Some Kind of Wonderful (7 page)

Chapter 10

AND THEN THERE WS ONE

D
uring my short stint as SBB's landlord this past fall, she used to stumble down the stairs after a night out and bemoan her
extreme exhaustion while I was getting ready for school.

"If it sucks this much in the morning," I asked her one morning when the moaning was particularly woeful, "then why don't
you party a little less?"

She looked at me like I was a newborn puppy and staggered over to pinch my cheek. "Honey, it hurts so
good.
Everybody loves to say,
Oh, I'm never staying out
till sunrise again, la la la.
But really, feeling like crap the next morning is the best reminder that you had yourself a kick-ass time the night before."

I looked at her warily as she buttoned my cardigan in the foyer.

"Someday you'll understand," she said. "But no rush—you're still a kid!" She bopped me on the head, which she had to stand
on her tiptoes to do, and sent me off to school.

Fast forward to the present: it was Tuesday, our second morning in Nevis, and the nausea I woke up with was definitely
not
a sign of a good time had the night before. I'd gotten too much sleep, and I still felt sick about pretty much everything
going on in my life.

All I wanted was my own bed back at my own house, with a few kisses from Noodles and possibly an order of pancakes from EJ's.

Then again, I was dying to know what had become of Meredith and Judith. I felt uncharacteristically out of the loop. Last
night, after I'd overheard Kennedy's plans for the exclusive late-night kayaking expedition, I'd fled the party to avoid being
shunned all over again. I locked myself in my room and pumped up the most depressing music playlist on my iPod.

Now it was nine in the morning, and I was feeling guilty about leaving Judith alone for the rest of the night and curious
about whether Meredith had made the after-party cut. So I dragged myself out of bed and did an SBB-like stumble downstairs.

The kitchen was empty, save for the navy folder with the jam-packed itinerary reminding me of all the events we were supposed
to enjoy this week. Had it only been yesterday when we looked through that folder and got totally pumped about the bonfire?
That
had been a major bust.

I was just about to leaf through the folder to see what I should avoid today—if I didn't want to feel as insignificant as
the gunk under Kennedy Pearson's fake nails—when I heard the distinctly metallic sound of a zipper in the next room.

I stuck my head into the living room and saw Judith, fully dressed and struggling to get all her books stuffed back into her
suitcase.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm basting a turkey," she said from her crouched position on the floor. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going home."

"You've got to be kidding," I said, feeling for the sofa so I could sit down. I was starting to get a bit dizzy.

She looked at me but said nothing.

"Judith, why?"

"It was a bad idea to come in the first place. Right before finals? Hello, this is, like,
the
worst week to not have access to the library and the Internet."

"I saw an Internet cafe on the map," I said. I knew I was flailing and that this was a poor way to convince her to stay. Sure,
she was a little intense sometimes, but Judith's snarky sarcasm and constant consideration for her friends was a major part
of what was going to make this week so much fun. She couldn't leave!

"It's not just that," she said. "You're . . .
different
on vacation. You made me feel really uncomfortable last night."

"Judith, I feel terrible about the way I acted last night. I know you didn't need me to remind you that we're on vacation—especially
not in such a rude way. I was just stressed about things, you know, what with seeing Kennedy again. I didn't mean to take
it out on you."

"Don't apologize. It's okay. I'm just getting in the way here."

"That's so not true," I said, shaking my head. "I never meant to make you feel like that, Judith. I just wanted you to relax
so you could have some fun."

Yeah right, like I was one to give out advice about having
fun.

"That's the point," Judith said. Her voice wobbled a little. "I don't want to relax. This place is just not my scene, and
we both know it."

"You're seriously leaving?" I said, hugging a white throw pillow to my chest.

"There's a car picking me up in ten minutes. My parents helped me figure out an earlier flight home." She surveyed her bags,
giving another fruitless tug at her zipper.

"Can I at least help you with your bag?" I said. I stood up and crossed the room toward her.

She held out an arm like a traffic cop. "Don't bother," she said. "I don't need your help."

"What about Meredith? Did you talk to her? What does she think about you leaving?"

"You'll have to ask her yourself," Judith said. "She didn't come home last night."

My face burned. Everything out of her mouth seemed to throw salt on my wounded ego.

You're the reason I'm having a terrible time.

I'd rather bust my suitcase than have you touch it to
help me.

Meredith pulled an all-nighter, and you weren't
invited.

Perfectly timed to coincide with my aching head and heart, a car horn blared outside.

"That'd be my ride," Judith said. She hauled her half-zipped suitcase up over her shoulder and didn't even look at me as she
walked toward the door.

"Judith, wait. You can't just walk out on our vacation."

"Save the breakup speech for Adam," she said. She must have seen the look on my face, because she softened. "Look, let's just
let each other mellow out. Call me after finals next week. I'll be able to focus on all this . . .
drama
then."

