I So Don't Do Famous (3 page)

“Now, about Josh.” She picks up the emery board. “Is he your only boyfriend?”

“What?” I sputter. “Yes!”

“That is so your issue.” The emery board weaves across the tip of her nail. “You need a BUB.”

“A BUB?”

“A Back-Up Boyfriend.” Amber blows nail dust in the air. “Then when your boyfriend isn't behaving himself, you have your BUB waiting for your call.”

Two boyfriends? That sounds worse than two tests in the same day. “I don't think that's the answer for me.”

Amber shoots me a look like I'm a dog who won't learn to heel. “Fine. If you're sticking to one, then trade up to a WAB.”

“A WAB?”

“A boyfriend with Wheels and Bank.”

“Bank?” I feel like I'm trapped in a weird Monopoly game of romance.

“As in ‘earns money.' ” Amber nods, and the fluorescent lighting glints off her hair like she's wearing
a crown. “Can you think of a guy with a driver's license and a part-time job?”

“Amber, I'm thirteen. My dad and The Ruler will never let me go out with a guy old enough to drive and work.”

“Well”—she shrugs her slender shoulders—“then you're stuck fishing in the middle-school, high-school boy pool.” With her pinkie, Amber pulls open a small drawer next to the register. She drops in the emery board and picks up a tiny jar. “Where you'll only catch the dregs.”

“The DREGS?” I say. “What's that code for?”

Amber rolls her kohl-outlined eyes. “It's not code for anything. Guys who are the dregs are gross and lame. Like the leftover gunk at the bottom of a coffeepot.”

I make an O with my thumb and index finger. “Gotcha.” It's a mystery how I won the true-love essay contest with such gaping holes in my dating knowledge.

“Still”—Amber unscrews the jar lid and scoops out a smidgen of pale cream—“there's gotta be a BUB, even a sad WAB, swimming around in your pool.”

“But I don't want a BUB or a WAB, and definitely not the dregs,” I wail. “I just want Josh to go to Hollywood with me.”

Amber frowns at me. “Knock it off, Sherry. You never know when a customer's going to show up.”

“Okay, okay.” I gulp a couple of times, getting myself under control. “Look, Amber, Josh is starting high school in a few weeks. Maybe that's the problem. I look like an eighth-grade baby.”

She briefly closes her lavender-colored eyelids and waves her hand in the air, dismissing my concerns. “Don't be ridiculous. I always date up. Always. I can't even remember the last time I went out with someone my own age. Everyone should date up.”

“Everyone can't date up. Look at the guys you're dating. They're dating down.”

“No, Sherry, they're dating
me.
” With small circular movements, Amber rubs the cream into her cuticles, releasing a fresh peppermint smell into the air. “Here's my final advice. Dump Josh before he dumps you. Then go to Hollywood and have the time of your life.”

She sashays to the end of the kiosk, where an older woman with bluish hair approaches the rack of mascaras. “Norma,” she sings out, “we just got a shipment of moisturizing eye shadows. I was hoping you'd stop by.”

Dazed, I plod to the exit, forcing one foot in front of the other, sticking to the lines in the linoleum floor so that I don't wander off track.

The whole way there, Amber's woeful words ping-pong around my brain. “You need a BUB.” “Trade up to a WAB.” “Dump Josh before he dumps you.” I hit
my palm against the side of my head, trying to shake her words loose and out into the mall. But they won't leave. Because Amber knows boys. And I only know Josh.

On autopilot, I walk home, thinking, thinking, thinking. The house is silent. I'm the only one there. I climb up to my room and sit cross-legged on my bed. I retrieve my cell from my purse and press number two, speed dial for Josh.

“Hey,” he says in a monotone voice.

“So, what's really going on?” I ask, then hold my breath.

“I don't know, Sherry.” He pauses. “I mean, I'm gonna be in high school this fall.”

“Uh-huh.” A little air escapes through my mouth.

“And I'll be busy with high school stuff. And polo and swim.”

“Uh-huh.” A little more air puffs out. But for the most part, I'm still as a stone. It's like if I don't move, I can't feel the pain.

“I think, uh, maybe we need a, uh, break from each other,” Josh says in a low voice.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

I hit End and slump over like a snail, my head resting on my arms, my eyes closed. I stay in this sad position for what feels like forever but is probably less.

In the distance, the doorbell rings. The Ruler's
voice is muted and mumbling. I don't even know when she came home.

The flap-flap of approaching flip-flops gets louder. Junie and Brianna. We planned to do our nails this evening. Before I turned into a blob of depression.

“Sherry,” Junie says softly, coming into my room. “Are you okay?”

“Are you sick?” Brianna shakes my shoulder. “Are you unconscious?”

I lift my heavy head and turn toward the wall.

“Can unconscious people do that?” Brianna asks Junie.

“She's not unconscious,” Junie says. She rubs my back. “What's wrong?”

Tears squeeze through my closed lids. I might actually go unconscious. There's a lump in my throat that's so huge it's probably restricting airflow to my brain. “Josh,” I manage to squeeze out.

“Josh is unconscious?” Brianna asks.

“No,” I say hoarsely.

“What could be so wrong with Josh,” Brianna says, “that Sherry can't even talk about it?”

“Brianna. Stop.” Junie's voice is sharp with annoyance. She's so smart. She always unscrambles a situation faster than Brianna. Often faster than me. She can tell I'm a wreck. “Be useful. Get some water.”

Brianna trundles off to the bathroom I share with my brother, Sam.

“Josh and I broke up,” I whisper.

Junie hugs me. “I'm sorry.”

Brianna returns with a cup of water and holds it out to me. I pull myself to a sitting position and drink.

“What's going on?” Brianna says. “What'd I miss?”

“Brianna!” Junie says. “Have some tact.”

