The Trouble With Flirting

by Claire Lazebnik

  “And then you have to get home from the airport . . . and you should probably say hi to your parents, maybe have an early dinner with them, so they don’t feel hurt . . . so let’s say it’s seven, maybe eight p.m. before you can hit the road? You could be at my place by, like, two in the morning. If you drive fast and don’t stop.”

  “Make it three. I’ll need to drink a lot of coffee to stay awake.”

  “I’m joking,” I say.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then that’s a first.”

  Harry rocks back on his heels. “You still don’t think I’m capable of being sincere, do you?”

  I start to answer, then give up on the idea of talking and just throw my arms around his neck and hold him tight like I’m drowning. Because I trust him and believe him. Completely. And I don’t want to joke around anymore.

  “Come as soon as you can,” I whisper in his ear.

  “As soon as I can,” he promises.

  Amelia drives me to the airport, and when I get out of the car, she gets out too and embraces me and tells me that she’s loved having me there, that I’m a wonderful niece and a semidecent seamstress and she’ll miss me horribly. I’m stunned by her sudden warmth. She hasn’t shown me much over the course of the summer, but maybe the affection has been there all along, just hidden behind all the anxiety and judgment.

  When I hear my name being called at the baggage carousel, I’m so exhausted that for a second I look around to see where Amelia is and wonder how she ended up in Phoenix, but then I realize it’s my mother. I’d never noticed before how similar their voices are. Their features, too—my mother’s a softer, sweeter, prettier version of her sister. A better version. I’m happy to be with her again, happy that she’s my mom and Amelia’s just my aunt, happy that she can say “I’ve missed you, Franny” and “I love you” without discomfort or uncertainty—and happy that I can say both things back to her and mean them.

  Mom helps me bring my bags in, pours me a glass of iced tea, then sits me down at the kitchen table and orders me to keep her company while she bustles around making dinner—it’s early, but she’s making lasagna since that’s my favorite and it takes hours. She’s so happy I’m back she’s practically shimmering with joy.

  “Your dad is coming by later to see you,” she tells me, as she chops an onion at the counter a foot away from where I’m sitting, her back vibrating slightly with each snick-snick of the knife. “And William said you should call as soon as you get home. But I want you for a little longer all to myself. If you call him, you’ll tell all your stories and then you won’t want to tell me.” She turns, knife in her hand, to look at me over her shoulder. “I’ve loved your texts and phone calls, but I know there’s a lot you didn’t get around to telling me. So tell.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I take a sip of iced tea and lean back comfortably against the familiar curve of the wooden kitchen chair. “I wanted to tell you in person, like this. Because there was this guy—oh, and there was this other guy too.” I think for a moment. “But mostly? There was this guy.. . .”

  Excerpt from Epic Fail

  one

  The front office wasn’t as crazy as you’d expect on the first day of school, which seemed to confirm Coral Tree Prep’s reputation as “a well-oiled machine.”

  That was a direct quote from the Private School Confidential website I had stumbled across when I first Googled Coral Tree—right after my parents told me and my three sisters we’d be transferring there in the fall. Since it was on the other side of the country from where we’d been living—from where I’d lived my entire life—I couldn’t exactly check it myself, and I was desperate for more information.

  A well-oiled machine didn’t sound too bad. But I was less thrilled to read that Coral Tree was “basically a country club masquerading as a school.” The same anonymous writer added, “I’ve yet to see a student drive a car onto campus that’s not a Porsche or a BMW. And even an AP math student would lose count of the Louboutins on the girls here.” Yuck.

  But while I was clicking around that site, I learned about another private school in L.A. that had a “condom tree”—kids allegedly tossed their used condoms up into its branches—so I guess my parents could have done worse than, you know, Coral Tree.

  True to the school’s reputation, the administrator in the office was brisk and efficient and had quickly printed up and handed me and Juliana each a class list and a map of the school.

  “You okay?” I asked Juliana, as she stared at the map like it was written in some foreign language. She started and looked up at me, slightly panicked. Juliana’s a year older than me, but she sometimes seems younger—mostly because she’s the opposite of cynical and I’m the opposite of the opposite of cynical.

  Because we’re so close in age, people frequently ask if the two of us are twins. It’s lucky for me we’re not, because if we were, Juliana would be The Pretty One. She and I do look a lot alike, but there are infinitesimal differences—her eyes are just a touch wider apart, her hair a bit silkier, her lips fuller—and all these little changes add up to her being truly beautiful and my being reasonably cute. On a good day. When the light hits me right.

  I put my head closer to hers and lowered my voice. “Did you see the girls in the hallway? How much makeup they’re all wearing? And their hair is perfect, like they spent hours on it. How is that possible?” Mine was in a ponytail. It wasn’t even all that clean because our fourteen-year-old sister, Layla, had hogged the bathroom that morning and I’d barely had time to brush my teeth, let alone take a shower.

  “It’ll all be fine,” Juliana said faintly.

