by Meg Cabot
The best negotiators try honestly to see things from the other person’s point of view and express sympathy for others’ ideas, opinions, and desires.
* * *
Twenty-eight
STILL DAY FIVE OF POPULARITY
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 4 P.M.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Seriously. What am I going to do?
I can’t NOT let them do it. Have their rager in Grandpa’s observatory, I mean. Because if I don’t, they’ll all hate me. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve planned, all my newfound popularity—gone. It will all disappear, just like that. I’ll have pulled the biggest Steph Landry in the history of Greene County.
But I can’t let them ruin everything Grandpa’s worked so hard for, either.
Because they WILL ruin it. I don’t care what Todd says. That observatory is filled with super-sensitive equipment. You can’t have one hundred plus dancing teenagers—not to mention a DJ—on the observation deck and not have delicate instruments get jounced around or even destroyed.
I can’t let them do it. I can’t let them mess up Grandpa’s wedding gift for Kitty.
But I can’t pull a Steph Landry, either.
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
Mom just asked, “What’s the matter with you? You’ve been jumpy ever since you got here.” Here being the store. Since I’m meeting Mark here to take the photos for the ads he’s agreed to be in for the store.
“Nothing’s the matter,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
What if Jason tells on me?
I asked him if he was going to. I waited for him after school, out by the student parking lot. He came running by so fast, he was practically a blur. I don’t know who he was hiding from, but I don’t think it was me, because when I called his name and he turned around and saw it was me, he looked relieved.
Although the whole time we were talking, his gaze was darting around, like he was looking for someone.
“What?” he said in a totally non-friendly manner.
“I just need to know,” I said. “Are you going to tell?”
“Tell who about what?” Jason asked.
“You know what. About the rager tonight. Are you going to tell your parents? Or Kitty?”
“It’s none of my business,” Jason said. “I wasn’t invited, remember?”
“I know,” I said. I didn’t bother telling him he was invited. He wouldn’t come, anyway. “But are you going to try to stop it?”
“You know what, Steph?” Jason said. “You’ve made it very clear this past week that you make your own decisions, and don’t need anybody’s help—or opinions. You’ve been doing fine without me so far. So why should I interfere now?”
I felt my shoulder slump a little in relief.
“So…you’re not going to tell?”
“I’m not going to tell,” Jason said. “I’m going to trust you to make the right decision. Since you’re so convinced you always do, anyway.”
I stared at him. “If I don’t let them in to have this party,” I said, “they’ll all hate me.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. “They will.”
“But if I do let them in to have this party,” I said. “You’ll hate me. Assuming you don’t already.”
“Assuming that,” Jason said. “Also assuming you care how I feel about you.”
“I care,” I said, stung by his implication that I didn’t.
But I don’t think Jason heard me, since at that moment something he saw over the top of my head caused him to go pale, and he said, “See you.”
Then he took off for The B.
But when I turned around, all I saw was Becca and Jason’s friend Stuckey coming out of the school.
“Wasn’t that Jason you were just talking to?” Becca wanted to know when she reached me.
“Yeah,” I said. Clearly, whatever had gone on between them last night, all was not wine and roses today. It was obvious Jason was doing everything he could to avoid Becca.
Only why? I mean, why, if he’d bought her—and kissed her?
But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I said, “He had some errands to run. For the wedding.”
“Oh,” Becca said. “Stuckey’s giving me a lift home. Want to ride with us?”
I said sure. I wasn’t super enthused about having to listen to the trials and triumphs of the Indiana Hoosiers basketball team. But it seemed better than the bus.
And surprisingly, Stuckey was actually able to converse about one or two topics that weren’t basketball related, including scrapbooking (clearly he’s been spending too much time with Becca) and tonight’s rager at Grandpa’s observatory.
“D’you know they’re planning on having it there, Steph?” Stuckey wanted to know. “’Cause I couldn’t imagine you’d know and not, you know, be trying to stop them. I’ve heard about Todd Rubin’s ragers. He had one at this kid’s house last year, on account of the kid’s parents being in Aruba, and they caused ten thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Someone lit the living room carpet on fire. With lighter fluid. They wrote their name in flames.”
“Oh, Steph would never let them do something like that to her grandpa’s observatory,” Becca said knowingly. “You must have heard wrong, John.”
It’s funny, but I never even knew Stuckey HAD a first name, let alone that it was John.
Whatever.
Anyway, there’s only one thing I can do. It took me a while to figure it out. But there IS a way to get out of having this party AND retain my popularity.
Unfortunately, it isn’t going to be easy.
But I think I’ve learned enough from The Book by now to pull it off.
Of course, a lot of it depends on Mark….
But that’s all right. Because Jason’s totally wrong about him.
And Mark’s going to make everything all right. I just know it.
* * *
A popular person can change anyone’s mind about anything.
Here’s how to do it:
Begin by praising the person. People like to hear nice things about themselves.
