When It's Real

by Erin Watt

  OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 Ugh. I kno.

  Notification of date number three doesn’t come from Claudia or Oakley. Instead, it’s a khaki-clad delivery guy who sticks a white box with a big black ribbon in my hands and orders me to sign here.

  I barely scrawl the tip of my finger across the screen before he’s down the steps and climbing into his white delivery van.

  “Thanks,” I call after him, but it’s a wasted effort.

  Gingerly, I carry the box into the kitchen where I’ve been answering Tweets for the last two hours. Claudia sent me a message this morning ordering me to respond to my fans—the ones that made the cut before the account went private.

  I have no fans. I have...girls who went crazy after Oakley Tweeted from his account that next time he’d remember to feed me.

  If I could tell those girls the truth—that Oakley is a condescending jerk who thinks that normal girls can’t handle a guy like him because we’d be too jealous or impatient or unsympathetic—they’d move on to crushing on someone else.

  One of them is already calling W hot. I had to force myself to delete a response that told the girl to keep her grubby mitts off my boyfriend. Because I’m not supposed to have a boyfriend.

  I settled for Tweeting back responses like “I don’t know what’s happening, either” and “This is all new to me.”

  Paisley called at noon to tell me how happy Claudia was with my performance. That put me in a bad mood, which this fancy box with its set of interlocking embossed GGs on the top only worsens.

  I’m kind of scared to open it. The most designer thing I own is one of my mom’s Coach purses. Until a few days ago, I was a waitress at Sharkey’s, serving steaks in borrowed polyester black pants that are too tight and a white button-down shirt that’s too big.

  I flip the lid over the card again to make sure it’s got my name on it. It does. The envelope is addressed to Vaughn in beautiful calligraphy. The card says, “Wear this tonight.”

  The bow comes undone with one tug and I lift the top of the box off. Inside, under a layer of tissue paper is...it’s a shirt...I guess. I hold it up and can pretty much see through the lace fabric to the back door. Underneath it is a short black skirt and sky-high pumps.

  My stomach sinks. So our third date must be in public.

  Since I’m not allowed to have direct contact with Claudia, I text my sister.

  Where am I going tonight?

  There’s no response. She must be in a meeting.

  I carry the items upstairs and lay the two pieces of clothing on the bed. I slip the shoes on and they’re weirdly too big and too small at the same time. My toes are squished into the pointy toes, but there’s a gap between my heel and the back of the shoe. Plus, they’re so high I feel like I’m tipping forward. The only thing keeping them on my feet is the wide cuff around the ankle.

  I try to maneuver around the bedroom, but my ankles feel unstable and strange. I look about as sexy as a horse.

  I try on the rest of the outfit—what little of it there is. The shirt is just as sheer as I’d feared, with lace flowers placed around a few strategic places in front. The rest is a see-through mesh. I hate it. It’s probably the most expensive thing that’s ever touched my skin, but I hate it.

  I pull on the skirt and then look at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of my door. I look like...an awkward reject from a Nutcracker casting call.

  If I’m going to have my picture taken tonight—which I assume is the purpose of this public date and my specially couriered outfit—then I need some help. Carrie might be my closest friend, but Kiki is the one who does everyone’s hair and makeup at sleepovers.

  Kiki, when you’re done with class, can u come over?

  She texts back immediately.

  Will Oakley Ford be there?

  No. I’m supposed to see him tonight. He sent me this.

  I take a picture of myself, arm across my boobs because the appliqued flowers are not big enough.

  OMG! Is that Gucci?

  Yeah, but u can c my boobs thru the shirt. I can’t go out like this.

  Oakley Ford sent u a sxy outfit from Gucci?

  Can u come ovr or not?

  YYYYYYY!

  Kiki must break several traffic laws, because she shows up thirty minutes after school lets out.

  “Hey, girl,” she squeals when I open the door. “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay,” she says with obvious disappointment, but she rallies immediately, lifting her backpack. “I brought my stuff. How much time do we have?”

