by Tina Ferraro
Chewing gum and smiling at the same time—which was gross, take my word for it—she stopped in front of me. “So . . . ,” she said, like we talked every day. “How's our guy doing?”
I was tempted to ask, “Who?” But I wasn't a fool—even if I wasn't a girlfriend, either. “Fine, I guess.”
She looked as shocked as if I'd said diet soda had been banned from the campus. “You guess? You haven't heard from him?”
Truth was, I couldn't be bothered to respond to the IMs he'd sent and I'd turned off my laptop. I wouldn't boot it up again until this afternoon at the rink.
My sister must have read my mind, because she pushed ahead of me. “Brandon probably left her a hundred messages. She'll find out when she gets around to checking.”
Aimee's palm went to her cheek in one of those clichéd gestures. “You haven't checked them since he's been gone?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Omigod.” She laughed, then shook a finger. “You are so bad, Kate!”
I just stared at her. What was I supposed to say? Sorry? Or explain for the hundredth time that I was not Brandon's girlfriend?
“Actually, she's smart,” my sister piped up. “While half the girls at school were throwing themselves at him, she was sitting back, playing it cool. Now she's got him. So why change what's working?”
Surprised, I turned to Suz. For someone who could be so blind about what was going on in our home life, she was killer on these defensive comebacks. I might have to hire her to do my PR someday.
Aimee smacked her gum. “Try checking your e-mails on a class computer. And go off campus during morning break and turn on your phone. Then come by our table at lunch and give us the absolute latest, okay?”
I nodded, although I knew I'd do nothing of the sort. And where was their table, anyway?
“Remember, us first, okay?” she said, then threw her arms around me.
I nearly gagged on her bubble gum scent.
“We're so happy for you, Kate,” a husky-voiced girl added, and almost sounded sincere.
“I mean, okay,” Aimee said, pulling back from me. “Some of us wouldn't have minded getting our hands on Brandon Callister ourselves.” She laughed, a little too loudly. “But you got him fair and square. Playing hard to get or whatever. Plus people say you've got some get-rich-quick scheme that's going to make you a millionaire, like, tomorrow. How could he not love that?”
“Well,” I said, suddenly on more comfortable ground. “It's more like a plan. And it'll be a few years, for sure.”
“Whatever.” She patted my arm, as if I'd been tried and found worthy of being Queen to His Royal Hotness. “So . . . later, right?” She turned away, and her friends fell in behind her.
Mrs. Quack and all her little ducklings.
I just stared. Then I leaned toward my sister. “What,” I asked, “was that?”
Suz rested her head on my shoulder. “I don't know how to tell you this, Kate. But I think you're popular.”
•
In the halls, people I barely knew nodded at me. Those I did know flashed smiles. Some said my name.
I wondered if Katie Holmes had gone through something like this when she'd first hooked up with Tom Cruise.
Arriving at my locker, I found my locker-mate, Yvette DelaCruz, holding court with a few girls. She and I had been sort-of friends since elementary school, even though she was one of the most hyper people I'd ever met. Not in a needs-meds kind of way, but in a needs-a-life kind of way. Yvette got totally pumped up at school and was forever moving, whether it was doing a pretzel-twist thing with her legs or gesticulating wildly with her hands. I swear, she was like a performance artist.
“Hey,” I said as I walked up to her squirming body.
Yvette stopped moving. Completely. She and her friends turned toward me and said hello. Her stillness was unnerving.
I managed a smile, then threw some books onto my shelf.
“Where is he now?” Yvette asked. Once again, the identity of “he” being implied.
I was frozen in place by her calmness and had to think for a few seconds before I could answer. “Arizona.”
“I know that, silly. Where in Arizona?”
How in the world would I know? Sure, he'd told me some details over dinner, but my head had been spinning from having Mama herself seat us, and from seeing all the craned necks and stares. Plus—who really cared?
