Teen Idol

by Meg Cabot

  "You're not a loser, Cara," I said. "And they don't rule the school. The student council does, technically."

  "But they're still popular," Cara pointed out.

  "There are more important things than being popular, Cara."

  "That's easy for you to say, Jen," Cara said. "I mean, everybody likes you. EVERYBODY. You've never had people mooing at you."

  This is true. But I also never went out of my way to try to get people to like me the way Cara does.

  When I mentioned this, though, Cara just went, "You sound just like Ask Annie. Be yourself. That's what she's always saying."

  "It's good advice," I said.

  "Sure," Cara said sadly. "If you know who yourself even is."

  The bell rang, long and loud. A second later, the ladies' room was filled with girls eager to check their hair before heading off to class. My tête-à-tête with Cara was at an end. For now.

  "I'll see you later," I said to her. She just sniffled in reply and dug around in her purse for some tissue. I wasn't surprised. Cara never thanked me for coming to check on her after one of her spaz attacks. It was one of the reasons, I was pretty sure, why she has no real friends. She just doesn't know how to treat people.

  I have to admit that, what with the whole Cara thing, I'd kind of forgotten about Luke Striker . . . at least until I came out of the ladies' room and there he was, waiting for me.

  The sick feeling came right back to my stomach. What was he still doing there? I'd really thought that, after my outburst, he'd have stalked off and called his limo to come pick him up. Instead, he came up to me and, hands in his pockets, asked, "So what do we have next?"

  Just like that. Like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't told him to go back to Hollywood or anything.

  What did this mean? That he wasn't going running to Dr. Lewis, to tell him what I'd said? Was he just going to pretend my meltdown hadn't happened? What kind of person does that? I am very good at figuring people out. Except, apparently, Luke Striker.

  The knot in my stomach loosened a little after this, but I still didn't feel completely at ease. I didn't know what had caused Luke to change his mind about me and Clayton High—or even if he'd changed his mind—but I did know one thing:

  I doubted either of us was going to be able to live up to his expectations.

  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,

  My girlfriend won’t stop giving me hickeys. It’s embarrassing. I’m glad she love me but….ew. Why won’t she stop and what can I do to make her?

  Tired of Wearing Turtlenecks.

  Dear Turtleneck,

  Your girlfriend is giving you hickeys because she wants everyone to know you’re taken. Tell her to knock it of or you’ll find a girl who isn’t as insecure.

  Annie

  SIX

  I should have known everybody in school was going to fall in love with Luke. I mean, even in his Lucas Smith guise, he's still totally cute. And, face it, any guy who isn't completely obsessed with monster trucks or doesn't wear a mullet can be considered hot at Clayton High.

  Luke was neither of those things, AND over six feet tall, AND sensitive enough to think the way everyone treated Cara was lame, AND he looked just like . . . well, Luke Striker.

  Hey, it was a wonder I hadn't fallen in love with him. I guess I shouldn't have blamed Trina for it. Falling for the new guy, I mean.

  It's not like I didn't suspect it might happen. Trina loves Luke Striker more than she loves her cat, Mr. Momo, and Mr. Momo's been Trina’s constant companion since the second grade.

  Still, I didn't realize what was going on until I was in Steve's car on the way home. Neither Trina nor I have our drivers' licenses yet, because a) our parents are afraid to teach us and they don't offer drivers ed. in our school and, b) even if they did, there's nowhere worth driving to in Clayton and c) even if there were, we always have Trina's boyfriend, Steve, who does have a car, to drive us there.

  Fortunately for me, Trina and Steve always stay late at school, rehearsing for whatever play the Drama Club is doing. Right now it's this major yawn called Spoon River Anthology, which happens to be about dead people—but not zombies or anything cool—just dead people sitting around in a graveyard talking about what it had been like to be alive, I guess to make us all appreciate our loved ones more or something. I'd told Trina I'd go to opening night and all, but I fully plan to sit in the back row with the latest Dean Koontz and a book light.

  I probably could have gotten a ride home with Scott—he always remembers to ask if I need one.

