by Joanna Wiebe
I duck immediately into the woods again, out of sight.
He’s inside. Standing near a window in what looks like his kitchen. Thick raindrops cascade down the panes, exaggerating the warmth of his house, creating the coziest scene. He’s facing me, but he can’t see me. Because I’m hiding behind a tree, and because there’s someone standing in front of him.
Some blonde girl with her back to me.
The girl I saw the other night. His girlfriend.
Through the driving rain, I see her lift his hands to her face, holding them near her mouth. I see him close his eyes. I can only imagine what she’s doing, and it incenses me. Fills me with throat-tightening rage. Rage with myself for being so foolish. With Ben for being so taken. With that blonde girl for being so lucky. With Pilot for not being Ben. With Teddy for being everywhere at once. With Molly’s grandpa for scaring her away from me. With my dad for sending me here. With my mom for dying and leaving me to deal with all of this on my own. All at once, it all rains down on me. This rage. This pain.
Closing my eyes, I lift my head to the black sky and let the cold showers hit me. My eyelids pop open. The sky looks like Hell and Heaven have switched places, like I am staring up into hot coals.
And, strangely, this view feels right. This anger feels right.
“Ben’s not interested in you,” I tell myself. I say it out loud. With the clearest voice. And I repeat it so it sinks in. Again and again, I speak the words that will tattoo this reality into the walls of my skull, where my brain can stare at that message all day until it finally starts to get it.
Ben’s not interested in me. Ben’s not interested in me.
Hunching to stay out of their view, I hold my breath, try not to look at them, and run through Ben’s backyard, past his saltwater pool and lawn sculptures and outdoor kitchen, home to Gigi’s, kicking myself for wasting the whole afternoon fawning over some random conversation with Ben. It’s clear now that my obsession with Ben is entirely one-sided. But that doesn’t have to ruin my life, nor does it have to make the dance with Pilot anything short of spectacular. It’s better this way, anyway—one less distraction from my goals.
Now I know. Now I know, staring out the window at the Zins’, that in spite of some fairy-tale–loving part of me that has clung to the hope that the prince might look my way—in spite of my Jane Austen–inspired faith that Ben might somehow be my Mr. Darcy—there is no denying it: he isn’t. If Ben’s a prince at all, well, the prince is taken. And I must get happy with the idea of being lucky to have, at best, the disappointing son of a would-be president as the man of my dreams.
nine
PORTRAIT OF A BOY
IF IT WEREN’T FOR PILOT, I WOULD BE COMPLETELY LOST at Cania and burdened by the company of only Teddy (who isn’t exactly the life of the party). But there Pilot is, day after day, all week long. Smiling at me in our art workshop, keeping me steady as, every morning around ten o’clock, I feel cold and dizzy at once. He’s at Meteorology Club. At Ornithology Club. He’s making me crack up—and Teddy frown—over lunch with impersonations and ridiculously exaggerated stories. Pointing out the heirs to billions who walk among us—the Hearsts, the Coppolas, the people who would be celebrities at any school but this one. Reminding me to take it easy, that the race for valedictorian, no matter how much I think it’ll help me in life, isn’t worth “wasting our fabulous young lives on.” And, of course, distracting me from thinking about Ben. Not that he knows that.
Ben hasn’t looked my way since our conversation outside Valedictorian Hall. Not once. Not in our sculpting class. Not in the halls when we pass each other. Not when he passes me on his Ducati each morning. Not even when he was in his backyard and I was in Gigi’s. Not a word. The silence is excruciating. It’s affecting my appetite. It’s making me toss and turn at night. And the worst thing? Knowing that this silence means nothing to him. Knowing he doesn’t even notice it, that he’s too busy with his beautiful blonde girlfriend to see.
When I’m not thinking about him, I’m thinking about her.
