He widens his eyes theatrically, and I shake my head, imagining the work he must have done to put all this together. “Wow,” is all I can say.
Lucas’s smile widens and he brings his elbow back like he’s aiming for my head. He laughs at my scowl and says, “Ladies first.”
Rubbing my hands together, I survey my options. The first dab of paint on a clean canvas is always the most exciting. A new beginning that sets the tone. I decide on purple, the color of royalty (a nod to the character who inspired this date), and pitch it at the wall.
Color explodes in a burst of vivid orchid, and I slap my hand over my mouth.
That felt amazing.
“This is an excellent stress reliever,” I declare, picking up a yellow one and heaving it next. The contrasting colors are so bright, so beautiful in their dissent…so messy on the canvas. So unlike anything I’ve ever done.
My art is like me—controlled. Portraits, landscapes, photorealism. I don’t think I even colored outside the lines when I was a kid. But breaking the rules like this—with Lucas—is fun.
All traces of earlier nervousness now gone, Lucas grins as he picks up a red balloon. He winds back, and even through the clear plastic coat, I see the muscles of his bicep bunch. His weight shifts, and aiming for the clean side of the canvas, he lobs the paint at the wall. I sigh.
Why watching that was sexy, I don’t know. It just was.
After that, we go at it, lobbing color after color at the canvas, laughing and taunting each other. It’s silly, and we’re having fun, two things I definitely didn’t expect when Lucas picked me up on his motorcycle. Or when he stopped outside what looked to be a location for a horror film. But this is exactly what I needed.
Lucas gets me.
Soon the canvas is completely covered, colors blending in new shades, all of it one big blob. I haven’t become a converted abstract artist during this exercise, but I know with everything in me that I’ll be doing this again.
Lucas swipes a red balloon and tosses it in the air. When he catches it, he grins.
“You look way too clean over there,” he declares, his voice heavy with disapproval. His gaze skims over my pristine coat, and I follow suit. It’s true, not a drop of color is on me. He, on the other hand, squeezed a few balloons too hard and paint exploded all over him.
“Guess I’m just good like that,” I say with a shrug. Being totally type A doesn’t hurt, either.
“Oh, you’re definitely good.” Lucas’s left arm shoots out and snags my waist. “But unless you get some on you, I’m not sure you’ve experienced the true spontaneous spirit of balloon art.”
“Spontaneous spirit?” I palm the blue balloon he’s yet to see behind my back and smile with innocence. “You think I need to be more spontaneous?”
He nods, and the action knocks back his hood. I eye his golden curls as he leans down to brush his lips against mine once, twice, and then says against my mouth, “Yes, I’d—”
Before he finishes that thought, I smash my balloon over his head.
Of course, some paint splatters on me, too, but it’s so worth the utter look of confusion and shock that washes over him.
Blue paint oozes in his curls, and rivulets trickle down the sides of his tanned face. I laugh, loving that for once I was the one doling out the surprises…then gasp as Lucas pushes back my hood and slams his paint balloon over the back of my head.
Thick, cool liquid gushes over my unprotected hair. I squeeze my eyes shut in case any makes its way toward them, then shiver as goose pimples prick the back of my neck at the odd, icky sensation. Lucas’s mouth slams against mine, hot, eager, and passionate, and those goose pimples multiply everywhere.
Scooping me up, his mouth never leaving mine, he shifts his hands to my bottom. He lifts me until I wrap my legs around his plastic-covered hips, then palms the back of my paint-coated head, kissing me with an urgency I’ve never experienced before.
Making me feel wanted in a way I never thought I would.
My arms latch around his neck, and I hang on tight. I match Lucas stroke for stroke, nibble for nibble, as we pour all the fun, all the excitement, all the romance of the day into the kiss. And as the hour of my Cinderella-like curfew draws closer, I try and show Lucas just how much feeling wanted means to me.
Secrets and Lies
∙Cat∙
My fashionista friend is parked at my locker bright and early on Monday, two Venti Caramel Macchiatos in hand, eyes wide and eager for details. Details that have been piling on since Hayley and I last saw each other at Jenna’s aborted bachelorette party—the day my world went wonky.
