I step up to Gemma’s vanity—a table with a mirror above it where she puts on makeup and does her hair. On top of the table is a fancy gold tray that holds bottles of perfume. When I pick one up, the others make a nice clinking sound. Princess by Vera Wang. It’s my favorite, the prettiest bottle, shaped like a heart with a crown on top. She won’t miss one spray. I close my eyes and lean my face into a pouf of sweet-smelling air.
I think about Mom with her head in the Skylers’ oven.
The damp mist feels good on my face, so I pick up another bottle. Live Colorfully by Kate Spade. I sniff it and put it down again. Clink.
I think about Gemma and her black-and-white vacations.
Poppy Citrine Blossom by Coach. Sniff. Clink.
I think about Brianna and her new pool and the polka-dot window seat.
Modern Muse by Estée Lauder. Sniff. Clink.
I think about Eden and her fancy Nashville life with gold nails and perfect online posts.
Miss Dior by Christian Dior. Sniff. Clink.
I think about Ronan and his fake selfie.
I’m in a zone now, picking up bottle after bottle and taking a whiff of each one—I can’t tell what smells like what anymore. How can one girl have so much perfume? I spray the next one into the air, and then I spin-step into it. I like the way the scent wafts when I move, and I linger in the perfume cloud, thinking about the weeds outside my window that I like to pretend are wildflowers. Thinking about Ronan’s dad’s dirty couch spot and vacant eyes.
A sneeze overtakes me, and I start to topple. As I try to catch myself, my hand hits the caps of some of the bottles on the tray, knocking them over. One goes off the edge and smash! lands next to the vanity, its sweet liquid spilling onto the dark wood floor.
I freeze.
“Claire?” Mom is standing in the doorway with a question in her eyes.
“Sorry,” I say, bending down to pick up the broken glass. “I’ll get her a new one. I . . .”
Mom takes my hand and lifts me up into a hug, and I fight the urge to cry into her shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
But I don’t speak. I step out of her hug with a big breath in. I’m getting better at holding in my tears.
“I’ll get a broom,” I say.
Chapter 15
The day of Brianna’s pool party, I pace around my room. Which basically means I walk back and forth from the closet to the window. I notice how ragged the carpet feels under my feet; it’s old and the color is fading.
This is the weekend Dad is on vacation, so I didn’t see him last night. It’s fine. But I think maybe he’s gone with a woman, maybe that person who called when we went mini golfing, “K.” Who puts an initial into a phone? Someone with a secret.
I stare at Brianna’s gift on the bed. I found an old photo of us together when we were, like, seven, one that was good enough that my mom ordered a hard copy of it at some point. In the moment I found the picture, I thought it would be a perfect present. I made a paper frame for it, and I wrote our names in this bubbly lettering we’ve been practicing. But when I look at it now it looks like a piece of paper with silly drawings, like something a four-year-old would give at a birthday party, or maybe just like the card part of a gift. I also couldn’t figure out how to wrap it, so I slid it into a brown lunch bag with a ribbon at the top and I wrote, “To Brianna, ♥ Claire.”
I frown into the mirror above my dresser. The bruising around my eye has faded a lot, and if I wear sunglasses no one will notice, but I wish I had a new bikini. Or at least a cool cover-up. I hate that Brianna and Eden have already seen my new suit. And they know it’s not even new-new. Why did I tell them that? I stand on tiptoe in front of my half mirror, trying to make it more full length so I can be sure I look okay.
Forget it, I’ll wear my one-piece bathing suit from last year. I turn around and open my middle drawer, but I don’t see the suit, so I start rifling. It’s black and white with a geometric pattern. Only Brianna and Ronan have seen it, so maybe Eden and everyone else will think it’s new.
Just as I’ve convinced myself that I have to wear that suit, that I can’t possibly wear Gemma’s bikini, Mom yells, “Ronan’s here!”
Ronan. We’re driving him to the party, of course.
“Wait a sec!” I snap back, and Mom must hear the edge in my voice because she pops her head into my room.
“What’s up?” she asks quietly.
