair, still looking a little uncomfortable to be in the auditorium at nearly nine o’clock at night instead of in the afternoon for an assembly.

  In fact, I doubt he’s been in here for anything other than an assembly. Even the theater theory class is held in a classroom in the hall with the other electives.

  “So you got roped into tech duty?” I ask.

&
nbsp; He nods, and a crooked smile tilts his lips. “Are the tech guys always that…?”

  “Weird?” I supply.

  Grant laughs. “Yeah.”

  Riley nods. “Yes, but you get used to them.”

  One of the guys in question yells some intergalactic movie quote backstage. He’s so loud, it echoes through the entire auditorium. Mrs. Camberly purses her lips, jogs up the stairs, and disappears behind the curtains.

  Riley rolls her eyes. “Maybe.”

  After a few moments, Mrs. Camberly emerges and calls for the actors in the library scene to come forward. Riley bounds off to join the others. She’s elated because she actually has a line this time.

  “So, this is kind of your thing, huh?” Grant asks, looking around.

  I shift, a little nervous. “One of them anyway.”

  “Yeah?” He turns behind him to make sure that Mrs. Camberly is occupied, and then he hops over the back of his seat and settles next to me.

  I’ve never seen anyone do it with quite that much grace. All of the guys have jumped over the auditorium chairs at one point, but the uncoordinated types that seem to be drawn to theater usually fall on their faces.

  “What else?” Grant asks.

  He’s right next to me, looking at me. I blink at him. “What else, what?”

  A smile spreads across his face. “You said theater is just ‘one of your things.’ What else do you do?”

  “Oh.” My eyes drop, and I smooth my gray knee-length skirt. “I like to make things.”

  Which isn’t entirely true. I prefer to embellish things, but I’m sure this handsome jock doesn’t really care.

  “What do you make?” he asks.

  Grant’s just being nice because out of everyone in this room, I’m the lesser evil at the moment. My friendship with Riley has kept me from the complete social death that’s usually the result of being in theater.

  “Crafty things mostly,” I say. “But I can paint a little, sketch a little.”

  “That’s cool.”

  I nod, unsure what else to say.

  We both watch Mrs. Camberly give instructions to the group onstage. After that, our teacher calls it a night, and we gather for our notes.

  Finally, we’re dismissed. It’s almost ten, and I’m exhausted. I find my jacket and purse, and I then hunt Riley down. She’s a social butterfly, and she’ll likely talk for another fifteen minutes before I can drag her away. It was her turn to drive tonight, though, so I have to wait.