Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  “How long have I known what?”

  “You know. That you like girls.”

  “I don’t,” Shari said with a smile. “I like some girls. Just like I like some guys. Just like you like some guys.” Her smile faded, and she added seriously, “It’s about the person’s soul, Lizzie, not the parts they have on the outside. You know that.”

  I’d nodded. Because that’s true. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

  “I don’t love Pat because she’s a woman,” Shari went on, “any more than I loved Chaz because he’s a man. I love them both for who they are on the inside. It’s just that I realized the one I’m most romantically interested in is Pat. Possibly because she doesn’t leave the toilet seat up.”

  I stared at her until Shari nudged me. “That was a joke,” she said. “It’s okay for you to laugh.”

  “Oh,” I said. And laughed. But then my laughter faded as I thought about something else.

  “Shari,” I said. “What about your mom and dad? Have you told them yet?”

  “No,” Shari said. “That’s a conversation best saved for the next time I see them in person. Christmas vacation, I think.”

  “Are you going to take Pat to meet them?”

  “She wants to go,” Shari says. “But I’m trying to spare her. Maybe after they’ve gotten used to the idea.”

  “Right,” I said. I tried to push down the spurt of jealousy I felt that Shari’s girlfriend actually wants to meet her parents, whereas my boyfriend has expressed not the slightest iota of interest in meeting mine. There were much more important things to take under consideration, after all. Like, I couldn’t even imagine how Dr. and Mrs. Dennis were going to react to the news that their daughter is in a romantic relationship with a woman. Dr. Dennis will probably head straight to his liquor cabinet. Mrs. Dennis will head straight to the phone.

  “Oh God!” I’d stared at Shari, wide-eyed. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? Your mom is going to call my mom. And then my mom is going to find out I’m not actually living with you anymore. And then she’ll know I’m living with Luke.”

  “She’ll probably just be grateful,” Shari said, “that you and I aren’t a couple.”

  “Yeah.” My shoulders sagged with relief. “You’re probably right about that. Hey—” I glanced at her in some alarm. “We’re not, are we? I mean…you never felt about me the way you feel about Pat, did you?”

  Please say no, I was praying. Please say no, please say no. Because I value Shari’s friendship more than anything, and if it turned out she was in love with me, well, how could we be friends anymore? You can’t be friends with someone who’s in love with you if you don’t love that person back the same way…

  Shari regarded me with an expression I might almost have called sarcastic.

  “Yes, Lizzie,” she said. “I have been in love with you since the first grade when you showed me your Batgirl Underoos. The only reason I’m with Pat is because I know I can’t have you because you stubbornly refuse to love me and not Luke. Now come over here and kiss me, you little minx.”

  I blinked at her. And she burst out laughing.

  “No, you idiot,” she said. “Although I love you dearly as a friend, I have never been romantically interested in you. You’re actually not my type.”

  I don’t want to sound pejorative, but her tone seemed to imply that she couldn’t understand why anyone would be interested in me romantically.

  I didn’t say so at the time, but I was kind of wondering the same thing. I mean, doesn’t Pat realize that Shari is an inveterate blanket hog (as I discovered to my disadvantage when we were forced to share a sleeping bag at camp that time those mean girls threw mine in the lake) and has, to my knowledge, never once returned a book she borrowed? It was a miracle that Chaz, a known bibliophile, even put up with her as long as he did. I purposely never loaned Shari my clothing, because I knew I’d never see it again.

  Of course Shari never asked to borrow any of my clothing. My style is just a little too retro for her, I guess.

  But, whatever.

  “You have a type?” I asked her with a raised eyebrow. “Because you seem to cover a pretty wide range—”

  “Primarily,” Shari interrupted, “I like people who can keep their mouths shut once in a while.”

  “Well, then, it’s no wonder you and Chaz broke up,” I said, just as the elevator, groaning with the strain, finally arrived.

  “Ha ha,” Shari said. Then, giving me a hug, she said, “Take care of him for me, will you? Don’t let him slide into one of his funks where he stays inside all day reading Heidegger and never ventures out except to buy booze. Promise?”

  “Like you have to ask,” I said. “I love Chaz like the brother I never had. I’ll make sure to get Tiffany to invite him out with her and some of her model friends. That should cheer him up.”

  “That ought to do it, all right,” Shari agreed.

  And the elevator doors closed and she was gone.

  And that was that.

  Well, except for the part where now I can’t sleep a wink, because I keep replaying it all over and over in my head.

  “Hey.” The word, spoken so softly beside me, causes me to jump. I turn my head. Luke is awake, and blinking at me sleepily.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “Did I wake you?” I hadn’t been making any noise. Had I managed to wake him with my noisy thoughts? I’ve read that couples can become so close that they can read each other’s minds. Ask me to marry you, Luke. Luke, ask me to marry you. Luke. I am your father… Oh no, wait—

  “No,” he says. “It’s this damn metal bar—”

  “Oh yeah. It’s killing me, too.”

  “Sorry about this,” Luke says with a sigh. “We just have to put up with them for one more night and then they’ll be gone.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. I can’t believe he’s worrying about me when he has something so much bigger to worry about—his mother’s secret affair, I mean.