Who is she, this mysterious girlfriend? The only blonde I know other than myself is Harper’s Russian peon, Agniezska, but there’s no way it could be her. She’s so vapid. She chatters on about nothing as much as Harper does. What could he like in her? Sure, I don’t really know Ben, but in our few interactions, he’s seemed too intense, too smart for the likes of “Aggie.” No, it’s probably the worst case: Ben has a brilliant, sexy girlfriend with some kick-ass pedigree from Park Avenue—the long-lost sister of Tinsley Mortimer—and she’s visiting him. That’s why I never see him with her at school. She’s staying in a beautiful suite in his house. Holding his hand in front of the fireplace at night. It’s enough to make me want to die.
“So dish,” Molly says. She’s curled up next to me on Gigi’s sofa. “What’s the prob?”
It’s Friday night, and I came home an hour ago to find Molly waiting at our back door. By some stroke of luck, Teddy isn’t plastered to my side; he’s at a teacher’s event until seven. And Gigi, who I’ve discovered is a bit of a gambler, is at some makeshift casino night in the village. If either of them were here, Molly and I would be in so much trouble. It blows my mind that she had the cojones to come here. She doesn’t seem to care, though. Says she can’t be expected to “exist in a perpetual state of friendlessness,” so screw them. That, and she promises to scoot out the back door the second Teddy or Gigi comes down the walk. With the cottage to ourselves, we set to searching Gigi’s cupboards for a snack in place of dinner. Tonight’s fare?
Microwave popcorn. Molly’s eating most of it because I’m still not hungry.
“Dish?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
Molly tilts her head and scowls. “You think I can’t tell you’re all depressed? I can. Your expressions are, like, ridiculous.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m just saying you should avoid playing poker. Seriously.” Molly is tossing kernels in the air and catching them, one by one, in her mouth. Skippy is nestled at her feet; evidently, Molly’s easy for the smelly little Pomeranian to warm to. “Are you still upset about what my gramps said to you?”
“It’s not so much what he said as the fact that he wanted to kill me.”
Molly smirks. “Can you blame him? Look at you. You’re terrifying.”
“Anyway, that’s not it.”
“Okay. So what, you haven’t got a date for the dance?”
“The dance—ugh. You know about that?”
“Of course. It’s, like, a huge deal at your school. And since I’m home-schooled, I sort of soak up every detail about your school. The first dance of the year. A welcome dance.”
Ha! A welcome dance. I’ve never felt so unwelcome in my life as I do at Cania.
“Did you know they grade us on it?” I stare at Molly, who doesn’t look surprised. “They grade us. On the dance—on how witty our banter is and, like, how sparkly our eye shadow is, I’m sure. All as part of this ridiculous valedictorian race, as if performing well at a dance could guarantee our success in life.”
“What’s ridiculous about becoming valedictorian?”
“It just feels so controlled here. And everyone’s got these weird stories.” She doesn’t seem fazed, so I rattle on. “Everything we do is being watched and measured. I mean, isn’t that what they do in serious lock-down reform schools?” It’s exactly what they did when my mom was in the psych ward.
“You deserve a medal, Anne. It’s only taken you a few days to feel imprisoned here. It took me, like, sixteen years.”
“I’m not kidding, Mol.”
“Okay, well, they don’t normally have dances in reform school, do they?”
She watches my face, but I’m intentionally unresponsive—because I don’t like any counterarguments to my theory. I have to believe I’m in reform school. Otherwise, what the hell is going on? I slowly chew a piece of popcorn. It needs salt, tastes like nothing.
“I don’t think this is about
the school, is it? I think,” Molly pauses, “this is about the dance. Are you going alone?”
“No, I’ve got a date,” I mutter, pulling a loose thread out of a throw pillow.
Molly’s eyes almost burst out of her head. “Seriously?” She tosses the popcorn bowl on the coffee table—it nearly topples over—and scoots closer to me, gripping my calf and squeezing.
“Ouch!” I swat her hand away. “Is it that hard to believe I have a date?”
“You know I don’t mean that! You’re totally hot. It’s just that you’re all enemies at Cania.” She waves her hand in the air, dismissing everything. “That doesn’t matter, though. Tell me who it is right this second!”
I chew my lip. “His name’s Pilot.”
Molly’s face pales. “Pilot Stone?”
“You know him?”
She has one of those what-should-I-say looks on her face, like her dear old nana’s just given her a Barbie at her sweet sixteen party. “I know of him. He’s got a good body, if you like that hulky sort of look. I know his dad’s that politician.”
