by Meg Cabot
And I'd said yes.
Ask Annie
Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.
Go on, we dare you!
All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School Register.
Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.
Dear Annie,
Help! I’m in love with a boy who doesn’t know I’m alive. Of course, he has actually never met me, seeing as he lives 2,000 miles away and works in the entertainment business. Still, when I see him on the big screen, and gaze into his blue eyes, I know that we are soul-mates. I am not sure how much longer I can go without him. But I don’t have enough money to buy a plane ticket to L.A., nor do I have anywhere to stay when I get there. Please help me figure out a way for me to meet my love before he leaves for New Zealand, where he’ll be filming his next movie.
Crushed
Dear Crushed,
There is a fine line between celebrity worship and stalking, and you sound ready to cross it. Surrender the fantasy and start concentrating on what’s important – finishing school and getting into college.
Besides, you are clearly talking about Luke Striker, and I hear he is still heartbroken over the whole thing with Angelique Tremaine. So get over it.
Annie
TWO
Actually, I wasn't too surprised when Mr. Shea asked me if I'd be the Register's new Annie. That's because for my whole life, people have always come to me with their problems. I don't know why. I mean, it's not like I want to hear about Geri Lynn and Scott's love life.
But seemingly since birth I've been cursed with being everybody's confidante. Seriously. I used to think I was a weirdo magnet or something, because it seemed like I could never go anywhere without random strangers coming up to me, telling me all about themselves, like about their hammer collection or their sick ferret or whatever.
But it isn't just random strangers, it turns out. Everybody does it. Trina was the first one to put her finger on why. It was her twelfth birthday, and Trina decided to have her birthday party at the Zoom Floom, this giant water slide over in Ellis County. Only on the day of the party, I got my period. Since I was scared of tampons (when you're twelve, those things can be scary. And it wasn't like I had figured out yet to buy the special teen ones—"Petal soft and pinky slim!" I was still trying to jam those super absorbency plus ones of my mom's up in there, and, let me tell you, it wasn't quite working out for me.), I had no choice but to stay home.
But Trina, whom I'd expected to be sympathetic, was anything but. She was all, "I don't care if your stupid pad comes out from under your suit and floats away! You are coming to my party! You HAVE to! You're the mayonnaise!"
I didn't know what Trina was talking about. But it turns out she was more than happy to explain.
"Because you get along with everyone," she told me over the phone that day. "Like mayonnaise. Without mayonnaise, the whole sandwich just falls apart. Like my party's going to if you don't come."
It did, too. Her party, I mean. Elizabeth Gertz accused Kim Doss of copying her because they both ended up wearing identical red J. Crew swimsuits and French braids, and Kim, to prove she had a mind of her own, pushed Elizabeth into the deep part at the base of the waterslide, and she chipped a tooth on the pool's cement floor.
If I had been there, I totally would have intervened before anyone got hurt.
So, you know, it wasn't this huge shock when Mr. Shea handed me the Ask Annie position. Because the person who holds it has to give the people who write in not only good advice but also advice that the school counselor, Ms. Kellogg, will be able to endorse and stand behind.
Which isn't easy. Because Ms. Kellogg is a freak. She is all into yoga and biorhythm and feng shui, and always wants me to tell the people who write in that if they'd move their bedroom mirror so it isn't facing a window or door, they'd stop losing so much karmic energy.
I'm not kidding.
And this is the person who is supposedly going to help me get into a good college someday. Scary.
But Ms. Kellogg and I actually have a pretty good relationship. I listen to her drone on about her macrobiotic diet, and she's always willing to write me a note so I can get out of volleyball in RE. or whatever.
Anyway, the thing about Ask Annie is, the person who is Annie is supposed to be this huge secret, on account of Annie isn't supposed to have any biases toward certain peer groups, as Ms. Kellogg calls them. Like Annie can't be "known" to be a member of any particular clique, or people will think she can't relate to, like, the problems of someone unpopular like Cara Cow or a jock like Kurt Schraeder or whoever.
