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by Nia Stephens

  “Ha ha. I meant some of my own lyrics.”

  “You want them to know right off that you’re that Katrina Kelvin?” Sasha asked her seriously.

  “I have to post a picture, don’t I? They’ll know who I am right off.” When Temporary Insanity’s debut album came out, their pictures were plastered all over Nashville, most prominently in front of the Tower Records store on West End, one of the city’s busiest streets. People who had no idea what Temporary Insanity sounded like or what Kiki’s name was could recognize her face instantly.

  “Well, yeah. But you weren’t going to use a publicity shot, were you?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far,” Kiki admitted. But now that Sasha had mentioned it, she could see why that might be a bad thing. She wanted to date someone who was interested in her, not someone interested in dating a girl with a recording contract.

  “How about that picture of you getting into the limo before Sophomore Soirée?” Camille suggested. “You looked so pretty in that old ball gown!”

  “You looked like Marie Antoinette in blackface and a dreadlock wig,” Jasmine countered. “I think you want something a little sexier. How about the one I took when we were at the beach last year for spring break?”

  “The one in my bikini? I don’t think so.” Kiki could just imagine what her managers would have to say if that picture turned up on the Internet.

  “How about this one?” Camille suggested, grabbing a framed photo that hung above Kiki’s computer. In it, Kiki was dressed for the stage in skintight black pin-striped pants and her favorite black bustier, but she wasn’t rocking out. She was lying on a sofa, barefoot, reading Crime and Punishment for school. Mark had snapped it with her camera just a few weeks ago.

  “Perfect,” Sasha said. While Camille slid the photo out of the frame and onto Kiki’s scanner, Sasha asked her about her personal statement.

  “I don’t know,” Kiki said, flipping through three years of song lyrics. All of them revealed part of her personality, but no single song summed up everything that it meant to be Kiki Kelvin. “How am I supposed to explain who I am in one hundred words?”

  “It’s not about who you are,” Sasha reminded her. “It’s about what you’re looking for.”

  “Huh.” Kiki’s fingers drifted back through the yellowing pages of her journal. It had traveled with her as far north as Montreal and as far south as Miami Beach, to LA and to DC There were only a few blank pages left, and the cover looked like it had been attacked by mice, but Kiki would miss it when she finally finished the five hundredth page.

  “Ready?” she asked Sasha, then she read the lyrics to an unfinished song she had started almost a year ago, on Halloween.

  You watch me try on mask after mask

  Always knowing which face is true

  But when you wonder, you just ask

  And that’s why I love you.

  You always seek beneath the surface

  Never frightened of the dark

  You understand that I’m an actress

  But loving you is not a part

  You accept my secrets like a gift

  A magic spell only you can lift.

  “Isn’t that kind of intense?” Jasmine asked. “I mean, you’re looking for a boy toy to take your mind off Mark, not your soul mate.”

  “Kiki is intense,” Sasha said. “She doesn’t need a guy who can’t deal with that.”

  “Did you write that about Mark?” Camille asked. Her wide-eyed look really was innocent—she had no idea how much it hurt Kiki to be reminded of how wrong she had been about him. Sasha and Jasmine gave Camille dirty looks, but she was oblivious to their stares.

  “I thought I did,” Kiki admitted. “Are we done? ’Cause I’m ready to move on,” she told Sasha firmly.

  Sasha grinned and hit “enter.”

  Faster than Kiki thought possible, four photos popped up, along with names, ages and hobbies. Sasha clicked the first thumbnail, and his profile expanded to fill the screen. Of course, a lot of that was his picture; whoever designed the website made sure that the users had a huge, high-resolution image to check out before the first e-mail was sent.

  1. Lyman

  Age: 17

  Hobbies: percussion instruments, turntables, knitting

  Compatibility: 96%

  Personal Statement:

  Carpe diem. Carpe noctem. You never know how long you have, or what you’ll miss out on, so you have to pursue all that’s great about being alive. You can’t listen to one type of music, or read one type of book, or only eat fruits that grow within twenty miles of your home. Life is too short for that. So seize the day and the night.