  But lately catching rides with Scott hasn't been all that much fun, on account of Geri Lynn's moodiness. I mean, I'll be sitting in the backseat, having a perfectly civil conversation with Scott about something or other—like The Two Towers and how I thought the ents looked kind of Jar Jar Binks-ish or whatever, a fact he strenuously denies—and suddenly Geri Lynn will interrupt with something like this:

  Geri Lynn: Scott, did you remember to ask Ellis Floral if they were running their annual Spring Fling special clip 'n' save coupon on corsages?

  And then the conversation goes from ents and Jar Jar Binks to this:

  Scott: No, Geri, I didn’t ask Ellis Floral if they were running their annual Spring Fling special clip 'n' save coupon on corsages because that's Charlene's job. She's in charge of ad placements.

  Geri Lynn: Scott, your duty as editor in chief is to oversee all aspects of the paper. You can't expect Charlene, who is a freshman and wasn't even at Clayton last year for the Spring Fling, to remember to ask Ellis Floral if they're running another special.

  Me: Um, actually, Geri, I noticed their ad didn't have the coupon when I was laying that page out, so I called them and they are, so I put it in.

  Geri Lynn: Well, it's good to know someone on staff is paying attention.

  See? Talk about uncomfortable. It's just easier to get a ride with Steve.

  As Luke and I emerged from our session at the Register—yeah, he even came to my after-school meeting at the paper. How interesting could that have been for him? Although he and Geri Lynn did get into a pretty spirited argument about a celebrity's right to privacy, with Geri insisting that journalists play an important part in building up a celebrity's status and that anybody who willingly takes on a job in the public eye should expect to be stalked by paparazzi and Luke, not surprisingly, having a different view of things. Luke went, "So that was a typical day in your life?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I guess so."

  It was kind of weird to think about—you know, your life from somebody else's perspective. Especially somebody who has such a different sort of life from mine. I mean, my life must seem really, really boring to Luke, compared to his own, which I'm sure is filled with invitations to club openings, stints on talk shows, movie premieres, nude scenes, chocolate body paint, and that sort of thing.

  But Luke didn't say anything about it. I mean, about how boring my life is compared to his. Instead, he said, "Okay, then."

  Okay, then? What did that mean? What was up with this guy? Why couldn't I figure out what made him tick? I mean, that's what I do.

  It was right at that moment that Steve pulled up in his Chevette, and Trina leaned out and was all, "Going our way?"

  Which of course I fully was. But it turned out Luke had other plans.

  "Sorry," he said. "I'm meeting someone."

  Of course it was totally ridiculous that the new guy should be "meeting someone" at five o'clock in front of the Clayton High flagpole his very first day there But neither Trina nor Steve seemed to think anything about it. They just went, "Okay, bye," and, after I'd piled into the car, drove away.

  Neither of them, of course, turned in their seat and looked
back. Because if they had, they would have seen a big black limo pull up into the turnaround a few seconds after we'd pulled away and Luke high-five whoever was inside it before climbing in himself.

  All I could think was, Where did he get that limo? Because there is no limo company in Clayton. Our town is too small to support one, since the only time people here ever need one is at the Spring Fling.

  Anyway, that was when Trina started talking about Luke. Or Lucas, I should say. She talked about him all the way home, and then, after dinner, when I went upstairs to do my homework, she e-mailed me about him.

  All she could talk about was Lucas this and Lucas that. Did I think Lucas had liked his first day at Clayton High? Did I know why his parents had decided to move so late in the school year? Why hadn't he stayed at his old school? He could only have had a few months to go before graduation. Wasn't he going to miss graduating with his old friends? Did he like living out by the lake? Did he have a girlfriend at his old school? Did I think it was serious?

  And the clincher, the one I'd been dreading all day:

  Didn't I think Lucas looked uncannily like Luke Striker?

  I tried to answer Trina's questions as best I could without outright lying, but of course it was hard. I mean, I had to lie for a few of them. It was turning out to be no joke, student guiding a movie star. You know, really, Mr. Mitchell should be paying me for letting Luke follow me around. There was a lot of work involved. . . .