  I pull her inside. “The twins won’t be home for another forty-five. Paisley doesn’t come home until six. Sometimes seven or eight, depending on what kind of work they have for her. Why? Do you need to be someplace?”

  Kiki laughs and trots up the stairs. “Not until your fam gets home, Vaughn. When are you going out?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit.

  Her eyes widen. Not in dismay, but excitement. “This is so amazing! It’s a mystery date. He sends you clothes and then picks you up and whisks you off to someplace wild. God, I wish Justin could be more spontaneous. His idea of a date these days is to drive me over to Colin’s house so the two of them can go over their fantasy lineup for the weekend. And the last thing he bought me was a grande mocha at Starbucks.”

  I bite my lip because I want to tell her that that’s a hundred times better than my fake date with Oakley last night. I settle for, “Justin’s not so bad.”

  She snorts. “He’s no Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.”

  We reach my room, where Kiki inspects the clothes Claudia sent.

  “I don’t think I can wear these,” I admit.

  “Why not?” She studies the shirt and then the skirt. The shoes with the ankle cuff and buckle get the most attention. I think I see a spot of drool on the side of her mouth.

  “It’s see-through and I’m not comfortable with a bunch of fancy famous people looking at my nips.”

  “How about a black tank?”

  The only thing Kiki and I manage to find that’s remotely acceptable is an American Eagle bralette. All my tanks are the athletic kind and even I can tell that’s not going to work under the mesh and delicate embroidery.

  Kiki makes me put the bra and shirt on and then sets out to put my hair in curlers.

  “Do you have a look you want me to copy or should I just do what I think is best?”

  “Just do whatever.”

  “Goodie. I’m going to go with big loose curls, a smoky eye and then a mauve lip. How do you feel about fake eyelashes?”

  “I tried to wear them to prom last year and found them on W’s shoulder at the after-party.”

  She laughs. “We’re gonna skip those.”

  “Good call.”

  I watch as Kiki expertly sections off my hair and starts curling it. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s known she’s wanted to do hair and makeup. After graduation, she plans to attend the Aveda Institute.

  Justin, her boyfriend, is going to UCLA, majoring in accounting.

  Tracy feeds into the blonde stereotype—no matter how many times we explain to her that the sun is a star and we orbit around the star, she doesn’t believe us because we can’t see the sun at night, and stars are visible at night. But even Tracy knows what she’s doing after graduation. She’s going to USC to study to be a fashion buyer.

  I’m the one who graduated early. Everyone assumes it’s because I know exactly what I want to do, but they couldn’t be more wrong.

  I shift uncomfortably in the chair.

  “Did I hurt you?” Kiki peers into the mirror with a worried expression.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Just let me know.” She flips another curl
over my shoulder. “You have such gorgeous hair. What’s Oakley’s favorite thing about you?”

  That he can treat me like a piece of crap and I don’t complain? Of course, I can’t say that, but I don’t have any other answer. I don’t think that guy likes anything about me. “What’s Justin’s favorite thing about you?”

  “My boobs. What do you think it is?” She giggles and then drags her fingers through my heated curls.

  “Nah, I’m sure it’s your killer softball pitch.” Kiki’s the starting pitcher on Thomas Jefferson High’s girls’ softball team.

  “That, too.” One by one she turns my straight locks into bouncy curls. “So does Oakley like your hair or your legs or your eyes? I want to highlight whatever it is that he likes.”

  I can tell she’s not giving up until I reveal something. “He likes that I’m normal.”

  “Hmmm.” She ponders this for a second. “I can see that, what with you wanting to be a teacher. That’s pretty normal. Now close your eyes.” She waves the bottle of hairspray in front of me.

  I do as she commands. If Oakley did like me because I wanted to be a teacher, that would just be one more topping on the metaphorical cake that I’m baking for him.