I’m still digging in the drawers, the bottom one now, after I didn’t find my suit in the middle one even though I took out all the clothes and tossed them on the floor.
“Nothing!” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m just trying to find my bathing suit.”
“Uh . . . you’re wearing it.” Mom laughs, light and easy, but when she does I feel my face crumble, and I do that silent cry thing. Because the only worse thing than crying is to have Ronan know that I’m crying.
Mom turns and pokes her head out into the hallway. “Hey, five minutes, Ronan, okay? Can you wait on the porch?”
I hear the screen door close behind him, and I let out a tiny little sound. I don’t have time to cry!
Mom sits on my bed and pulls me onto her lap like I’m a little kid.
“Hey, hey,” she whispers, smoothing back my hair and running her fingers over my face. She doesn’t ask more questions, she just lets me breathe in her arms for a minute.
I feel myself calm down, and I wipe away the tears that escaped.
“Claire, if you’re nervous about the boy-girl party—”
“I’m fine!” I snap at Mom. Gah! She doesn’t understand anything. Who cares that boys will be there? Is that what she thinks is bothering me? She has no clue.
I stand up and go through the mess I’ve made on my floor, finding a plain white tee and my cutoffs, knowing Eden and Brianna will be wearing something cooler, something better, over their suits, which I’m sure will be brand-new, tags off right before the party. I feel myself start to get upset again, so I take a deep breath as I pull the shirt over my head. Then I grab my sunglasses. At least they’re new.
“Claire, if you want me to tell Ronan you aren’t—”
“I’m going,” I say, feeling annoyed with myself for getting upset.
“Well, you look great,” says Mom. “Your bikini really suits you.”
“Gemma’s bikini,” I say under my breath.
“What?” asks Mom, but I think she heard me.
I’m out the door as I say, “Never mind.”
When Ronan and I ring Brianna’s doorbell, Mrs. Foley answers. “Claire! How’s your nose?” she asks right away. I raise my sunglasses, and I see her wince ever so slightly. “Ah, still a little yellow, but better!” she says, brightening her voice. Then she turns her attention to my left. “Hello, Ronan.”
He says hi with a big smile on his face—we both do, actually. You’d never know we sulked the whole drive over and didn’t say a word to each other. Now we’re happy sunshine twins. That’s what you do when someone opens the door to a party.
But from the second I walk into Brianna’s house, I feel like I don’t belong at my own best friend’s birthday. There’s music that seems to be playing from somewhere invisible in the house, all around us. It follows me into the bathroom—I want to make sure there’s no evidence at all that I cried earlier—and I look for a speaker but I don’t see one.
I tighten my ponytail in the mirror and straighten my shoulders, determined to feel good, or at least not awful, when I walk out to the pool to join the party. The days of being outside have added a rosy glow to my usually kind-of-pale cheeks, and my freckles look less little-girl this summer and more . . . pretty. If this eye would just heal I’d look mostly okay. Deep breath. I pull my sunglasses back down as I exit the bathroom.
I wander out to the patio where strings of lights are all around the pool, and there are flowers that look like they’re from Hawaii—purple and blue, yellow and pink—spread out across a bunch of outdoor ta
bles. Ronan is standing by the sliding-glass doors, so I go to the other side of the pool.
We’re right on time, but I don’t see Brianna or Eden. There are grown-ups here, though, talking to Brianna’s dad. Maybe her parents invited people too. They’re all wearing fancy clothes—long sundresses on the women and button-up shirts on the men. I guess adults don’t swim at pool parties.
I put my paper-bag gift on a corner bench that’s stacked with boxes for Brianna wrapped in red and silver and gold and blue, with curly ribbon decorations. Some even have flowers tied into the gift wrap. I tuck mine in the back so it doesn’t show and ruin the pretty display.
Trays of food sit on every open space. There are raw vegetables with different dips, bright platters with strawberries and blueberries and a pretty green fruit shaped like a star, even tiny little hamburgers with tiny little buns and toothpicks with ruffled tops.
This is like a party on TV.
