Don't You Wish

by Roxanne St Claire

  I scoop up the bowl, which is heavy—real crystal—and take it to the sink. When I reach for the faucet to rinse, a large hand lands on my arm.

  “What is with you today? Why are you doing this?” Blue eyes slice me, the first set to meet mine today and look truly dubious.

  “You know this is all a dream, don’t you?” I ask.

  Her gaze never wavers. “It’s a rare day when you recognize that, Miss Ayla. Give me the bowl.”

  I let her take the crystal out of my hands. “I was going to clean it.”

  Her eyebrows rise like mountaintops. “You’ve never cleaned a dish in your life.”

  Okay, the rules in this house are different. And definitely in my favor. But Ma-Tillie the Hun is dangerously close to making me wake up and have this dream end, so I book to my room before she can drag me back to reality.

  There I find a bag—Fendi, which feels freakishly like plastic, who knew?—and a pair of Donna Karan sunglasses. I check out the rose and read the card.

  A flower 4 u, since u r giving me urs.

  Ryder

  Ayla’s getting deflowered by a guy who writes love notes in text speak? Dream, this is juicy. Just go for the ride, Annie. I mean, Ayla.

  I slide on the sunglasses, covering my dazzling green eyes. Because this dream is so bright, I gotta wear shades.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The dream does not disappoint.

  From the moment we leave the garage—which is like a hotel parking lot stocked with so many cars I lose count—and Trent the Tool guns a spiffy blue BMW over a bridge to leave someplace called Star Island, the day is unreal.

  Sunshine, blue skies, palm trees, tropical breezes, and aquamarine water remind me that Billionaire Jim lives in Miami, and today, so do I. We go to another exclusive neighborhood with gabillion-dollar houses, called Cocoplum. There, Jade Sterling, who is no skank, ambles to the car slowly enough for me to drink in every detail. She is a little bit of everything—Asian, Hispanic, black, white, with some island flair thrown in for added spice. Her skin is like toffee, her hair ebony and perfectly straight, her clothes right off the New York runway.

  She joins me in the backseat because Trent refuses to let either of us in the front, and greets me with a curled lip.

  “What are you wearing?” The question is a mix of repulsion and uncertainty.

  I root around my memory for the label. “Seven for all … the men.”

  She almost laughs. “Cute, A-list. But Juicy? Like, to school? It’s so pedestrian.” Jade’s in a stunning black miniskirt with a cream-colored off-the-shoulder sweater and big chunky jewelry. “I thought we decided all Marc Jacobs on Tuesdays,” she whines.

  “Dang. I forgot.” I give her a big grin. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Dior. And, Jesus, Ayla. Jeans? Seriously?”

  “I like to wear jeans to school,” I tell her.

  She rolls her eyes. “Then so will every single kid in Crap Academy by the end of the week.”

  “Really?” Too bad I can’t stick around to see that.

  “Oh, don’t get all modest on me now. You are Ayla Monroe, baby.” She taps Trent’s seat. “Can we put the lid up, Try-Hard? This wind is totally wrecking an hour of straight iron.”

  Trent responds by gunning the engine, killing Jade’s hair and earning a middle finger from her in response.

  I laugh, and she spears me with a dirty look that’s more playful than nasty. “And of course A-list’s hair is perfect no matter what.”

  “It is?”

  “Bish, puh-lease. You have everything and then some.” The playfulness fades to dead serious.

  Okay, then. I have everything and then some. This is my first real clue that if this Ayla chick thinks she has a sweet life inside the mansion, it gets better outside.

  And better it gets.

  Trent ditches us the minute we park, surrounded almost immediately by a group of very cute senior guys. Jade tries to flirt with a couple of them, but they barely notice her. A few say hello to me, probably because I’m Trent’s sister.

  Or maybe not. The first little bits of attention kick up my heart rate as we cross the parking lot to a two-story Spanish-style building, past the sign that says JOHN J. CROPPE ACADEMY. Not because I’m nervous, or even a little apprehensive.

  I’m not going to lie—I’m totally psyched.

  And can I just say that if this all-five-senses-in-overdrive is a dream, then the other things I’ve been experiencing at night for the past sixteen years have been complete amateur efforts.

