by J. Minter
“Sally, is that you?” I heard Willa’s voice call out. “Awesome, I’m so glad you’re wearing the dress. You’re such a fast learner.”
Shocker, Willa was being totally condescending, but for some reason, SBB seemed to be eating it up.
Then Willa glanced at me.
“I thought we agreed,” she said slowly to SBB. “No more FOF-ing. It’s not good for your rep.”
“Sorry, Willa,” SBB/Sally said. She’d lost all traces of her Chicago accent and was now another typical bitchy UES girl. “I was just saying good-bye.” SBB turned to me. “So—good-bye.”
Before I knew it, my best friend and my worst enemy were walking down the hall, arm in arm.
Chapter 19
IF THE VALENTINE FITS …
One day later, and one FOF down, the day that I’d been waiting for since I heard the words boy boycott had arrived. No, it wasn’t Valentine’s Day, but it was an important preliminary step: GVNO (aka Girls Valentine’s Night Out, aka the night we’d agreed to gauge whether Camille was emotionally healthy enough to be dragged to the Valentine’s Dance).
We were meeting at eight at Stanton Social, and I was the first to arrive. From the coveted back booth overlooking the entire scene, I reviewed the valentines I’d made for my friends. The sophisticated doily-laden Victorian valentine for Harper, the programmable singing card for Morgan, the sleek, modern postcard Valentine I’d picked out at Crane’s for Amory, and the platonic Mad Libs love letter I’d written for Camille. When I’d bought the supplies over the weekend, I’d bought enough to make a paper doll Valentine for SBB, but after yesterday, I’d reached the breaking point. I was so over fighting with Willa over something that should have been rightfully mine. And more than that, I was sick of trying to keep up with who SBB was supposed to be on what day of the week.
Now, as I looked around the room at the other glammed-up patrons in the restaurant—girls in flashy stilettos and Siwy jeans, and guys all freshly shaven and showing a very calculated amount of chest hair—I understood that SBB wasn’t the only one in costume. To a certain extent we all were. But costume or not, I reminded myself, there was no excuse for the way she’d ditched me yesterday for Team Willa.
“Hey, there you are,” Amory said as she slid into the booth next to me wearing a hot white Chloé slip dress with a plunging neckline. “Harper and Morgan are checking their coats. Where’s Camille?”
“Right behind you,” Camille chirped. “And I brought a guest Valentine.”
She stepped aside to expose a very expertly done-up incognito SBB/Simone/Sally in a brilliant, shorter black wig and a Smart Fitzgerald patterned slip dress. She looked incredible again, but I had to muster some major willpower in order to suppress my groan. It was bad enough that she’d synced up with Willa; now she was moving in on Camille?
“Oh, hi—Simone, right?” Amory said, gesturing for SBB to sit down.
SBB shot me a nervous look. “Actually, it’s Sally now. It’s my middle name—Simone Sally … Struthers—and I think Sally’s fresher, more New York, you know?”
As SBB babbled on about the very scientific explanation behind her name change, Camille pulled me aside. “I was leaving Thoney today and I spotted the poor, defenseless thing arm in arm with Willa. I figured since the headmistress assigned you to take Sally under your wing, I should help save her from the axis of evil. She’s actually super nice—we should hang with her more often.”
“Totally,” I agreed halfheartedly. I searched Camille’s face to see whether she was bluffing. It would be just like her to figure out who SBB was, then cover for me with a few covert winks. But Camille looked genuinely concerned about Sally’s social acceptance into our clique. Exactly how preoccupied was she by all of this Xander stuff?
When we were all seated and had ordered enough Kobe miniburgers and halibut tacos to feed a modeling agency, we all passed out the valentines we’d made for one another. As I thumbed through the cards my friends had made for me, I realized that I wasn’t the only one who’d personalized the cards based on distinguishing traits: all four of the valentines I received were matchmaking-related. Camille had even sketched out a scene from the Fiddler on the Roof as a joke.
“Okay, okay.” I laughed. “I get it—you’re sick of my obsession with fixing you all up with dates.”