  “Pretty interesting,” Kiki said.

  “If by ‘interesting,’ you mean ‘hot.’” Jasmine sighed.

  “I meant his personal statement.” Lyman seemed like the kind of guy who noticed things, and appreciated what he had. Kiki liked that.

  “But, um, dude, look at him. He’s hot.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t.” Lyman had lots of curly black hair with eyes to match, and a sharp, foxy face.

  “But he’s a knitter,” Camille said. “No wonder he’s single.”

  “That’s a joke,” Kiki insisted. “At least, I hope it is. What’s behind door number two?”

  2. Jacob

  Age: 17

  Hobbies: electronic music, clubbing, karate

  Compatibility: 95%

  Personal Statement:

  I am part of the beat

  I am the dark and the heat

  The pulse in your wrist

  The dance in your feet

  A shot of musical whiskey

  Served up neat

  “Oh, my God!” The four of them shouted together when Jacob’s picture loaded.

  “That’s really him, isn’t it?” Kiki said, peering over Sasha’s shoulder at a beautiful brown face staring intensely at the camera. “That’s Jacob Young!”

  “That’s totally him,” Sasha said, squinting at the screen. “In all his movie-star glory.”

  There was a rumor going around Wentworth that Jacob, one of the silent, moody rapper types, was an extra in Hustle and Flow. Everyone knew that Jacob’s father had produced more than a few rap videos, so maybe he did know Terrence Howard. But no one had ever asked Jacob about it, because no one ever asked Jacob anything. He was so cool, he didn’t have to talk to anybody, so he didn’t. He wore sunglasses to class every day, even though that was clearly banned in the Wentworth dress code, and not one of their teachers had ever called him on it.

  “He’s ninety-five percent like you,” Sasha said. “I had no idea you two had so much in common.”

  “I had no idea he was a Temporary Insanity fan. Actually, I thought he thought we were kind of stupid.” Of course, he had never said so, but Kiki saw him staring at her now and then from behind his dark glasses, and she had never once caught him smiling.

  “Temporary Insanity isn’t really electronica.”

  “Not at all!” Kiki liked electronica well enough, but it was no genre for a drummer. It was all about drum machines. “But his personal statement comes from ‘Welcome to the Dance Floor.’”

  “Isn’t that one of the ones that you wrote?” Sasha asked.

  Kiki just blushed.

  “He must be your soul mate!” Camille squeaked.

  “I don’t know,” Kiki admitted. “He’s awfully quiet. It would weird me out to be with a quiet guy.” On the other hand, he had to be a big Temporary Insanity fan to know the lyrics to “Welcome to the Dance Floor.” They performed it often, but they had never recorded it, and never posted the lyrics anywhere.

  “You can just sit there in silence and look at him,” Jasmine said, patting her on the shoulder. “That’s a lot more interesting than talking to most guys.”

  “Point,” Kiki admitted. “Door number three?”

  3. Joshua

  Age: 16

  Hobbies: lacrosse, lacrosse, and lacrosse

  Compatibi
lity: 77%

  Personal Statement:

  If you aren’t playing to win, you aren’t playing. There is no problem that’s too hard to solve, not on a math test, not on a lacrosse field, and not in the community. You can sit around complaining about world hunger, or you can feed people. Confucius say: Do or do not. There is no try. Or maybe that was Yoda. :)

  “What do we think, ladies?” Sasha asked.

  “I think lacrosse guys have amazing legs,” Jasmine said.

  Kiki chewed a dreadlock thoughtfully, then asked, “Is lacrosse the one with big sticks?”

  “If you’re lucky.” Jasmine grinned.

  “Jazz, you’ve got one hell of a filthy mind,” Sasha said, shaking her head. “Kiki, yes, lacrosse is the sport with the big sticks. The ones with nets on the end.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think jocks are really my type.”

  “But he can’t be one-hundred-percent jock—look at that personal statement,” Camille said. “Real jocks don’t even know who Confucius was.”