Before I had a chance to respond, she turned and walked out the door. In a moment, the car had sped away. And just like that,
a big piece of my anchor at Stuy had fallen away. Sure, I'd call her after finals . . . but then what? We'd pretend like this
never happened? Like we'd never realized that our scenes were pretty much as opposite as you could get? If we couldn't even
have a good time here in Paradise, were we wrong about just how good of friends we really were?

As I stood, stunned, on the front porch, Meredith came bolting up the front path. She skidded to a halt when she saw me standing
there, as if I were her keeper.

"Oh. Hey," she said, catching her breath.

"Oh, hey."

She was still dressed in her sarong from last night. I would have thought someone doing the walk of shame home would flaunt
it a little bit less.

"Judith went home," I said. "To New York."

"Oh no," she said, but the words were completely flat.

"You couldn't care less?" I said.

"I
said
'oh no.'" Meredith crossed her arms.

"She was having a terrible time."

"That's impossible. It's so amazing here." She frowned. "I don't get it. Why didn't she say something?"

"She did say something," I said. "If you'd been home, you would have heard her." I chose to leave out the part about Judith
leaving only because of how badly I'd made her feel last night.

Now Meredith did look like she felt guilty. "Crap. I fell asleep at Kennedy's last night. It was so late when we got home
from kayaking and too dark to walk home by myself. TZ offered to walk me home, but . . ." she trailed off. "Hey, I looked
for you last night. What'd you end up doing? Did you have an awesome night, too?"

"Something like that," I said.

It was crazy. For so long, I'd been lying to Meredith and Judith, saying that I
didn't go
to a great party that I
did
go to, just so they wouldn't feel like our lives were totally divergent. And now I was lying to her again, saying I
did
do something fabulous just to keep up with her? We couldn't seem to get in sync.

"You must feel like me, then," Meredith said. "I'm practically sleepwalking right now."

Meredith did look exhausted. Her sarong was rumpled and bunched in all the wrong places. She looked like a tablecloth after
a long dinner party. Her eyes had bags under them, and her hair desperately needed to be washed.

But somehow, her face was glowing. Her wild time last night had pumped some life into her, and I had to admit, it suited her.
She definitely had the hurts-so-good thing going on.

"Yeah," I lied. Again. "I'm probably going to go take a nap, too."

"Oh, I'm not taking a nap," she said. "There's way too much fun stuff going on. Caffeine will have to do for now." She jogged
past me and into the kitchen, where I heard her rummaging through the fridge. She came back gulping a can of Starbucks DoubleShot
espresso. "Love this stuff. Do you want to shower first, or can I? I think the yacht leaves in an hour."

"What yacht?" I said.

She paused mid-sip. "You're not coming? I figured you were in on it."

"I didn't see a yacht on the itinerary." Even saying those words aloud made me feel like a total geek. Of course this wasn't
the type of yacht trip to be on the itinerary. Just like the late-night kayaking hadn't been on the itinerary.

"No, it's . . . oh, it's just this thing Kennedy organized. I'm sure you can come if you want. If you haven't already made
plans for yourself."

It was hard to tell which one of us the role reversal shocked more: Meredith or me. Both of us were used to things being the
other way around.

Meredith looked deep into her Starbucks can, as if the answer to why things between us were suddenly a little tense was hidden
at the bottom of it.

I had nothing to do and no cool friends to even consider meeting up with, but there was no way I was going to play tagalong
with Kennedy—even if Meredith did swear she was different now. It'd be better for both of us if I just kept lying through
my teeth.

"Yeah, I might hop on a boat to one of the nearby islands for the afternoon," I said, feeling terrible that I was making up
all of these plans.

"Well, cool," Meredith said, draining the last of her drink. "We'll have a lot of good stories to swap over dinner tonight."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess we will."

But Meredith was already inside the house, running to claim the first shower so she could make the yacht departure in time.

I flopped down on a chaise lounge on the porch and fought the urge to cry. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone and texted
SBB.

SOCIAL SHIPWRECK ON NEVIS. SOS.

Chapter 11

GENIE IN A TRUNK

A
few hours later, the sun was high in the sky, and I was still down in the dumps. I was lying on the beach, zoning out while
watching the fantastically clear blue water. In an attempt to feel cool, I'd even put on my Rachel McHenry bathing suit, but
the only people around to see it were an old man and his gold digger wife a few feet down and several older, hairless, Speedo-wearing
Italian tourists playing some unusual game of Frisbee that involved a lot of wrestling. I thought I'd recognized the bleach-blond
surfer guy, Paul, whom I'd met last night, but when I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around, it was a guy I'd never
seen before.

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

"Whatever," he said, and turned back around.

