Fool's Gold

by Melody Carlson

  Now she frowns. “Oh, what does it matter? Okay, I’ve changed my mind. I think you should come with me tonight. I was just being paranoid. There’s no reason my friends can’t accept you for who you are, Hannah.”

  I wonder what that’s supposed to mean. And then I wonder who I am, as Vanessa sees me.

  “Seriously, Hannah.” She’s pulling on my hand now. “Get up and get changed. Hurry. I need to stop by the mall and pick out a gift for Elisa.”

  “But I — ”

  “No arguing. Mom’s already mad at me.”

  “But I don’t want — ”

  “Don’t make this any harder than it is. Go and get cleaned up. You have exactly twenty minutes. And wear something . . .” She pauses. “Well, something that looks sort of normal.”

  Sort of normal? What’s that supposed to mean?

  So I trudge upstairs, and feeling sorry for myself, I take a very fast shower, then search through my new clothes until I come up with an outfit that not only looks normal but is rather attractive. I put on the orange T-shirt and a black skirt that’s probably a more suitable length for work than a party, but I don’t have anything like the skirt that Vanessa was wearing. Then I pull my hair back into a damp ponytail and put on some lip gloss and quickly transfer my wallet and things into the new orange purse. I go back and forth between the pink thongs, I mean flip-flops, and sandals and finally decide on the sandals since I think pink and orange are a bit gross together. Then I check out my image in the mirror once more, and I think I look pretty good.

  Vanessa is waiting in her room, just down the hall from mine, with the door open. I’m pretty sure I made my transformation within her allotted amount of time, but she still doesn’t look happy when she sees me.

  “Getting ready for Halloween, are we?”

  “Huh?”

  “The orange and black thing you got going . . . it looks kind of like Halloween.”

  “You mean like trick-or-treat?”

  “Yeah, right.” Then she goes over to her dresser and digs through some of her costume jewelry until she finds some big black beads and matching earrings. “Here,” she tells me. “Try this.”

  I put on the necklace, then remind her my ears aren’t pierced.

  She frowns again. “Yeah, we should do something about that.” Then she glances at her watch, a thin piece of silver that looks more like jewelry than an actual watch. “We better go.”

  Vanessa drives, and rather fast. We stop at the same mall that she took me to on Friday and go straight to a store with a French name that I can’t pronounce. Vanessa seems to know just what she’s looking for, and it occurs to me that I should take the birthday girl something too. The problem is, I’m almost out of cash and I don’t want to sponge off of Vanessa. Finally I decide on a card and hope that it will be sufficient. After all, I’ve barely even met Elisa.

  I feel myself growing nervous as we drive up a road that leads to a neighborhood that’s even more posh than where Vanessa lives. I wipe my damp palms on my skirt and wish that I had simply stayed home. Why did I allow Vanessa to push me around? I know better than to be egged on into doing something that I’ll regret later. But to be perfectly honest, a small part of me wanted to go to this party tonight. I’m curious about Yanks my age. I wonder if they all share Vanessa’s superficial values or if she’s just been overly influenced by her materialistic mum.

  “Just relax,” Vanessa coaches me as she parks in the huge circular driveway. “Be yourself, and I’m sure everyone will be charmed by your Aussie accent.”

  “Ya reckon?”

  She laughs. “Sure, why not?”

  As it turns out, they are a bit interested in me. For starters anyway. But then they start drifting off into little groups, and I am not included. I find a quiet corner out by the pool. Me and pools, what is it? I guess I like water and find it to be soothing company. Doesn’t talk too much and keeps its cool.

  But as I sit there, I observe the others. And one thing becomes clear: These kids all seem to have a lot of money. I can tell this (a) by the way they’re dressed, (b) by the way they talk (everyone’s been or going somewhere this summer that sounds pretty expensive), and (c) by the amazing cars parked in the driveway. But more than this, I can tell that I do not fit in. Vanessa was absolutely right. And I can’t even blame her for not wanting to bring me. What’s the point? Oh, I was an item of interest for a few brief moments, and I must admit that was fun. But now that my fifteen seconds of fame are over, I wish that I hadn’t bothered coming at all. Sitting here by myself is just a giant reminder of what a misfit I truly am.

