We park and head into Bob’s Burgers, a popular place for kids from our school to hang at. I know we’ll see people we know, and this both terrifies and thrills me. The thrilling part is that they’ll all see me on a date with Chas. The terrifying part is that they’ll all see me do or say something stupid on a date with Chas.
We sit in a booth, and the waitress hands us menus and takes our drink orders. I look around the restaurant and immediately spot Drew Higgins, one of the celebrities from our IPC class and the only one I haven’t gotten single picture of yet. Chas follows my gaze.
“Did you bring your camera?” he asks.
“What?” I say. “I mean, I always have it in my bag but I’m not going to take pictures now on our date. That would be rude.” Just like texting someone else on a date. If I’ve learned anything from matchmaking television shows it’s that you don’t text on dates. You pay attention to the person you’re with.
“Yeah, but we don’t have any pictures of Drew yet,” Chas says, looking sorta anxious.
Drew seems to be the super-quiet type. I hardly ever see him hanging out with friends and I don’t think he’s in any school clubs. He kind of makes himself scarce a lot. Which makes it odd that he wanted to be one of the celebrities. His grade is probably going to suffer.
“You want me to take his picture?” I ask. I mean, he seems to want me to. And if he wants me to, then I’m sure that’s some kind of exception.
“Sure,” he says. “Go for it.”
“Okay. But only because you want me to and not because I’m being rude and ignoring you.” I turn on my camera, point it in Drew’s direction and take a few pictures. I get up and move closer to see what he’s eating—a plain salad with some kind of vinaigrette—and take a picture of that too.
Drew looks straight at me, and I take another picture. “Hi, Drew.”
“Hi, Livvie,” he answers.
I shrug. “You…you know.” My gaze falls onto my camera in my hands.
“Yeah, I do. Have a good night.”
“You too.” I smile at him. I actually feel kind of good about taking his picture. Drew is kind of like one of those D-list celebrities—the ones getting no real parts in movies or TV shows anymore, so they start doing commercials for hair loss or osteoporosis. My getting his picture out there could be a boost in his celebrity status and get him some attention and work. If this were his real job, that is.
I return to my table with Chas. “Okay,” I tell him. “No more pictures now. We can take the rest of the night off from this project.”
“Agreed.”
Our food arrives, and we eat quietly for a few minutes. Chas wipes his lips with his napkin and says, “So tell me something about you that I don’t already know.”
“Like what?” I mentally check off things I most definitely do not plan to tell him about. Like my massive Barbie collection I still keep in storage bins in my closet or my weird marshmallow habit and how there are bags and bags of marshmallows in the pantry for me to snack on.
“Anything at all. What do you like to do, aside from school and taking pictures for our project?”
“Umm.” I think for a moment, trying to come up with something not terribly lame. “Well, I like to make collages.”
“Yeah? What kind?” He leans toward me, appearing genuinely interested.
“Anything, really. I usually pick an occasion or even just a theme, like love or friendship, or family, and then look for pictures or things that remind me of that theme and cut and glue them onto pieces of poster board. And then I hang them up in my room. My walls are an eyesore, according to my mom. But I really like them,” I add.
“Cool, maybe you’ll show me sometime.”
My mind flashes to him trying to wade through my room and then calling Hoarders to turn me in. He might not understand my very controlled chaos. It may appear to the untrained eye to be a mess but in reality is a very well-thought out, twice-weekly disinfected with anti-bacterial spray, organizational system. Yeah, I’m going to need to clean.
“Or make me a collage,” he adds.
“Really? You’d want one?” I’m sort of shocked. I didn’t think guys would be into that type of thing. Maybe he’s a closet scrapbooker too.
“Yeah. If you made it, I’d want it,” he replies, and I suddenly feel warm down to my toes.
“Okay. Sure. I’ll make you something. What about you? What do you like to do?”
He sticks a French fry in his mouth and chews while he thinks. He swallows and says, “I like to make homemade soaps in various shapes, like butterflies and hearts.”