“I'll have to get back to you on that,” I said, reverting to a safe, businesslike tone. Then I nodded a quick goodbye.
Yvette turned back to her friends, and I heard her say, “She'll keep us posted.”
As I blended into the passing crowd, people kept nodding at me, smiling, and saying my name. I didn't want to be rude, so I formed something like a smile on my face and shot it like a laser at everyone in my path.
Dakota Watson was standing in the doorway of my classroom and brightened up when she saw me. I guess she didn't think I looked like a dog this morning, either.
“Well, well, Miss Thing,” she said, and did this so-fast-you-barely-saw-it swoop of her long, dark hair so it hung to one side of her neck like a dark scarf. “I hope you're proud of yourself.”
I kept myself in check, didn't act surprised that she was lowering herself to speak to me, or bring up Friday's too-loud commentary. “And I hope you're ready for the meeting later, Dakota. You're reporting on hot trends, right?”
She put a manicured nail in her mouth. One thing about Dakota—her shiny-haired beauty wasn't enough. She always went the extra mile with cosmetics and clothing.
“I'm surprised you had time to remember, DelVecchio, after the weekend you had. But yeah, I'm totally ready.” She leaned in, like we were BFFs. “And actually, after the meeting, I'd like to talk to you.”
“Sorry,” I said, a little flattered, a little curious. “But I'm so out of here afterwards. Have to get the Hoppenfeffer kid to practice. What's up?”
She puckered her pinker-than-pink lips. “Nothing I want to talk about here. Maybe I'll call you tonight.”
I shrugged and moved on by, happy for once to go into history class and lose myself in other people's lives.
•
I spent lunch with Dal. We munched on soft tacos from the food truck and talked about everything and nothing, but one thing was distinctly different about the day. People kept stopping by to congratulate me and to ask about Brandon. I answered their questions but sensed that Dal was getting as annoyed as I was.
After lunch, a short girl was waiting by my locker. I was tempted to offer her my autograph if she'd go away.
A closer look and I recognized her from Suzannah's grade, probably from some school project committee Suz had once worked on. As I noted her French braid and cupid's-bow mouth, “cute” was the word that came to mind.
“Hi, Kate,” she greeted me as I walked up. “I'm Vince's sister. Jenn.”
Ah, yes, Baseball Vince, who'd IM'd Mark with the news that Brandon and I were a couple. My, my, how small Franklin Pierce really was.
“Have you heard from Brandon?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Well, I've got a message for him.” She went on to give me some story about a DVD that Brandon had left at their house, and how some friend wanted to borrow it, and was that okay.
It was enough I'd been labeled his girlfriend—now I was his secretary, too? But I swallowed my irritation. I was, after all, a cooperative person. His e-mail address was pretty much the same as his IM, so it was easy for me to remember. I figured she could just give him the message herself, so I rattled it off to her.
Then, before I could say bye, Chelsea suddenly replaced Vince's sister in front of me, wearing makeup and a great pair of earrings.
“Mark smiled at me twice in the hall,” she said, and did a dreamy eye roll. “And came and sat with me for a few minutes at lunch. Kate, I could just die!”
It wasn't every day I made someone happy. And it was almost never that I helped se
nd someone over the moon. It was weird, but I really did feel warm inside. “Don't die, Chelsea,” I said, and laughed. “At least not until after the banquet. I worked too hard.”
Her grin widened.
In fifth period, a couple of girls got out of their seats to come and talk to me. But my sixth period was much calmer, which kind of surprised and disappointed me. (Oh, how quickly fame goes to one's head!)
Walking to my Business Leaders meeting after school, I thought about the accomplishments portion, when members mentioned their successes, and wished I could announce how I'd hooked up Chelsea and Mark. Closing that deal had required many of the strategies we discussed in meetings. But it had also required confidentiality.
I could hear club members' voices filtering down the hall. One thing I'd learned about budding entrepreneurs: we liked to talk. About ourselves and those we admired. And often all at once. So despite my best efforts, most meetings ran like water through my fingers. I just hoped today's didn't.