  “I don’t know, Cam. He is Asian, and Confucius was an important Asian spiritual leader,” Kiki said.

  “He also mentions math tests, and a real jock wouldn’t know what one of those was either,” Sasha argued.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is, Kiki. Look at him.” Jasmine was practically bouncing in her seat. Joshua’s photo was clearly snapped in the middle of a game: it only showed his head and shoulders, but the shoulders in question were very, very broad, and he had a wild grin that promised good times. “Does it matter if he can string two sentences together?”

  “Um, actually, yes. I want a real relationship, not just sex.”

  Jasmine raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t say anything.

  “You know, I’m not the only one who could use a hot date,” Kiki said. “You’ve been single too long, Jazz. All you think about is getting laid. Sasha, go to number four.”

  4. Michael

  Age: 16

  Hobbies: soccer, Winning Eleven, making friends, partying

  Compatibility: 62%

  Personal Statement:

  Why sit around writing personal statements when someone somewhere is throwing a party?

  “He sounds like fun,” Camille said.

  “He sounds like an idiot.” Kiki sighed and flopped hopelessly back on her bed.

  “But look at that picture!”

  Kiki had to agree that Michael’s looks might make up for the silly personal statement. His skin was the color of sweet iced tea, his eyes were green as dragonflies, and he had a smile that made even Kiki want to sit in his lap.

  “He’s like catnip to girls, I bet,” Sasha said, settling back in her chair.

  “But all he wants to do is have fun!”

  Jasmine and Camille both looked at Kiki and shook their heads sadly.

  “Sweetheart, that’s a good thing,” Camille said. “Mark is Mr. Serious, and look how that turned out.”

  “Seriously,” Sasha added, “Michael might be exactly what you need.”

  Kiki got Sasha to scroll through all four boys again. Each had his good points and his bad points.

  “I just don’t know who to choose!”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes. “It’s just like shopping, dude. You pick something, try it on, and then you decide whether you like it.”

  “Okay.” Kiki looked at the pictures and reread each personal statement. “I’ve made my decision.”

  DOES KIKI CHOOSE LYMAN?

  Turn to page 59.

  DOES KIKI CHOOSE JACOB?

  Turn to page 121.

  DOES KIKI CHOOSE JOSHUA?

  Turn to page 159.

  DOES KIKI CHOOSE MICHAEL?

  Turn to page 197.

  Need more Boy Shopping?

  Check out the following excerpt from

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  and pick it up wherever books are sold!

  Party On!

  “Your perfume smells so good,” Nick Simmons slurred as he reached under Gemma Williams’s shirt. Gemma pushed his hand back down to her waist and twisted her head to avoid his beer breath. Nick reeked of liquor—no wonder he thought she smelled good, even though she wasn’t wearing a drop of perfume. Downstairs, the Black Eyed Peas blared from Bose speakers. The party was rocking and Gemma was sorry she was missing it for this.

  How can I get out of this without hurting his feelings, assuming he has any? she wondered. When Nick Simmons had asked her out, she was thrilled. At six foot one, he was one of the few boys at J. Marshall who were as tall as she likes, and he was among the even fewer who were tall and attractive. Nick was beyond attractive: physically, he couldn’t be hotter. And she’d liked the way that Nick was always quiet in class, not joking around like the rest of the jocks. She liked to think that that meant he was deep. She’d tried for months to get him to notice her. But here, now, with his oversized, calloused hands groping her, all she felt was disgust. His clumsy, tired moves were just played out.

  Gemma felt like she was wrestling with an octopus—she had to watch out for both his hands and his nasty, reeking mouth trying to connect with her own. She couldn’t believe he didn’t get the memo that, hey, she was not interested anymore. Ten minutes ago, when he led her up the stairs away from the party, she figured they would make out a bit. She was thinking about what it would be like to be in an actual relationship with him. Now that they were in the throes of hooking up, she wanted to run screaming from the room.