Accepting the much-needed caffeine jolt with a muttered, “Thanks,” (morning person I’m not), I gulp the delicious beverage as my mind trips over the events of the past few days. The scene at the airport, the awkwardness at The Ivy. The discomfort of family lunch, followed by the best Valentine’s Day in history. Where do I even begin? Luckily, Hayley’s paper-thin patience wears out before I can decide, and what I’m sure is the first of the day’s questions begin:
What is Caterina really like? (Answer: the jury is still out.)
Is it true major sparks flew between her and Dad on Saturday? (Answer: Uh, no, not unless by sparks you mean ocular hate missiles.)
Is my new brother as sinfully hot in person as he looks on television? (Answer: Ew. And also, probably.)
When am I going to see either of them again? (Answer: Thursday.)
“Does Ransom have a girl—” Hayley cuts off midquestion. “What’s Thursday?”
I quickly fill her in on the Holly Underhill premiere and my subsequent need to be beautified, after which she nods, shifts her gaze to the left, and firmly declares, “I’m on it.”
This, as it turns out, is an understatement.
Two days later, Hayley shows up at my house as promised, dress in hand, shoes to match, and with serious thoughts as to how I should wear my hair. I point her in Jenna’s direction, since that is her domain, and the two of them sit on the sofa, flipping through magazines for the next hour. It’s the first and only time my future stepmother has looked excited about this whole thing.
Feeling strangely guilty, I turn away, lift the plastic protecting the dress, and trail my fingers along the silky material. It’s gorgeous. Purple, fitted, sleeveless, and fancier than anything I’ve ever worn. Or even considered wearing, to a star-studded premiere or otherwise. It looks like something a model would wear—not a slightly awkward, attention-phobic chica, pretending she belonged. But it suits the situation, and I imagine it will make Caterina happy. Maybe even proud.
Some twelve hours later, as the scent of cooked hair fills the bathroom, my attention returns to the dress hanging on the back of the door.
“We’ll just turn down the setting a bit,” Jenna says. She gingerly touches an index finger to the long section of my hair wrapped around a curling iron. Her lips purse as the smooth skin around her focused eyes tenses.
It doesn’t take one of those Big Bang nerds to see that she’s stressing.
“It’s looking good.”
She lifts her gaze in question, and I circle my finger around my head like a halo. Ringlets she’s assured me will be finger-combed and bunched in an elaborate style lie in a crazy array atop my head. Right now, the effect screams poodle, but I’m aiming to lighten the mood.
Jenna throws me a bone (pun intended) and offers a small smile.
It doesn’t reach her eyes.
It’s been like this ever since she signed me out of school this morning. Jenna being Jenna—sweet and enthusiastic—only an amplified version. She took me to lunch, feigned excitement over the celebrities rumored to show, and commented on all the fun I’ll have tonight. But it’s what she hasn’t said that is working my last nerve.
I hear the sighs when she thinks I’m not paying attention. See the subtle winces she tosses my dress. When she mentions how bored she and Dad will be all night, how they’ll be ready to go at a moment’s noti
ce, you know, if anything should happen…I infer what anything means. They don’t think I’ll fit in. They expect my mother to fail me somehow. And what I hate the most is that their doubts are starting to sink in.
If that weren’t enough to get my hands quaking in my lap, the emotional tug of war over Jenna’s help clinches it. Even with her apparent misgivings, she’s been super supportive, taking off work to get me ready, doing my nails and makeup, styling my hair.
All the things a real mom does.
I flinch at the latest guilt-tinged thought, and Jenna notices.
Her gaze flicks to my reflection in the mirror as she slowly unravels a spiral of hair. Putting down the curling iron, she clamps her lips and grabs a can of hairspray, as if she’s caging the words inside. Words I know are just dying to bust out.
She aims the gold can, but before attacking my tresses, she opens her mouth, closes it, then tries again. “It’s not too late, you know.”
And there it is.
