Don't You Wish

by Roxanne St Claire

  “And an unhappy boyfriend is an ex-boyfriend,” Bliss finishes haughtily.

  “And then what?” I shoot back, taking the bait. “He’s your next boyfriend?”

  “Stop it, Bliss,” Jade chides her. “Why are you always trying to get between them?”

  I slam the locker door hard enough to startle her. “You know what happens when you skate on thin ice, Bliss?”

  She frowns, the metaphor obviously lost on someone who annihilates the English language every time she opens her mouth.

  “You fall and you freeze to death.” I ice her with a look that matches the threat, a zing of endorphins shooting through me.

  Bliss pales for a second, then turns, defeated but refusing to show it. Feeling smug, I let them bookend me all the way to the cafeteria, the three of us parting the invisibles right down the middle like Moses and the Red Sea.

  Wow. Nice. Is this what I’m missing while I sit around with orchestra kids and discuss the miserable song selections for Winter Musicfest?

  I follow their lead for salads, but only because the line for pizza is too long. Maybe because I have a feeling it’s super-uncool to chow down on the good stuff, even though the french fries smell out of this world. Bliss and Jade don’t look like they’ve ever eaten a french fry in their lives.

  There’s no evidence of seniors in this lunch period, so we obviously get the best tables on a veranda just outside the cafeteria, with a view of palm-tree-dotted lawns. In one fast scope, I find all the usual gatherings, from potheads to math geeks and everything in between.

  Our table seats ten, and there are six girls around it, including us. The others are pretty quiet, clearly deferential to the three of us.

  The hierarchy of Crap Academy, as the school is universally known, is becoming crystal clear. And the social strata are not that different from my real school. There are invisibles (nobodies), wannabes (subpar), almost-could-be’s (lower class), just-about-there’s (middle class) … and then the top of the heap. The popular kids, as they are known in every world, real or … whatever this is.

  Right now, it doesn’t matter what this is, because I am a popular kid, so far at the top of that heap that I could get a nosebleed.

  I’m digging through the salad, looking for a crouton or something of substance, when two strong hands smack down on my shoulders and squeeze.

  “What the hell was that all about, Ayla?”

  I don’t have to look; I know it’s Ryder. But I turn anyway, still not used to how insanely cute he is. But he doesn’t look too cute right now. He looks … apoplectic.

  “Told you,” Bliss whispers as she circles glossy lips over a wide straw and looks up at Ryder. For a second, it’s not clear who she’s talking to, him or me.

  “Move over,” Ryder says to her, giving her arm a dismissive tap.

  She slides, not happy about it.

  Ryder climbs onto the stone bench, his thigh pressing against mine, his mouth to my ear. “Now you owe me.”

  Chills explode over my skin, cascading down to my toes, which curl in my Michael Kors platforms. I close my eyes to hide the response, and put plenty of indifference in my voice. “I don’t owe you anything, Ryder. You should have read the book.”

  “Very funny, Ayla.” He flicks his tongue over my earlobe.

  Oh. My. God.

  “I’ll forget the quiz on Saturday night,” he says, his hand possessive—and really high up—on my thigh. “You know why they call it homecoming.”

  I whip around to him. “Saturday is homecoming?”

  He laughs. “Among other things, as you know. And everything’s arranged.”

  “We’re going together.”

  His smile is dead sexy. “Whatever you want to call it, babe. My parents will be in the Keys as of Saturday morning, with my brother. My casa is your casa.” His fingers slip another inch up my jeans. “My bed is your bed.”

  “Seriously?”

  He leans back and narrows his eyes. “We agreed, Ayla. Homecoming is the night.”

  So, it looks like I have a date for homecoming after all. A date … to do the deed. Take that, Shane Matthews.

  “You are not going to change your mind.” There is just enough of a subtle threat in his voice that I look up and spear him with a look.

  “I might change my mind …” I give him a slow, sly smile. “About my dress.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jade interjects. “I’m in white Stella McCartney, Bliss is in black Versace, and you’re wearing the yellow Vera Wang. We’ve been planning this since last year.”

  Ryder moves even closer. “I don’t care what you wear. I just want to take it off.”