  I’m barely up the stairs, driven by that feeling of vague familiarity, when the smell of books and Axe mixes with the sound of kids shouting, F-bombs dropping, and the slam of locker doors.

  I feel eyes on me, a lot of them. And it seems that the kids kind of step back as I enter the main hall, a low rumble of conversation, my name spoken in a whisper.

  Is this what it’s like to be überpopular?

  “There you are.” A male voice, a big, warm body behind me, a possessive hand on my shoulder, the cloying scent of something much higher-end than Axe. “God, you look hot in jeans.”

  I slow my step, then stop, still not turning.

  “Didn’t you like the rose, babe?” Warm breath tickles my ear. “Or are you still pissed off about the whole beer thing?”

  Am I? Something is sending the skitters down my spine. Irritation or … attraction? Time to find out. Slowly I turn, and am face to face with … a chest. Sizeable, too. I lift my gaze to the throat, where an Adam’s apple moves up and down in a swallow. Then my gaze travels over a square jaw with just a hint of whisker, to steel blue eyes and dirty blond hair that falls over a forehead and kisses a brow.

  “You’re not pissed,” he says, a perfect smile mesmerizing me. “I can tell when you look at me that way.”

  There isn’t any other way to look at a guy this hot. I manage to inch back and cop a total attitude of disinterest. “Hey, Ryder.”

  He slides his hand around my neck, tunneling under my hair and instantly zapping every cell in my body. Instinctively I duck away from the touch. It’s too hot. Too familiar. So maybe I am pissed at him.

  “C’mon, Ayla. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

  “Many, Rye-Bread.” Jade grabs my arm and tugs at me. “At lunch. We gotta go.”

  I almost laugh out loud, because Rye-Bread is exactly what Lizzie would nickname him. Not that Lizzie and I would actually ever breathe the same air as this guy.

  But Jade drags me away, a few kids separating me from Ryder. I’m not at all sure how I feel about this.

  “He’s gorgeous,” I say softly, the words out before I can really stop them.

  “Yeah, Ryder Bransford has always been your weakness,” Jade tells me. “But, dude, you want him to grovel, right? You told me you weren’t going all the way until he begs for mercy like a beaten dog.”

  “I said that?” I blink at her. “I love dogs. In fact, why don’t I have one?”

  She snorts a laugh. “You’re whack this morning, Ayla. Let’s go. Bliss is waiting for us. She went to the Falls yesterday and totally scored at Bloomie’s.”

  “Scored what?”

  “Jewelry, I think. She’s in our bathroom.”

  “We have our own bathroom?”

  Jade lets out a hoot of laughter. “Oh, my God. I love you today.” Around the corner, Jade smacks open a heavy mahogany door marked ELEVENTH-GRADE LADIES and stares down a group of five or six girls inside. “Out, stat.” She flicks her fingers like they are no more than annoying mosquitoes.

  I feel my jaw drop at the order, but they look from her to me and start to gather their things.

  Am I a mean bitch or what?

  “Cute top, Ayla,” one says, the words barely audible.

  “Thanks,” I reply brightly, earning a look of shock and awe from her and a few others.

  “I like Juicy Couture,” another says.

  Jade chokes softly. “Pedestrian. Tol
d you.”

  The second girl’s face explodes crimson as she reaches down for a flute case. My heart squeezes in sympathy.

  “Are you in band?” I ask her.

  She looks up, clearly not trusting this exchange. She expects me to zing her, I realize.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, swallowing and switching the case to the other hand.

  “Flute?”

  “Yeah.”

  I give her a friendly pat on the arm. “The heart of the orchestra, I always say.”

  Her mouth drops open a little, but the others have left, and Jade snaps her fingers in the girl’s face. “Cease and desist, Flute Fly. My friend here ate way too much sugar for breakfast.”

  The girl says nothing but moves to the door, studying me, still trying to decide, I think, if that exchange was for real or not.

  As she opens the door, I can’t help asking, “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Candi.” She’s hesitant, like that beaten dog Jade mentioned. “Candi Woodward.”