The noises got louder as I pulled open the classroom door. The usual twelve or fifteen people were milling in small groups around the classroom. Mr. Packard sat at his desk, beneath a few of his favorite motivational posters.
I dropped my backpack in a corner and nodded hello to him, then moved to his podium. I grabbed hold of the gavel and gave it a couple of hard bangs.
What happened next stunned me. Delighted me. Reminded me that this day was like no other in my entire life.
All heads turned my way. And the voices died. I mean, there was a huge possibility you could have heard a pin drop.
“I am calling this meeting of the Future Business Leaders of America to order,” I said, and watched the most driven, hardheaded group of people in the school slip obediently into their seats.
Life was good!
I got through announcements and new business in record time. No interruptions, no arguments, no paper airplanes to duck. Then Dakota stood up and gave her hot trends talk on the effect of interest rates on the current real estate market.
While she spoke, I studied people's expressions, tried to read their eyes. Girls like Aimee McDonald might go giggle crazy over Brandon (and by association, me), but these were the movers and shakers. Honor students, student government reps, the ones most likely to get into Ivy League schools and armed services academies.
I knew they respected my Millionaire Before Twenty plan, even though none of them had the guts to jump feetfirst into the business world yet themselves. So why would my supposedly dating a jock increase their respect for me? What was I missing?
“I just want to end this with a special thank-you to our club president,” Dakota said, shooting a grin at me. “For all the hard work she does for us.”
The members broke into applause. Jon Keller—who ever since losing the senior class president bid to a girl with purple hair had been far more prone to put-downs than compliments—even got to his feet.
I just didn't get it.
I glanced over at Mr. Packard, but he seemed engrossed in correcting papers.
Red-faced, I walked back up to the podium, but I couldn't keep up the ruse any longer. “I take it you guys are referring to my new friendship with Brandon—”
A voice rang out from the back of the room, the first sign of normalcy we'd had all meeting. “Forget him! Tell us about your Six-Point Plan!”
“Yeah,” called out Gracie, who summered as an intern at our congressman's office. “Your secret formula that's going to make you rich.”
My lips parted, and my fingers raced to the neckline of my T-shirt.
“And make us rich, too!” someone else shouted.
Okay, this was worse than a naked dream. This was one of those terror dreams where you need to scream, need to run, but you're frozen. You simply have to stand there and take it.
How could they have heard about my Six-Point Plan? (Not that it even existed.) Who had I even mentioned it to? Chelsea, to be sure. My sister? Dal?
“That's confidential,” I managed to reply.
“Come on,” Jon shouted. “There's money enough out there for all of us. Spill the beans!”
I swallowed, several times. “I—I don't know what you're talking about. Now, moving along to our next—”
Jon jumped up. “If you're not going to share it, then I'm outta here. I've got things to do.”
Gracie stood. “Me too.” She turned and started talking to someone across the room about homework.
Another guy put his sweatshirt hood up.
Dakota sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.
Questions raced through my head. How did they know about my Six-Point Plan? How did I regain order? How could I get them to listen to me again, to respect me?
“Everybody,” I said. But nobody looked. “Hey, people!”
Again, nothing.
Oh, the heck with it—I had better things to do with my time, too. “I hereby declare this meeting adjourned,” I said, and banged the gavel so hard I thought the wood might splinter.
Nine
Somewhere between school, the Hoppenfeffers' house, and Winter Wonderland, my emotions took a backseat to my thoughts. I asked myself honestly why I had gotten so upset at the meeting.
Inside the rink, I followed Lexie to her team bench, where she plopped down between a couple of girls and got to work tying her laces. I saw that her right lace was shredded—we'd talked about this last week, she was supposed to tell her mom—and instead of my usual do-it-yourself attitude, I moved over, went down on one knee, and took over the tying of her rainbow-colored lace myself. I didn't want it coming untied and tripping her during practice. I would for sure be the one blamed.