My jaw about hits the table. No freaking way. “Seriously?” I squeak, suddenly rethinking my whole popcorn test theory.
He waits a beat and then smiles. “Nah, I’m just playing with you.”
“You suck!” I whip two of my French fries at him. I throw a third and he catches it in his mouth. We’re both giggling. “All right,” I finally say. “What do you really like to do in your spare time?”
“Well,” he begins, “I study a lot. I’m in all honors classes, and my parents keep on me to get all As. It takes a lot of my time.”
I nod and wait for him to continue. I’d be so screwed if my parents insisted I got all As. I guess that’s one good part of them spending their every free moment catering to Emma and her talent.
“We—my brother and I—don’t really have a choice in my household. If I get a B or below in anything, they take away my car until the next term. I’m basically grounded. That’s why I’m working so hard on our IPC project. You probably think I’m anal with all of the meetings and stuff. I know the other students don’t meet like we do.” He shrugs. His mood seems to turn a little somber. “Sorry you got stuck with me.”
“I didn’t get stuck with you,” I say quickly. “I like working with you. And you’re good for me. Making me step up my game and all. So what else?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. “The butterfly soap was fake, but please tell me you have a collection of clown dolls or an ear wax ball under your bed that you’ve been making since you were five.”
Chas smiles. “Uh, neither. Do you have those things?” His eyebrows shoot up as he asks.
“I’m not that cool. I did once try to make a rubber band ball. It’s harder than it looks. But back to you.” I want to know more about Chas. I already know he’s sensitive, intuitive, and smart, both bookwise and streetwise. He’s not like the other guys running around at school, all belching and high-fiving and slamming down half a dozen energy drinks a day.
“I play guitar. Nothing too heavy. Just, like, classic rock stuff.”
“Cool. Will you play for me some time?” I love music. Especially the kind when someone is playing for me.
“Maybe. I’m kind of shy about it.”
Oh my gosh, he’s shy about something? That is so cute. He seems so naturally self-assured.
“Do you sing?” he asks.
“Oh God, no,” I reply, quickly. “But I can pretend to if that means you’ll play for me.”
He smiles. “Looks like we’re going to need a date number two. How about next Friday night?”
Heck yeah. “You’re on.”
Chapter 17
I spent a good chunk of the rest of the weekend thinking about Chas and our date. It was so great. Perfect, even. And I wasn’t nearly the dork I’d thought I’d be. And it turned out I didn’t have to worry about the kiss allergy thing. Not yet anyway, since Chas didn’t try to kiss me. He was such a gentleman. At ten to ten he pulled up outside my house, opened my car door, and held my hand as he walked me to my door. I was already over the moon just from holding his hand. He’s got a really nice hand: all big and warm and strong and stuff. I don’t think I’ve held anyone’s hand since I was, like, five and I’ve gotta say, it’s way undervalued, because holding hands with Chas absolutely rocks. I’d happily hold hands with him all day.
When we stopped in front of my front door I felt my heart rate spike with worry over our f
irst kiss and I just kept running through my head what Tessa had said. “If he goes right, you go left. If he goes left, you go right.” But he didn’t lean in or give me a goofy, wistful look or anything. He just put his arms around me and gave me a hug. A big, warm, wonderful bear hug in which I got a sweet whiff of the cologne on his neck. It was awesome. And we get to do it again on Friday.
The rest of the weekend I was busy updating the Thompson Tattler. I’m shocked at how fast it’s growing. It’s kinda amazing that so many people are reading it. When I checked this evening there were almost eight hundred followers. Eight hundred! I don’t even think they’re all people from our school, because some of the comments people left said things like, “we have a girl like that at our school too,” or, “you’ll find people like that everywhere.” I’m also getting e-mail, which is super fun. It sorta feels like getting fan mail. I have fans now! Wild. This one guy, or girl I guess, e-mailed me a tip on a new story. His handle is Echome43 and he said, “Joey Davis begged for his ex-girlfriend Courtney Summer’s forgiveness, and she’s agreed to give him one more chance. Pour vivre heureux, vivons cache.” I don’t know what the French stuff means, other than maybe Echo is one of the foreign exchange students at school. But the Joey stuff concerns me because why is he acting like he likes Tessa if he’s hooking up with his ex-girlfriend? I found a picture of Joey and Courtney in last year’s yearbook and uploaded that with the story onto the Tattler. If nothing else, maybe Tessa will see it and be extra cautious with Joey.
