Some Kind of Wonderful
Read Some Kind of Wonderful Online
Authors: J. Minter
SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL
inside
girl
Also by J. Minter:
the insiders series
the insiders
pass it on
take it off
break every rule
hold on tight
girls we love
the inside girl series
inside girl
the sweetest thing
SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL
inside
girl
a novel by J . MINTER
author of the insiders
Copyright © 2008 by J. Minter
and 17th Street Productions, an Alloy company
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from
the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Published by Bloomsbury U.S.A. Children's Books
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
Distributed to the trade by Macmillan
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request
eISBN: 978-1-59990-501-3
Produced by Alloy Entertainment
151 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10001
First U.S. Edition 2008
Printed in the U.S.A. by Quebecor World Fairfield
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
All papers used by Bloomsbury U.S.A. are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing
processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
to the OB LC,
for doing what you do
Contants
GROWING PAINS
L
ike it or not, my life changes fast.
Last week I was rocking the Cinderella-sans-curfew look at my sister's surprise Halloween bash and I was as happy as I've
ever known how to be. I wasn't expecting to come home to such a party, and I definitely wasn't expecting to end up in the
arms of Prince Charming—my brand-new, indestructible, quarterback boyfriend, Adam, at the evening's finale.
But the glass slipper had to come off, and soon I was back in my Michael Kors equestrian-style boots with my feet planted
a little too firmly on the ground. Stuyvesant High School ground—and I was deep in the heart of final exam freak-out-ville.
Welcome to hell.
"Flan! Flan! Over here! Whoops!"
That was my friend Meredith calling my name as she tripped out of the school entranceway Thursday afternoon. Mer and our other
friend Judith have been attached at the dark-wash belt loops since they bought their first matching pair of Mavi jeans in
kindergarten. When we all became public school junkies this fall, we took each other under our respective wings. Today, with
her curly brown hair springing as she trooped down the stairs, Meredith was half-hidden by a large white pashmina, and she
looked like she'd actually sprouted a pair of real wings.
"Hey, girl," I said as we air kissed. "What's with the Cupid duds?"
"I've been looking all over for you," she said, out of breath. "What do you think?"
As Meredith twirled around me, I noticed that the inside of her ivory pashmina had been embroidered with all sorts of sparkly
silver stitches. When she held out her arms and gave me a big cherubic grin, she really did resemble an angel.
"I love it," I said, although I was a little confused. "What. . . uh . . . what is it?"
"It's my final exam for my design class. I really want your opinion. Tell me the truth—do you seriously love it?"
I fingered the cashmere shawl and held it up to the light. In the mid-November dusk, it practically glowed.
But even though the stitchwrork was amazing, the sleek white pashmina didn't strike me as something that screamed Meredith.
In fact, it looked more like something I'd find in the closet of one of my old friends from Miss Mallard's Day—during my former
life, as I sometimes thought of it. A life full of ritzy parties, famous boyfriends who wore more expensive jeans than I did,
and girls who wouldn't be caught dead sporting the same Chloe sweater twice in one semester.
Meredith couldn't be more different from those girls. She's an über-talented seamstress and an accessories guru, but her style
is a lot more boho chic— flowing patchwork skirts she makes herself and usually far more bangle bracelets than any girl should
wear all at once. But that's one of the things that first drew me to her—she has an uncanny ability to pull off her crazy
fashion inspirations. Since both her mom and her grandma work at their own clothing store in the Village, Meredith has pretty
much been groomed to have an awesome eye for design.
I handed the masterpiece back to her.
"It's ethereal," I pronounced. "You'll totally ace the class. But you don't need me to tell you that." In fact, I was a little
surprised that Meredith was coming to me for fashion advice at all. It had taken me until third period this morning to realize
that the Levi's I'd tugged on today were suddenly about three inches too short. And believe me, I'm
so
not the girl to introduce the ankle-length-trouser-cut look.
"Actually," Meredith said, "I do need your opinion. The assignment was to design something for Cecily Brown. Her assistant
is going to review our pieces and she might even pick one design from our class to incorporate into CB's spring collection.
The proceeds would go to the charity of the winner's choice. Do you know how awesome it would be to have the sales of my pashmina
go to Make-A-Wish? With CB's blessing?"