Moments later, her laces tied tightly, Lexie took to the ice. I had to admit the kid had style. Speed. Talent. It was amazing that she'd only been skating a few years. Most of the other girls had started by kindergarten, and she was as good as any of them, if not better.
But Lexie did have an advantage. Her dad could skate. I mean, really skate. Rocko Hoppenfeffer had been one of those Venice Beach, California, surfer dudes who'd apparently reinvented the skateboarding wheel back in their day. He'd made serious money doing skateboard endorsements, and instead of (or maybe in addition to?) wasting it on partying and girls he'd invested it up here in land and paper mills, making himself pretty appealing to the town's local celebrity, our also successful and slightly eccentric romance writer. A few years later, they'd had Lexie, who they seemed to like a lot more than I did, so I guess they were living happily ever after.
On the occasions I thought about Lexie's natural abilities on the ice, I wondered if her love for skating got passed down through her DNA or if her über-talent came from an über-desire to please her dad.
Though if Lexie was only trying to please her dad, some could mistakenly say that my Millionaire Before Twenty plan was just an attempt to get pats on the back from my overachieving mother.
And that couldn't have been farther from the truth.
Up in my office, I'd barely had time to read the three texts and four e-mails from Brandon when feet rumbled up the bleachers.
I looked up to see Chelsea and Dakota. And while these two seemed about as likely a pair as tartar sauce and a hot dog, suddenly the events at the meeting made sense. Chelsea and Dakota were friends. Chelsea must have blabbed to Dakota about my hooking her up with Mark. Dakota, in turn, had shared the details of my Six-Point Plan with the club before my arrival. Bingo! Mystery solved.
I closed my laptop and greeted them like we had this little get-together every day. Chelsea, her newly brushed and styled hair shining in the fluorescent light, stayed only long enough to say hi. Then Dakota plopped herself down next to me.
“I thought we could talk now.”
I shrugged.
“The Six-Point Plan,” she said. “Spill it. Before I lay down a penny, DelVecchio, I've got to know what I'm getting into.”
Wait. Lay down a penny? Was she another potential customer? Was more capital coming m
y way?
I forced a poker face—even though it almost killed me—and slowly I explained what I'd do for her. “After I crunch the numbers and decide if the hookup is possible, that is,” I added.
She inhaled, long and hard. “I want to see this hexagon.”
Me and my big mouth.
I must have looked as hesitant as I felt, because she arched a brow. “I'm a Future Business Leader, too, and you owe it to me to be on the level. Besides, I've got connections. I happen to know at least two other people who'd also be willing to sign up for this. But only with my endorsement.”
Two more? She had my interest, no doubt about it. And come on, how hard would it be to BS a Six-Point Plan? Harder than pulling off all As this semester and rounding up five thousand big ones to satisfy my parents? I think not!
“Okay, meet me at my locker before lunch tomorrow.” I studied her face. “You going to tell me who the guy is?”
“After I see your hexagon.”
“Okay, but I've got to warn you. It can't be somebody's boyfriend. The hexagon doesn't work with unavailable guys. I'm not out to break up couples.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving my warning away. “Chelsea already warned me that you won't help me get Dal.”
I felt myself tighten. “You're after Dal?”
“No, I'm just saying.”
“Okay, because he's taken.”
She nodded. “So tomorrow for the Six-Point Plan?”
“Totally,” I said. I had quite a night ahead of me.
•
That evening I sat in my room trying to come up with a Six-Point Plan that made any sense. Between Internet sites, some of my sister's fashion magazines, and a girl's guide to manners that my mother had chucked at me eons ago, back when she had some herself, I made lists:
What girls looked for in guys.
What guys looked for in girls.
Basic turn-ons.
Basic turnoffs.
Statistics and information on what made a happy couple.
Tests to tell if a guy/girl liked you.