I’m not sure what to make of all the attention the blog is getting. I mean, it’s really cool that so many people are waiting to see what I’m going to post each day. But I never was one of those update-your-Facebook-and-Twitter-every-two-minutes girls so it feels a little strange at the same time. I don’t get those types of people at all. Does anyone really care that you had pumpkin pancakes this morning? We’re becoming a world of people standing at the top of a mountain, shouting, Look at me! I matter! What I’m doing and saying and feeling every second matters! And maybe it does or maybe it doesn’t. When you look at the big picture and what life’s all about, does it matter that my nail polish is blue today and that it was liked twenty-three times?
I kinda doubt it. Not that I’m one to judge. I’m running a school gossip blog.
“What are you so deep in thought about?” Tessa asks, sidling up next to me at my locker. “You look like something or someone’s pissed you off.”
I hadn’t realized I’d just been standing here staring at the inside of my locker. I close the door and notice something on the outside. Yuck. Someone must have come by with peanut butter fingers. I pull a disinfecting wipe out of a packet in my purse and give the locker a quick wipe-down.
Just as Tessa is about to roll her eyes at me, Joey Davis walks by and says, “Hi, Tessa,” in a low voice. She gives a cute tiny wave back at him and blushes. I wonder if he saw the Tattler. Not that I can ask without outing myself.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I finally retort, throwing my gaze to Joey’s retreating back and then at Tessa.
“What? Joey?” she asks, blushing even harder. “That’s nothing. He’s just nice.”
“Yeah, I can definitely tell it’s nothing,” I say. Especially if he’s back with Courtney. Ugh, I hope Tessa doesn’t get hurt. Again.
“Shut up, Liv,” she returns, but she’s laughing as she says it. “So have you seen Chasy Poo Poo Bunny yet this morning?”
“No, I haven’t seen Chas yet. And he will not be going by any silly names, thank you very much.” And I mean it. I don’t care how hard I fall for him, there will be no coochie-coo talk coming from these lips.
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see. Give it a few weeks.”
“A few weeks won’t matter. I won’t start talking like a four-year-old just because we’re dating,” I insist.
“Uh-huh,” she replies. “I’ll remind you of that in about a month. You know you’ll have to kiss him on the next date, right?”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I say. “I’m just going to play it cool and see where things go. I’m not going to jump his bones just because you tell me to.”
“He’d probably appreciate it though.”
“Oh, Tess.” I shake my head and laugh.
“Seriously, if he hasn’t kissed you by the third date then he’s not really into you. It’s, like, an unwritten law. There’s no physical attraction and you’re wasting time at that point.”
“What? Really?” Great, like I need one more thing to worry about.
The bell for first period rings.
“Ugh. And now we’re late. I’ll see you later, okay?” I race down the hall to English class, my head full of Chas and thoughts of kissing him.
I can barely sit still throughout English because I’m so excited to see Chas in IPC. I keep telling myself to calm down and play it cool. He won’t like me if he thinks I’m clingy and desperate. The end of first period bell finally rings after what seems like an eternity, and I practically run to IPC, only slowing down to a walk the last ten feet or so. I take my seat and act like I’m writing something down.
Chas slips into his seat next to me and I pretend to be finishing a sentence. “Hey, Livvie.”
“Hey, Chas.” I smile. I wait for him to say I look pretty again—I dressed especially nice today just in case this were to happen—or to tell me again what a good time he had.