  Not the least of which was the abuse I'd had to put up with from Luke himself. That night, as I lay in bed, looking up at my canopy—I had been nuts for princesses as a kid and had begged and begged for a princess bed, so my mom, being an interior decorator and all, had gotten me the most princessy bed available in southern Indiana, and now I was fully stuck with it—I thought about what Luke had said to me outside the caf about Cara.

  Luke hadn't known what he was talking about, of course. I mean, he didn't know the effort I'd put into being nice to Cara, all the times I'd run after her into the bathroom, all the tears I'd mopped up, all the advice I'd given her (none of which she'd taken). He didn't know about my being Ask Annie and all the letters from Cara I'd answered. He didn't know how much worse it might actually have been for Cara if I hadn't been around.

  And he really didn't know what it was like to be me. It was exhausting, frankly. Between Cara and the Ask Annie thing and the Trina and Steve thing and the kidnapping of Betty Ann and the arm movements in Troubadours . . .

  It's a wonder I even get up in the morning, really.

  I have to admit, I didn't really expect to see Luke the next day. I mean, after all the problems he'd had waking up the day before, the lack of espresso on school grounds, the Salisbury steak—not to mention the whole Cara thing—I figured he'd probably had enough. He might have been dedicated to his craft and all, but who would put up with conditions like those? Especially a millionaire.

  So when he walked into Latin the next morning, I nearly choked. He had abandoned the football jersey for something that looked like it had been woven out of one of those Mexican blankets, open at the chest to reveal one of those pooka shell necklaces surfers always wear. He'd ditched the cross trainers, too, in favor of suede Pumas.

  Plus he'd managed to find some espresso . . . or at least a latte grande, in a tall paper cup. He looked a thousand times more awake than he had the day before.

  "Hey, Jen," he said, sliding into the seat behind me.

  I have to admit, I was shocked to see him. What was he doing here? I'd been sure that he wouldn't be coming back. Sure of it.

  Only now he was back. He hadn't disappeared after all.

  I turned around and whispered, glad the second bell hadn't rung yet so there weren't a lot of people in the room, "What are you doing here?"

  Luke blinked at me from behind the wire-rimmed glasses. "What do you mean? I'm staying for two weeks. Didn't they tell you?"

  "Um, yeah," I whispered, "but I just . . . I just figured. . . ."

  "I was a quick study?" Luke smiled. It was the same smile that had melted hearts all over the world when he'd flashed it at Angelique Tremaine's Guinevere. And, I'll admit, it gave me a flutter.

  But not enough of one not to be all, "Luke—"

  "Lucas," he corrected me.

  "Lucas, then. You . . . I mean, you so obviously hated it here." And then, because I felt I had to, I added, "Hated me, too."

  The smile disappeared. "What are you talking about, Jen? I don't hate you."

  "But the whole Cara thing—"

  "Well, yeah," he said with a grimace. "That wasn't too pleasant. But after you yelled at me, I got . . . curious."

  "Curious? About what?" Then I added hastily, "And I never yelled at you. I was just—"

  "Letting off steam. I know. Still." He opened the latte and released its rich aroma into the air. "I want to see how it all turns out."

  I stared at him like he was nuts. "How what turns out?" I asked him. "What are you talking about?"

  But I never found out, because just then the bell rang.

  I wouldn't say that, after that moment, Luke and I started getting along like—well, like Lancelot and Guinevere or anything. I mean, he still walked around with this little frown on his face a lot of the time . . . especially when there wasn't anything worth frowning over going on at all. Like when Courtney Deckard and her friends walked by us in the hall, they'd all lower their gazes to Luke's feet, then slowly lift them along the length of his body, until they met his eyes. Then they'd smile.

  Why should this make him frown? That's how the popular crowd communicates. Everyone knows this. They are checking out his outfit to make sure it's regulation trendy. This is status quo for the popular set.