Great, now I was even repelling strangers. All I wanted to do was hide under the biggest umbrella I could find in my bungalow's
storage closet. Even the fresh air, fine white sand, and blazing sunshine didn't help shake my bad mood.

If I were to send someone a postcard of my vacation, this is what it would look like: me, friendless and alone on the beach,
struggling to read
Pride and
Prejudice
for my English class, and even feeling a little jealous of the fictional people in the book who were going to fun parties
and being courted by all sorts of men.

At least it was peaceful here.

Peaceful, and quiet, and utterly, utterly boring.

Ho hum.

Then, overhead, I heard the droning of a plane. I thought about the lie I'd told Meredith that morning. In reality, my day
was pretty much the opposite of the glamorous island-hopping I'd invented.

I hunkered down under my umbrella and stuck my nose a little deeper into my book. But the noise was getting louder, and suddenly,
there was a whole lot of wind blowing sand all up in my business. I exited my umbrella cocoon to investigate.

What the . . . ?

A little bullet-gray puddle jumper was landing right in front of me. I shaded my eyes from the wind.

Was it possible I was seeing a mirage?

But the plane really did touch down on the sand, and a pilot really did get out and give me a small wave. I waved back uncertainly.

He disappeared back into the body of the plane for a minute, and when I spotted his trim white uniform again, he was lugging
something giant and boxy and incredibly heavy-looking behind him.

Oh. My. Gosh.

Was that what I thought it was?

Then, a cross-looking stewardess appeared and held out a cocktail napkin like it was a script. She cleared her throat and
read aloud,
"Drumrollplease"

I laughed and clapped my hands against my thighs. It was a pretty poor drumroll, but there was no one else around to help.

And then, to my delight, the world's best best friend bolted out of the steamer trunk like the world's smallest football player
bursting out of the tunnel before the big game.

"Don't you love to travel in style?" SBB asked, taking a bow.

She was sporting giant aviator glasses, an olive-colored fatigue print catsuit, and a red scarf that blew underneath the slowing
plane propellers. She looked as if she'd flown the plane herself, circa 1945.

"Sara-Beth, what are you doing here?"

"Duh," she said, throwing her arms around me. "Saving your life."

"Aren't you still shooting a scene today? I didn't even expect to hear back from you."

"Nonsense. What kind of a friend do you think I am? You did say SOS, didn't you?" She grabbed my arm. "Tell me you weren't
just being dramatic."

My face fell. I wish I could say I was just being dramatic.

"No," I admitted. "Things here pretty much royally suck."

"Well then, we'll continue with Operation SOS." She snapped her fingers and turned back toward the plane. "Everybody, let's
get to work."

"Everybody" turned out to be the very hot pilot and the flight attendant, whom I wouldn't have expected to be so burly and
strong underneath her navy uniform. In an instant, the two of them had hauled the steamer trunk up on their shoulders and
were walking it across the beach.

"You're staying?" I asked SBB. It would be so fantastic to have her hang with me in Nevis. Everything about this trip would
suddenly look a lot brighter.

"Oh, honey, I can't stay. I wish I could. I practically had to pay off the director to let me take an extended lunch break
to come see you. I've got to get back in two hours."

"Then what's with the trunk?"

"This is way more than a trunk! It's my happy place. And I want you to have it. You're my friend in need, indeed!"

"Oh," I said, not sure what else to say. "Thanks, SBB . . ."

"Don't thank me till we get inside, and I show you all the amenities. It's going to make you feel
so
much better."

We followed the pilot and his flight attendant back up the beach to my bungalow. I couldn't help but laugh at what an odd
team the two of them made. She was barking out orders to him in some language I didn't understand, and he was nodding quietly
and straining to get the trunk through my back door.

"Sara-Beth," I said, "where did you dig up this flight crew?"

She rolled her eyes. "How illegitimate do they look? Both of them are stunt doubles on the set. Luke had a pilot's license
and a map to Nevis—and a very nice butt in those pants, don't you think? Anyway, he's been following me around for weeks,
ever since we started shooting, so I knew he'd do me a favor. And his questionably female counterpart is just along to do
some heavy lifting.
So
sketchy, right?"

"Hey, whatever works," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders.

As they released their grip on the steamer trunk in the middle of my living room, I noticed that the pilot did have a pretty
nice butt.

Sara-Beth tipped them and asked them to wait out by the plane. They each saluted me as they walked out.

"I hope the trunk brings you as much happiness as it brings to Sara-Beth," the pilot said to me with an Eastern European accent.

"Thank you," I said, trying hard to stifle a laugh. "Thank you both for everything."

