Teen Idol

by Meg Cabot

  Even I—who could not seem really to work up the kind of enthusiasm that, say, Trina had for the occasion—felt a little thrill of excitement. Oh, well. I wasn't going to the Spring Fling with someone I loved, it was true.

  But at least I was going to the Spring Fling.

  Then the limo came into sight, the same long black sleek one that I'd taken to Luke's condo at the lake and back Trina squeezed my hand excitedly as the vehicle came to a slow stop in front of my house, and the driver got out and went around to open the passenger side door.

  Every photographer—every cameraperson, every parent—in the vicinity lifted their camera to snap a shot of Luke Striker emerging from his limo, like Lancelot on his white horse when he swooped down to rescue Guinevere from being burned to death at the stake.

  But the person who emerged from the limo wasn't Luke Striker. The person who came out, carrying a corsage and waving to all the camera people, was none other than . . .

  Steve McKnight.

  That's right. Steve McKnight, Trina's boyfriend and Spring Fling date, in his Troubadours tux (though he'd traded in his red bow tie and cummerbund for black ones).

  The reporters sighed—some of them even booed—and went back to their stakeout.

  Trina, however, was absolutely delighted.

  "I can't believe you rented a limo," she squealed, as Steve pinned on her corsage—a bunch of carnations that he had, as Trina had instructed him to, let sit overnight in a bottle of black ink, so that the white petals were now tinged with black. "It must have cost you a fortune!"

  "Uh," Steve said, looking kind of embarrassed. "Not really."

  "Oh, your parents paid for it?" Trina asked, as the two of them posed for photos in front of Trina's excited mom and dad.

  "Uh," Steve said. "Actually, Luke Striker did."

  Trina froze.

  She wasn't the only one, either.

  "Luke did?" Trina glanced at me worriedly. "What . . . why?"

  "I don't know," Steve said with an awkward shrug. "He said he didn't need it anymore."

  "Didn't . . ." Trina's gaze on me grew pitying. She realized what was happening before I did. Or thought she did, anyway. "Oh, Jen. Look, it doesn't matter. It doesn't. You can come with us. We'll have a ball. Won't we, Steve?"

  "Sure," Steve said. "Of course."

  I still didn't get it. So Luke had given Steve his limo? Big deal. That didn't mean Luke wasn't coming.

  Luke wouldn't stand me up. Not in front of all these reporters. After all, what had I ever done to deserve treatment like that? Just been his friend. Kept his secret.

  CHANGED CLAYTON HIGH FROM A PLACE FILLED WITH ANGST AND ANTAGONISM INTO THE WARM AND ACCEPTING SCHOOL IT WAS TODAY FOR HIM.

  "Oh, honey," my mom said, coming over to give me a hug. The photographers, starting to realize what had happened, lifted their cameras to get a shot of that. I could just see the headlines the next day.

  AMERICA'S SWEETHEART JILTS JEN!

  A MOTHER'S LOVE ONLY BALM FOR

  BROKENHEARTED JENNY!

  THAT DIRTY RAT!

  But before my mom had a chance to say any of the words of comfort she'd thought up, a cry rose from the treetops.

  And the next thing I knew, a guy in a tux had pulled up in front of Steve's limousine . . . on a motorcycle.

  A Harley, no less.

  "Hey," Luke said, as he pulled off his black helmet. "Sorry I'm late."

  The yard was ablaze with flashes. Reporters were screaming, "Luke! Luke! Look this way, Luke!"

  Luke completely ignored them. He walked straight up to my dad and stuck his right hand out.

  "Mr. Greenley, sir," he said. "I'm Luke Striker. I'm here to take your daughter to the Spring Fling."

  My dad, for possibly the first time in his life, looked as if he didn't know quite what to do. Finally, he took Luke's hand in his and shook it.

  "How do you do," he said.

  Then he seemed to recover himself. He said, "You expect to take Jenny to the formal on that?"

  "No," my mother said, shaking her head. "Absolutely not without a helmet."

  "There's an extra helmet under the seat, Mrs. Greenley," Luke said, taking her hand and giving it a shake as well. "And I swear I'll have her home by midnight "

  I elbowed him.

  "I mean one," Luke said.