  “Yeah,” I said, with no more conviction. “Anyway, I’d better run. My first class is on the other side of the building.” I squinted at the map. “I think.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Good luck.”

  “Find me at lunch, okay? I’ll be the one sitting by herself.”

  “You’ll make friends, Elise,” she said. “I know you will.”

  “Just find me.” I took a deep breath and plunged out of the office and into the hallway—and instantly hit someone with the door. “Sorry!” I said, cringing.

  The girl I’d hit turned, rubbing her hip. She wore an incredibly short miniskirt, tight black boots that came up almost to her knees, and a spaghetti-strap tank top. It was an outfit more suited for a nightclub than a day of classes, but I had to admit she had the right body for it. Her blond hair was beautifully cut, highlighted, and styled, and the makeup she wore really played up her pretty blue eyes and perfect little nose. Which was scrunched up now in disdain as she surveyed me and bleated out a loud and annoyed “FAIL!”

  The girl standing with her said, “Oh my God, are you okay?” in pretty much the tone you’d use if someone you cared about had just been hit by a speeding pickup truck right in front of you.

  It hadn’t been that hard a bump, but I held my hands up apologetically. “Epic fail. I know. Sorry.”

  The girl I’d hit raised an eyebrow. “At least you’re honest.”

  “At least,” I agreed. “Hey, do you happen to know where room twenty-three is? I have English there in, like, two minutes and I don’t know my way around. I’m new here.”

  The other girl said, “I’m in that class, too.” Her hair was brown instead of blond and her eyes hazel instead of blue, but the two girls’ long, choppy manes and skinny bodies had been cast from the same basic mold. She was wearing a narrow, silky turquoise tank top over snug boot-cut jeans and a bunch of multicolored bangles on her slender wrist. “You can follow me. See you later, Chels.”

  “Yeah—wait, hold on a sec.” Chels—or whatever her name was—pulled her friend toward her and whispered something in her ear. Her friend’s eyes darted toward me briefly, but long enough to make me glance down at my old straight-leg jeans and my THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt and feel like I shouldn’t have worn either.

  The two girls giggled and broke apart.

&nbs
p; “I know, right?” the friend said. “See you,” she said to Chels and immediately headed down the hallway, calling brusquely over her shoulder, “Hurry up. It’s on the other side of the building and you don’t want to be late for Ms. Phillips’s class.”

  “She scary?” I asked, scuttling to keep up.

  “She just gets off on handing out EMDs.”

  “EMDs?” I repeated.

  “Early morning detentions. You have to come in at, like, seven in the morning and help clean up and stuff like that. Sucks. Most of the teachers here are pretty mellow if you’re a couple of minutes late, but not Phillips. She’s got major control issues.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked, dodging a group of girls in cheerleader outfits.

  “Gifford.” Really? Gifford? “And that was Chelsea you hit with the door. You really should be more careful.”

  Too late for that advice—in my efforts to avoid bumping into a cheerleader, I had just whammed my shoulder on the edge of a locker. I yelped in pain. Gifford rolled her eyes and kept moving.

  I caught up again. “I’m Elise,” I said, even though she hadn’t asked. “You guys in eleventh grade, too?”

  “Yeah. So you’re new, huh? Where’re you from?”

  “Amherst, Mass.”

  She actually showed some interest. “That near Harvard?”

  “No. But Amherst College is there. And UMass.”

  She dismissed that with an uninterested wave. “You get snow there?”

  “It’s Massachusetts,” I said. “Of course we do. Did.”

  “So do you ski?”

  “Not much.” My parents didn’t, and the one time they tried to take us it was so expensive that they never repeated the experiment.

  “We go to Park City every Christmas break,” Gifford said. “But this year my mother thought maybe we should try Vail. Or maybe Austria. Just for a change, you know?”

  I didn’t know. But I nodded like I did.

  “You see the same people at Park City every year,” she said. “I get sick of it. It’s like Maui at Christmas, you know?”

  I wished she’d stop saying “You know?”

  Fortunately, we had reached room 23. “In here,” said Gifford. She opened the door and went in, successfully communicating that her mentoring ended at the room’s threshold.

  Over the course of the next four hours, I discovered that:

  Classes at Coral Tree Prep were really small. When we got to English, I was worried that half the class would get EMDs or whatever they were called because there were fewer than a dozen kids in the room. But when Ms. Phillips came in, she said, “Good—everyone’s here, let’s get started,” and I realized that was the class.

  The campus grounds were unbelievably green and seemed to stretch on for acres. I kept gazing out the window, wishing I could escape and go rolling down the grassy hills that lined the fields.

  Teachers at Coral Tree Prep didn’t like you to stare out the window and would tell you so in front of the entire class who would then all turn and stare at The New Girl Who Wasn’t Paying Attention.

  Everyone at Coral Tree Prep was good-looking. Really. Everyone. I didn’t see a single fat or ugly kid all morning. Maybe they just locked them up at registration and didn’t let them out again until graduation.