  “Did you know that Justin and me did it for the first time to Oakley’s song ‘Do Her Right’?” Kiki says casually as she dabs my face with the fat end of a pink sponge shaped like an egg.

  “Um, no. I did not know that.” Questions such as What’d it feel like? Was it good? burn at the tip of my tongue. Because Paisley hated it and I think she wishes she never had sex. Meanwhile, W wants me to give it up to him right now and I don’t think I can. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.

  “Justin can’t hear it without getting a chubby.”

  We stare at each other for a full minute before cracking up. The idea of Justin, her big linebacker boyfriend, getting turned on while listening to Oakley Ford croon that he’s going to do her, do her, do her right, is so hilarious that I laugh until tears form.

  “How many people know this?” I choke out as I try to catch my breath.

  “Everyone,” she admits. “Apparently it came on in the locker room, I don’t know why, and Justin popped a boner. Kirk Graham was teasing him about it at lunch a week ago.”

  “Maybe we can get Oakley to give you guys an in-person concert,” I joke.

  Kiki giggles. “I don’t think Justin would be able to handle it.”

  I wonder what Oakley would think of this story? He’d look down at it, I decide. Oakley probably only gets an erection if he’s lying on a pool of hundred dollar bills, and Victoria’s Secret models are prancing around his bed.

  Kiki helps me into the tutu skirt, which is surprisingly soft for all its volume. She also has me stuff cotton balls in the back of the shoes and in the toes until they fit okay. Then we go downstairs and I practice walking from one end of the living room to the other.

  “Do you mind if I wait until Oakley comes?” She perches on the recliner situated by the front window.

  An invisible hand squeezes my heart as I lay eyes on my dad’s favorite chair. If he were around, I wouldn’t be dressed up like a strange ballerina waiting for a pretend date to happen. I’d be at USC with W, taking classes in...crap, I don’t know. My dad would’ve figured it out for me. Or Mom. Or both of them.

  Instead, I’m lost.

  “Sure,” I say dully.

  Fortunately, Kiki’s so distracted by Oakley’s impending arrival she doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. “So what’s he like?”

  “Oakley?” I ask.

  “No. The mayor of LA.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course I mean Oakley.”

  He’s a jerk who can’t be bothered to give me his phone number, even though we’re supposed to date for an entire year. He demanded I pay attention to him. He kept making fun of W, a guy he’s never even met. He’s incredibly egotistical. Do I like his guns? Who says that?

  He also thinks he’s better than the rest of us because no normal girl could handle him. Although...when he went through the litany of crazy things his fans do, I felt he might be right.

  Then there was that weird, bitter note about his father. And I caught him rubbing my hair last night. I feel like maybe I should report that to W, because Oakley and I were alone and he shouldn’t touch me when we’re alone—not even my hair, because it does strange things to my stomach.

  I don’t share any of this with Kiki, because we don’t have the kind of relationship where I can tell her all of my ugly inner thoughts without fear of judgment. I don’t know if I have that relationship with anyone. So I go with, “I don’t know him yet.”

  She nods sagely as if that makes complete sense to her. “It’s different when you don’t grow up with them. I sometimes feel like Justin and I know too much about each other. Is that why you broke up with W?”

  “I didn’t break up with W,” I exclaim. “Is that what people are saying?”

  She shoots me a glance that says I must be kidding. “You’re the one dating Oakley Ford. No way that W broke up with you.”

  “But I didn’t meet Oakley until after we were broken up.” I grimace. W won’t like that. He doesn’t like to look bad in front of his friends. Hence the no cheating accusations. But this is worse. W wouldn’t want people thinking that he was thrown over for some famous guy.

  “Then why did you break up? Did he cheat on you? Did he end it because you wouldn’t enroll at USC?”

  Oh, crap. I don’t know what to say. When my phone rings, I answer it without even caring that it says “Blocked Caller” because at this point, I’ll take salvation via telemarketer.

  “Hello?”

