“It’s over,” I said finally, in a low voice.
“What’s over?”
“Our friendship. Don’t talk to me. Don’t pass me notes. Don’t IM me. Don’t even look at me.”
“Margot.” She grabbed my wrist tightly, but I shook my arm to get loose.
“You told me you didn’t like him,” I said. “You said he wasn’t your type, but you lied. You lied about everything.” There, I’d said it. I didn’t even care if she burned my eyebrows off. I couldn’t stand holding it in anymore. “I know you don’t have a music agent for a dad. You’re just making him up. You go to the Student Support Office at lunch because you got in trouble and you need counseling, and it wasn’t just for skipping school.” She took all of this in calmly until I added my last accusation. “And I know you’re the dog girl.”
“What?” she said. “Who told you about that?”
I didn’t answer.
“Margot, who told you that?” she said sharply, but it wasn’t working. She could get as mad at me as she wanted. I didn’t care. I was more mad at her, and I had every right to be. “Okay, look. You can hate me for what you just saw,” she went on. “That’s fine, but I’m begging you, please don’t tell anyone about the dognapping. It’s the whole reason my mom and I left New York. She’ll kill me if anyone here finds out.” There was a pleading tone in her voice that I’d never heard before. I looked over, amazed to see actual tears in her eyes.
“I just did it because he’s really my father. I know he is, but he won’t admit to it. He can deny it all he wants, but I have proof. I found papers at home that said he was my mom’s agent before I was born, and now he’s saying he never even met her? So I had to make him confess. And I took really good care of his stupid dog after I kidnapped it. I even fed it this expensive dog food that was supposed to taste like lobster, even though I tried it, and it didn’t.”
“Who’s really your father?” I asked, totally confused. “You kidnapped a dog?”
She looked up, brushing away her tears. An expression of horror crossed her face. “You mean you don’t know?”
“I just heard a teacher call you the dog girl, that’s all,” I said.
“Oh great,” Em said, letting her head fall into her hands. “Well, I guess you pretty much know now anyway.” She opened her backpack and pulled out her binder, then slid a piece of newspaper out from a hidden pocket in one of her dividers and handed it to me.
Preteen Pleads Guilty to Dognapping of NY Agent’s Bichon Frise
There was a photo of a man in a business suit, holding a fluffy white dog with bows in its hair. I read on:
Mr. Honey, the pampered pooch of NY music agent Collin Clarke and wife, Annabeth McDowell, has been reunited with the couple after a terrifying week spent in canine captivity. The dog was taken last Monday from outside a SoHo Starbucks, where the couple’s dog walker had tied it to a post. “I just wanted a tall nonfat no-foam soy latte,” says Angela Todd, of Tails ’n’ Tiaras Dog Walking Service. “I never meant for any of this to happen!”
The dognapper, turned in by a neighbor who recognized Mr. Honey from the couple’s repeated televised pleas, is the twelve-year-old daughter of a daytime drama actress whose name has been withheld to protect her daughter’s identity. Sources say the preteen believed Clarke to be her biological father and was demanding an undisclosed amount of cash in unmarked bills in exchange for Mr. Honey’s safe return.
“She came into my office posing as a potential client several weeks ago,” Clarke reports, “but before that, I’d never met this girl or her mother in my life.”
The girl will face charges of mischief and theft. And as for Mr. Honey, he’s reported to be dog tired, but in good health, enjoying the comforts of home once again.
“Debbie swears my dad was this minor actor who played Dead Guy Number Two in an episode of Destiny’s World, but I know she’s lying and that this guy’s blackmailing her, or something. Just look.” Em pointed to the picture at the top of the article. “We’re identical.”
They did look alike. It was their noses and the shape of their mouths. I wasn’t sure why I was supposed to care, though. If anything, it just made me angrier because it proved what I’d been suspecting for a while now: that she’d lied to me—and to everyone else—about everything.