  “O … kay.” Shoot, my voice cracks. To cover, I pick at the salad, finally locating a lone crouton, but I’m aware that the entire cafeteria is watching like we are their own personal soap opera. Well, we kind of are.

  That’s the price of popularity. And sitting here at the “it” table with the hottest guy I’ve ever talked to, telling me he wants to take off my homecoming dress (Vera Wang!), well, shoot, I guess I’m paying whatever moments like this cost, because I have never had one before.

  I turn to him, our lips barely an inch apart. “Anything can happen between now and Saturday, Ryder.” Like I could wake up and these people could disintegrate into thin air.

  They will, won’t they? By Saturday? By tomorrow when I wake up? Of course they will.

  That hand goes so high, he’s just about in my crotch. Has any boy ever touched me on the thigh? Maybe by accident, when I shared a music stand with Conner Bondi.

  But this is a dream. Even though there’s nothing about that hand that says it’s imaginary. The nagging starts deep inside me again.

  “Why does this seem so real?” I whisper.

  He smiles. “Because it is, babe. And it’s gonna be even more real on Saturday night.” He squeezes my leg. “Got it?”

  Heat coils through me, easily as much from embarrassment as an unfamiliar response.

  “What the hell do you want, Candi Cane?” Jade’s voice throws ice water onto my little party.

  I turn from Ryder to see a girl walking by me, holding a tray, and I instantly recognize Candi from the bathroom. She’s staring at me, a question in her gaze.

  Bliss slams down a water bottle and stares at her. “Your days are numbered up,” she says, butchering the expression enough to get a little chuckle from the table. But she takes it as encouragement, pointing a finger at Candi. “You busted us.”

  Candi’s face turns a lovely shade of purple. “I did not.”

  I feel everyone’s focus at the table shift to me, as though, in my position of power, it’s my job to support Bliss and fire another warning. Of course, I know what I should do—what any Queen Bee in this chair would do. I should remind the little nobody just who’s in charge here.

  “Candi,” I say, trying to make my voice sound lofty as I dig through my brain for just the right thing to say. The right way to show my status and hers, because that’s what’s expected.

  “What?” she asks, her eyes full of hope. I can practically read her mind, and not because this weird dream state I’m in has given me that capability.

  Don’t insult me, she’s thinking. Don’t make me look like the fool we both know I am.

  All I can think about is Shane Matthews and the shame on the bus. I can’t be like that, can I? “Thanks for the heads-up in the bathroom today,” I finally say. “That was cool.”

  “Hey, sure. No prob.” She just smiles a little and bounds away, but Bliss drops both hands onto the table with a dramaqueen exhale.

  “ ‘No prob’?” Bliss mocks. “Who says that?”

  “This from the queen of wordkill,” I say, expecting a laugh from the table. But they’re all kind of looking at me with the same expression: disappointment and doubt.

  “What?” I shoot back. “I’m just not feeling the meanness today, okay?” I slide a look to Ryder. “I’m too happy.”

  He gives me a
really hot smile and another leg squeeze, but Bliss is having none of it, smacking her plastic fork onto her tray. “Well, thank you, Ryder, for turning our little Ayla into the Patron Saint of the Invisibles.”

  I look out toward the tables and trees, just to avoid her face, which is really starting to get on my nerves. My gaze lands on the boy in the hat, sitting alone at a table with a broken umbrella, the sun blazing on him and his fedora.

  “Hey.” Ryder says with a different kind of pressure on my leg. “What is it with you and that loser Zelinsky?”

  I brush his hand away. I don’t know where I got these cool put-down moves, but I’m using them for all they’re worth.

  “Like I’d even talk to him.”

  “You talked to him plenty in lit.”

  Standing now, Bliss raises her eyebrows. “She’s been on crack all day.”

  “Shut up,” I order her.

  “You are different today,” Jade pops in, pulling a straw from her mouth and pointing it at me. “You’re, like, acting all weird.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Bliss chimes in, straightening like she has a purpose in life and is itching for more support. “Kissing up to invisibles, wearing two-year-old shoes, and pulling answers out of your ass in lit class.”