  Other times, he seemed to find stuff that wasn't funny at all totally hilarious. Like during show choir rehearsal. Luke seemed to find Mr. Hall's constant nagging of me to "quit sloughing off" and get Trina her hat faster during "All That Jazz" absolutely thigh-slappingly funny.

  Although I honestly don't know what cracked him up so much about that. It's no joke, trying to get from the top of the riser down to the bottom in time for the sopranos cancan, or whatever it was. I finally figured out that if I threw Trina the hat from the top of the riser, she could get it in time to join the kick line with Karen Sue Walters and all those guys.

  I'm not the world's best thrower, but Trina is an excellent catcher, so that seemed to work. At least, Mr. Hall quit yelling at me and moved on to yell at the baritones.

  I guess after his initial shock at the barbarism existing in a modern-day high school, Luke mellowed out a little. Even lunch seemed not to faze him. It helped that the second day, he brought his own. Of course, that nearly blew his cover—or at least I thought so—since the lunch he brought had so obviously been flown in from Indianapolis. I mean, there are no sushi places in Clayton. We don't even have a limo company! How are we going to have sushi?

  But Luke—pretty smoothly, I thought—explained that he'd made the sushi himself, with tuna from the fish counter at Mr. D's. I have to admit, this almost made me choke on my Diet Coke. But Luke said it so matter-of-factly that even Scott believed him. In fact, the two of them got into this whole conversation about sushi-grade tuna and flash freezing. I had no idea what they were talking about, but I was pleased that my friends were making an effort to make the new guy feel welcome. . . .

  Until I remembered Luke wasn't actually "the new guy." He was the former star of Heaven Help Us, ex-boyfriend of Angelique Tremaine, a breathtaking Tarzan in his loincloth, and a heroic and tragic Lancelot. It was a testament to Luke's acting skills, I suppose, that even I began to think of him as Lucas Smith, transfer student. He didn't break out of the character of Lucas at all that next day—

  Except for once. And that was right after first period, when he learned of the kidnapping of Betty Ann Mulvaney.

  "Why are you taking Latin?" Luke asked me as we moved toward my locker after class. "I mean, isn't it a dead language? Nobody even s
peaks it anymore."

  "It's good to know," I said, using the standard response I give everyone. Because the truth is too weird to explain. "For the SATs."

  "You don't need it," Luke said with kind of an alarming amount of confidence for someone who'd only met me twenty-four hours ago. "You work for the school paper. You know all about grammar and stuff. What are you really taking it for?"

  Maybe because he's older—only nineteen, but much older than most nineteen-year-olds, considering he has his own house in the Hollywood Hills and that his paychecks are about ten million dollars more than what my dad makes every year, not to mention his commitment tattoo and all—I told him the truth.

  "I heard Mrs. Mulvaney was a really good teacher," I whispered in case Courtney Deckard or any of her friends might be around, listening. "So I signed up for her class."

  Luke understood even better than I thought he would.

  "Oh, yeah," he said. "That's like in acting. If you want to work with a really good director, you take the part, no matter what it is or what the movie's about. Only . . . well, no offense, but Mrs. M. doesn't seem all that great. I mean, she just kind of seems to . . . be there."

  "Oh," I said. "Yeah. Well, right now. She's a little off these days, on account of Betty Ann."

  Luke asked who Betty Ann was, and I told him. I guess I told him a little too much—like the rumor about how Mrs. Mulvaney hadn't been able to have kids and that Betty Ann was her substitute baby, in a way. The truth was, I was still worried. About what Kurt and those guys were going to do to Betty Ann. Because I didn't think any of them were smart enough to realize how important Betty Ann was to Mrs. Mulvaney. I mean, to Mrs. M., Betty Ann isn't just a doll or the school mascot or anything. She's kind of like . . . well, family.

  Telling Luke that was a mistake, though.

  "Kidnapped her?" he practically yelled, right there in the hallway. "What for?'

  "It's a prank," I explained. "The senior prank."

  "Oh, yeah, very funny," he said. "When are they going to give her back?"