“It's okay.” I hold the cool cup against my forehead. “She's gonna find out at some point. Everyone is.”

“What? What?” Brianna's head whips at windmill speed from me to Junie, then back to me.

“Josh and I broke up.” It's easier to say the second time.

Brianna gasps and her mouth gapes. She slaps a hand over it, and stares at me with big round eyes. She lowers her hand. “That's so sad. And right after you wrote an essay on true love. Just pitiful.” She pauses. “You'll have a lot of free time now. Want me to help you find a full-time babysitting job? I bet we could get you working by next week at the latest.”

“No,” Junie says, “she's going to Hollywood.”

“You're still going?” Brianna asks, her eyes all wide again. “Without Josh?”

“Of course, she is,” Junie says. “It's a breakup. She's not dead.”

The thought of Hollywood makes my heart beat a little faster. Yes, it
is
broken and jagged and jabbing into me. But Junie's right. I'm alive.

I set the cup on my nightstand. “Brianna, some things are bigger than a broken heart. And Hollywood is one of those things.”

“I'm starting to understand why your essay won,” Brianna says. “You're wise beyond your years, Sherry. Übermature.”

“So, Junie,” I say, “up for a trip?”

Junie beams. “Definitely.” And she's such a bona fide best friend that she doesn't say another word.

O
ur house has the perfect place for eavesdropping—the landing at the top of the stairs. I'm crouched there now in the dark.

While The Ruler and my dad were loading the dishwasher I overheard her say quietly, “We need to talk about Sherry.”

Say what? At dinner, everyone was thrilled over my win and sad about my breakup. What could The Ruler and my dad possibly have to talk about concerning me?

Sam's been in bed for a while. Supposedly, I'm safely tucked away in my room, reading
Rebecca
, my summer English assignment. Every few days, I pull
the book out of my desk drawer and dog-ear a couple of pages. I'll check out SparkNotes right before school starts.

Below me and down the hall, the kitchen light switches off. The fluorescent hall light flickers on and warms up to a dull, environmentally friendly blue. Dad and Paula are moving to the living room, their chatting ground.

I shift slightly, fading into the shadowy stripe of the banister. I peer through the rails.

The Ruler leads the way, taking small steps in her Naturalizer slippers while balancing a mug of calming chamomile tea. My dad pads along behind her in bare feet, a can of diet soda in his hand. He stops and sips, then sighs. He's probably imagining a bowl mounded high with French vanilla ice cream.

The couch cushions breathe out as my dad and The Ruler settle in. Their heads bobble like they have spring necks.

Dad stretches out an arm with the remote, and Céline Dion's vocals soar through the living room. My dad has a love affair going with that singer. If she ever knocked at our front door, he'd follow her through the streets of Phoenix like she was the Pied Piper.

“What's going on with Sherry?” My dad spaces each word apart, like he's expecting bad news.

The Ruler says something.

I cup my ear.

My dad responds. Something.

Ack. I cannot hear. Like a cat sneaking up on a mouse, I slowly scoot down a couple of steps. I press my cheek against the cool metal railing, my ear jutting through the bars. What are these people saying about me?

“You really think I should go?” Dad crosses, then uncrosses his feet at the ankles, then finally rests them side by side on the coffee table.

“It'd be great bonding time for you two. Also, I can't miss the robotics meeting,” The Ruler says. “And it'd be really good for Sherry to leave town, attend the awards ceremony and get some distance between her and this breakup.”

The Ruler's sending Dad to Hollywood with Junie and me?

“I have a few clients in Los Angeles I could see while I'm out there,” my dad says.

“Sure.” The Ruler bends forward to gather up her knitting. “The magazine pays for the tickets, but you need to talk with Sherry about exact dates. And to let her know you're going, of course.”

My dad's feet hit the floor.

“I'm sure she's already asleep, Bob. She always dozes off reading
Rebecca.
” The Ruler's needles click
rhythmically. “Talk to her tomorrow, then we'll touch base with Junie's parents.”

I crab-walk backward. Across the carpeted landing, into my bedroom, grazing my shoulder on the doorjamb.

There's someone else I need to invite on the trip. My mom.

My mom was a cop with the Phoenix Police Department. She died in the line of duty a couple of years ago. After her death, she enrolled in the Academy of Spirits, an organization that trains ghosts to protect humans. At first, she was totally flunking her classes. To boost her dismal grades, she recruited me as her partner in mystery solving. Now she's acing school and was recently loaned out to a foreign Academy for a few months.

I wait until my house is the kind of calm and quiet you get when everyone's in bed. Then I scrounge in my desk drawer for a Ziploc bag of coffee beans, toss on a sweatshirt and tiptoe downstairs and through the kitchen. A bright moon lights up our backyard. I tramp across the lawn to the ornamental pear tree in the corner of the yard. My mom planted this tree when I was born, and it's where I have the best luck getting in touch with her.

I throw a leg over the lowest branch and hoist myself up. Once I'm sitting, my back scrunched against
the trunk, I open the Ziploc bag and let the smell of coffee waft through the night air. I close my eyes and think mom thoughts.

I wait.

The night is still. Crickets chirp. An owl hoots off in the distance.

I wait some more. Calling a ghost can take patience.

Lately, my mother and I have been in contact way less frequently because her work with the foreign Academy doesn't include me.

All of a sudden, the leaves shudder in a whoosh of java-scented air. Ghosts smell like something important from their mortal life. My mother was a coffee fanatic. The branch bobs as she settles next to me.

“Hi, Sherry,” she says brightly. “How are you? I've missed you.”

At the sound of her voice, a lump clogs my throat. “Josh and I broke up.” My eyes spill over with tears.

“Oh, pumpkin, I'm so sorry.” There's a feathery touch where she's smoothing my forehead.