  Except of course he doesn’t know about that. Because I haven’t told him. How can I? He’s so happy his parents are back together.

  And something like that could totally sour him against marriage forever. I mean, what if he concludes, from his mother’s catting about—not to mention Shari’s recent abandonment of Chaz, and his own ex-girlfriend’s leaving him for his own cousin—that women are incapable of fidelity?

  And things between us have been going so well—familial visitations aside. Even having Tiffany and Raoul to Thanksgiving dinner didn’t prove the disaster I thought it would, as they provided a welcome distraction for Chaz, who seemed to take great pleasure in watching Tiffany gad about in her thigh-highs and catsuit—I really think Luke might have forgotten all about that whole “people our age don’t even know what love is” thing.

  Maybe I’ll even be getting an extraspecial present for Christmas. The kind that comes in a very small box.

  Hey. You never know.

  “Well,” Luke says, his lips suddenly in my hair, “I think you’re a trouper. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. And hey—did I mention that turkey you made was delicious?”

  “Oh,” I say modestly. “Thanks.”

  Well? He doesn’t need to know it came already cooked.

  “I think you’re a keeper, Lizzie Nichols,” he says, his lips now moving lower than my hair, and toward some other parts of my body that can appreciate lips more than hair.

  “Oh,” I say in a different voice. “Thanks!” A keeper! Why, that’s practically a marriage proposal. Calling someone a keeper is like saying you never want to throw them back into the dating pool for someone else to snatch instead. Right?

  “And you’re sure,” he says, from down there, “that you and Shari never—”

  I sit up and glare at him in the darkened room. “Luke! I told you! No!”

  “Whatever!” he says with a laugh. “I’m just asking. You know Chaz is going to ask, too.”

  “I told
you.” I can’t believe this. “You can’t say anything to Chaz. Not until Shari’s told him. I wasn’t even supposed to say anything to you—”

  Luke laughs—not very nicely, I might add. “Shari told you something and asked you to keep it a secret?”

  “I am capable of keeping some things to myself, you know,” I say indignantly. Because, seriously…if he only knew what I’ve been keeping to myself since I moved in.

  “I know,” he says with a laugh. “I’m just teasing you. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him. But you know what Chaz is going to say.”

  “What?” I ask, relenting—but only because he looks so handsome in the moonlight spilling in from the windows.

  “That if Shari was going to decide to become a lesbian, why did she have to do it after they’d broken up?”

  I yank the sheet up over the parts of my body he seems to be finding so interesting.

  “For your information,” I say, “Shari is not a lesbian.”

  “Bi, lesbian. Whatever. What’s with this?” He tugs at the sheet.

  “What’s with the labels?” I demand, tugging back. “Why do people have to be defined by their sexual preference? Can’t Shari just be Shari?”

  “Sure,” Luke says, looking taken aback. “Why are you being so defensive about this?”

  “Because,” I say. “I don’t want people to call Shari my ‘lesbian friend.’ And I’m sure she doesn’t, either. Well, actually, I’m sure Shari doesn’t care. But that’s not the point. She’s just Shari. I don’t call Chaz your ‘heterosexual friend.’”

  “Fine,” Luke says. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had my best friend’s girlfriend ditch him for another girl before. I’m a little confused at the moment.”

  “Welcome to the club,” I say.

  Luke rolls over to stare at the ceiling.

  “Obviously,” he says after a moment’s silence, “there’s only one thing we can do.”

  “What?” I ask suspiciously.

  He shows me.

  And, in the end, I have to admit—he has a point.

  Which he makes—nice and emphatically, I might add.

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  Feeling the glove…

  Some brides opt for a more formal look by donning gloves on the big day. Gloves come in many lengths, and can be the perfect accessory for the fashion conscious or merely traditional bride. They have a practical use, as well—brides who wear gloves certainly needn’t worry about their manicure…or smearing their own messy fingerprints on their pure white gown.

  The most common types of bridal gloves are:

  Opera Length—These long white gloves stretch from the fingertips to the upper arm.

  Elbow length—Like the opera length, only these end just above the elbow.

  Gauntlet—These kinds of gloves are hand-and-fingerless, covering only the forearm.

  Fingerless—Just like the lace ones Madonna used to wear. Or the woolly ones Bob Cratchitt is often pictured wearing.

  Wrist—These gloves cover the hand only, like ski gloves.

  Gloves should be removed for the ring part of the ceremony (it is considered ill-bred to wear rings OVER glove fingers. If your glove does not open at the wrist, cut a small hole beneath the wedding finger of your left-hand glove so you can easily wiggle your finger through to receive the ring) and of course while dining.

  Brides with very muscular arms or those wearing long sleeves should avoid gloves altogether.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 18

  No one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.

  —Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), British philosopher

  The Monday after Thanksgiving, we got slammed at the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn reception desk. I don’t know if there have ever been any official studies on this, but I would say, just judging from my own observations, divorce requests definitely go up after a long holiday weekend.

