“Research shows that seven out of ten girl fights are over a guy,” Cassie says quickly. “We’ve discovered the secret to harmony and happiness at school. In order to maximize on male cuteness and minimize on fights and backstabbing, we just share our boyfriends.”
“And the guys don’t care?” I ask.
“Like we tell them.” Caitlyn laughs and the rest of the girls join her. Okay, so apparently everyone here does know how things work already, and I’m asking too many questions. But come on, it sounds a little strange. How do you share boyfriends without their knowledge? And why do they want to share boyfriends anyway? I don’t even like to share my fries. Although, loaning Chris out to get to hang with these girls is intriguing. It would be hysterical if I actually became popular from being in their club, so popular that Delaney would beg me to be friends with her again and then I could reject her snooty butt. Oooh, that would be amazing. And I’m sure they’d return Chris to me in the same condition as I left him, right? Hmm. Oh, what am I saying? This is ridiculous.
“So, like I said before, if there are no other questions…” Cassie scans the circle with an arched eyebrow—daring someone to say something. But no one makes a peep. “I’ll need you each to sign one of these,” she adds. A stack of papers is quickly passed around the circle of girls, and I start to read mine. It’s some kind of boyfriend permission form. These girls are funny!
“Okay,” Cassie interrupts my thoughts, “you are being passed an agreement that we’ll need you to sign immediately. It is really simple. I, fill in your name, voluntarily participate in the Interscholastic Boyfriend Exchange Program, here forth referred to as ‘Boy Swap Club’ blah blah, of which my boyfriend, fill in his name, unknowingly shall participate, blah blah blah, turn the page, enter into this agreement under no force and of my free will, yadda yadda, for a period of no less than three months, blah blah blah. If contract is broken, penalties up to and including excommunication from entire student body…well, you get the gist. If you want to join our club, sign now.”
Seriously, can this girl slow down? I don’t want to sign away a kidney or something. I scan the first few lines. I don’t know, should I do it? Part of me says drop the paper on the chair and get the heck out of here. Part of me says don’t be a bore, take a chance and see what happens. What’s the harm? I raise my hand again.
“Yes?” Cassie says, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Can I get a copy of this to read at home?” I ask. I hear a few sighs and see several girls give each other looks. Yikes. They’re probably all wondering who let the loser in. But I just want to gather more information. I mean, this isn’t exactly like when I joined French club.
Stop it Brooke! This is so not going to change your Band Nerd status! And besides, these girls are, like, the smartest and prettiest at school. They are readily signing it so it can’t be that bad, right? And it’s not like Chris would ever cheat on me anyway so I’m totally getting the best of both worlds. “I mean, never mind. Sounds fab,” I add quickly and scribble my name. “Here,” I pass my form to Sarah and try to appear thrilled. Everyone shuffles their papers back to Cassie.
My stomach flips. Ugh. What did I just agree to? That was rash wasn’t it? I didn’t even take time to really think it over. Let girls date my Chris? Why would I do that? And why do they want Chris anyway? True, he’s hot. But he’s just as big a band nerd as me. Although what’s wrong with band nerds anyway? We’re cool. In our own way. Maybe the popular kids are finally ready to give us the appreciation we deserve. Ah, who am I kidding? No, things are fine the way they are. I don’t need to be in this silly club. Now if I can just get that piece of paper back… “Um, excuse me, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d…”
“Okay,” Caitlyn says, completely ignoring me. “There is one last piece of business before we let you go today.” She props her Dooney & Burke bag up on her lap and pulls from it a fistful of the extremely sought after, rare pale pink scarves.
A collective “ooooooh” goes around the circle and every girl is staring at the pile of scarves with wide eyes.
“You will each be given one of these pink scarves,” Caitlyn says but I can hardly hear her. My mind is racing. Ohmigod! The scarves! Lizzie and I have been searching everywhere for these scarves! All the girls have. It’s like, the popular girls started a fad and none of us could join in because we couldn’t find the darn things anywhere. And now I am getting one? Lizzie is going to DIE!