Talk about your own mistakes. Mention that you know no one is perfect, least of all yourself.
Subtly call attention to the person’s mistake.
Allow the person the chance to explain/save face.
Praise him or her for acknowledging the mistake. Then suggest how he/she could do better next time, making sure to allow the person to think he/she is the one who came up with the solution.
Use encouragement. Make the fault seem easy to correct.
Make the other person happy about doing the thing you suggest.
Problem solved!
* * *
Twenty-nine
STILL DAY FIVE OF POPULARITY
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 8 P.M.
Mark showed up at six on the dot, exactly when he said he would. His hair was still wet from his shower after practice—and possibly from all the rain outside.
But it didn’t matter. He looked hot, as always.
“Hey,” he said when I came out from behind the cash register. He was dripping on the ancient A-B-C alphabet carpet. But it was hard to mind when I got a look at those golden-green eyes. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” I said. “Mark, this is my mom.”
My mom, who’d waited around to meet Mark, despite the fact that her ankles were killing her and Dad had spent all day making his world-famous (well, in Greene County, anyway) chili for dinner, stepped forward and shook his hand.
“Hi, Mark, it’s nice to meet you,” Mom said. “Thanks so much for agreeing to do this. You don’t know how much it means to Steph. I mean, to me. I mean, to the store!”
Mark laughed along with my mom. It was kind of gratifying to know he could disconcert a late-thirty-something female—even one who was eight months pregnant with her sixth child—the same way he did her sixteen-year-old daughter.
“It’s my pleasure,” Mark said. “Great to meet
you, too.”
Leaving me to do my own thing—for once—Mom gathered up her umbrella and said good-bye.
“The weather being like it is,” she said, indicating the rain streaking the display windows, “you shouldn’t be bothered with too many customers. And Darren’s in the back having a quick bite. Just holler if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I assured her. And didn’t miss her mouthing, You’re right. He’s cute! on her way out.
Thank God Mark was looking at a copy of Sports Illustrated on the magazine rack at the time, and didn’t notice.
I had the family digital camera ready to go, so I wouldn’t waste any of his time. “I was going to have you pose outside, but with the rain and all, would you mind just sitting in one of the chairs over in the Popular Fiction section?” I asked.
Mark said, “No problem,” and followed me.
I had him sit in the beat-up old leather armchair and propped a copy of the latest John Grisham hardback in his hands.
“This’ll be good,” I said. “It’ll be like, ‘When he’s not leading the Bloomville Fish to the State Finals, you can find Mark Finley relaxing at Courthouse Square Books.’”
Mark smiled modestly. “Well, if I actually manage to lead us to the State Finals, you mean.”
“Oh, you will,” I said as I started snapping away. “Lift your chin up just a little. Great. You can do anything you set your mind to. You’re just that kind of person.”
“Well,” Mark said, smiling a little more broadly, “I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true,” I said. “You’re really amazing. Not just on the field, but off it, too.”
“Come on,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. But he was still smiling.
“Come on, yourself,” I said. “You know it’s true. I wish I could be more like you.”
“Oh, now,” Mark said. “You’re pretty great yourself. I mean, nobody else in the history of the school has ever figured out a way to raise as much money as you did in just one night.”
“Oh, I’m good at money stuff,” I said, snapping away with the camera. “But I’m not so hot with people. Your girlfriend, for instance. Hey, could you swing one leg over the chair arm? Yeah, like that, nice and casual-looking.”
“Lauren?” Mark had stopped smiling.
“Yeah, Lauren. I mean, you probably don’t know this, but she’s hated me for years.”
“No way,” Mark said. He was smiling again. “Lauren thinks you’re great! She even told me about how you two used to play Barbies together, when you were little.”
“She told you that?” I forgot about taking pictures for a second. “Did she tell you about the Super Big Gulp?”
“I might have heard something about that once or twice,” Mark said. Now he looked a little uncomfortable “But that was a long time ago, right? I know Lauren—and everybody else—is super stoked about you agreeing to let us have our party in your granddad’s building.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Listen, why don’t we take some at the counter, like you’re buying something. Okay?”
“Cool,” Mark said, and got up, giving me a picture-perfect view of his backside in his snug, faded jeans.
“It’s just,” I said, swallowing hard. “About that. The party, I mean.”
“It’s so great of you to agree to let us have it at the observatory,” Mark said, posing at the counter with one hand on his chin. It was kind of obvious from his ease in front of the camera that he’d done this kind of thing before. The hand on his chin looked kind of Sears catalog-y. But I didn’t want to say anything. “You’ve really saved our butts. Again.”
“Right,” I said. “I know. But this thing with Lauren—”
“What thing with Lauren?”
“This thing between Lauren and me—”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell you,” Mark said with a laugh. “There’s no thing. I mean, not on Lauren’s side. She totally likes you, Steph. You saw how she cut Alyssa Krueger off for sending you that nasty note. If she didn’t like you, why would she drop her best friend?”