  But as I sit here, I notice something else that’s interesting. Vanessa is by no means at the top of this money heap. In fact, some of her own mates don’t seem to treat her that nicely. And then it occurs to me that she’s a bit of a newcomer to the whole wealth thing. Only six years ago she was just a regular middle-class girl. The more I watch, the more I suspect she has to fight to keep her position, and I find this both pitiful and amusing.

  “What are you doing over here all by yourself?” asks a guy I met earlier. His name is Wyatt, and he’s quite good-looking with his short, bleached hair and deep tan. He already told me he’s a surfer.

  “Just having a breather,” I say as if I’m staying off to myself by choice.

  “That’s cool.” He sits down in the chair across from me and leans back as if he wants to take a break as well.

  “How often do you surf?” I ask, feeling more like a boofhead than ever. What a completely idiotic question.

  “As much as I can,” he says. “Especially this summer.”

  “Why especially this summer?” I echo stupidly, but he doesn’t seem to notice my lack of verbal skills.

  “I’m going to college back East.” His voice grows sad. “No surfing there.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Do you surf?”

  “I’ve done it on occasion, but I’m not very good.”

  “Maybe you should try hanging ten here. We may not be Australia, but we get some pretty good wave action. The waves were epic yesterday. You should come out and see how we Yanks do it.” I wonder if this might actually be an offer for surfing lessons, and I’m about to respond accordingly when I’m cut off.

  “Wyatt!” A girl waves from the other side of the pool. As I recall, her name is Felicia VanHorn, and from what I’ve seen, she must rank fairly high on the social ladder of Vanessa’s mates. “What are you doing way over there?”

  “Talking to the Aussie girl, Hannah,” he calls back.

  “Oh, Hannah . . .” says Felicia as she comes over to join us. She says my name as if I’m some sort of specimen that she’s been wanting to examine. “I didn’t even see you there in the shadows. Must be those dark colors you’re wearing.” Then she pulls up a chair and sits down beside Wyatt. “Are those colors the fashion Down Under?”

  Felicia is wearing a loopy top that seems to have been crocheted or knitted, yet it’s very lightweight and the same delicate shade of pink that you might see inside a seashell. It fits her like a glove and yet doesn’t look the slightest bit shonky. Her short skirt is the exact same shell color, and I can tell the two pieces must’ve been purchased as an outfit. Her clothes are perfectly accented with jewelry that suggests the ocean and looks striking against her tanned skin.

  I look down at my orange and black outfit and remember what Vanessa said about Halloween (a holiday we don’t normally observe on the mission), then simply shrug. “We don’t get all worked up over fashion where I’m from,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “I reckon it’s ‘cause we focus more on doing things.”

  “What kinds of things?” asks Wyatt.

  “Well, besides surfing, there are field sports and motorbikes and walkabouts and goomying.”

  “Goomying?” Felicia looks confused.

  “Oh, you know, floating on tire tubes downriver.”

  Felicia looks surprised or maybe disgusted. And I cannot fo
r the life of me imagine someone like her getting all dirty and mucked up as we shoot down the river. But I think it would be interesting to see.

  “Sounds fun,” says Wyatt. “Any crocs in your rivers?”

  “Oh, sure. We’ve spotted some really big crocs down in the lower elevations. And we’ve got after darks in the ocean too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sharks.” I say the word dramatically since I know he’s a surfer. “Oh, we have sharks around here,” says Felicia, perhaps to show me up.

  “And we also have pythons and boas.” I try to think of something even more exciting, as if I’m participating in some kind of who’s-got-the-best-wildlife contest.

  “Cool,” says Wyatt. And he actually seems impressed.

  “You should pop over sometime,” I tease.

  “That’d be gnarly.”