“Not even.” Harper laughed. “We’re just messing with you, Flan. I had a really good time with Trevor on Friday night. After you left, I even let him sketch my shoulder. He said I had remarkable clavicles.”
“Oooooh,” Amory teased. “You showed a boy your shoulder on the first date? Aren’t you the girl who recently told me that boys don’t buy the cow if they can get the milk for free?”
“He didn’t get it for free,” Harper said shyly. “He agreed to be my date to the Valentine’s Dance.” She quickly shot a look around the table. “I mean, if we decide to go.”
“Maybe we should go,” Amory said, sipping on her mango iced tea. “I’m sort of into Phil. He was so funny after the play; he was doing all these great impersonations of the characters.”
Oh, crap—I still needed to figure out how to play off the whole Phil situation. Feb had sent a slew of pics of muscle-y Aussie men, any of whom would be a great substitution. My only problem now would be swapping Phil out without seeming suspicious. In my head, I started scrambling for a tactful way to talk to Amory, but I snapped back to reality when Morgan cleared her throat to speak.
“I know I was the loudest voice for the boy boycott last week.” She looked at me and smiled. “But Flan did such a killer job setting us all up last week, I think I’m changing my tune.”
“Morgan loves Bennett, Morgan loooves Bennett,” Amory sang.
“We’ve been texting all week,” she gushed.
While everyone else started oohing and ahhing over Morgan and her new love interest, I started to get that sinking feeling in my stomach again. Even in the guise of her new persona, SBB was watching me to see how I was coping.
She’d been remarkably quiet all through appetizers, but when she caught my eye, she spoke up. “So what’s the problem here, girls? Sounds like you all want to go to this dance. Why the self-imposed boycott?” She flicked her eyes at me, and I felt like this was an attempt to get back on my good side.
The rest of the table had their eyes on Camille.
“What?” She finally shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea to start hating all men in the first place. If you guys want to go to the dance, I’ll go. I don’t think Saxton’s my next great love, but he’ll do for picture taking.”
I could tell that Camille, who thrived on being a good sport, was trying hard to take one for the team. But the fact that she didn’t seem to care whether we all went to the dance or not reflected her general ambivalence toward everything these days. I wished there was a way to snap my fingers and take away the residual Xander pain.
“What about you, Sally?” Harper said to SBB, passing around a plate of fruit skewers. “Are you planning on going to the dance? Is there a special someone in your life?”
“You know, it’s hard for me to date high school boys,” Sally said, “because I have something of an obsession from afar with a certain movie star–pop singer. Confession: ever since I rented his film, Demolition Dudes, on DVD, I’ve been hopelessly in love with … Jake Riverdale.”
The way she said it was so hilarious—especially because my friends all believed her pathetic crush-from-afar act—that even in my annoyed state, I had to join in with the rest of the table and crack up.
When the laughter died down, SBB/Sally turned to me and said, “You’re quiet, Flan. Do you have a date to the Valentine’s Dance?”
“Oh, Flan has the best date of anyone,” Morgan said, shocking me with her enthusiasm. “She has this totally amazing boyfriend named Alex—”
“The Prince of New York,” Harper chimed in.
“And he’s crazy about her,” Amory said.
It was hard to believe how much the tab
les had turned. Last week, my friends had been giving me death stares anytime I brought up Alex’s name. Now they were cheering me on. It was funny how much easier it was to gush over your crush when your friends wanted to hear it.
“Things with Alex are great,” I said, taking a final bite of my sinfully dark chocolate ice cream. “But we can hang out anytime. I’m just glad to hear you guys all get on board for the Valentine’s Dance.”
By the end of dinner, we’d sampled just about everything on the menu, dished on just about every boy in Manhattan, and come to the group decision that it was Valentine’s Day Dance or bust. I buttoned up my Dior trench and we stepped back out into the cold.
“Which way are you headed, Sally?” Camille asked, hailing a cab.
SBB, who lived twenty feet away from me, would have offered to split a cab, but Sally squinted at me and skirted the question. She pointed at a black town car across the street. “Toward my driver. See you later!”