Plus, you know, if people knew who Annie was, they might not be willing to write to her at all, since she might guess who the author of the letter was, and spread it around. People don't really do that good a job of disguising their identity when they write to Annie. I mean, maybe they try, but you get people like Trina, who writes to Annie at least once a month about whatever is bugging her (usually it's something about Luke Striker, the love of her life). Trina doesn't even attempt to disguise her handwriting or use a fake e-mail address.
Another reason for the anonymity of Annie is that she is privy to a lot of people's deepest, darkest secrets.
So I have this totally fab position on the paper, but I can't tell anybody about it. I can't even tell Trina or my mom, because they both have the biggest mouths in the entire state of Indiana. I just have to go along, letting them all think I have this very integral role with the paper's layout. Whoopee.
Which is fine. I mean, it's not a big deal. I'm easy.
Except when it comes to people like Geri Lynn. I'd like to tell Geri Lynn. Just so she doesn't keep on thinking Scott is taking advantage of me.
So, anyway, being Annie and all, I get called to Ms. Kellogg's office a lot. She always wants to talk to me about who I think might have written some particularly disturbing letter or e-mail.
Sometimes I know. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I tell her. Sometimes I don't. I mean, you have to respect a person's right to privacy unless, you know, the person is seriously disturbed.
And fortunately, there are enough people who want Ms. Kellogg and the rest of the administration to know their business that they don't really have time to poke their noses into the business of the people who don't.
Like Cara Schlosburg, for instance. Cara totally doesn't care if the whole world knows about her problems. Cara writes tons of letters to Annie. I answer all of them, though we don't print them in the paper, because even if we didn't include her signature (she signs each and every one of her letters), everyone would know they were from her anyway. Like a typical one is:
Dear Annie,
Everyone calls me Cara Cow, even though my name is Cara Schlosburg, and they all moo when I walk by them in the hallway. Please help before I do something drastic.
Only Cara never has done anything drastic yet, that I know of. Once this rumor went around that she had cut herself, and she was out of school for three days. I was really worried she had slit her wrists or something. So I asked my mom to find out what had happened for me, because my mom and Mrs. Schlosburg are in the same aquasize class at the Y.
But it turned out that Cara had given herself a home pedicure and shaved too much dead skin off the soles of her feet and accidentally removed fresh new skin and couldn't walk till it grew back.
That's the kind of thing that happens to Cara. A lot.
It's also the kind of thing that makes my mom go, "You know, Jen, Mrs. Schlosburg is really worried about Cara. She says Cara tries so hard to fit in, but it doesn't seem to do any good. The other kids just keep making fun of her. Maybe if you took her under your wing?"
Of course I can't tell my mom that I have taken Cara under my wing. I mean, as Ask Annie.
Anyway, when I got called to the office the day after Kurt Schraeder kidnapped Betty Ann Mulvaney, I figured it was either something to do with a Cara
letter or that, alternatively, it had to do with Betty Ann.
Because even though Mrs. Mulvaney had been her typical self about the whole thing, shrugging it off, you could tell it really kind of bothered her. Like I noticed her gaze often strayed toward the place on her desk where Betty Ann used to sit.
And she made this giggling announcement before each class, that if Betty Ann's kidnappers would just return her, there'd be no hard feelings and no questions asked. I had even caught up to Kurt in the lunch line and asked him if he was going to do a ransom note or whatever just because I thought if Mrs. Mulvaney saw the whole thing was a joke, she might feel better about it.
But Kurt was all, "What? A what note?"
So then I had to explain to Kurt, all carefully, about what a ransom note was and how the joke—since that's what I assumed he was doing, kidnapping Betty Ann, and all—would be funnier if he sent Mrs. Mulvaney a note instructing her to, for instance, waive the weekend homework or distribute Brach's caramels to everyone in class, in order to ensure Betty Ann's safe return.
Kurt seemed to really like this idea. It was like it had never occurred to him before. He and his friends went, "Whoa. Genius, man!" and high-fived one another.
Which got me kind of nervous. I mean, these guys weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer. I had no idea how Kurt even got elected senior class president, except, you know, he was the only person who had bothered to run.