I smiled. Leave it to Meredith to be down-to-earth enough to care more about charity than celebrity. My new friends at Stuy
were such a breath of fresh air. True, Meredith, Judith, and I had already had our share of drama over a boy (confession:
they'd both had their eye on Adam before I accidentally fell for him), but that felt like ages ago. Okay, so it was only three
weeks ago, and maybe the wounds were still a
teensy
bit fresh. But every clique is allowed a little bit of growing pains, right? Plus, standing here with Meredith, I could already
feel the stitches that held our friendship together falling back into place. It was so important to me that things between
us got back to the way they'd been in the good old days of early fall. I looped my arm through Meredith's and started to walk
her toward her train.
"So," Meredith continued, "since I know that your fam is totally in with CB, you're the only one whose opinion I can trust."
I sighed. Scratch what I said before—sometimes my Stuy friends were just as into all the socialite hype as my private school
friends were.
"Meredith," I said. "My family isn't really
in
with CB."
"Whatever," she laughed. "She lives down the street from you!
And
Rachel McHenry totally came to your sister's pool party in September
and
you two were wearing the same bathing suit!"
I cringed when I remembered showing up at Feb's benefit party in the same forest green Gucci racer-back two-piece as Rachel
McHenry. It was bad enough feeling like I could barely fit into the thing— which I'd tried on at Bendel's just two months
before—but to be such a blatant target for mega-star body comparisons . . . I spent the whole party sweating through my YSL
cover-up in shame.
"Mer, just because Cecily Brown and Rachel McHenry were in
Wars of Our Mothers
together doesn't mean they share the same fashion brain. And that was my sister's party, which I had nothing to do with. Anyway,
that's not even the point. The point isn't what I think Cecily Brown will like, the point is that you're proud of your work.
And you are, right?" I said, adjusting the strap of my hobo bag as we crossed Sixth Avenue. "Anyway, it's making me really
jealous that you've already finished one final project. I'm one hundred percent going to fail bio this semester."
"You always say that," Meredith said. "And then somehow you ace every test. I don't know how you keep up with school, your
wild lifestyle,
and
having a boyfriend."
I sighed and smelled the tough rush of New York all around us. There it was, that little edge in her voice that bordered on
passive-aggressive. I was about to open my mouth to argue that she was mistaken about my wild lifestyle, which had recently
consisted of mostly studying, studying, and okay,
occasionally
taking a study break to grab a quick ice cream with Adam. But before I could defend myself, Mer flashed her yellow MetroCard
at me in good-bye.
"Call me later?" she yelled as she disappeared into the underbelly of Manhattan. "Thanks for your CB insight!"
I was left alone, half-chuckling on the corner of West Fourth. Sometimes it felt like Meredith thought I had a toy chest full
of movie stars at home that I took out and played with every night.
I started to make my way home, winding my way through the streets of the West Village. Fall was totally the best time of year
to wander around in New York City. All the ginkgo trees were full and hanging low over the zigzagging downtown streets. Every
block I turned down today had a new scent: the cheesy deliciousness of John's Pizza on Bleecker; the new perfume wafting out
of L'Occitane; the sharp, sweet scent of someone's fire escape barbecue.
I was about to turn down Perry Street when I felt my iPhone buzz in my bag. I fished it out and saw the lit-up JPEG of my
mom standing atop Mount Kilimanjaro that my dad had taken on one of their recent jet-setting jaunts.
"Hi, Mom," I said into the phone.
"Flan, darling. You're taking Home Ec this semester, aren't you?" My mother always sounded a little breathless on the phone,
but today she was practically panting.
"Um, I don't think Stuy has taught Home Ec since 1957," I said. "Why? What's up?"
I paused at my street corner to read a sign for a stoop sale on MacDougal Street this weekend. Ooh, hopefully it would be
my crazy Peruvian neighbor who made those handblown glass earrings. I'd have to remember to tell Meredith about it.
"Oh, Flan," my mother said, coughing. "It's just that . . . I had a little disaster in the kitchen."
"Mom," I said, stifling a laugh, "did you bake?"
I shuddered to think back to a couple of months ago, when Feb had caught the Martha Stewart bug and had become bent on serving
me three hot—if inedible—meals a day for a week. At least I could count on the fact that Alom wouldn't find Feb's since-discarded
stash of Anthropologie aprons. My mother rarely strayed from her typical uniform: a black Prada pantsuit and her Hearts On
Fire diamonds.