I knew it was coming, but I still exhale in frustration. Why does no one understand this? Lucas comes the closest, but even he doesn’t get why I need to do this. Not totally. Anger joins the potent mix of guilt, confusion, and frustration already roiling in my gut, and through clenched teeth, I ask a question I already know the answer to. “What’s not too late?”
Jenna shifts her weight. “Tonight.” She clears her throat and sets down the can. “Sweetheart, listen, I understand wanting to know your mother. I do. And I think it’s great that she’s come back and wants to spend time with you, too. It’s just that…this premiere, the photographers and crowd. It’s not exactly your scene.” She winces as she says it, and my eyes close with a laugh. It’s not funny, but that’s what comes out anyway.
She’s right. Tonight is so far from my scene, it may as well be another movie. But the very fact that Jenna knows this and my own mother doesn’t just adds fuel to the fire.
Caterina left when I was five. She never called or sent me a birthday card. She certainly never invited me to a premiere or an event. If she had, she’d know that I don’t like this stuff, either. But she’s here now. She did invite me this time. And if I back out, if I say no or admit I’m not the daughter she obviously thinks I am, who knows when she’ll invite me again.
Backing out isn’t an option. I have to do this, whether it’s my scene or not.
Eyes still closed, emotions bubbling, I shake my head. “Maybe you don’t know me like you think you do.”
The words come out harsh. Much harsher than I intended. Opening my eyes, I see unmistakable hurt flare in hers, right along with the genuine concern always there. I glance away, pretending I don’t notice either.
“People change,” I say, even though I don’t really believe that. People learn more about themselves all the time, they realize they like things they didn’t know they did, or were mistaken about something important. But true, soul-deep change is rare.
Brushing that thought aside, I continue sharply, “And it just so happens I’ve liked the attention this week. For once, I’m not invisible.”
That last part isn’t total crap. Between photographers infiltrating school, students posing as my best friends to reporters, and receiving a bazillion and a half invites to upcoming parties, invisible is the last thing I’ve been.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Jenna’s reflection as she gnaws on her lip. “Oh, well, that’s good. Being visible is good. And hey, I’m in public relations. There’s nothing wrong with liking a little attention.”
Unless liking it goes against everything you’ve ever known.
In my world, attention has always meant unmet expectations. Whispers and cruel taunts. Jokes made at my expense and vicious rumors. I have the right pedigree, but I’ve never had a clue how to use it. This week has been one big learning curve.
On Monday, Desiree gave me notes for a class I missed. Yesterday, Lana smiled at me in Spanish. And this morning, Ray Thomas, one of the most popular guys in school, winked at me in the hall. It didn’t hold a candle to Lucas’s wink or sexy grin, but still. He winked. At me.
It’s been like a bizarre scene straight out of The Host.
Alessandra thinks it’s an intriguing sociological development. Lucas…well, Lucas isn’t a fan. He believes popularity is fake, celebrity is a game of pretend, and all of it is fleeting. A week ago, I believed that, too. But that was before my world shifted. Now I’m realizing that game of pretend puts food on my table. My wanderlust mother thrives in the whirlwind of celebrity and popularity, and my father’s films feed it. For the past few months, I’ve been searching for my place in the world.
Maybe this is it.
Jenna lets out an audible breath and shifts to stand in front of me. Folding her arms, she leans back against the counter. “Cat, I just want you to know that if you’re having second thoughts, about tonight or anything else, it’s okay.” She smiles her Jenna smile, still not getting it. Not getting me. “If you want, you can even blame me for backing out.”
The look in her eyes says it’s a given that I’m not going anymore. Everything I’ve said about changing, about supposedly liking the attention, went straight in one ear and out the other.
Like everything else I’ve said since the Kate Lyons debacle last week.
Suddenly, it’s all too much. The no one understanding. The walking on eggshells around Dad and Jenna, even Lucas and Less, not wanting to seem too eager, or naïve. The illusive answers and closure I need just out of my reach… It reaches its limit.