“Have you noticed anything weird with Brittany?” he asks in almost a whisper so that Brittany can’t hear us.
I’m briefly confused by the question but I follow his gaze to Brittany, sitting in the front of the classroom. She’s not talking to anyone and is just staring down at her desk. Her hair looks a bit funky—I’d say greasy, even. Like it hasn’t been washed it in a week. And she’s wearing another big dark baggy shirt. Which isn’t typical for her.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I thought the same thing the other day too. She seems down. Do you think one of her grandparents died?”
“I’m not sure,” he replies. “She is acting strangely. Remember how friendly she was to us that day in the library?”
You mean to you, I think. Like I could forget.
“Well, I asked her how she was doing out in the hallway this morning and she totally blew me off. She just mumbled something and walked by. Her eyes were really red too. Maybe she’s on something.”
“Drugs? Brittany? No way,” I insist. Not my-body-is-a-temple Brittany.
“Something’s up, I’m almost positive,” he says. He narrows his eyes, staring at her. She puts a hand through her hair, pulling it more over her face. She’s going to give herself pimples if she keeps doing that.
But I have to agree with Chas. The way she’s been acting, the way she’s dressing. She’s not bubbly and happy anymore. And I haven’t seen her hanging around with her cheerleading buddies too much either. Geez, they’d probably toss her off the squad if they noticed how she’s been dressing lately. She’s always alone now.
“What should we do about it?” I ask, hoping Chas is enlightened in this area of teen girl and has the magical answer.
“For starters, tail her as much as you can. And get lots of pictures.”
“Huh?” I’m momentarily thrown. I was thinking along the line of stopping in and talking to the school counselor. I wasn’t even thinking about the project.
“We have to document this for our reports, Livvie. It’s part of being a tabloid. If something is going on with Brittany then we need to figure it out and tell the world,” he insists. “Or in our case, the class.”
Um, I know Chas wants to get an A, but really? “What about helping her?”
Chas gives me a doubtful look. “Do you really think she wants our help?”
I consider this. Brittany has never been too friendly. And the only times she’s talked to me were to lecture me on how what I was doing was wrong. I don’t imagine she’d take too kindly to me insinuating what she’s doing is wrong. She seems the type to only
give criticism, not receive. “No,” I say slowly. “I guess you’re right.” I look at Brittany again. Her head is on her desk. She sure does look pitiful.
“Take a picture now,” Chas whispers.
I hesitate then nod and take out my camera, snapping a picture.
Livvie’s Reflective Journal: Entry #15
I like this project Mrs. B., I really do. Especially when it’s just silly and fun pictures I’m taking and stories Chas is writing for our summation report. But I don’t think all of the celebrities are having as good a time. In fact, I think you might want to consider pulling one of the celebrities out. Are you noticing Brittany acting weird, Mrs. B.? Chas says we need to keep following her and taking pictures, and I guess we should as long as she’s a celebrity and all. Since she is still getting graded on her celebrity behavior too. But don’t you think something’s going on? I guess I’m not as good a paparazza as I thought, because I’m actually worrying about one of my celebrities. Not that Brittany cares one little bit about me or wants me worrying about her at all. I just really feel like something else is going on with her. Can you look into it please, Mrs. B.?
Mrs. B. walks into class, and Talia’s hand shoots in the air before Mrs. B.’s even set her papers on her desk. “Yes, Talia?”
“Can I say something to the class, please?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Talia walks to the front of the class and looks around the room, purposefully making eye contact with each one of us. “While I think the project has been going well,” she begins, “someone in this class has taken it to a new level.”
Uh-oh.
“Which one of you is the Thompson Tattler?” she asks, point blank.
Ah, crap.
“Yeah,” a couple of people mumble. Some others give a confused, “Huh?”
“What’s the Thompson Tattler?” Chas asks.
I guess he isn’t one of my followers. “Yeah,” I half-heartedly chime in in fake support.
The Paparazzi Project Page 9