  "I'll call you if I'm going to be later than that," I said, and grabbed Luke by the arm "Bye "

  "Wait!" my mother called. "We didn't get a picture!"

  But my mom didn't have to worry. Because every periodical in America—with the exception maybe of National Geographic, who didn't seem to have sent a representative—got a picture of Luke helping me put the spare helmet on over my flowered hair clip. Of Luke helping me onto the back of the bike without getting any grease on my skirt, and of Luke wrapping that skirt around my legs so it wouldn't catch in the wheel spokes and strangle and or drag me to my death. Of Luke waving as he stepped on the accelerator. Of me grabbing Luke around the waist and holding on for dear life.

  And of the two of us zooming down the street as fast as we could go without breaking the speed limit or worse, upsetting my parents.

  "I hope you don't mind," Luke said later, after we'd pulled up in front of the Clayton Inn—where we were met by more reporters . . . the ones who'd been able to beat us from my house, of which there weren't many. "About the bike, I mean."

  "It's fine," I said. I had actually really enjoyed it. I'd never been on a motorcycle before. Nice girls like me don't generally get asked to ride them. "But I thought you wanted a typical prom experience. And arriving at the prom on a Harley? Hate to break it to you, Luke, but that's not so typical."

  "Well," Luke said, reaching up to fix one of the flowers on my hair clip. "I always like to make a big entrance. Oh, I almost forgot."

  And from beneath the motorcycle's seat, he withdrew a clear plastic box, inside of which lay a corsage made of white roses and baby's breath.

  "Oh, it's beautiful," I said. Then I remembered the boutonnière I'd left in the fridge back home. "I forgot yours at the house!"

  "We are not going back there," Luke declared, expertly pinning the corsage into place, just above my heart. "I'll survive without one."

  Then he offered me his arm. "Madam. Shall we dance?"

  "So long as we don't have to use jazz hands," I said.

  "Have no fear. I called ahead to check. This event is guaranteed jazz hands free."

  With this assurance, I took Luke's arm, and the two of us glided into the Clayton Inn—flashes going off all around us, and reporters—not to mention actual residents of Clayton, who'd crowded the inn's driveway for a chance to see their favorite star and his date for the evening—screaming our names.

  I don't want you to get the wrong impression. Like that the Spring Fling is fun or anything. I mean, even if you go with the most popular teenage movie star in America—maybe even the world—the Spring Fling is still kind of a drag.

  It's true that you get to see everyone from school looking better than you've ever seen them.

  But, you know, they're still the people that you see every day at school. Just shinier. And maybe, you know, cleaner.

  I didn't have it half so bad as some girls. There were some girls there who you just knew were destined for a bad time. Like Karen Sue Walters, for instance. She had shanghaied one of the tenors into going with her. One of the tenors who everyone in the whole school knew was completely gaga for Luke Striker. The whole time they were dancing, Karen Sue's date kept gazing longingly in the direction of Luke's tuxedo pants.

  It was actually kind of amusing.

  Which was really the best part of Spring Fling. You know, the part where we all made fun of it. It turned out Luke was really good at it. We all sat at the same table—me; Luke; Trina, Steve, Bored Liz and her date (one of the football players. Don't ask), and Tough Brenda and her date, a surprisingly nice, soft-spoken guy named Lamar—and made fun of the food and the music and, finally, every
one there.

  The dancing didn't start until the food had been cleared away. Then everyone drifted out onto the dance floor including me and Luke I told Luke I could only handle the slow ones—I was still suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome from my whole Troubadour experience—and he said he understood.

  Luke, it turned out, was a terrific dancer big surprise, right? He was so good that he almost made up for me sucking so badly at it. Our knees only collided like half a dozen times, and I think I only kicked him once.

  I don't know what Luke was thinking about as he held me close during our slow dances together. I can only tell you what I was thinking about.

  Or who, actually.

  And that was well, not Luke.

  I know. It really was awful I have to be the most ungrateful girl in the history of time. I mean, there I was, with this great—really great—Spring Fling date, this guy who had worked hard to make the Spring Fling as fun for me as the Spring Fling could be—or, at least, as fun as a Spring Fling you were attending with someone in whom you weren't romantically interested could be—and I couldn't stop thinking about someone else!