I watch a group of guys from school walk out—Daniel Jacobson and Justin Alonzo, Ryan Crawford and Derrick Malone. They’re all on the soccer team together, and I guess they carpooled. Ronan smiles at them and slaps their hands. Weird. I rearrange the mini plates on the table near me. I keep my head down. I’m very busy.
When I look up again, Emily Wu and Gwen Forester have arrived, along with Charlene Goodhall and Faye Chastain, more of their friends. I notice that even though the guys are in T-shirts and shorts, the girls are all wearing summer dresses—long and billowing, every single one. I look down at my own white T-shirt and cutoffs and flip-flops, and my uneasy feeling grows.
Then I see the big crowd begin to part.
Eden stands like a tower in the sliding-glass doorway. Her dress, which looks like it’s made of white lace, is flowy on top but with a really short skirt, so her long, bare legs are on display. She has on tall white shoes with thick heels. Her hair is pulled back with a scarf being used as a headband, which shows off her cheeks. They’re very high or whatever beautiful cheeks are called. She looks amazing.
I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her mouth moves quickly, and she’s not wearing orange or pink lipstick anymore. Today she’s bright red.
Eden stands in the middle of this group of people she barely knows and holds their attention completely. I watch their faces—they are so involved that they don’t turn away from her for a second.
“My cousin is more popular than I am.” Brianna comes up behind me, and I laugh before I can stop myself, embarrassed that I was staring so hard at Eden, taking in her every detail. Brianna laughs too, like she was joking. Was she joking? I can’t tell what she really thinks.
Also how did I not notice Brianna coming outside? She looks fancy too, in a heart-patterned dress with a bow at the center. Her hair is smooth and shiny, like someone professional brushed it.
I tug at my T-shirt. “Happy birthday.” It’s awkward that I’m sort of mad at Brianna but she doesn’t know. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks,” she says, not noticing or at least not mentioning that I’m like six degrees of less-well-dressed than everyone else at this party. “Hey, your nose looks better.”
“These help,” I say, pointing to my sunglasses.
“Attention, attention!” Brianna’s mom is clapping her hands as her dad taps a fork on his fancy tall glass. People get quiet, and everyone turns to Mrs. Foley. “Thank you for coming to Brianna’s twelfth birthday party!” A small cheer rises, and I clap a little. Is that what I’m supposed to do? No one’s ever given a speech at my birthday.
“You all know that we’ve wanted an occasion to host an event at our new home, and this is it!” continues Mrs. Foley. “The band is getting set up now, and we’ll be giving tours in a little bit, but in the meantime enjoy the food, enjoy the pool, enjoy the drinks . . .” She pauses and winks at some other adults. “We’ll do cake in about an hour, so until then . . . have fun!”
There’s a band?
Everyone applauds again, and then a flash of blue streaks by my left. When I turn I hear Ronan shout, “Cannonball!” He jumps into the pool. A big splash makes everyone laugh, and he pops his head up to the cheers of party guests. Since when is he Mr. Spotlight?
Brianna’s mom starts to lean down to say something to Ronan, but then Brianna rushes over and stops her, waving her hands. Her mom stands up, nodding. “Okay,” I hear her say. “But when the band comes on the pool is off-limits.”
My eyes drift to the group of girls around Eden, who’s now taking off her cover-up to jump into the pool. I grab a mini plate and focus on the food table near me. There are little circular rice desserts, so I take one. And even though I don’t feel like being social, I muscle up a smile and force myself to walk over to where the girls from school are standing.
“Hey, Claire,” says Emily Wu. Some other girls say hi too, and I can feel my smile get softer, more real.
“Hi,” I say back.
“God, I wish my mom let me wear shorts to the party,” says Gwen Forester. “She was all, ‘You have to dress up for Brianna!’”
I laugh nervously. I can’t tell if Gwen’s making fun of me.
But no one else says anything, and then they all start talking about Brianna’s house. How amazing the pool area is, how big it looks from the outside, how even coming down the driveway feels like you’re going somewhere special.
I take a bite of the little dessert I brought over—cough!—it comes right out again, landing on my mini plate.