  Felicia slowly crosses her long, brown legs, then points her perfectly painted toes, gracefully encased in a fancy beaded sandal, in Wyatt’s direction. It’s obvious she’s trying to get his attention, but I’m wondering if she expects him to rub her feet. “My dad’s taking out the sailboat tomorrow,” she says to Wyatt as if I’m not here. “He told me to round up some able-bodied crew members.”

  “Where’s he going?” Wyatt asks with interest.

  “Just to Catalina and back. But we could use an extra hand.”

  Suddenly I feel invisible as the two of them discuss the details of the sailing trip. I would get up and slink away except that I don’t want to draw any undue attention to myself. But as I sit here watching them, I can’t help but notice how perfectly turned out Felicia is. I have a feeling her outfit might’ve cost even more than Vanessa’s. And for some reason I’m beginning to see how money and influence and the ability to come and go and do as you please really matter with this crowd.

  Finally, when I can’t handle being ignored for one more second, I stand up and excuse myself. Wyatt looks slightly surprised by my quick move, but I suspect Felicia is relieved. I have a feeling that my outfit was clashing with hers. Most of all, I reckon Vanessa was right. I don’t belong here. I decide to go into the house, although I’m not even sure why. But then I just continue walking, as if I know where I am going, until I’m finally out in the front yard. I stand there for about a minute stupidly staring at all the beautiful vehicles lining Elisa’s driveway. Yank tanks . . . although most of them do not appear to be American made. I am tempted to tally up the value of all the metal spread out before me, but instead I just go and sit on a concrete bench that surrounds a tall fountain and wait. And wait and wait and wait.

  six

  THE HUGEST LUMP IS GROWING IN MY THROAT RIGHT NOW, AND I FEEL like the biggest misfit in the whole wide world. Not only that, but I am jealous too. And jealousy isn’t something I’m accustomed to. Back home at the mission, I’m considered the kind of girl that others normally look up to. I’m good at sports and have heaps of mates. I excel in my studies, and my teachers often refer to me as “a leader.” I think I’ve simply taken that role in stride, as if being first and best was somehow my due. But here in the States, the rules have all changed. It’s plain to see that in the wider world, I am a big fat nothing. And that hurts.

  I replay the scene of Felicia flirting with Wyatt and honestly wish that I were in her shoes. Literally. Those delicately beaded sandals were absolutely beautiful, like jewelry for the feet. And her feet were beautiful too with those pale pink toenails. I look down at my unimpressive sturdy leather sandals that I actually purchased for work, and then I examine my scruffy-looking feet and my plain-Jane toenails, which are in need of a trim. I’ve never even considered my toenails before tonight. Painting them has always seemed sort of cheap and wasteful to me. But suddenly I’m asking myself, why not?

  “Mind if I smoke?” asks a bloke I don’t recognize from the party. I hadn’t even noticed him walking up to me, but now he’s standing with one foot on the bench. He’s got dark, shaggy hair and a goatee that doesn’t quite seem to fit his face.

  “It’s a free country,” I say, watching as he slides a cancer stick in his gob, then ignites it with a lighter.

  “You a friend of Elisa’s?” he asks with undisguised curiosity.

  “Not actually.”

  “Who, then?” He blows a puff of smoke over his shoulder and away from me.

  “Vanessa Johnson’s my cousin,” I explain for what I’m hoping will be the last time. I want to say, “Yeah, I know I look like I don’t belong here tonight. And you’re right, I don’t!” But somehow I manage to keep my mouth shut.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re having much fun.”

  “I’m not, actually. I’m just waiting for the party to end so I can go home.”

  “Might be a long wait.”

  I shrug and glance back toward the house. It does sound as if the party is just getting lively now.

  The guy comes closer to me and holds out his hand as if he wants to shake mine. “Sorry, I’m Alex Rodriguez. I’m Elisa’s older brother. I just came by to tell her happy birthday, but I’m not really into these kiddie parties either.”

  I shake his hand and eye him more carefully. I realize that he doesn’t quite look like the other guys here tonight, although I’m sure I can’t put my finger on why. But then, I’m not exactly known for my fashion sense, am I? I wonder if he is what Vanessa would call a nerd, or what my mates and I would call a dag. And then I wonder why it even matters. Why must we label everything?