To hang on to you, was what I wanted to say. But instead, I said, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that. And I’m worried that—”
“Wait.” Mark froze, one elbow on the counter, one hand on his hip. “I know what this is about.”
I stared at him in astonishment. “You…do?”
“Yeah.”
And that’s when he did it. He reached out and took my hand—the one not holding the camera—and drew me to him.
I didn’t really understand what was happening until I was standing about two inches away from him, and he had reached down and stuck a finger under my chin to tilt my face up so I was looking him in the eye.
“You’re worried,” Mark said, grinning down at me—that lopsided grin that made my heart hurt every time I looked at it, “about people trashing your grandfather’s place tonight.”
“Well,” I said. Thank God. He’d finally figured it out. Without me having to tell him. “Yeah. Actually. And I was hoping maybe you could talk to Lauren and everybody and help them understand that I really can’t—”
“God. You are so nice.”
“Um,” I said. If only he knew the truth. “Not really. So do you think you could maybe—”
But before I could say another word, Mark had leaned down and put his mouth over mine.
That’s right. Mark Finley was kissing me.
On the lips, this time.
I have no idea whether or not I kissed him back. I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to do. It’s not like I have a lot of experience with kisses, never having been kissed before. I think I just stood there, letting him kiss me, aware of the sound of the traffic in the rain outside, and the taste of his lips—like ChapStick—and the warmth from his body.
Mark Finley is kissing me. That’s what kept going through my head the whole time. Mark Finley is kissing me.
I know when you get kissed, fireworks are supposed to go off, or something, inside your head. You’re supposed to hear an angelic choir singing in your ears, and little birds singing, like in cartoons when someone gets hit in the head with a frying pan.
So I kept my eyes closed and tried really hard to see the fireworks and hear the choir and the birds.
Mark Finley is kissing me. MARK FINLEY IS KISSING ME.
And I saw them. And heard them. Did I ever.
Finally Mark lifted his head. Looking down at me with his eyes half-hidden by his thick brown eyelashes, he said in his deep voice, “God, you’re cute. Has anybody ever told you how cute you are?”
I shook my head. I don’t think I could have spoken if I tried. All I could think was, Mark Finley kissed me. Mark Finley thinks I’m cute.
MARK FINLEY THINKS I’M CUTE.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, gently stroking my tingling lips with his thumb. “Sorry about that.” He meant, I knew, the kiss. “You’re so cute, I guess I just couldn’t resist. Forgive me?”
Forgive him? For kissing me? It was all I could do to keep from dropping to my knees and thanking him. Mark Finley had kissed me. MARK FINLEY HAD KISSED ME.
“I won’t let anything happen to your granddad’s building, Steph,” he said in the same deep voice, gazing deeply into my eyes. “Don’t worry.”
I shook my head. Of course I wasn’t going to worry. Because he’s…well, he’s Mark Finley. MARK FINLEY. And he kissed me. And he thinks I’m nice. And cute.
“You got enough pictures for now?” Mark asked me softly, still holding on to my face.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. I couldn’t believe my lips were even capable of forming words, they were still so tingly from his kiss.
“So is it okay if I go now? I have to pick up the keg for tonight.”
“Yes,” I heard myself say again. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. It was like I was on the outside of my body, watching this girl named Steph in a love scene with a guy named Mark. A guy named Mark
who’d kissed her.
“Cool,” Mark said.
And then he kissed me again, this time lightly, and just once, on the forehead.
“See you at ten,” he said.
And left.
* * *
The life of the party is you!
Throwing a party shouldn’t be hard. Here are some tips on how to make it fun for everyone…even the hostess!
If one of your guests shows up with guests of their own—whom you did not invite—welcome them graciously. You know the old saying—the more, the merrier!
Don’t worry that your house isn’t clean—or grand—enough to entertain in. Your guests are there to enjoy one another’s company, not a house tour!
Music can liven up any occasion! Make sure you have some of the day’s top hits to play at your soiree.
And enjoy yourself—nothing ruins a party faster than a nervous hostess!
* * *
Thirty
STILL DAY FIVE OF POPULARITY
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 10 P.M.
Darren came out of the back room just as Mark was leaving. He walked up to the register and went, “Who was THAT?”
“That,” I said, watching Mark head out to his four-by-four parked right in front of the store, “was Mark Finley.”
“The Mark Finley?” Darren whistled. “And were mine eyes deceiving me, or was he just KISSING you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, he was.”
“Congrats, girlfriend,” Darren said. “See? You didn’t believe me. I knew you’d get a date to the prom.”
And with that, I was jolted forcibly back to reality.
“No,” I said faintly. “He already has a girlfriend.”
Darren looked shocked. “Well, that’s no way for a taken man to behave. What’s he thinking?”
The birds that had been twittering around inside my head fell silent. The tingling sensation in my lips vanished.
That’s right. Mark had a girlfriend. What WAS he thinking, kissing me, anyway?