Usually my mother only opened the oven in our professional grade kitchen to look for a place to store another pair of shoes.
And she was so rarely in the city that when she was home, she mostly just liked to veg out and watch bad reality TV in our
home theater. I wondered what could have possessed her to decide to cook something.
"Well," she continued, "there's no use crying over burned . . . whatever this is. What do you say the two of us pop over to
The Little Owl for an early dinner so I can let this place air out?"
I grinned. I adored The Little Owl. "You should burn dinner more often," I said. "See you there in a few."
Normally I wouldn't think twice about meeting my mother at one of her favorite neighborhood haunts for an impromptu dinner
out, but as I backtracked to Grove Street, I remembered the conversation I'd had today over a sashimi lunch with Meredith
and Judith. Judith was lamenting the fact that she'd been scouring opentable.com for weeks, trying to get a reservation at
The Little Owl for her father's birthday, but the place was interminably booked.
I had swallowed my bite of seaweed salad and opened my mouth to say that my mother's college roommate was the owner's wife,
and that he'd even come to our house to cook us dinner a few times. I knew I could get Judith a reservation without batting
an eye. But sometimes my friends could get either googly-eyed or intimidated when I mentioned a connection to anything they
found remotely glamorous. So I ended up keeping my mouth shut. As I sat there, though, the words felt heavy inside me. Friends
were supposed to help each other out. What was my problem? I now promised myself that I would mention it to her tomorrow and
see if I could hook her up.
I stopped in front of the restaurant to wait for my mother to arrive, but before I could make a note in my Kate Spade planner,
she came up behind me and threw her thin arms around me in a big hug. I grinned and hugged her back. It was always so good
to see my mom, especially when she was returning from a long vacation abroad—which was pretty much all the time.
My parents were professional globe-trotters—a trait that both of my siblings seemed to have inherited, because neither of
them felt the need to come home more than once a month to recharge their batteries. They all made fun of me constantly for
being the homebody nerd in the family. But I didn't care—I loved being home. I loved the balcony window from my bedroom and
the view of the brownstone recently bought by my crazy best friend and teen movie star idol, Sara-Beth Benny. I'd gotten used
to spending a lot of time on my own, but home was always more homey when my lovably crazy family was around.
"Darn your father," my mother said as she steered me into the restaurant. The place was so tiny that it could only hold about
thirty people. The decor was comfortable and pretty simple, with small vases of wildflowers dotting the white tables, and
everyone agreed that the food was some of the best in the city. It was still pretty early, so the crowd was kind of quiet,
but I knew that by the time we left, the restaurant would be bumping. We took our usual seats at the bench table in the back
corner.
"What'd Dad do this time?" I played along. She and my dad loved to antagonize each other. I think getting pissy only to kiss
and make up was kind of their shtick. It was cute, I guess, that they still acted like some of the love-struck couples I saw
in the halls at Stuy every day. But sometimes I wondered if I was the only grown-up in the Flood family.
"He promises me he'll be home for dinner, so I order this whole lovely meal from FreshDirect." She paused to open the menu.
"Ooh, they have those good scallops today. Anyway, then he calls to say there's too much Hamptons traffic to make it back
into the city after his golf game. I told him to take the helicopter, but he just won't listen to reason. I was so flustered
about it that I skipped straight out to Aveda and made Janice squeeze me in for a detoxifying facial. I completely forgot
that I'd left the oven on with the meatloaf inside it, and—"
"Well, your pores are absolutely invisible," I said, giving my mom's hand a squeeze. Even when she's being manic, it's nice
to have my mom around. I never know when I'm going to come home to an empty house and a Post-it note with the phone number
for my parents' hotel room in Dubai or Maui or Bali, so I try to cherish every mother-daughter moment I can.
"Thank you, darling. Your pores are lovely too. You must have gotten them from your father, the golf-playing slob. Now, do
you want to share the pork chop again? Or should we get the fantastic lobster risotto? What am I talking about? You're a growing
girl—you probably want your own dish." She turned to the waiter. "We can't decide. Tell Joey just to give us a little bit
of everything."
As my mother nibbled on tiny bites of scallop and I pigged out on the incredible cheesy risotto, we fell into a conversation
that was heavier than the meatloaf my mom had burned to a crisp back at home. I was suddenly shocked. My mother wanted to
talk about
school}
Could I be hearing correctly?