  “I’m Ayla Monroe.”

  She laughs uneasily. “I know.”

  “Out, Candi Cane,” Jade orders. “And do your new best friend, Ayla, here a favor and stand guard. Send any more like you away until we come out. Got it?”

  She nods. Jeez, grow a spine, Candi.

  The last stall door pops open, and a blond head pokes out. “What is all the locomotion out there?”

  “Ayla dropped some ‘nice’ pills this morning,” Jade says, giving me a withering look. “Are you running for class president or something?”

  “Something,” I say, cursing myself for being such a loser. Popular girls don’t act like that. I have to at least pretend I belong in the bathroom with them, or I’ll be out with Candi and the rest of the music geeks playing palace guard before this dream is over.

  “Get in here,” the girl in the stall orders. “And look what I got you girls.”

  “Bliss Tremaine for the win!” Jade says, scampering toward the stall.

  I follow, peeking in to see a cloth draped over the closed toilet seat, and gold on top of it. A couple pairs of earrings, a bracelet, and a long, heavy chain.

  “Nice!” Jade says. “I call the hoops.” Then she inches aside to make room for me. “Unless you want them, Ayla.”

  I glance at the jewelry and at the petite girl with long blond hair and big eyes a blue I’ve never seen on anything but a doll or a colored contact lens ad. Bliss crosses her arms and adds a smug smile.

  “I know. My expertee knows no boundage.”

  Expertee? Boundage? What language does this girl speak? She ignores my look of dismay and gives me a nudge. “Take what you want, Ayla.”

  “It’s free?”

  They both laugh so sharply and loudly, it startles me.

  “You are hi-lar-ious, girl,” Jade says with an elbow to my arm.

  “How’d you …” I manage to gulp the cocktail of fear and excitement that rises in my throat. “Get it?”

  Bliss shrugs. “Fire alarm went off in Bloomie’s last night. I walked out with two grand in gold.” She brushes her knuckles and blows on them, reminding me of Trent at breakfast. “Beats the eighteen hundred you did in Bal Harbour last week. So, dude, consider this a challenge to top.”

  I stole eighteen hundred dollars’ worth of stuff from a store? Why?

  “You guys,” I say, shaking my head. “I … I …” Am rich. Seriously, sickeningly loaded. Why would I steal?

  But something stops me. The look in their eyes. The air of expectation. The thrill of getting my name whispered in awe by the nobodies, and having a groveling boyfriend who looks like a rock star.

  This is living the flawless life, right?

  Anyway, it’s not real. It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t count.

  “I like the bracelet,” I finally say.

  “Yours.” Bliss grabs the bangle and hands it to me.

  Jade takes earrings while Bliss digs into a bag so designer I don’t even know where to look for the label.

  “You have Brighton in first period English lit,” she says. “So you can be late.” She pulls out a jewel-encrusted case and pops it open, revealing three perfectly rolled joints. “I need to chillax before chem.”

  I feel my knees weakening. I’ve seen pot, smelled it, but never smoked it. And I sure as heck don’t know anyone who has the nerve to light up in the bathroom.

  “Oh, for Chrissake, Ayla,” Bliss says, her Caribbean Sea eyes narrowing as she fingers a joint. “I know you said you weren’t getting high at school, but that doesn’t mean we can’t.”

  Next to me, Jade stiffens. “C’mon, Bliss. Ayla is entitled to not get loaded.”

  “And act douchetastic with the invisibles,” Bliss adds with a smirk.

  The invisibles. That’s what they call … us.

  “It’s okay,” Jade says, waving a hand like she can make the discomfort in the little stall go away. “She can throw a bone to the kids once in a while.”

  “Not if she wants to stay A-list, she can’t,” Bliss fires back, like they aren’t totally talking about me in the third person.

  I snag the joint from Bliss’s fingers, unwilling to walk the path to unpopular. “Puh-lease. I write up the damn A-list every morning.” Rolling the white stick, I launch an eyebrow north. “And you better be nice, Bliss-full-of-yourself, or you won’t be on that list tomorrow.”

  “Bliss-full-of-yourself!” Jade giggles and points at Bliss. “Owned! And with a nickname worthy of my approval.”