Emotions that have had no outlet until now find one. They boil to the surface, and I don’t know how to stop them. I don’t even want to stop them. I need to vent, to get all of the crap that’s been clouding my chest and head out of me—and Jenna is just the unfortunate one who has ripped off the lid.
“You’re not listening,” I say, gripping the sides of my chair. “I don’t want out of tonight. Caterina expects me there.” A lock of curled hair falls in my face, and I blow it away. “And she’s my mother.”
I never say, “Not you.” But the words seem to hang in the air as if I did anyway.
Jenna flinches, and my momentary adrenaline spike crashes. What light remained in her eyes fades, and I close mine, silently calling out to Reyna for a massive do-over. Jenna didn’t deserve that. Especially not after helping me today. But as hard as I wish, no mystical bells chime. No mysterious wind envelops me. It’s just Jenna and me, alone in an enormous marble bathroom smelling strongly of hairspray and cooked hair.
I open my eyes and let out a sigh. “Jenna, I didn’t mean…” Mean what? I’m so exhausted right now, confused, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Or do. I just want to stop feeling guilty, and for her to stop being hurt.
Jenna nods. “Don’t worry about it.” She forces a smile and surveys the mound of fresh curls on my head. “It’s been enough chatter anyway. We need to get you ready! Caterina will be here any minute, and you’re not even dressed.”
With a touch more vigor than required, she gets to work combing through my curls. I know it can’t be that easy. With Dad it would be; whenever we get in a disagreement, he goes off to watch sports, and five minutes later, the drama is forgotten. Girls are different—or so I’m learning. But the intent focus in Jenna’s eyes as she gathers my hair in a cascading twist tells me to drop it. At least for now. With a guilt-laden, frustrated sigh, I scoot back in my chair.
The tune to an old Madonna song slowly fills the silence. It begins as a low hum, then builds to whispered sporadic lyrics. “Papa Don’t Preach.” It’s Jenna’s favorite, and she sings it cleaning, shopping, driving… Basically, the song’s her anthem. I have no clue why. But as the familiar melody permeates the cloud of hairspray encircling my head, a small smile forms through the fog. It’s so classic Jenna.
Four months ago, I never thought we’d be here. Getting along, doing my hair. I was convinced she was only out for Dad’s money. For his fame and what he could do for her business. What I c
ould do by having a televised sweet sixteen. But thanks to my trip to the past, I learned I was wrong. Jenna never misses a single parent-teacher conference or art show. She buys me supplies, she takes me to galleries, and she’s even taking lessons of her own. She doesn’t just make an effort—she follows through.
Jenna may not be my birth mother, but she’s stepped up to fill the role in every sense that counts. She deserves better.
“Hey, Jenna?” I wait for her gaze to meet mine in the mirror and say, “Thanks for helping me today. You didn’t have to, and I-I really appreciate it.”
This time, her smile is quick, real, and full of forgiveness. “Just take a picture of Brad Pitt if you see him and we’ll call it even, okay?”
…
“Holy red carpet, Batman,” I mutter, pressing my face against the tinted black window. We’re a block away from the theater, and the crowd is already staggering. Flashes light up in the distance, the noise is deafening even from in here, and all I want to do is head back home to the safety of flannel pajamas. This isn’t my first rodeo. I grew up going to premieres with Dad. But I don’t remember it ever looking this crazy.
Caterina jostles my knee, and I turn to see her dazzling smile directed at me. “This is exciting, right? I knew it would be huge, but I think the fans came out in droves.” She laughs lightly, like she has a secret. She notices me looking and leans in. “Ryan Seacrest had me on his show this morning. I was there doing general promo, you know, discussing what I have in the works, and I happened to mention the three of us were coming tonight. You should’ve seen the phone lines light up. The listeners went berserk!”
A rock settles in my gut, and my face must fall because her fluorescent smile dims.
“You don’t mind, do you? I figured our attendance could create a little extra buzz for Marlena.”
Marlena Adams is the world-famous director of the film, and Mom’s good friend. They’ve done several movies and frequently show up together at events like this.
My Not So Super Sweet Life Page 10