So just to be sure they even still had Betty Ann, I went, "Kurt, you didn't do anything stupid, did you? Like throw Betty Ann in one of the quarries or something. Did you?"
Kurt looked at me like I was crazy. He went, "Hell, no. I still got her. It's a joke, see? The senior prank, Jen. Heard of it?"
I didn't want Kurt to think I didn't find his prank hilarious. So I just went, "Yeah, funny joke," and grabbed my tacos and ran.
So you can see that when I got called to the office, I pretty much had a feeling that if Cara hadn't locked herself in a toilet stall, crying again, I was probably going to be facing some major grilling on the whereabouts of Betty Ann.
Which would put me, as anyone could see, in a fairly uncomfortable position. I mean, I couldn't side with the administration in the Betty Ann thing, even though I did think it was stupid and wrong of Kurt to take her. But the senior prank—even if it's a terrifically lame one, like Kurt's—is the senior prank, and like a lot of stuff about high school—the SATs and the prom and the pep rallies—you aren't allowed to mess with it, no matter how pointless and dumb you might find it.
So as I dragged myself into Ms. Kellogg's office, I was making all these promises to myself—like how even if they tortured me with the prospect of working in the office all summer, I was going to stick to my guns on the Betty Ann thing and not tell—and I didn't even notice that Ms. Kellogg wasn't the only person in there.
No, Principal Lewis was there, too. And Vice Principal Lucille Thompson—Juicy Lucy, everyone calls her, which is really mean, but the truth is, it sort of fits in an ironic way, because a drier, more sticklike school administrator than Lucille Thompson you really could never imagine.
There was another guy there, too. A guy wearing this shiny gray suit. I should have noticed him straight off—also the fact that he clearly wasn't from around Clayton, since he had a black T-shirt instead of a button-down under his jacket, which is how people in California or New York, not southern Indiana, dress—but I was too worried that I was in trouble.
"Listen, Ms. Kellogg," I said right away, to get it over with. "If it's about Betty Ann, I can't tell you. I mean, I know, of course. I saw the whole thing. But I can't tell you who did it. I really can't. But he promised me Betty Ann's all right, and I'll work on getting her returned in one piece. That's all I can do. I'm sorry. . . ."
That's when I noticed the T-shirt guy . . . not to mention Dr. Lewis and Juicy Lucy. My voice kind of dribbled off.
Ms. Kellogg came to my rescue. I guess she recognized that my chi had been all thrown off by the presence of Dr. Lewis, Juicy Lucy, and a total stranger.
"It's not about Betty Ann, Jen," she said.
"If Miss Greenley knows anything about that doll," Juicy Lucy chimed in, looking upset, "I think she needs to say something, Elaine. Mrs. Mulvaney was very disturbed this morning to see that it was still missing. I understand the Register is doing a story on it, so obviously the paper's staff members know something. It's unconscionable that people's personal items are not safe on their own desks—"
"Never mind about the doll, Lucille," Dr. Lewis said. He had on a short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. I noticed there were grass stains on them. I think he'd been called in from the course. Whatever this was about, I knew it had to be big. They didn't call Dr. Lewis in from the golf course for just anything.
"Jane," he said, "we'd like you to meet—"
"Jen," Ms. Kellogg corrected him.
Only nobody ever corrects Dr. Lewis, so he blinked like he didn't know what she was talking about.
"Jane," Dr. Lewis started again. "This is John Mitchell. John, this is Jane Greenley."
"How do you do, Jane," Mr. Mitchell said. He held out his hand. I shook it. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too," I said.
I sounded calm enough, I guess, but inside my head, thoughts were spinning around like the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. What was going on? Who was this guy? How much trouble was I in? Did this have something to do with me putting that I wanted to be a drill press operator on the state achievement test? Because I was seriously only kidding around about that. Trina had done it, too. And was this going to be over by lunch? Because I only get twenty-five minutes to eat.
"Jane," Dr. Lewis went on, "Mr. Mitchell here has just arranged for Clayton High School to receive a great honor. A very great honor."