“Right. The sex scandals.”
“What if Pilot’s a total sex freak? What if sex stuff, like, runs in his genes? What if Pilot spends all night groping you?”
“Excellent. That’s very helpful. And he’s too decent for that.” As she’s about to protest that groping isn’t indecent between consenting warm bodies, I add, “We’re just friends.”
“Does he know that?” Molly leans against the sofa and strokes Skippy’s fur. With a knowing smile, she follows up by asking, “Have you ever gone all the way, Anne?”
“Between studying and caring for my mom? Besides, I’m saving myself for Zac Efron.” I pluck another thread from the pillow. “Why? Have you?”
She shakes her head like that would never happen, which is crazy because she’s very pretty. “You’ve kissed, though, right?” she asks.
“Zac Efron?”
Throwing her head back, she laughs, “Anyone.”
“I have, yes, but it wasn’t anything real,” I recall, thinking about the gorgeous boy in the casket so long ago but not daring to confess his, um, life status to her. “At first, I was just sketching this guy. He was so striking, Mol, I just couldn’t imagine a world without his face forever captured.”
“He was sitting for you?”
I avoid directly answering her question. She doesn’t need to know he was dead when I kissed him.
“And then, well, I couldn’t help myself.”
“You kissed him?” she asks with a big smile.
I nod. “He was so beautiful.”
“Bold.” Seemingly aware that I’m lost in a five-year-old memory, silly though it is, she lets her smile vanish. “I think you shouldn’t kiss Pilot if he doesn’t make you feel like that guy did.” Our eyes meet. “Did you guys end up dating? Is he still in California?”
“No,” I reply, absentmindedly stroking my lower lip as I remember his cool skin. “I never saw him again.”
“You must be a terrible kisser,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, so tell me what you’re wearing to the dance. Tell me it’s gorgeous.”
If there’s one thing I don’t want to talk about, it’s the sad state of my wardrobe, which has been, for the longest time, my mom’s old clothes. I’m not ready to get dressed up tomorrow night. I don’t recall seeing a glam gown tucked away among the well-worn jeans and old Disneyland tees in my tiny closet.
“Is it important, what I wear?”
“Is it what?” Molly looks like she’s not sure if I’m kidding. “Anne, it’s the Cupid and Death dance. It’s, like, a huge tradition.” She dips into the popcorn again.
“So I have to get dressed up?”
Molly swallows her popcorn slowly, like she can’t believe she actually has to explain this. “Slightly.” She stares at me, waiting for me to comprehend. “Here’s the deal. ’Kay, it’s this cool masquerade-type thing from way long ago. The girls all get dressed up, with like full-on gowns, big jewelry, big hair—that’ll be easy for you. You’ve already got sexy hair.”
I almost choke on my popcorn.
“The makeup. The shoes.” Molly’s getting lost in her fantasy, preening on the sofa like she’s getting dressed for the dance. “The girls wear these sexy little masks—just to add to the mystique of it all. Isn’t that deadly hot? The whole masque is based on this old story, this premise that Cupid and Death exchange arrows, or whatever. So people who hate each other fall in love, and vice versa. Every year. Every welcome dance. Same story.”
“Do the guys wear tuxes?”
“Oh, the guys get devilish. See, the girls go as hot girls, right? But the guys go as either Cupid or Death. Most choose Death—sexier costume.”
“It’s a costume party?”
“No, it’s a masquerade done by the wealthiest kids on the face of the earth.” Molly sighs. “Which means it’s all about looking celebrity-sexy. Don’t you want to floor the room with how hot you can look?”
“I love you for saying that, Mol, but I’ve got nothing to wear. And, honestly, I’d prefer to just wear jeans and have a kick-ass time dancing.”