But wait, grasp reality here, I don’t need one. I’ve made it all this time without a scarf. Without being popular. I’m fine. Closing eyes now. Nothing to see here. Well, maybe just a little peek.
“You must always have the scarf on you in some way—neck, hair, wrist, whatever” Caitlyn is saying. “If it doesn’t match your outfit that day well, then have it on your backpack or your purse in some fashion. This is our signal to each other that we are all in the BSC. Never, and I mean NEVER, tell anyone where you got the scarf. If you are ever asked, tell them it was a sale at Macy’s.” Everyone is bobbing their heads up and down in excitement. My fingers are twitching at the idea of possibly holding a scarf in just a few seconds. Cailtyn walks the circle, dropping one scarf in each girl’s lap.
I’m losing will power fast. Must. Touch. Scarf. Caitlyn’s getting closer to me. What will people say if they see me at school wearing this scarf? Matching with all of these super cool girls, together in solidarity. A sign that I belong with them. That I, Brooke Thomas, second chair flutist, am someone important. My right leg is bouncing up and down in anticipation. And then Caitlyn drops a scarf on it.
Oh my God. I drape it over my left wrist and hold it up toward the light. This is the most beautiful scarf I’ve ever seen.
Chapter 2: The Pink Scarf
It’s 8 a.m. and I’m walking down the school hallway, shoulders back, head high, pink scarf in hair. I tried it on at least twenty different ways this morning, trying to figure out the best way to introduce it to the world. I even contemplated tying it to a stick and doing a flag corps routine down the school hallway to the tune of, “Look at Me, I Have a Pink Scarf!” But no, a more subdued headband was definitely the way to go. Even Mom noticed my scarf this morning. She said, “Oh sweetie, that’s a pretty scarf. I didn’t even know you liked them. I have a few old ones you can have if you’d like.” I looked at her like the crazy person she is. Like any scarf she has in her closet can compare to the coveted pink scarf. Gee Mom, while you’re in there, do you have any nice cotton elastic waistband pants you can pass my way too? Puh-lease.
“What the—. Brooke, where did you get that scarf?” Natalie, a xylophone player, stops me in the hallway outside the band room doors.
The students walking by are totally staring at me, and I can hear whispers. Things like, “Look, she has a pink scarf.” “How did that girl get a pink scarf?” “Isn’t she in the band?”
“Nice isn’t it?” I say fingering the scarf. My God, I already feel at least twenty-five percent more popular than yesterday. This could really be it for me!
A couple of seniors pause and tilt their heads at me in speculation. Everyone’s probably thinking the same thing. How? Why? I just want to scream, yes! Yes, it’s all true! I have wonderful new friends! We all wear these scarves! I am absolutely fab! Run, tell the world! But I don’t. Because that is something the old, non-pink-scarf-wearing Brooke would do. The new me strolls into the band room with my head held high. I am so in. Finally.
I had the opportunity for popularity-dom once before back in 6th grade and I took a pass. Not that I regret it or anything—it was the right thing to do at the time. Up until 5th grade, I was best friends with Delaney and this other girl Trish O’Donohue. We did absolutely everything together from weekly sleepovers at each other’s houses to our very first movie without our parents. Of course Trish’s mom just sat in another theater but it was still a really big deal. Anyway, 6th grade seemed to be the time where everyone split up into their categories, which mostly boiled down to two—pop
ular and not popular. I was headed straight for popular up until 8th grader Todd Jenson’s party. All three of us were invited—huge deal being only 6th graders— and it was my first real boy/girl party so I was totally excited. When I got there, they were passing out bracelets for everyone to wear. At first I thought—oh wow, we still get goody bag stuff like when we were little kids. But that was so not what they were. The bracelets had meaning, if you get my drift. The different colors indicated what you would do with guys at the party, and I was so not going to do anything. I kinda freaked actually. I ran into the Jenson’s kitchen and called my mom to come get us. Delaney and Trish didn’t want to leave so I left them and our friendship at that party. Trish moved away that year and, from that day on, Delaney acted like she’d hit her head on a rock, got amnesia, and forgot all about us being BFFs since kindergarten. She tossed me aside like an old pair of skinny jeans. It was utterly awful.