“You’re lucky,” Em went on. “At least you know who your dad is, even if you don’t live with him. At least he cares about you. All my dad cares about are his rock star clients, his dumb blond wife, and his stupid dog.”
She was wrong, of course. All my real dad cared about was…well, I didn’t even know. Radishes, maybe? Or falcons? He definitely didn’t care about me. But that didn’t mean I thought I had the right to go out and kidnap somebody’s dog, lie about who I was, give out fake autographs, and steal my friend’s crush.
Em took the article from me, folded it up carefully, and hid it away in her binder. “So, can I trust you?” she asked.
I stared straight at her without blinking. “Why should I do you any favors?”
More tears sprung to her eyes. “Because you’re my best friend,” she said. Her shoulders started to shake. “I always meant to tell you the truth about this. I swear. From that very first time in the bathroom, when you told me about stealing the glazed ham…but I felt like too much of an idiot to say it out loud. I was going to tell you about George, too. I was going to do it today, even. I never wanted you to find out like this.”
I still couldn’t look at her.
“Best friends don’t let guys come between them, right?” she went on. Obviously untrue. “Right? Look, I told you, he’s not even my type.” She could have fooled me, the way she’d been trying to inhale his lips. “I’ll go break up with him. I’ll do it right now if you want me to.”
Break up? So they were actually going out? I dug my fingernails into my palms.
“It’s just…” She let her hands fall heavily into her lap. “Margot, I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, okay? I don’t have a lot of friends. Not a lot of real friends. At my last school, my best friend ditched me, and everyone else started spreading rumors and whispering behind my back. I mean, I kidnapped a bichon frise.” She swirled her index finger near her right ear, which, don’t quote me on this, I’m pretty sure is the official sign language word for I’m totally nuts.
“When that story came out in the tabloids and people in the industry were talking about it, Debbie was so embarrassed that she made us move here so she could lie low until it blew over. Now I have to have a social worker and a counselor who watch my every move. Plus, they made me go to that stupid self-esteem workshop. I thought I was losing everything. But then I met you, and you actually liked me and looked up to me.…What I’m trying to say is, don’t throw our friendship away. Please?” Her voice had gotten so soft I could barely hear her.
“I know what I did with George was wrong,” she started again. “It just happened.…” She studied the ground, then took a deep breath and looked up. “But I’m going to make it right. I’m going to go over there and break up with him right now.” She stood up, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Em, wait,” I said.
I was still mad at her for kissing George, and furious that she’d been lying to me all this time. But I also couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that we’d somehow found each other: the Hamburglar and the dognapper. In a way, it made perfect sense. Em wanted to pretend to be somebody she wasn’t. So did I. Also, I couldn’t help it—part of me felt sorry for her. She’d made a very dumb, idiotic mistake, and now she was paying for it, big-time. If anyone knew what that felt like, wouldn’t it be me?
“Don’t break up with him,” I said. “You’re right. He doesn’t like me anyway.” The words caught in my throat, but I knew they were true. “If he makes you happy…” Now it was my turn to trail off. I felt my eyes glaze over with tears. “You should be with him.”
She looked at me like she didn’t believe what
I was saying. Honestly, after devoting three years of my life to obsessing over him, I didn’t believe I was saying it either. “I knew he liked you. He pretty much told me.” I paused, waiting to see if she’d be mad. “You said he wasn’t your type, but I should have told you anyway. Maybe I haven’t been the world’s greatest friend either.”
She sat down on the ledge beside me, and we looked off in different directions. Something was bugging me, and I had to ask.
“If your dad isn’t really an agent, how did you get the SubSonic single?”
“He is my dad,” Em said sternly, but then her tone softened. “I went to Collin Clarke’s office pretending to be a new client. And I stole it when he went to the bathroom. I took an unreleased Punky Fish album too,” she said. “And the posters, and a whole pile of breath mints. I figured it was the least he owed me. He never even bought me a birthday present, or paid my mom child support.” We were both silent again for a minute, until we saw Ken coming toward us.
“You guys seen George?” he shouted. “Over here.” George waved and stood up, being careful to avoid making eye contact with either one of us.
“George-man,” Ken said. “I got another idea for the Auto Fart-O. It came to me in a dream. Instead of honking, the car horn should fart.”
Em looked at me and pinched her lips into a tight smile. I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t exactly a big warm hug or even a handshake, but we both got the meaning. Despite what had happened—as impossible as it seemed—we were going to stay friends.
Or, that was what I believed all through gym class as I sat in the office filing invoices and watching the girls play volleyball through the window. Sarah J. was wearing this really tight T-shirt and what must have been a padded bra (unless her boobs had magically grown two sizes overnight), and Em kept trying to make me laugh by sticking her chest way out and imitating the girly way Sarah was running. I also believed it all through French as Em passed me notes with drawings of Ken’s fart car on them. It got a little harder to believe, though, when George started holding Em’s hand at the lockers after school.
“You guys,” Maggie whispered urgently, stepping in front of them so I wouldn’t see.
“It’s all right,” Em said. “She knows. She saw us at lunch.” I stood there feeling like the world’s biggest loser.
“She found out?” Sarah J., who had obviously been eavesdropping again, came up behind us. Even Sarah J. knew?
“You told everyone except me?” I turned on Em. “Even her?”
“Not on purpose. Trust me,” she said. “She was following us around after school, and she found out.” That, at least, made me feel a fraction of a bit better. “I told her I’d kill her if she told you.” She shot Sarah a look that suggested she might still kill her. Any second now. “I wanted to tell you myself.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Sarah J. said to Em, sounding exasperated. “Tell her, I mean. So relax. Do you want some water so you can take a chill pill?” It was the kind of thing that used to make Maggie and Joyce nearly die laughing, but now they didn’t even smile.
“Nobody wants you here.” I was having a bad enough day without having to deal with her stupid comments. Or I thought I was having a bad enough day. What I didn’t know was that it was about five seconds away from getting much worse.
A bunch of eighth grade guys were standing across the hall from us, jostling each other around, and it wasn’t until they started for the doors that I noticed Andrew was on the other side of the hall too, near the water fountain. He was crouched down tying his shoelace. Sarah J. just so happened to notice him too.
“I mean, look on the bright side, Margot,” she said. “George doesn’t want you, but at least now you can be with your true love, Andrew. You two losers were made for each other.”
Andrew looked up at the sound of his name. “I’m not a loser,” I said, staring Sarah J. down. Andrew’s mouth dropped open a little, and so did mine as I realized what I’d accidentally just said and, more important, not said. Then he stood up, looked straight at me, shook his head sadly, and walked away. He hadn’t even taken the time to finish with his shoes. And as I watched him disappear around the corner with the ends of his laces dragging along the ground, I suddenly couldn’t stand it anymore. I started crying—full-out, face-turning-red, snoteverywhere, on-the-verge-of-hyperventilating crying.
“Margot?” Em said.
“Oh my God, Margot, are you okay?” Joyce asked.
“What’s wrong?” Maggie echoed. As if it wasn’t obvious: everything was wrong.
32
Revenge Tastes Like Lemons
EVERYONE SPENT THE REST of the day tiptoeing around me like I was some kind of scary, emotional time bomb waiting to go off.
“I think Margot should play the part of Pretty Girl,” Em said, as we studied our Nose Clothes scripts in her living room.
“Definitely,” Joyce agreed. “Margot, you’ve got the nicest nose of us all.”
It was a lie. My nose was second worst, right after Sarah’s.
Still, I appreciated the thought. “I should probably be the announcer,” I said, “because of my leg.”
“Oh, right,” Em said. “Maggie can be Pretty Girl, then.
Sarah, you’re Ugly Girl.” She ignored the look Sarah gave her.
“Joyce, you’re Sleazy Fireman. And I’m the camera person. Did you guys make the Nose Clothes last night?”
Joyce dumped a ziplock bag full of colored triangles onto the sofa. There was a striped one, one with flowers, one with a leopard print that had rhinestones glued to it, and another that was kind of plaid. “They don’t stay on that well,” Maggie explained. “We’ll have to use tape.”
Em picked up one with orange polka dots and held it over her nose. “How do I look, Margot?” she asked.
“Good,” I said.
“Just good? How about this one?” She put on the leopard-print one.
“You look like a moron,” Sarah offered.
“Didn’t ask you,” Em said, without blinking. “Margot?” She batted her eyelashes.
I couldn’t just say “good” again. She was wearing a nose cone for me. She was trying so hard to make me laugh, or smile, or at least talk. “Way better.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but it came out forced. “That one’s really hot.”
“I know.” Em smiled. “C’est super sexy, non?” Everyone laughed. Well, everyone except for me (because I wasn’t in a laughing mood) and Sarah J. So, really, what I mean by everyone is Maggie and Joyce.
Em got up and rifled through a drawer. “I can’t find any tape,” she said after a while. “Just use this.” She threw a pack of grape bubble gum into Sarah’s lap.
Sarah looked at the package like it was crawling with maggots. “I’m not putting gum on my nose.”
“Yes you are.” Em opened the camera case and started unwrapping cables.
“You guys,” Sarah whined. No one reacted. “Well, do you at least have sugar-free? I’m on a diet.”
“You want me to chew it for you?” I offered. Everybody (and this time I mean everybody except Sarah) laughed.
“Hold still,” Maggie scolded, turning Sarah’s head back toward her. She had appointed herself head makeup artist, and she was busy “enhancing” Sarah’s nose.
I let myself sink back into the cushy white couch as I looked around Em’s lavish living room. Everything, as usual, was polished and in its place. Nearly too perfect to be true.
“Your house is amazing,” Maggie said suddenly. “Is your dad’s place in New York like this?” Maggie and Joyce had been pretty awestruck ever since the car with the black-tinted windows had pulled up in front of the school to get us. They couldn’t get over the plush seats and the driver wearing a suit with a pin that said DARLING CAR SERVICE. I had to admit, even I thought it was pretty cool.
Em just shrugged at Maggie’s question. She fiddled with the lens cover, probably so she wouldn’t have to look me in the eye while she stretched the truth again. “His penthouse i
s a little smaller than this. But then, everyone lives in apartments in New York.” Em held the camera up. “Are we ready?”
Maggie leaned back to get a better look at Sarah’s enhanced nose. “Perfect,” she proclaimed. I almost snorted. Maggie had used a ton of my deep olive foundation, plus half a thing of brown eye shadow. Sarah’s entire nose looked like it had a huge bruise. The funniest part was that Sarah had no idea how bad it was.
“Places, please. Scene one. Take one.” Em directed as if she’d done this a hundred times. But then, she did everything with confidence, right down to the way she kidnapped dogs and seduced her best friend’s crush.
Maggie and Sarah sat on the comfy sofa and pretended to be reading magazines.
“ACTION,” Em said.
Maggie flipped a page of her magazine then uncrossed and recrossed her legs. She sniffed the air. “Oh no. Do you smell that?” She said in a sweet, surprised voice, only, obviously, in incredibly bad French.
“I think it’s a fire,” Sarah said, sounding like she could have fallen asleep from boredom.
“CUT.” Em stopped the camera. “Your house is on fire. Say it like you’re actually worried.” She started the camera again.
“I think it’s a fire,” Sarah said, with a bit more effort.
Maggie ran to the door, pretending to try the handle. “It’s locked!” she shouted. “We’re trapped!”
“What will we do?” Sarah said, again with the bored voice. Em shot her a look of death from behind the camera.
Suddenly, Joyce burst through the door. She was wearing a plastic fire helmet and carrying a garden hose. “I’ll save you!” she shouted. She looked Maggie up and down, made kissy lips at her, and winked at the camera. “She’s foxy.” Then she pointed at Sarah’s nose and made a gagging noise. “She’s ugly.”
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