  Girls here wore every kind of footwear imaginable, from flip-flops to spike-heeled mules to UGG boots (despite the sunny, 80-degree weather), EXCEPT for sneakers. I guess those marked you as fashion-impaired.

  I was wearing sneakers.

  two

  There are all these clichés about what it’s like to be the new kid at school, like in movies, when you see people playing pranks on them or ostracizing them or publicly ridiculing them. I had no previous experience at being new: I had gone to only one public elementary school, which fed into my middle school, which fed into my old high school. So I don’t know what I had been expecting, but the reality was more boring than anything else.

  People were all willing to acknowledge me, ask me if I was new and what my name was, welcome me to the school (literally, several kids said, “Welcome to Coral Tree!”), and then they lost interest and went back to talking to their friends. I was isolated but not ostracized, ignored but not abused.

  Still, it was stressful sitting alone and trying to look like I was fascinated by the posters on the various classroom walls whenever the other kids were chatting, so I was very happy to spot Juliana waiting in the cafeteria line when lunch break finally rolled around.

  “Hey, you!” I ran over and just barely restrained myself from hugging her.

  “Hey, yourself,” she said calmly.

  “How’s it going? No one’s talking to me. Is anyone talking to you?”

  “Actually,” she said, “people have been really nice.”

  “That’s great.” I wanted to be happy for her, but I had been looking forward to sharing the misery. “So what are you going to eat?”

  “I don’t know.” She gave a vague look around. “Salad maybe? I’m not that hungry.”

  “You’re not? I’m starving.” It wasn’t until I had grabbed a huge turkey sub and Juliana was balancing a dainty little green salad on her tray that it occurred to me there was something weird about Juliana’s not being hungry. Usually she had a pretty healthy appetite. The only other time I could remember her not wanting to eat (when she wasn’t sick) was the year before, when she had a crush on a guy in her Health and Human Fitness class. That had not ended well—the guy turned out to be a total tool.

  As I moved through the cafeteria line, I saw raw tuna sushi. And pomegranate seeds. And tamales. And Nutrisystem shakes. And sausage sticks made out of ostrich meat.

  We definitely weren’t in Massachusetts anymore.

  I passed by a guy grabbing a can of soda out of the cold case. He was at least six feet tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and way cuter than any guy at my old school, which had been full of highly cerebral and physically underdeveloped faculty brats. (To give you an idea: we had both a varsity and junior varsity debate team, but only enough recruits for a single basketball team.) While Juliana and I waited in line to pay, I glanced over my shoulder at him again—I’m not usually a gawker, but I’d had a tough morning and deserved a little pleasure.

  I balanced my tray against my hip, checked the line—still a few people ahead of us—and stole another glance at Handsome Guy.

  Whose gorgeous eyes met mine as he turned around, soda in hand. He gave me a vaguely annoyed and weary look—a look that said, I’m so done with people staring at me—and turned on his heel. Guess I wasn’t as subtle as I thought. Blushing furiously, I turned back to the cashier before I embarrassed myself any more.

  After we’d paid, Juliana led the way out of the cafeteria to the picnic tables scattered around the school courtyard.

  “Outside tables?” I said. “What do they do when it rains?”

  “It’s L.A.,” Juliana said absently, turning her head from side to side like she was searching for something. “It doesn’t rain.”

  “That’s got to be an exaggeration. How about there?” I pointed to an empty table. I just wanted to be alone with Jules, have a few minutes to relax before starting all over again with the afternoon classes.

  But she was on the move, marching deliberately toward one of the tables—

  Where some guy was rising to his feet and exuberantly waving her over, then gesturing down at the empty space next to him, like he’d been expecting her.

  And she was going right toward him.

  Suddenly, her loss of appetite made sense.

  About the Author

  Johnny LaZebnik

  Claire LaZebnik lives in Los Angeles with her TV-writer husband and four children. She has co-authored two books about autism with Dr. Lynn Kern Koegel (OVERCOMING AUTISM and GROWING UP ON THE SPECTRUM). Her previous novels include KNITTING UNDER THE INFLUENCE, THE SMART ONE AND THE PRETTY ONE, FAMILIES AND OTHER NONRETURNABLE GIFTS, and EPIC FAIL. You can visit her o
nline at www.clairelazebnik.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

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  Other Books

  Also by Claire LaZebnik

  Epic Fail

  If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Now

  The Smart One and the Pretty One

  Knitting Under the Influence

  Same As It Never Was

  Copyright

  Cover art © 2013 by William King/ Getty Images

  Cover design by Oceana Garceau

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  The Trouble with Flirting

  Copyright © 2013 by Claire LaZebnik

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  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  LaZebnik, Claire Scovell.

  The trouble with flirting / Claire LaZebnik. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Loosely based on Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, relates high school junior Franny’s summer at Mansfield College in Portland, Oregon, where she helps her aunt sew costumes for an acting program and gets caught between the boy she likes and the one who likes her.