Everyone else grinned and called good night, but I couldn’t help wondering about the icy distance between me and SBB. What if the new Sally didn’t keep SBB’s Valentine’s Dance promise to help me keep everyone’s dates fixed on the right girl? With my track record so far, I wasn’t sure I could do it alone.
Chapter 20
BIPPITY BOPPITY BALL GOWNS
On Wednesday, just before last period, I was thrilled to see my phone light up with the signature ring I’d set for my favorite French fashion designer friend, Jade Moodswing. Jade was an old friend of Feb’s, and when she’d been in the states for Fashion Week last month, I’d lucked into a spot as a model in her show at the Armory. But ever since Feb had become Feb’n’Kelly, our household had been lacking its token ninety-seven-pound, chain-smoking, perpetually pouting designer.
“Coo-coo, chérie,” her hoarse voice came across the phone. “Zere is small favor I need to ask. I must jet back to Paree ce soir, but my suitcase iz too full to fit in—how do you say—overhead compartment. Can you pleaze take a ball gown or two off my hands?”
“Let’s see. … Um, where do I sign?” I responded, laughing.
I ducked out of school as soon as the bell rang and hailed a cab downtown to Jade’s atelier in Chelsea. I was about to press the buzzer to her studio when I spotted a familiar profile peering through the windows of a store across Tenth Avenue.
What was Xander doing window-shopping at the 202 Boutique in Chelsea?
Before I knew was I was doing, I’d sprinted across the avenue to spy on him from a lesser distance. Why was he lingering in front of that one mannequin? And why did he have such a forlorn look on his face?
Then it hit me: 202 was Camille’s favorite clothing store in the city.
“Xander?” I asked, tapping his shoulder.
He spun around. “What?” he said. His voice sounded strained and a little defensive. “I was just—I wasn’t—”
“What are you doing down here?” I wasn’t trying to give him the third degree, but I realized I sounded a little bit suspicious.
“I was … uh … looking for a present … for my mom for Valentine’s Day. But this place doesn’t have much.” He turned back around and glanced at an amber and garnet necklace in the window that pretty much screamed Camille. “I’ll probably just go to Louis Vuitton. She likes key chains and stuff.” He was rambling, clearly nervous.
“Okay,” I said, trying to put him at ease. “So, how’ve you been?”
“I’ve been good. I’ve been fine.” He shot me a look. “Why? Did Camille ask about me? Never mind. Look, I should get going. Great to see you!”
Before I even had time to wave good-bye, Xander had taken off down the street faster than a Kenyan marathon runner. I knew I needed to tell Camille about the run-in, but since I couldn’t exactly make sense of it myself, I wasn’t sure how to position it to her.
Slightly shaken up, I crossed back over to Jade Moodswing’s side of the street. When I got upstairs, she was perched on the windowsill smoking a cigarette and talking into a headset. A team of at least ten assistants ran around the room packing up dresses, tearing mock-up sketches off the walls, and stuffing fabric scraps into a giant platinum trunk.
When Jade saw me in the doorway, she waved me over to her, then gestured dismissively at the scene. “Iz always depressing to disappear from a place like zis. Two more hours in New York, then poof, we’ll be gone.”
“But you’ll come back soon, right?” I asked. “Fall Fashion Week’s only a few months away. …”
“We’ll see,” Jade said cryptically. “In the meantime, you must promise to wear the dresses well, chérie. I’ve arranged for a few of ze girls to model the line for you so you can select ze ones you want. Come, sit by me on ze ledge and take a look. Can someone bring Flan a Pellegrino?”
“Seriously?” I asked, plopping down on the sill next to Jade. This was almost more exciting than being one of Jade’s models in the Armory show. It was definitely more relaxing.
“Do you want us to cue the music?” Jade’s head assistant asked from the back of the room.
“Yes, yes, we spare no expense for Chérie,” Jade said.
The lights dimmed, two flutes of Pellegrino arrived, and I tried not to laugh in disbelief. When I’d woken up this morning stressing over my Latin test and silly high school boys, a private fashion show of Jade Moodswing’s latest formal-wear line had been the furthest thing from my mind. Oh, life …
Soon enough, the models filed out of a back room, pranced down an imaginary catwalk, and stopped right in front of Jade and me to pose.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, breathing in the scent of all the haute couture. “Jade, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“You like? They are all from ze newest line. I call eet Jewel.”