“Not a sushi fan?” asks Gwen.
Sushi. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never had it. Never even seen it. But that explains why the bite wasn’t sweet. I feel my face turning red, and I force another cough. “I’m getting over a cold,” I say, handing the mini plate to a guy in a white shirt and black pants who has appeared at my side, hand outstretched.
This party has a staff.
There are a couple of laughs, but then Emily takes the focus off me: “The jukebox though, you guys . . . I think that’s the best part.” And Charlene Goodhall sighs in wonder.
I look down, still feeling embarrassed. That’s when I notice other people’s feet. I see pink and blue and red and orange nail polish, pedicures, on every girl here. I didn’t know this was a thing we do now. As I’m staring at my own bare nails, I see Brianna’s feet join the circle, toes painted in the All That Glitters gold color Eden had.
A screeching sound comes from the pool deck, and we all turn to look. The band is setting up—there are four musicians with real instruments and a singer who just got major feedback from the microphone.
“Sorry, all. What a way to start!” says the singer. “We’re the Crescent Moons, and we’ve got a song for the birthday girl!”
“Ugh, I told my mom a DJ would be better,” says Brianna, sounding exasperated. “Not that anyone listens to me.” She puts on a fake smile since people are looking at her, and I feel myself getting upset. How can she complain right now?
The band starts to play that old song “My Girl,” and to the side of the stage, I see Ronan and Eden drying off from the pool. It looks like Eden didn’t get all the way wet—her hair is still perfectly headbanded into a bouquet of curls. She pulls on her dress and points to the back lawn. Ronan nods, and I watch them walk over to another feature of Brianna’s party that I hadn’t seen yet—one of those photo booths that gives you a strip of pictures in five minutes. I thought those were just in bowling alleys and at theme diners, not like an at-home thing you could have. There are a few people waiting for the photo booth, and Ronan and Eden join the line.
Suddenly I feel my sunglasses being ripped off my face, and Daniel Jacobson shouts, “Let’s see the shiner!”
I grab at Daniel, but he’s holding my sunglasses above his head.
“Ooh, someone got a good punch in!” he says, laughing. I can tell everyone around me is studying my face now too, and I just want my sunglasses back. I feel desperate to get them.
“I hit the pool floor,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Whatever,” says Daniel, laughing and tossing my glasses toward me. I’m not ready, and they fall to the ground with a clatter. When I pick them up I see a scratch on the lens. My new pair.
“Does it hurt?” asks Gwen, leaning in for a look at my face before I can get the sunglasses back on.
“Not anymore,” I say, trying to shrug off what just happened. Daniel’s back with the other guys now, and I attempt a smile as I look over at the pool. “I do not recommend diving near the shallow end.”
The girls laugh softly. This is their third laugh at me, or about me, not that I’m counting. Deep breath. It’s okay.
“You guys, Ronan Michaels got hot,” says Gwen. I look up, and her eyes cut to me. “Don’t tell him I said that, okay, Claire?”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. Why would I tell him that and make his head get all big? He’s already distracted by Eden, and I don’t need him thinking he’s the king of seventh grade next year.
“I think my cousin noticed too,” says Brianna.
I follow her gaze to Ronan and Eden by the photo booth. Eden is so close to him. They’re huddled together, next in line to go behind the curtain. Ronan says something, and Eden throws her head back to laugh.
“You should go get in the photo,” I say, grabbing Brianna’s arm and pulling her toward Ronan and Eden. “It’s your birthday!” I’m suddenly desperate to make sure Brianna is in their photo strip too.
“Claire, stop,” says Brianna, but she’s laughing and she lets me lead her to the line. I push her up to the front next to Eden, stepping back at the same time. “I guess I’m photobombing,” she says to her cousin.
Eden puts her arm around Brianna and smiles. “It’s an honor, birthday girl,” she says. Then they head into the booth. I watch their legs move around below the curtain as they try to fit into the frame, and I see the flash pop once, twice . . . I can’t take it. I want in!
Why Can't I Be You Page 7