  “I could give you a ride home,” he offers. “I mean, if you’re tired of waiting. I’m just leaving anyway.”

  I don’t feel right about hopping into this bloke’s car. For all I know, he could be some murderer who’s just popping in to pick up his next victim. But then I think if he’s really Elisa’s brother, he should be safe enough. Even so, I decide to check with Vanessa first. She glances at Alex, who waits for me by the door. Then she gives me this odd look and lowers her voice and says, “It’s perfectly fine if he takes you home, Hannah, if you’re not embarrassed to be seen with him. Alex is kind of a dork — you know, a loser. But a harmless one.”

  Dork, geek, nerd, dag, loser, wally . . . so many clever names for us misfits. I don’t reckon we’ll ever run out.

  “I’m alright,” I assure Vanessa, but I’m thinking she may be more worried about how my leaving with Alex will reflect on her. “I don’t think anyone will notice us anyway.”

  And as I get into the passenger side of his small pickup, I realize that I was right — no one noticed us leaving. No one even cared. I guess I really hoped that Wyatt would look up and see me going — that perhaps he might dash over and ask for my phone number or invite me to go surfing with him next week. But he was still talking to Felicia. And she was laughing loudly, as if he’d just said the funniest thing. Maybe it was about me. Or maybe he’d already forgotten me.

  “You have an accent,” Alex says as he pulls out into the street.

  So I quickly explain, giving him my formula answer and hoping that will be sufficient. I do appreciate the ride, but I have no interest in carrying on an actual conversation with this bloke. I just tell him the address of Vanessa’s house, then lean back into the seat and hope he doesn’t get lost.

  “Elisa’s friends aren’t an easy circle to break into.”

  I attempt a laugh. “No worries,” I say. “I have no intention of breaking in. I only went tonight because my aunt forced Vanessa to take me. She’s afraid I’m not enjoying my visit.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Elisa and her friends are really obsessed with money.”

  Now this makes me actually laugh. Talk about stating the obvious. “No kidding?”

  He clears his throat and now I’m worried I may have offended him. “I guess it’s not money so much as the lifestyle that goes with it,” he continues. “The funny thing is that none of them even work. They just spend their parents’ money — as if there’s no end to it.” Now his tone sound
s slightly bitter.

  “But you don’t do that?”

  “Elisa and I have different dads. Oh, I have the Rodriguez name; my mom insisted on it when I was too small to protest. But Elisa’s dad is the one with the money. My dad is pretty much a loser.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’m not. I just realize that I need to work harder than Elisa to make something of myself.” “You mean to get rich?” “I’m not into money.”

  Somehow I don’t believe this. “Everyone’s into money,” I say. “You can’t live without it.”

  “Well, I want to live differently. After graduating from high school, I moved out, and I haven’t taken a penny from my stepdad since. I work hard just to get by. And I don’t waste my money on the kinds of things that Elisa and her friends are into.”

  “How can you afford uni?”

  “Uni?”

  “I mean college, you know. Have you gone yet?”

  “I took a few classes the first year, just part-time, but I can’t afford to go. I have to stay focused on work.”

  “Do you enjoy your work?”

  “No. But I enjoy having food to eat and a roof over my head.”

  Now, I don’t even know why I’m drawn into this conversation. What do I care if this bloke has family problems? I have enough troubles of my own. But I plunge ahead. “Are you jealous of Elisa for having it so easy?”

  “It’s not her fault that she has it easy, that her dad just hands her everything on a silver platter. It’s not like she has a choice in the matter. And besides, she’s going to find out someday that money doesn’t buy happiness.”

  “Are you happy?”

  He doesn’t answer, and I begin to feel bad for pestering him. After all, this guy is giving me a ride home. Why am I being so mean?

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”

  Now he brightens a bit. “No, you ask good questions, Hannah. I guess I haven’t really thought about everything. Sometimes I get pretty obsessed with working and getting by.”

  “You seem like an intelligent person,” I say. “Don’t you want to go to uni — I mean college?”