"Some honor," Juicy Lucy said with a snort. Dr. Lewis shot her a warning look, but Miss Thompson didn't take the hint. In fact, she got defensive.
"Well, I'm not going to sit here and lie, Richard," she said. "It's completely ridiculous. We're supposed to drop everything—disrupt all our students—and for what?"
"We hope there won't be any disruption at all, Miss Thompson," Mr. Mitchell said. "And of course the minute there appears to be—"
"There won't be any disruption, Jui—I mean, Lucille," Ms. Kellogg said. I'd once let slip to her what everybody calls Miss Thompson behind her back, and ever since then, Ms. Kellogg had been incapable of calling her boss anything else. "That's the whole point. They want this to go as smoothly as possible—"
"Well, I don't see how they can expect it to." Juicy—I mean, Miss Thompson's—lips practically disappeared, she had them pressed together so hard. "The boy is going to be mobbed the minute he sets foot on campus. Those girls . . . they don't have the slightest bit of control over themselves. Did you see what Courtney Deckard was wearing today? A halter top. To school! I made her call her mother and ask her to bring over something decent to wear for the rest of the day."
Both Dr. Lewis and Mr. Mitchell stared at Miss Thompson as if she had just sucked all the available oxygen out of the room. In a way, I think maybe she had. I know I felt a little light-headed.
"I can assure you," Mr. Mitchell went on, "that that isn't going to happen. Because Mr. Striker is going to keep a very low profile. And he's going to be wearing a disguise."
"A disguise." Miss Thompson rolled her eyes. "Oh, that will help."
"You'd be amazed," Mr. Mitchell said, "what a simple pair of glasses can do."
"Oh," Juicy Lucy said, throwing her hands into the air. "Well, glasses. Why didn't you say so? That'll fool them."
"Excuse me," I said. Because I was really curious to find out what was going on. It didn't appear to have anything to do with Cara or Betty Ann. In fact, unless I was way off base, it seemed to have something to do with— "Do you mean Luke Striker?"
Ms. Kellogg grinned, and started to nod like a maniac. "Yes," she said. "Yes, yes. Luke Striker. He's coming here. To Clayton High Schoo
l."
I looked at her like she was nuts. Actually, this is how I normally look at Ms. Kellogg. Because most of the time, I think she is nuts.
"Luke Striker," I repeated. "Luke Striker, the star of Heaven Help Us?"
Which used to be like one of the most popular shows on television, back when there were no reality shows. I used to watch it. Luke Striker, who played a preacher's kid, had grown up on the show, getting seriously hotter every season. Hot enough that he ended up leaving the show to pursue a film career and had managed to get cast as Tarzan in the latest Tarzan movie, in which he'd been quite . . .
Well, naked.
Then he'd gone on to play Lancelot in the latest Camelot movie. . . .
And had done pretty well in them both, too. At least, so far as diehard fans like Trina were concerned.
The fans weren't as excited over what was going on in Luke Striker's personal life, however. Rumor had it—at least according to Trina, who'd talked about it ad nauseam all winter—that Luke had embarked on a torrid romance with his Lancelot and Guinevere co-star Angelique Tremaine. They were even supposed to have had each other's names tattooed on their biceps at some kind of commitment ceremony. You know, instead of wedding rings.
Only I guess Angelique hadn't followed through with her part of the commitment, because not even six months ago, Angelique had up and married some French film director twice her age, behind Luke's back! Trina had been exultant—though sad for Luke, of course. Because now he's free—brokenhearted, according to the tabloids—but free. Free to fall in love with Trina.
And now it appeared that Luke Striker, star of the silver screen and lover scorned, was coming to Clayton, Indiana.
"He's been cast as a midwestern high school senior in his next film," Mr. Mitchell explained pleasantly, "a riveting drama of love and betrayal in the Hoosier heartland. Since Luke grew up in L.A.—you know, he started working on Heaven Help Us when he was just seven—he feels he needs to immerse himself in Indiana high school culture in order to lend authenticity to his role—"