Memories of summers with my mom flood my mind, and I find myself clenching my teeth to keep from turning into some sobbing friend Molly’ll never wanna see again. But I can’t help reliving those afternoons in the kitchen. After spending the morning with my mom at the library, where she worked and where I read, we’d get home and she’d turn on the radio. Sometimes she’d fall deep into thought, and I wouldn’t hear from her for hours; other times—the best times—she’d challenge me to one-up her dance moves. Sounds lame, I know, to dance with your own mom, but she was a trained dancer who probably could have gone far had she not fallen for my dad and decided to stay in Atherton. Before she adopted the life of a librarian and mortician’s wife, long before she and my dad welcomed me to their family, she was a beautiful, leggy ballerina.
Our kitchen’s squeaking linoleum floor saw her take me through everything from tap and jazz to cool urban dancing. Sometimes my dad, who had no rhythm, would take a break from his work to judge us or watch the routines she’d choreographed. What wouldn’t I give to get those days back? Just one of those days. Just for a minute.
Something out the front window catches my eye then, and my heart stops short before breaking into a sprint. Ben is on his Ducati, revving it as he waits for his front gates to open so he can leave his estate.
“What is it?” Molly asks, following my stare. When she sees him, she laughs out loud. “Oh, no, you don’t. You like him! Ben freakin’ Zin. No wonder you’re depressed.”
I exhale heavily, letting my cheeks puff up and empty. His bike takes off. Through the trees lining the road, I catch glimpses of him flying by, heading toward campus, and then he’s gone. Cruising the island.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper, sagging into the sofa as Ben passes. “He’s got some girlfriend from off the island visiting anyway.”
Molly raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw him with a girl. In his house. Twice.” I frown and stare into space, mentally reliving those moments. “He used to live in Beverly Hills. He must have met her there. They’re probably soul mates.”
“A visiting girlfriend? From Beverly Hills? Here?”
I blink slowly, which is as close to confirmation as I can get. Every passing day, my imagination transforms Ben’s girlfriend into better and better versions of the perfect girl. She’s just one sleep away from being a Swedish princess turned eco-entrepreneur with a membership in Mensa.
“How do you know this girlfriend is not from Cania?”
“I can’t place her,” I sigh. “She doesn’t look like any of the girls I’ve seen.”
“In the whopping four days you’ve gone to school here.”
“Five.”
Molly rolls her eyes. “Whatever. So it sounds like you want to find out about your competition. Am I
right?”
“She’s hardly my competition. Or, I guess, I’m hardly hers,” I groan. Molly just smiles at me. “Why? What are you thinking?”
That’s how I find myself standing at the Zins’ twelve-foot front door, holding my fist an inch from it, preparing to knock.
“Let’s just see if she answers,” Molly says for the third time.
“And if she does? We, what, head for the hills?”
“No—we interrogate her.” Molly grins, but I can barely breathe. “Don’t worry. If she answers, we can say you’re looking for Gigi.”
So holding my breath, closing my eyes, and praying Ben doesn’t come home to find me interrogating his girlfriend, I rap quickly. Twice. Then Molly and I wait. Try again. Wait. “Great, she’s not here. That’s that. Let’s go.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Molly says. “Come on.”
Ten seconds later, I’m pressed against the ivied trellis by the Zins’ outdoor kitchen, right near the solarium that houses their pool, at the back of the house. Molly has somehow convinced me that we need to find hard evidence of Ben’s girlfriend’s existence. The only way to do that?
B&E.
“You are the worst influence,” I loud-whisper.
I’ve never in my life considered breaking into a house, and yet it has taken little more than Molly’s mention of it to get me here. If we get caught? I lie and say it’s all for my PT. And pretend I’ve never met this crazy village girl.
Pressing her finger to her lips, Molly jerks her head at a window that’s slightly ajar. “Do you want to find out about Miss California or don’t you? No better way than to snoop through Ben’s underwear drawer.” She fakes a pensive look. “What do you think? Boxers or briefs?”
“What if he comes home while we’re in there? Or what if she’s in there, like, napping?” I chew on my lip nervously. “I’d die. Seriously. Keel over dead.”
“Come on,” Molly groans. “Don’t play coy with me. You know you want to.”
Pressing against the wall, Molly slinks like a cat burglar from a black-and-white movie until she reaches the window. I can only stare in amazement. Waving me over, she pokes her head in and glances around quickly, stirring up butterflies in my stomach.