  These Michael Kors are two years old? “Shut up,” I repeat. I’m going to have to do better than that to stop the train that is Bliss.

  Ryder scoots back. “How did you know that stuff about that book anyway?”

  “Maybe I read, Ryder.”

  He snorts. “Clothing labels.”

  I get ready to argue, then stop. What’s wrong with me? There are a lot of benefits to this world, this life, this lofty position. And I’ve done enough to wreck the delicate balance for one day. Across the grass, I see Candi, sitting at a table full of musicians, the band and orchestra geeks. Do I want to go back there?

  No, I do not.

  I glide my hand up on Ryder’s arm. It’s not painful feeling those muscles, trust me. “I’m just, you know …” I bite my lip so it’s wet and full. “Excited about Saturday.”

  He smiles—a sinful thing, really—and shoots a look at Bliss. “Get off my girlfriend’s case, bitch.” He stands, taking his tray, kissing my cheek on the way.

  When he leaves, I glance over his shoulder at Charlie Zelinsky, who looks a little disappointed in me.

  Too bad, Charlie. I’ve done my good deeds for the day. As long as I’m in this bizarre world, I’m staying at the top of the food chain. Whatever it takes.

  Someone smacks a card or something in front of me, and I inch back to see what it is. A Florida driver’s license? With my picture on it.

  “Consider it a peace offering,” Bliss says, looking smug. “Check the birth date.”

  I squint at the tiny numbers. “That’s wrong.”

  “She’s just so cute when she’s like this!” Jade exclaims.

  But Bliss looks dubious. “Look, I held my end of the bargain. We each have one of those. Your mom has some fund-raiser tonight, right?”

  I have no earthly idea. “Right.”

  “And your dad is never home.”

  That, I’m pretty sure, is true. “Never.”

  “With this thing, you are licensed to drive … and drink. Jade and I will be there at nine, and we hit Mynt in South Beach by ten.”

  I blink at her, barely past “drive” … and “drink.” “It’s a school night.”

  They look at each other, openmouthed. “I’m telling you, she’s precious.”

  Bliss narrows her eyes. “I think she’s some kind of imposer pretending to be Ayla.” She might butcher the language, but she’s smarter than anyone else around here.

  “Shut up,” I say, taking the license. “Tonight’s going to be insane.”

  Why not? There is no tomorrow on this planet.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the time the three of us are dressed to “go to a school function,” as I felt compelled to tell Tillie when she brought what looked like a thousand-dollar order of room service up to my bedroom, we’ve each been through six different outfits, a dozen pairs of shoes, and enough makeup to paint the red carpet.

  My room looks like the backstage dressing area for the final runway show of America’s Next Top Model, and despite the fact that I haven’t had a sip of the vodka that Bliss brought in a water bottle, I’m high on life.

  And five-inch Louboutin shoes. You know, with the red bottoms? In Pittsburgh, we’d look like hookers. In Miami Beach, I have a feeling we’ll fit right in. On our way out, as I’m stuffing my fake ID and cash into a Kate Spade bag, I have a wave of … emotion. This is going to end when I wake up, and all I want to do is seize the moment of what might be the most wild and fun thing I’ve ever done or ever will do.

  Soon we’re clattering and giggling our way downstairs, where I expect to see … someone. Anyone.

  A parent, a sibling, even one of the ubiquitous staff. But there’s not a soul in sight.

  Bliss is giddy, shredding every other word she uses in an effort to seem smarter. And she looks gorgeous in black leather hot pants and a red halter. Jade is just totally chill, all in her signature color of cream with only one splash of burgundy in her accessories. I went with a black miniskirt and soft pink top, cut low over my well-endowed boobs and cropped short at my waist.

  In my whole life, I’ve never felt pretty, but tonight I am magic itself. The garage is stocked, with keys hanging on a wall like valet service at a high-end hotel, and my hand hovers between keys for a grown-up-looking (but very sleek) silver Mercedes and a much safer Lexus SUV, when Bliss grabs another set.

  “Come on, Ayla. Take the freaking Aston.”

  Somehow, I doubt that’s the car my dad bought me for my birthday.