I could see why. All the dresses were jewel-tone shades—deep sapphire, rose quartz, emerald, even an iridescent opal color, which I fell instantly in love with. Each gown also had a different signature touch—from a keyhole neckline, to a darted velvet bodice, to a layered petticoat that grazed the hard-wood floor.
“These are amazing!” I said, a little breathless. “Each one is so unique, but they’re still so totally you.”
“I think zey are totally you, chérie. Maybe you will wear one on Valentine’s Day for your amour.”
“Actually,” I said, eyeing the opal-colored gown, “we do have a Valentine’s dance at school on Friday night.” But then, I also couldn’t stop staring at the emerald dress—or the sapphire dress. “Any of these would be perfect. I’m just not sure how to pick which one.”
“Why do you have to pick?” Jade asked as the models continued to swirl around us. “To tell you ze truth, I don’t really have room for any of zese. Take zem all, decide which one to wear later—give zem out to your friends as petite Jade mementos, non?”
My friends were all just as obsessed with Jade’s couture as I was. The thought of showing up at the dance with an entourage clad in Moodswing couture made me bust out into a giant grin.
“That way,” I said, rationalizing her gift, “even when you leave New York, you’ll still be leaving a legacy of fantastic dress.”
“Parfait,” Jade said, snapping her fingers for an assistant to wrap up the dresses. “Everybody wins.”
Blowing out a ring of smoke, Jade Moodswing might not have looked much like a fairy godmother, but I definitely felt like Cinderella. Only this time, real life trumped fairy tale, because I don’t think Cinderella ever got to take four extra dresses for her friends to wear to the ball.
When the dresses were wrapped up and I had enough taffeta and silk to clothe a lesser borough, I leaned in to give Jade a thank-you kiss on each cheek. I skipped down the stairs to catch a cab. Maybe I could soften the blow of the cryptic Xander story by offering Camille first choice of the dresses for the dance.
Oh, shoot! The dance! With all the private fashion show excitement, I’d completely forgotten that I was supposed to go to a committee meeting today after school. And when I checke
d my cell phone in the taxi, I had the threatening text message from Willa to prove it.
IF YOU DON’T START PULLING YOUR WEIGHT, FLOOD, I DO HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO REMOVE YOU FROM THE COMMITTEE. PUBLICLY DETHRONED AT THE VALENTINE’S DANCE—WOULDN’T THAT BE EMBARRASSING?
Chapter 21
SOMETIMES IT TAKES THREE TO TANGO
On Thursday morning, I woke up before my alarm clock to the sound of our repeatedly ringing doorbell.
“Could somebody get that?” I shouted in the general direction of the rest of my family. “Oh, right,” I remembered aloud. “I’m the only one who’s ever actually home. No offense, Noodles.”
Yawning, I pulled on a sweatshirt and thumped down the stairs, thinking that whoever was cruel enough to ring someone’s doorbell so many times before 8 a.m. had better have a pretty good excuse.
For a second, I thought that it might have been my dad. Even with his insane travel schedule, he tried really hard not to miss a Valentine’s Day. But I knew that he had an important business meeting/golf tournament in Maui all week, for which he had already apologized profusely.
When I opened the door, I was greeted by a stranger in a Yankees cap.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” he said flatly. “But they’re paying me to help you.” He reached behind him to pick something up off the stoop. Unceremoniously, he handed me the most enormous bouquet of red roses that I had ever seen.
“Omigod,” I gasped.
“Omigod is right,” the deliveryman said. “You must be pretty special. This guy got you the deluxe. Sign here.” He held out a clipboard.
“I can see that,” I said, signing my name and nearly buckling under the weight of the vase. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I said, overflowing with romantic wishes for everyone around me.
“Yeah, yeah,” the guy said, starting down the steps. I guessed if I had his job, I might not have been so cheery, but as it was, I couldn’t wait to read Alex’s card—or to set the massive vase down before I dropped it.