When we were alone, SBB entered her combination to unlock the trunk and pried it open. Gone was the chest of drawers lining
the right portion of the trunk. If I remembered correctly, they were what had made the thing feel so claustrophobic when the
two of us had used it as our hideaway in the Bric's store. In place of the drawers, she'd had some sort of Murphy Bed installed
that extended outward at the push of a bright purple button. There was a light switch, a vanity mirror, and even a mini disco
ball. It was more like a small house than a piece of luggage.

"Sara-Beth, you could rent this place out in the city."

"Like I said," she grinned. "It's my happy place. Actually, now it's your happy place for a few days."

She motioned for me to take a seat on the foldout bed. Then she reached into a cupboard on the other side of the trunk and
produced two surprisingly chilled bottles of Orangina. My legs barely fit on the bed, but I tucked them under me so I wouldn't
make SBB self-conscious again about my growth spurt. Luckily, she was keeping herself busy, popping the tops of the Oranginas
with a bottle opener that was built into the wall of the trunk. She plopped down beside me on the bed.

"Now, tell me all of your sorrows," she said. "Oh my God.
No! Who
put that there?"

She pointed at the "wall" that the bed had folded out from, where someone had tacked up a headshot of our talk, dark, and
handsome pilot.

"Um, probably your not-so-secret flying admirer," I guessed. "It's a pretty good headshot."

"Luke would
never,"
she said. "He's much too shy. You know, this is just the sort of immature humor that is so like Jake Riverdale. Have I complained
to you enough about our issues on the set? He's just such a
pig.
How did
he
get the combination for my trunk? I'm going to—" She cut herself off, and for a second, she seemed to collect herself. Her
posture straightened, her breath evened. "This trip is about you, Flan. I won't waste another second talking about how much
I hate that egotistical . . . whoops. Like I was saying, tell me all of
your
sorrows."

"Hey, how did you do that?" I asked, pulling at the edge of my bottle's blue Orangina label. "How'd you get a grip on yourself
like that? I've never seen you so self-possessed. I'm impressed."

"It's part of what I'm going through with my new guru. Breathing exercises, positive mantras, a series of small adjustments
to help me manage life's little obstacles. Being in the happy place really helps. I'm so glad you noticed, Flan."

"It was kind of hard not to notice."

"Right, well, I guess I'll be able to facilitate the exercise more smoothly with practice. The goal is to make seamless transitions
from mood to mood and maintain a constant equilibrium."

"You might have a way to go before that," I joked. "But seriously, that's great. I could use some equilibrium myself."

"Right! Okay, therapy first. You play the crazy person for a change, and I'll listen and provide counsel."

"Ugh, okay," I said. "But it's probably going to sound totally stupid and unimportant."

"Nonsense, Flan. Now, hit me."

As I started to recount the many disasters of the trip for SBB, I did feel a little bit petty. I mean, here she was, having
flown away from her movie—where she deals with struggles everyday that I can hardly begin to imagine—and I'm complaining about
my lame high school social life?

But the more I talked, the more compassionate SBB became. I don't know if it was the happy place, or the proximity of a real
friend, or the release of just saying all these words out loud, but pretty soon, I had unleashed the whole ugly story. From
seventh grade and spin-the-bottle all the way up to Meredith and Judith totally bailing out on me—and my fears that all of
it was my fault.

SBB didn't make me feel stupid, or petty, or any of the things that I was worried I was being. She just listened to my entire
exhausting story, and at the end of it all, she sighed.

"Girls are tough, aren't they?"

"Yeah." I nodded.

"You know, I never had to deal with all of this high school drama. You see it on the movies, and it all looks so romantic,
but—"

"Romantic? It's not romantic at all."

"Of course it is. You can't see it now, but this is enriching your character, Flan. It's almost like dealing with a broken
heart. It's painful and traumatic in all sorts of ways, but figuring out who your true friends are is also an important part
of growing up. I envy you, Flan. I'm sorry that this is happening on your vacation, but there will be plenty of vacations.
You may only get this valuable life lesson once."

"But what does that
mean}
That I should just sit back and let Kennedy steal all of my friends?"

"People like Kennedy can only rule the roost for so long." She closed her eyes. "I predict her reign of terror cannot last."
She opened one eye and winked at me.

"Now you're a fortune-teller?" I asked.

"I've been told I have clairvoyant eyes."

"Thanks for coming," I said. "I really needed to see a friend today."

"I know you did," she said. She retied the scarf around her neck and put her aviator glasses back on. "I hate to say it, but
I think my work here is done. What I wouldn't give to linger in Nevis! Damn that workaholic Roderickson!" Then her Zen composure
came back, and she smiled at me politely. "Take care, my love, and think about how strong you'll be after this trip."

And with that, she dashed back to her plane, where Luke patiently helped her get onboard. We blew each other kisses until
she took off. And there I was, left standing on the beach by myself.

After a minute, I headed back toward the happy place, which was wonderful, but no substitute for the real SBB.