  It was pathetic, is what it was.

  But not as pathetic as my reaction a minute later when I spotted, just past Luke's shoulder, a familiar figure in a slinky, low-cut gown of pale peach.

  Geri Lynn! What was Geri Lynn doing at the Spring Fling? Could she have found a date so soon after breaking up with Scott?

  No way. Or I would have heard about it.

  Which could only mean one thing.

  I lifted my head from Luke's chest and started looking around. He had to be here somewhere. I mean, if Geri was here . . .

  I felt Luke chuckle, deep in his chest.

  "Relax, Jen," he said. "She came alone."

  I pretended not to know what he was talking about. What else could I do?

  "Who?" I asked.

  "You know who I'm talking about," Luke said. In the "romantic" lighting—really just purple gels slipped over the reception room's normal lights and one of those big glittery disco balls . . . which Luke swore he hadn't seen anywhere since his character's prom on Heaven Help Us—his face still looked incredibly attractive.

  And though I couldn't, in the half-light, tell that his eyes were blue, I could tell that his gaze was on mine, with somewhat disconcerting directness.

  "I'm onto you, Jen Greenley," he said.

  I squinted at him. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm onto you," he said again. "Not just about that, either. I've got you completely worked out. You're Annie, aren't you?"

  I nearly choked. "Who-what?"

  "You're Ask Annie," Luke said, "from the school newspaper."

  I blinked. I couldn't believe he even knew what Ask Annie was.

  And that he was bringing it up now. At the Spring Fling.

  "Are you kidding?" he said, when I mentioned this. "Everybody talks about her. Ask Annie says this. Ask Annie says that. You're, like, the unofficial school psychologist."

  I have to admit that hearing this gave me a nice tingling feeling. I would totally have loved to be the school psychologist. If I were, the first thing I'd do is abolish mandatory attendance at pep rallies. I mean, how are you supposed to feel peppy about crushing your opponent? It was just so wrong. Wasn't your opponent going to feel bad for losing? That's the only reason I never went to the games. I could barely look at the faces of the team who lost. It was just so sad.

  The second thing I'd abolish? The Spring Fling.

  "I don't get why it's a big secret, though," Luke said.

  I gave up the pretense. He knew. I was just going to have to deal.

  "Oh." I shrugged. "That's easy. Because if people knew who Ask Annie was, they wouldn't necessarily trust her to be neutral."

  "And you think that's what you are?" Luke asked. "Neutral?"

  Was he kidding? Did he not know that I was—or used to be, anyway—the most neutral person on the planet?

  He had to be kidding.

  He wasn't kidding.

  "Because I haven't noticed you acting too neutral lately," he went on. "I mean, that thing with Cara—"

  "She needed my help," I interrupted. I mean, this should have been obvious to him.

  "And the Troubadours thing?"

  "Troubadours wasn't for me," I said. Duh.

  "And Betty Ann? When you ruined the senior prank? How neutral was that?"

  "Oh, well, that—"

  And then I dropped my arms from around his neck and took a step backward so I could look at him . . . really look at him.

  "Hey," I said. "How'd you know about Betty Ann?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "Did Steve tell you?"

  "Not Steve," Luke said. "But, like I said, I have my sources."

  Around us, the music had stopped. Dr. Lewis and Juicy Lucy, who were—unfortunately—our chaperones for the evening, mounted the dais at the end of the room. Dr. Lewis tapped on the microphone in front of the dais.

  "Testing," he said, and blew on it. "Testing. One. Two. Three."

  "Let me ask you a question," Luke said, reaching out to take my hand. "And I don't want neutrality. I want Ask Annie, who is about as neutral as nitroglycerin. I really want to know what you think about this."

  "Um, hello, everyone, and welcome to Clayton High School's annual Spring Fling," Dr. Lewis read into the microphone from an index card.

  "Shoot," I said to Luke.

  "Okay," Luke said. "Let's say there was this guy. And he happened to be in love with this girl—"

  "I don't want to keep you all from the party," Dr. Lewis said. "So let's get right down to it. The votes have been tallied for this year's Spring Fling king and queen."