  It hit her like a missed pass, like a basketball crashing into her chest, about ten seconds after he shut the bedroom door: Nick Simmons, the strong, silent type, star quarterback at J. Marshall High School, the best high school football player in Laguna Beach—in all of Orange County, California, for that matter—wasn’t “The One.” She didn’t care anymore about his chocolate skin and dark eyes, or his athletic awards. At first she thought their love of sports was something they could have in common—football star meets queen of the court. She was still basketball royalty, at least at J. Marshall, but he was just a drunken fool.

  He leaned over and kissed her again, this time coming within inches of her lips. This guy was just not giving up.

  One of Nick’s hands slipped around her waist and down the back of her jeans. Uh oh, Gemma thought. Someone thinks we’re going all the way. Gemma had messed around with guys before, but not one of them had slam dunked it yet. No way was her first time going to be at a party with a toasted jock who didn’t seem to notice she had checked out ten minutes ago.

  Sensing her hesitation, Nick looked at her. Finally. See, I really do have eyes, Gemma thought. And a face. And a brain.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nick growled. “You know you want it.”

  She stared at him, an astonished smile spreading across her face. She burst out laughing.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Gemma gasped, trying to control her giggles. The last time she heard a guy tell a girl she “wanted it” was on an episode of Law and Order. “Get your hands off me, Nick.”

  “You females are crazy.” He lifted his mammoth body off hers. His gold football ring caught the collar of her shirt. Ri-iiiiippp. Without so much as a “sorry,” he stood up unsteadily. “You are such a tease!” he said, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Gemma glanced down at the tear in her favorite black and gold Juicy T-shirt. Man, this date just kept getting better and better.

  Gemma sighed. She couldn’t blame anyone but herself. There were just too many clues indicating Nick was not for her, yet she chose to ignore them. Earlier tonight, when Nick had picked her up and told her they were going to a diner for dinner, she should have known. When all his football buddies showed up and he took off to play an impromptu scrimmage on the restaurant’s front lawn, she should have known then too. The next clue should have been his chugging down three beers in rapid succession. And the last straw? Smashing his fourth empty beer can against his forehead. No one bothered to inform him that
the beer cans used in movies were props, and Nick’s forehead was left with a nasty gash.

  Clearly, Nick wasn’t quiet at school because he was deep. He was quiet because he was too dumb to think of anything to say.

  Eventually, when he sobered up, he’d realize he probably needed stitches. But for now he had more drinking and partying to do.

  Maybe it was just her, but there was something about making out with a drunk guy with a leaking Band-Aid stuck to his forehead that was a complete turnoff.

  Gemma swore this really, really was the last straw. She was so done with guys. She would found an order of nuns that played basketball instead of praying. And you wouldn’t have to be religious to join—just be sick of guys. She figured she would have to take over the USC campus to have room for all of the Angry Sisters of the Court.

  She lifted herself from the bed and headed downstairs to the rest of the party. She found her best friend, Maria Alonso, in the corner flipping through stacks of CDs.

  “Have a nice trip?” Maria asked, noticing the tear in Gemma’s T-shirt. Maria always ribbed Gemma about her clumsiness. Gemma was as famous for her awkwardness off-court as she was for her graceful moves on the court, but only Maria dared to tease her about it.

  “Mauled by an octopus,” Gemma told her.

  “Nick?” Maria asked.

  “Yup. Sir Drunk-A-Lot himself.”

  “Oh, Gemma, that really sucks.” Maria cursed in Spanish for a full minute. When she calmed down she said, “On the other hand, that shirt was so last season.” She looped her arm through Gemma’s and squeezed.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Gemma wailed. “Why can’t I find a decent guy? Am I repulsive or something?”

  At five feet, seven inches, Gemma towered over Maria, though her curves were nicely proportioned and her skin was a silky brown, like a melted Frappuccino. According to Maria, Gemma’s best feature was her eyes because they gleamed whenever she laughed. Gemma would have preferred if her best friend had said her booty, or even her brain. Gemma didn’t know too many guys their age, not even geeks, who cared about how much a girl’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight.