by Zoey Dean
In fact, it made negative sense. Becks had replied HUH? and assumed Ellie would call to explain that it had all been a typo and she had meant to write CU AT THE BEACH @ 415 and then they would go surfing in Malibu.
But no.
Instead the reply was:
C U @ QUIKSILVER STORE AT 415!
As if the added exclamation point made it make so much more sense. How would meeting at the mall help Ellie learn to surf? And why was Ellie suddenly obsessed with surfing? Becks arrived at Quiksilver at exactly four fifteen, only because she knew the other girls were upholding their ends of Pax Rubana.
Becks scanned the giant store, her eyes moving from the brown stone floor, to the racks of bikinis and wind-breakers, to the blown-up pictures of happy athletic models. Becks shivered—she always felt like a fish out of water in stores, even if they sold things she would wear. If Becks had free time, she spent it surfing, not shopping for things she could wear surfing.
Then her eyes landed on Ellie, waiting by a row of sandals with a perky smile and a Coffee Bean Iced Blended. She promptly threw away her barely touched drink the second she saw Becks.
“Hey, Becks, way to be on time!” Ellie said. When she wasn’t speaking in baby talk, she had a loudmouth voice, and sort of sounded like she was making fun of people.
They stood there while tanned girls passed by in velour sundresses and flip-flops. Becks was so disoriented that she barely noticed Zac Efron exiting the store clutching a huge white shopping bag.
Becks hung her hands in the front pocket of her baby blue Maui & Sons sweatshirt. “So I don’t get why I’m here,” she said slowly, trying not to sound witchy, since there was no point in making the experience even more brutal.
“I know, it’s totally weird,” Ellie giggled. It sounded like she said tolly weir. “I was going to meet you at the beach and then I was like . . . I can’t go surfing!” She paused as if reenacting her lightbulb moment. “I have nuh-thing to wear!” She tugged her white terry-cloth miniskirt so that it hung below her hipbones.
Becks wanted to be a team player for the Inner Circle, but this was ridiculous. Sure, she could surf, but what did she know about shopping? And then, as if Ellie had ESP, she giggled. “You sooooo don’t want to be here right now.”
Becks shrugged.
Ellie smiled condescendingly, as if Becks’s discomfort was adorable. They walked past the shoes and the sundresses, and Ellie began looking at the racks of miniskirts. She held up a Roxy T-shirt and then, as if remembering she was there for surfing, she giggled and put it back. “For reals, Bexy, I want to look cuuute. I don’t want to look like some lame poser! Ugh.” She stuck out her tongue.
“Ellie, I can’t advise you about clothes.” Becks said. She was not about to admit that she e-mailed Mac photos every night of her next day’s ensemble. “When I surf, I just wear whatever feels right.”
“Don’t worry. I know what looks good on me. Duh.” Ellie pointed at herself. In addition to the miniskirt, she was wearing a tight white tank top that showed off her C-cups, and cream-colored Ugg boots, even though it was 82 degrees outside. She reached for a shiny metallic bikini.
“I just don’t know what’s surfer-y and what’s not. You need to tell me what are killer surfing clothes.” She flashed a bright white smile at Becks, who winced at the word killer and the term surfing clothes and especially their appearing right next to each other in a sentence, said aloud. But Becks didn’t correct Ellie and trailed behind her, glancing around the store, hoping they at least sold surf wax so something productive would come of this trip.
“Why do you want to surf so badly?” Becks asked as they moved toward a rack of tropical-print bikinis.
“I think it’s rad that you do,” Ellie said, without thinking. In fact, her reply came so quickly that for a second Becks thought she had to be serious.
“Really?” Becks asked. She had always suspected Ellie was just trying to get close to Austin.
“Duh.” Ellie shrugged. “Who doesn’t think surfing is cool?”
Becks smiled at the backhanded compliment. She imagined how proud Austin would be of her, teaching a newbie to surf.
Soon Ellie had a pile of surfing clothes, aka Roxy bikinis, draped over her teensy little arm, and she darted into a dressing room. Becks sat down on one of the royal blue velvet futons that faced the white doors and picked up a copy of Surfer. She flipped through images of surfers poking out of monstrous waves, wishing she too were at the beach—or anywhere but the mall.
Ellie emerged in the first of her surfing outfits in a lime green and black bikini. “I look like a tool, right?”
Becks laughed at Ellie’s self-awareness. At least that was a nice surprise.
“I wouldn’t say tool,” Becks began. “It’s just a lot of green.”
“Done! Adios!” Ellie said, heading back into the changing room.
Next Ellie appeared in a blue and white-trimmed bikini that showed off her flat stomach, ripples of abs, and C-cups. “What do we think?” She spun around, wedgie-checking herself as she turned.
“Um, it’s gonna fall off before you get in the water?” Becks warned.
“Uh-oh. We don’t want that!” Ellie giggled, heading back into the room.
Becks secretly picked up her iPhone and sent a check-in text to the Inner Circle, telling them she was being Mac for an hour. Really, it wasn’t sooo bad. She took off her sweatshirt so she was wearing just her favorite eco-friendly T-shirt, which had a picture of Kermit the Frog and said THINK GREEN.
Seconds later, Ellie tried on a plain black bikini, with thicker straps and just a hint of pink in the Roxy logo on her chest. The top looked a little sports bra-esque, but it was the kind of suit you really could surf in. “Poser girl or surfer girl?” Ellie asked, her hands on her hips as she glimpsed herself dubiously in the three-way mirror.
Becks put down her phone. She was stunned. Ellie didn’t just look like a surfer girl. She looked like someone Becks would go surfing with. Becks almost wanted to say poser just because she didn’t want to help a Rubybot in any way, but then she realized: It was kind of fun to help Ellie. Who knew Becks could pick out clothes without Mac?
“Surfer. Totes,” Becks said, her leg dangling over the futon. And then, as a joke, she yelled, “Cowabunga, brah!” She shook her hand hang-loose style, with her thumb and pinky sticking out. It was the ultimate poser move.
And then, from behind them, a man’s voice called: “Cowabunga is right! Lookin’ good!” Becks turned around and saw a man nodding at Ellie. He had sun-streaked hair and he was about six-foot two, wearing a long-sleeved yellow tee that said QUIKSILVER on the sleeves, and faded army-print cargo shorts. He was tanned, and he had crinkles around his eyes like an ex-surfer.
Becks and Ellie made insta-eye contact. They weren’t BFFs, but this guy seemed like a perv.
“Dude! Not trying to be skeevy.” He put his hands up in surrender. “I get how this looks. I’m Chad. Chad Hutchins. I work for Quiksilver.” He waved, and Becks winced that she’d just said Cowabunga and brah in the presence of someone who (1) knew how ridiculous that sounded and (2) clearly did not know she was kidding. She wanted to explain that it had been an ironic use of the phrase. Chad put two business cards on the glass side table by Becks. “I’m a recruiter for our girls’ team.” He nodded at Ellie. “So you’re a surfer?” Chad asked.
Ellie nodded and giggled.
Becks’s jaw dropped. Was Ellie for serious?
“Great, ’cause we’re always looking to sponsor new talent.” Chad nodded his head as he spoke. “And for models for some of our new lines.”
“Great, ’cause I’d love to get sponsored!” Ellie said enthusiastically. Becks shot her a dagger glare. How could she get sponsored when she didn’t know how to surf? And how could she not at least mention that Becks was the star surfer at BAMS? All Becks wanted was a little backup. Becks imagined Ellie getting sponsored by Roxy or Quiksilver and getting sent to Hawaii for one of their sponsored ev
ents, and getting all their new bikinis and wet suits sent to her for free, all because she pretended to be a surfer. Becks’s nostrils flared angrily that Ellie wasn’t going to at least mention that Becks was the real surfer. Then she remembered: Ellie was not her friend.
“I surf too,” Becks said, trying to sound casual and not at all like a Big Scary Freak (BSF) about it. Becks had never really thought about modeling before, but she didn’t want to see Ellie get an opportunity that should be hers.
Chad spun around. “Right on, brah! Cowabunga!”
Becks covered her mouth in surprise, realizing he thought she was the lame friend.
Chad turned to face Ellie again. In her black bikini, with her tan, toned arms, Ellie looked a thousand times more surfer than Becks, who was wearing a Think Green tee and jeans. “If you ever want us to come to one of your competitions, give a call, okay?” He made a little phone signal with his hand. “I’m serious. You call me.”
“Great, Serious, I’m Ellie. I’ll call ya.” She winked. “If you’re lucky.” She reached over to the glass table to grab a business card, then darted back into her changing room, leaving Becks and Chad all alone.
Becks felt desperate to say something, anything, but she felt like she was underwater and didn’t know how to get the words out. Chad had already decided which BAMS girl was the surfer, and that was Ellie. Becks had that same jealous/left-out/I’m-invisible feeling she’d had when Ellie and Austin flirted uncontrollably at the beach in front of her. Both times she’d felt like Ellie was sweeping in and stealing what belonged to her. Her head was pounding.
“Laters!” Chad said to Ellie’s retreating back. Then he looked at Becks. “Take care, buddy.” He mimed punching the air and strolled out. The second he left the store’s granite floor, Becks whispered, “I’ve surfed the Pipeline.” But it was too late. No one heard.
Numbly Becks took Chad’s other card and put it into her jeans pocket, wishing she’d not been such a BSF. What could she even say if she called him? Hi, I’m the mute who said nothing when you introduced yourself at the Grove? I think I’d be a great spokesgirl despite the fact that I did not actually speak?
“Why were you so quiet back there?” Ellie asked, sauntering out of the changing room in her miniskirt and Uggs, the bikinis draped over her arm. She looked genuinely confused.
“You should have said something,” Ellie continued. “You’re, like, the best surfer ever. Duh.” She strolled over to the cashier at the front of the store, leaving Becks to follow her like a total tool. Ellie plopped her things on the cashier’s countertop, popping some Dentyne Ice while the cashier began ringing up the clothes.
Becks flinched: Ellie was right. No one had forced her to be a mute freak. She robotically put her hands on the counter, trying to forget how she’d just wiped out an opportunity. It was like Ellie had just ridden a killer wave while Becks had watched from the shore.
Ellie turned to Becks excitedly, trying on a pair of Roxy sunglasses. “Pretty sweet, huh?” Ellie said, tugging her miniskirt, but it sounded like preh-ee swee. “You know who else is going to want to hear from me when you teach me to surf?” Ellie fanned herself with Chad’s business card. She was smiling and staring at Becks. “Austin.”
Becks jerked back at hearing the name Austin, which hit her like a gush of salt water up the nose. She stood straight up and rigid, her eyes wide as she stared coldly at Ellie. She had tried to give Ellie the benefit of the doubt, she had tried to believe that Ellie was really doing this for the love of the sport, but now here was proof that Ellie was only doing this to get Austin’s attention.
Ellie reached into her silver Marc Jacobs wallet to grab her American Express Platinum card, totally unaware of the storm brewing inside Becks.
Becks clenched her teeth, sulking too much to say anything. She had agreed to teach Ellie to surf. She had not agreed to watch Ellie steal her dreams.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
emily
Thursday September 10
4:30 PM Meet Kimmie to find out my task—eek!
AT SOME POINT TODAY: Still need to figure out where everything at BAMS is
Emily sat on one of the mahogany leather benches in the BAMS auditorium, checking the weather in Cedartown (64 degrees) on her iPhone, waiting for Kimmie Tachman. They hadn’t spoken since Slumbergate. Emily wanted to explain to Kimmie, I like you! I really do! But it seemed silly: Actions (for example, cat paw impressions) that were caught on camera and e-mailed to the entire school spoke much louder than words.
A text from Becks to the Inner Circle popped up on her phone:
I’M BEING MAC TODAY. BEEN @ GROVE FOR AN HR
Mac’s response came almost instantly: DO IT 4 THE IC!!!
Emily cringed for Becks, knowing that for her, mall time equaled jail time.
Coco’s was next: B GLAD U DON’T HAVE 2 MAKE WTR BTLE PYRAMIDS!!!
Emily started to add her own Mac-style pep-text to the mix, when Kimmie bounded in, wearing Joe’s jeans with a pink necktie as a belt, and a fuchsia hoodie. For a second, Emily thought that Kimmie actually looked cute. Then Kimmie turned and Emily realized that the hoodie said FLIRT in girly, sequined script on the back.
“Hi, Emily!” Kimmie said cheerfully, as though Slumbergate had never happened.
Emily smiled, relieved that Kimmie wasn’t going to be mean to her. “Look, I just want to say that I’m sorry,” Emily said gingerly, rubbing her hands on her yellow Diesel jeans. “There was more that night—”
“Look, I haaaate to get caught up in all this drama,” Kimmie interrupted, waving a hand. She sat down on the bench and put an arm around Emily like they were BFFs. “Plus, let’s face it: The enemies you make on the way up are the ones you see on the way down. My dad says that all the time. I am so not looking for enemies.”
“Me neither,” Emily said, feeling relieved.
“Good-we-agree-on-that,” Kimmie said. But she wasn’t listening. She was rifling through the oversize white Coach bag by her feet. “Ta-da!” she said, pulling out a thin packet of paper with a brass brad in the far-left corner. She handed it delicately to Emily, like it was a glass slipper.
Emily looked at the stack of papers anxiously. She gulped, hoping it wasn’t a list of everything she’d have to do for Kimmie.
“It’s my one-act play!” Kimmie exclaimed. “It’s called Judgers and Haters.”
Emily blinked. This was her punishment? To act in a play?
“It’s my baby,” Kimmie said, hugging the script to her pink-clad chest. “And you’re the star. You’re the only one I trust to play the lead.”
Emily looked down at the script excitedly. “What’s it about?” she asked, her mind buzzing. Her punishment was to embrace her newfound passion? To do the one thing she’d moved to Los Angeles to do? It was what she would have chosen for herself.
Kimmie smiled proudly. “It’s about this girl who lives alone in a cabin and she is a total judger and hater, but the reason she’s that way is ’cause that’s how the world treats her. Everyone think she’s a loser.” Kimmie made an L with her thumb and index finger and brought it to her forehead. “And so one day this cute girl from Bel-Air knocks at her door and the loser girl kidnaps the cute Bel-Air girl and locks her in the cabin. And at the end of the two-woman show they understand each other better and the loser girl brings down the house with a really powerful monologue confronting stereotypes. It’s a comedy-slash-thriller.”
Emily considered the role. It seemed like something she could handle. Sure, it wouldn’t be super exciting to play a cute Bel-Air girl trapped in a cabin, but at least it meant that Kimmie thought she was fitting in.
“So you’re going to play the role of the loser,” Kimmie continued. “Spazmo! It’s sooooo fun for the actor—I mean, you! ’Cause no one knows if he/she/it is a guy or a girl.”
Emily tried to swallow but her throat was clamping. Spazmo? A loser and androgynous?
“You’ll need to use a really deep voice, which we know you
can do, Tom,” Kimmie said in an accusatory tone. Emily winced at the memory of the last time she played a guy. She remembered telling Mac specifically she was too new to make enemies, and now here was proof she’d been right.
Kimmie reached into her never-ending Coach torture sack and pulled out Charlie Chaplin glasses and a huge red flannel hat that looked like it belonged on a man who hunted and never showered. “For your character.”
Emily opened the heavy black frames, the worst look for her pale face, and held them like they were a ticking time bomb. She imagined herself acting like a freaky girl/guy in the world’s ugliest outfit. Ew. Not even Jessica Alba could look good in that.
Her mind was racing for ways to get out of this politely. Remembering Adrienne’s advice, she knew she had to stay adored. “Don’t you want to hold auditions?” Emily asked meekly. “Gosh, I’d hate to take such a great role if I don’t deserve it.”
“No need.” Kimmie waved away the idea. She looked seriously at Emily. “I only want to work with people I admire.”
“Yeah, but you never know,” Emily squeaked. “Or maybe you should take this, since you know it so well?”
“Well, actually, I was going to play the role myself.” Kimmie paused, as if remembering something. “But then I changed my mind.”
Emily stared at Kimmie curiously, wondering if there was more to this story.
“But I am taking the supporting role in this. I play the cute, all-American girl next-door, Kipleigh, who wanders into Spazmo’s lonely life and shows her that there’s no reason to hate the whole world.” Kimmie shrugged and pushed up the sleeves of her fuchsia hoodie. “Besides, I need to save my energy for directing.”