  “Ty will pick you up at eight thirty.”

  It takes a moment for Oakley’s voice to register.

  “Tonight?”

  “No, tomorrow morning,” he mutters sarcastically. “Yeah, tonight.”

  “But...what time am I getting home?”

  “Are you five?”

  Any warm, fuzzy feeling that may have sprung up because he saved me from an awkward situation dies an immediate death. I turn my back to Kiki, who’s taken to staring out the window to catch her first glimpse of Oakley. “Are you always this much of a jerk?” I hiss.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  I close my eyes and pray for patience. “Where are we going?”

  “Private party. Like the outfit?”

  I blink in surprise. Oakley picked this out? “Not particularly.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  14

  HER

  “I thought you said we were going to a party.” From the back seat of Oakley’s Escalade, I anxiously peer out the heavily tinted window. “What is this place?”

  Tyrese, who’s behind the wheel, just stopped the SUV on an industrial street in south LA. It’s not an area I’ve been to before. I can hear the bass, but there’s no sign anywhere on the building, just a black steel door that looks kind of ominous.

  Beside me, Oakley wears an annoyed expression. “It’s a club.”

  “So we’re not going to a party?”

  “It’s a party. At a club. What part of this don’t you understand, baby?”

  I glare at him. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. And don’t call me baby.”

  He just smirks.

  Ugh! I want to punch this guy! I don’t care that he’s paying me a fortune to date him, or that he looks superhot right now in his faded jeans and forest-green T-shirt that looks like it might have been stitched on his body. None of that takes away from the fact that he’s a total jackass sometimes.

  “I just want to know what I’m about to walk into,” I say tightly. “Who owns this place?”

  “Who knows? Promoters put together private events. Parties, rec
ord launches, small concerts.” He shrugs.

  I wrinkle my forehead. “And Claudia wants this to be the venue for our first public date?”

  “Yes. This is what she wants,” Oakley answers impatiently. “Ty—you ready?”

  My pulse speeds up. “Ready for what?” I squeak.

  “Just making sure the paps aren’t lurking around,” Oakley says. “We give ’em the photo op when we’re leaving, not arriving.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they see us now, they might find a way to sneak into the club and get pics we don’t want to give ’em.” He looks at me like I’m dumb for not knowing that.

  I am so sick of everyone in his fancy-pants world treating me like I’ve got rocks for brains. But instead of lashing out, I sit there and grit my teeth and remind myself that I’m getting paid twenty grand a month for this.

  No, Kiki, there’s not one thing that Oakley Ford likes about me. And I’m perfectly fine with that because he’s a prick with a capital P.

  Oakley and I don’t get out of the car until Ty gives us the all-clear. I almost fall five times on the way to the scary black door, and I don’t miss the amusement in my “boyfriend’s” eyes every time I wobble on the insanely high heels he sent me.

  “Could you pick a pair of flats next time?” I mutter.

  “Nah. Your legs look wicked hot in those heels.”

  This time I don’t feel any tingles at his use of the word hot. I’m starting to think he throws it around like candy on Halloween. Every girl who shows up probably gets a compliment.

  Tyrese thumps one meaty fist against the steel door, which opens almost immediately. Another version of Ty appears—a huge, muscly man with trees for arms, only he has dreadlocks instead of a shaved head. He glances at Oakley, nods, and opens the door wider.

  I smell the smoke the minute we step into the dimly lit hallway. “Is something on fire?” I sniff.

  For some reason, that makes him laugh hysterically. Instead of answering, he surges forward. I chase after him on my death heels and pray I don’t twist an ankle.

  The corridor opens onto a dark room with a bar on one side, a stage on the other and dozens of tables and couches in between. It’s not very crowded, but there’s a decent amount of people here, laughing, smoking and shouting to each other over the music. I don’t recognize the band that’s playing, but the beats are familiar. I’ve heard this tune or something like it on the radio for the past five years.