It became one of those things we just didn't talk about. Well, we didn't talk period. We completely avoided each other. But she started it. I always wanted to be like hey, remember me? You slept over at my house a dozen times last year. I know about that ugly, nasty toenail on the pinky toe of your right foot and what a pain it is to paint over so you always have to wear dark shades of nail color. And I know how you break out in hives if you eat anything with strawberries in it. And I know how movies where puppies are hurt or lost or hungry make you cry. So how do you suddenly look at me like you're sure we've met but just can't place me?
My mom always said the best revenge is doing well in your own life so that's what I went for. But Delaney had all of her cool new friends and I had no one. I did the only thing I could do. I joined the band.
I have first hour band practice every day and we practice outside in the school parking lot during football season, so I leave my jacket on. I head straight for my locker in the back of the room to retrieve my flute. Two oboe players, Melanie and Amber, nudge each other and point at my scarf. The entire French horn section is staring at me and the trumpets, well, at least the female trumpet players, have all stopped to look in my direction too. Lizzie walks out of the band director, Mr. Shank’s, office with a handful of music and almost drops it when she sees me.
“Oh. My. God. Brooke.”
“Hi Lizzie,” I say. “Cute top.” Lizzie is wearing a really cute tee shirt with touristy London spots airbrushed on it.
“Forget my top, where on earth did you get that scarf!” she says, reaching for my head.
“Oh, this?” I say, touching my scarf again and recounting what I was told to say. “Sale at Macy’s.”
“Shut up! Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you pick up one for me too? You know I’ve wanted one of these scarves forever!”
Ooh. All very good questions. Why didn’t I get her one?
“Um, well there was only one there. Or I totally would have bought you one. And I didn’t want to call and rub it in or anything.” That sounds plausible.
“Man. I can’t believe you got one of the scarves! You’re going to let me borrow it, right?”
Uh, what? Nooooo. I am sure that is against the rules. What’s my mom always saying when my pesky little cousin is acting hyper? Oh yeah, redirect. “Tell me where you got your shirt—I totally love it!” I say.
“Oh, just Target. No biggie,” she says hurriedly. “So when do I get to borrow it?”
Shoot. The redirecting thing didn’t throw her. It must only work on three-year olds.
“Hey, Honey,” a warm voice whispers into my ear and two strong arms envelop my waist. Chris. My hero, saving me from any further scarf-borrowing talk.
I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a good morning kiss. He’s so handsome; especially in the mornings when his dark blond hair is still a little damp from his shower. And he smells so, so good. All, I was just outside chopping down a pine forest like.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Lizzie says and walks to her seat to warm up. Lizzie plays the tuba, which, you can imagine, is just as unsexy as it sounds. Toting around a gigantic hunk of metal that probably outweighs every boy in the room and puffing out your lips as you spit into this giant metal shaft is not so attractive. But Lizzie loves it. And she’s good at it. And no one else in band could lift it.
“So are we going to Katie’s party after the game tonight?” Chris asks, arms still around my waist with no plans of moving any time soon. Katie Hodges’s family hosts band parties after every home football game. They are legendary in the band. Her house has excellent hidden nooks for making out. And her mom can make a mean chocolate chip cookie, too.
“Sure,” I say. “Can we give Lizzie a ride?” Chris sighs a little but then nods his head yes. I know he hates that I always have him carting Lizzie around. But she’s like, my own personal walking talking birth control. I know that Chris is ready to have sex, but hello, I’m totally not. And I’m so not having sex for the first time in the back of his filthy little 98’ Ford Focus. No way. I’ve decided that the perfect time for us to first have sex will be on the band trip to Disney World over spring break. The Disney trip is four months away and by that time we’ll have been dating for eight glorious months. I’ll totally be ready by then, I’m sure. And we can do it on a beach at night with only the moon for light and waves crashing into our toes. It will be super romantic.
Chris leans in to kiss me again, and I see Mr. Shank walk into the room. “Ooops, keep that thought,” I say. “I better get to my seat.” I race to the front of the room to the flute section. Chris walks over to his drum set, picks up his drumsticks, and starts warming up.