  “Owned” is right. My head feels light, like I’m drunk on my own coolness. Did I just shoot down a popular girl and threaten to delist her? God, I love this dream life.

  Bliss forces a laugh as phony as her blue contacts. “And I knew ‘Straight Ayla’ wouldn’t last when you gave her that name last week, Jadie. Here, let me light you.”

  I put the joint to my mouth, not worried about choking like a noob. Because evidently, I can do anything in this life, including smoke pot in the eleventh-grade bathroom and dis the coolest girls who’ve ever even talked to me.

  “Hey!” A voice comes from the door before we light. “Verderosa’s coming!”

  Instantly Bliss whips around and flips the cloth cover over the jewelry on the toilet, folding it like a pro and dumping the whole thing into her bag. Jade pushes me out the stall door, muscling past me to twist on the faucet and pretend to be washing her hands.

  The door pops open, and a teacher type marches in, her eyes sharp. “What’s going on in here?”

  My heart, trained for years to fear authority, squeezes. My fingers do the same over the joint.

  “Pee and poo, Mrs. Verderosa.” Bliss beams with a smile of pure innocence. “What do you think?”

  “Get to your classes,” she says, pointing to the door.

  Jade just tsks and strolls by the woman without making eye contact, and Bliss does the same. Mrs. Verderosa is staring at me. The joint crumbles in my damp palms, and my heart is back in high, high gear.

  “What do you have, Ayla?” Her gaze slips to my hands.

  Oh, dream. Why did you go here? I close my eyes, certain that when I open them I’ll be back in bed, awakened by my galloping pulse.

  No such luck. “Nothing, Mrs. V.”

  She tilts her head with suspicion and holds out her hand, palm up. “Give it to me.”

  One hand is holding drugs. The other, stolen jewelry. Slowly I raise the bracelet, praying it’s the lesser of two evils.

  She barely glances at the jewel-encrusted bangle. “Nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “A gift from your father?” There’s some serious nasty in the question.

  “From … a friend.”

  She puffs air out of her nose, like she has no doubt what this “gift” is. Contraband.

  “That’s about a week’s salary for me,” she says. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t lose it.”

  Then she turns and walks away.

  Seriously? I breathe again, swamped by
relief. Slipping the bracelet on and stashing the joint in my bag, I saunter across the bathroom, sparing a look in the mirror. Nothing’s changed. I’m beautiful, I’m cool, and apparently I’m invincible.

  I wink at my flawless reflection and head to the hall. There, Bliss grabs my arm. “What the hell was that flutey girl’s name?”

  “Candi Woodward,” I answer, barely thinking about it, even though a truly popular girl wouldn’t have bothered to remember the name.

  “She’s dead to me,” Bliss says.

  “Why? She’s the one who warned us.”

  “After she told Verderosa we were in there, getting brownie points from teacher, props from us. Does she think we’re stupid? Snitches get stitches.”

  “Whatever, Bliss.” I dismiss her with the same ease I did in the bathroom and walk past her, instinctively knowing that maintaining the upper hand with Bliss is key to my success.

  “Hey,” she calls, snagging my bag to stop me.

  I flatten her with a contemptuous look.

  “Gimme my joint back,” she says, but the bite is gone in her voice.

  “See you at lunch,” I reply, heady with the charge of power.

  She backs off. “Sure.”

  Holy crap, this is amazing. I can snuff out bitches and outsmart teachers. Could this possibly get better?

  I head down the hall to find out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I open the door to English lit, the teacher’s back is to me as he writes symbolism in red marker across the whiteboard. Every eye in the class turns to the door, and there’s a rumble of comments ranging from “You’re toast” to “Of course you’re late” to “She’s wearing Juicy?” from two brats in the back.

  The teacher, Douglas Brighton, according to the nameplate on his desk, lets out a put-upon sigh.

  “I have rules in this classroom,” he says without turning.

  I search for an open seat, but the only one is in the dead center of the class, requiring me to struggle through a maze of tightly cramped desks and chairs to get to it. But some girl instantly shoves her seat forward, and another guy inches his desk to the right so I can sail through.