  Bliss clicks the remote entry and the lights of a cobalt blue sports car flash, and even I, who know next to nothing about cars, realize she just picked the most expensive car in the garage. Maybe the world.

  “I don’t know.… ” I eye the machine and think of the dented ten-year-old Toyota Sienna I’ve been learning to drive. “Will we all fit in that?”

  “Jade’s tiny. We’ll slide her in the back.” Bliss is already headed toward the car. “You want me to drive?”

  After vodka? “I can handle it,” I say, snagging the keys from her and dropping into the driver’s seat, which smells of leather and spice and … no cologne Mel Nutter would ever wear.

  Oh, my God. I’ve never even met my dad, and I’m stealing his best car.

  Oh, well. I may wake up by the time Dr. Jimbo gets home.

  “You can drive a stick, right?” Bliss asks.

  “Sure.” We shoot forward like a rocket in response, and all three of us burst out laughing. “Maybe. I drove one once in driver’s ed.”

  I’m not very good at it, but somehow we manage to get off Star Island, down the big causeway, and over to Miami Beach, laughing our asses off the entire way.

  “Cruise the strip!” Bliss hollers, and we turn onto Ocean Drive and go four miles an hour with everyone else, getting hooted at by all the guys, and of course, Bliss hoots right back.

  Like everything else in this freakish dream, Miami Beach is vibrating with color, wildly alive. The hotels are bathed in pastel lights, and the sidewalks are crowded with barely dressed beauties and seriously intense men.

  “You girls are hot!” calls a guy in a red Corvette.

  “You got that right!” I holler back, my pulse beating like the constant thrum of bass from cars all around. This is insane!

  We finally get to Mynt, and I hand the keys over to a darling valet who winks at me and promises to protect the Aston on his mother’s life.

  “You better,” Bliss says. “ ’Cause Daddy’ll kill her if it gets dented.”

  “Wait, do I care?” I ask Bliss. “I never even see the guy.” And who cares if I’m in trouble? I’m in a rule-breaking, risk-taking, earthshaking kind of mood and am so not worried about the quibillion-dollar car or the always absent dad.r />
  Arm in arm, the three of us head to the front of the line and instantly get ushered through glass doors bathed in neon green light.

  Inside, it’s almost black except for flashes of green, pink, and white. Everything is shaking with bass, noise, people, glitter, and bone-skinny models looking incredibly bored and beautiful. Bliss drags us to the bar, and we don’t even get carded.

  A minute later, she hands me a mojito with a big sprig of mint—I guess everything stays in theme here. I’ve never had one, so I sip slowly, my eyes widening at the delicious taste.

  “I’m driving,” I say to Bliss.

  She rolls her eyes. “The night is young, girlfriend, and so are we!”

  “You’ll dance it off,” Jade says. “Oooh, look over there. Mother lode of hotness.”

  There are a few really nice-looking guys—who have to be in their twenties—giving us the eye, and for a minute, I almost do one of those classic Who me? turnarounds.

  One with really perfect hair gives me a chin nod, then angles his head toward the dance floor.

  I just look back, but Jade elbows me. “Are you crazy? He’s asking you to dance. Or are you playing hard to get?”

  In my life I haven’t played hard, easy, or in-between to get. In fact, nothing in sixteen years has been quite like this. Tomorrow I’ll be Annie again, but in this crazy dream, I’m beautiful, rich, cool, and about to dance with a guy who looks a little like Taylor Lautner, so I’m totally going for it.

  With a cool nod back at him, I set my drink on the table Bliss has claimed, and meet him on the dance floor.

  Just getting there is an experience. Sweaty bodies, leather dresses, heady colognes, and a few spilled drinks block my way. But Taylor’s determined, and so am I.

  We meet in the middle and start moving to a song I’ve never heard and won’t remember. It has a beat, and because the gods of this fantasy world love me so much, I dance like Jennifer Lopez.

  As I turn, he takes my hands and pulls me into him. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, a little drunk, but the words still get me.

  “I know!” I add a silly giggle to soften the cockiness of it, but come on. I am gorgeous. And I never have been before in my whole life.