  A sentiment with which I could actually sympathize, having spent mine with the de Villierses…who are all very charming people, but not without their annoying quirks. Like Mrs. de Villiers’s annoying quirk of talking about Dominique, Luke’s ex, and how happy she and Blaine, Luke’s cousin, are. Apparently Dominique is doing a great job managing Blaine’s financial affairs…and he needs the help, because his band, Satan’s Shadow, is superhot on the indie metal circuit.

  Another hot topic of conversation for Mrs. de Villiers is Blaine’s sister’s pregnancy. Vickie isn’t even due until the spring and doesn’t even know the baby’s sex yet, but Luke’s mother is already buying tiny onesies and booties and cooing over how much she can’t wait to have a grandchild of her own, making Luke look extremely uncomfortable and putting back my woodland-creaturing of him weeks, possibly even months.

  And Mr. de Villiers’s annoying quirk wasn’t much better. His was not looking where he’s going and consequently putting his foot through my Singer 5050—which I purposely moved from the dressing table to the floor beneath my hanging rack, thinking no one would trip over it there, since there was a metal bar in the way.

  And yet somehow Luke’s father managed to destroy it…or at least the bobbin.

  He apologized profusely and offered to pay for a new one. But I told him it was all right, that the machine was old and I’d been intending to get a new one anyway.

  I swear I don’t know where some of the things that come out of my mouth even come from.

  Anyway, they’re gone. They left Sunday afternoon, after much kissing and talk of all the fun they’re going to have at Château Mirac over Christmas and New Year’s. Of course, they pressured me to come along, but I could tell they didn’t really mean it. Well, Luke did, of course. And maybe his dad did.

  But his mom? Not so much? The smile she gave me as she said, “Oh, do come, Lizzie, it will be such fun,” didn’t go all the way up to her eyes. They didn’t crinkle at the sides like they normally did when she smiles.

  No. I know where I’m not wanted. And that’s at the de Villierses’ familial holiday celebration in France.

  Which is fine. It is. It’s totally cool. I explained I only had the long weekend off anyway, which I’d be spending flying home to see my parents, before returning to work on Monday.

  I don’t think it’s my imagination that Mrs. de Villiers looked kind of relieved about that. I mean, that she was getting her son all to herself.

  Which you would think she’d realize makes the grandchild production thing kind of difficult. But maybe she has other candidates in mind…ones who aren’t working two jobs, one of them nonpaying, and the other hardly worth bragging to her girlfriends about. I mean, a receptionist? So not as glamorous, say, as an investment banker or market analyst…

  Especially not the Monday after Thanksgiving, when everybody and their mother seems to want a divorce lawyer. Tiffany says the only busier time in the office is right after New Year’s, which is when a lot of proposals take place, so people want to come in for their prenups.

  I’ve said, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?” so many times, my throat is getting sore, and I’m starting to rasp a little. Fortunately, Tiffany has come in early (as usual) to shoot the breeze, and is willing to spell me for a few minutes while I run to the ladies’ room to spray a little Chloraseptic down my throat.

  “So Raoul says he can get your friend Shari in to see his internist,” Tiffany says, as she takes my chair. “You know, if she’s still sick. Is she still sick?”

  “She’s not sick,” I say, opening my drawer and pulling out my Meyers handbag—which barely fits in there, thanks to the back issues of Vogue which Tiffany insists on saving. “She and Chaz broke up.”

  “They did?” Tiffany swings her wide, blue-eyed gaze up at me. “Right before your party? God, no wonder he said she was sick. How totally embarrassing. So is one of them moving out? Which one? Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Because I’ve been trying really hard no
t to mention anything about it to anyone—especially people like Tiffany who could conceivably say something to Chaz’s father. Obviously Luke knows, but he’s the only person I’ve told. I’m really trying not to be such a gossip these days. Shari asked me not to say anything to anyone until she’d had a chance to speak to Chaz about it—which I hope to God she has, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep from saying anything to him when he calls the office to return his father’s phone calls. Between that and the thing about Luke’s mom, I am BURSTING with secrets.

  And it’s driving me mental.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Look, let me just go spray my throat and I’ll be right back—”

  Tiffany doesn’t get a chance to reply, though, because the phone chirps and she has to grab it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”

  The ladies’ room of the law offices is actually situated outside the lobby, by the elevator doors. To get in, you have to punch in a code. This is not to keep random tourists from wandering in off the street to use the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn bathrooms, since for one thing random tourists can’t even get into the building without an appointment and passing a security screening. I don’t actually know why all the offices in this building keep the doors to their ladies’ (and men’s. The management of this building is not sexist) rooms locked, and require a code to enter.

  In any case, one of the duties of the receptionist at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn is to give the code to any clients or visiting lawyers who ask for it. The code is very easy to remember: 1-2-3.

  And yet some clients (and lawyers) have to be given the code two, even three times before they retain it. This can be annoying to the receptionist, though of course we never show it. Still, it makes me wonder why we need the lock at all, since in all the time I’ve been using the ladies’ room at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, no one has ever been in it at the same time I have. It’s the most underused bathroom in all of New York.