I take my seat next Rayne, the first chair flutist. I totally hate her. Okay, that’s mean. Let’s say I don’t enjoy her as much as I do many, many other people. I’m a junior so this is my third year in band. Rayne is only a freshman but somehow beat me out for first chair. It drives me absolutely crazy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Okay, I shouldn’t say there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Just nothing I want to do. Mr. Shank keeps telling me if I want to be first chair, then I can challenge Rayne for it. Which at first makes you think what? Pistols at thirty paces? But no, Mr. Shank’s a total whack job. If you want to challenge another musician for their chair, he sets up this freaking American Idol finale night situation in which the entire band attends and you stand up front and go head to head playing the same songs. Then we are like, critiqued by three seniors band members and the entire band gets to vote who should get the higher chair. I mean, come on people, who in their right mind is going to put themself through all that? So needless to say there aren’t many challenges.
I take my flute out of my case and quickly line up the pieces, adjusting the head piece to stick out just a centimeter further than it is supposed to be. This is my own little secret—I really think it makes the sound better.
“Hi, Brooke,” Rayne says, giving me a once over and smiling.
I sigh. “Hi, Rayne.”
She makes this muffled heh-heh sound and I see her look up at Chris and then at my scarf. Hmph. She seems to have made the connection between the scarf and the club. Is she in Boy Swap? I give her a once over too, searching for a tuft of pink coming out of anywhere. But nope—no scarf. I don’t recall ever seeing her with a pink scarf either. Maybe I’m reading too much into her reaction.
* * *
Can we just call this BEST DAY EVER? Seriously, it’s only 4th period and my day has been amazing. Everyone is looking at me differently. Everyone is treating me differently. Yesterday, I had my band friends and my French club friends and the kids I sit with at lunch. But that was it. Nobody beyond that had a clue who Brooke Thomas was. But today, well, today my name is buzzing through the air. I’m on the tip of every girl’s lips. And it isn’t just the non-scarf-owning population that is talking about me. The popular girls, those in the Boy Swap Club that is, are all nodding acknowledgement. You know, kinda like how one semi-truck driver acknowledges another on the highway? Or how one dude in a shiny M
ustang convertible slows down to let another dude in a shiny Mustang convertible in his lane? It’s like that—they’re acknowledging their own. And wow, I didn’t realize how huge Boy Swap really is. I mean, this morning alone I probably spotted thirty-five scarves. Girls are wearing them in all kinds of styles: in their belt loops, peeking out of a pocket, on a purse handle, or tied around their neck. I even saw one girl with a scarf tied around her ankle.
I’m busily trying to figure out how to handle my new position in Jefferson High society. I mean, I want to run up to each girl with a scarf and become instant besties but that would give away the whole secret club thing, right? I’ll just have to sit back and observe for a while. See what the other girls do.
“Hey, Babe,” Chris says, tossing an arm around my shoulder and shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Hi, Sweetie.” I stand up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. We walk toward the gym—we both have class there next hour.
“Did I mention that you look really pretty today?” he adds.
“No, but thank you. You look good too.” I lean into him. Aww. Even Chris is acting differently today. I love this scarf.
“Practice was crazy this morning, huh? It was so freakin’ cold outside—I can’t believe Skank made us go outside to rehearse.”
“I know! I was a total Brookesicle.” Especially since I refused to wear a hat and cover my scarf.
“At least you get to march around,” Chris says. “We just stand up front and freeze.” That’s true. Mr. Shank positions the percussion section in the front of the field and the rest of us do the routine.
“Poor baby,” I say jokingly, and give his shoulder a little shove with mine.
“Hey there. Looking good,” a tall, leggy blond says to Chris as she walks by, totally interrupting our couple cuteness. I have no idea who she is, but I suddenly have a strong urge to do this morning’s marching routine all over her face. Who does she think she is telling my boyfriend he looks good right in front of me? Rude much? I feel Chris stiffen, his arm still around my shoulder. Okay, apparently he registered the weirdness factor of this situation too.
Just Your Average Box Set (Just Your Average Princess, Just Your Average Geek, & Just Your Average Celebrity) Page 15