  "—and let's say that for some reason—never mind what that reason is—the girl decided to break up with him," Luke went on. "How long do you think he'd have to wait before he could move on to . . . someone else? And not, you know, risk being accused of being on the rebound?"

  "I don't know," I said. What was Luke talking about? Who was Luke talking about? Who had been dumped by a girl lately? No one I knew.

  Then suddenly, my hands—including the one Luke was holding—began to sweat. Geri Lynn, I saw, had noticed us. She waved gaily. Scott was most definitely not with her. He might have been somewhere else in the room . . . but he wasn't with Geri.

  Was that who Luke was talking about? Scott, I mean? Scott had recently been dumped. . . .

  That had to be who he was talking about. Scott. Scott Bennett. Scott had asked Luke to ask me how long he'd have to wait before he could ask out the mystery girl, the one he liked. Of course he had! He certainly couldn't ask Annie. Not without my knowing it was him. So he'd had Luke do it for him.

  "As you know," Dr. Lewis droned into the microphone, "there was a table set up in the cafeteria all week, where you could write in your votes for Spring Fling king and queen. Well, those votes have been tallied, and I'm happy to say, we have our winners?"

  "Not winners," Juicy Lucy interrupted hastily. "Everyone here is a winner. Dr. Lewis meant to say we have our Spring Fling king and queen."

  "Yes," Dr. Lewis said. "Yes, that's what I meant. And the king and queen of the Clayton High School Spring Fling are . . . Oh, dear. Well, this is a bit unusual. One of the, er, members of the royal party isn't exactly . . . I mean, doesn't exactly go to Clayton High. . . ."

  "I think," I said to Luke, even as Geri Lynn was making a beeline for us. "I think he should wait. I think he should wait a really, really long time. Because, you know, he wouldn't want to rush into anything. The right girl might be right around the corner, you know. Maybe even closer than he thinks. And he should wait until he's totally sure he's found her. . . ."

  "That's what I was hoping you'd say," Luke said.

  And then he dropped my hand, turned around, and scooped Geri Lynn up in his arms.

  "Hi ya, babe," he said to her.

  And kissed her.

  On the lips.

  And didn't stop kissing her, ev
en after Dr. Lewis said into the microphone, "Oh, what the hay. I'd be proud to call him an honorary Clayton Rooster. This year's Clayton High Spring Fling king and queen are . . . Luke Striker and Jenny Greenley!"

  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,

  I love him. He doesn’t know I’m alive. What do I do now?

  Desperate

  Dear Desperate,

  When you find out, will you let me know?

  Because I haven’t the foggiest idea.

  Annie

  SEVENTEEN

  "It's Just", Luke said, as we shared our spotlight dance—a requisite part, it turned out, of our coronation ceremony—"I was so sure after Angelique left me that I'd never love again. And then I met Geri Lynn, and . . . I don't know. It wasn't love at first sight or anything. I swear it. It happened gradually."

  Right. Gradually, over a period of less than two weeks—most of which he'd spent in Los Angeles.

  "I know we're completely different," he went on—probably the first Spring Fling king in the history of Clayton High to spend his entire dance with the queen talking instead of making out, like a normal guy—"I mean, she wants to be a reporter. And you know how I hate the stalkarazzi. But some of the things she said in that essay—you know, the pro-con one Scott had us write?—got me thinking. She's not like other girls, you know. She's not afraid to speak her mind."

  Wasn't that the truth.

  "There may be some truth to the fact that we celebrities need the media. And of course they need us. It's a symbiotic relationship I'd never given much thought to before. But Geri made me think about it," Luke explained. "That's what I like so much about her. She makes me think, you know? When she gave me her number, that day at the car wash, I wasn't going to call her. But then . . . I don't know. I thought I'd been a little rough on you that day at the condo. You know, about the whole special sauce thing. So I phoned Geri and asked her to look out for you . . . just to give me a call if she thought you were getting in over your head with the reporters or whatever. I figured if anyone would know whether they were being too rough with you, it was her. I started calling her a couple times a day, just to touch base about you . . . and pretty soon, you know, we went from talking about you . . . to talking about her . . . to talking about me and her. . . .Well, you know how it goes."