The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things (7 page)

Lila grins. “I could seriously get to like the new you.”

“I’m still me. Same princess. Same nice. Just…” Something
has
changed, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“With an angry breakup edge?” she offers.

“That works.”
Anger
is the wrong word, though, because I don’t permit that feeling anymore. The cost is too high when I unleash.

I wasn’t kidding when I said she could run after me. Conversation over, I swing onto my bike and head for the coffee shop, which is cunningly named Coffee Shop. There was a sign that said
ANDREA’S
above it at one point, but she sold the place, and the new owners took that part down. They just never mustered up the ambition to dub it anything clever. The pastries are pretty good, however, and the décor is cute, belying the uber-utilitarian name.

By the time Lila arrives, I’m already settled and sipping a latte. I smile at her as she pushes through the door, jingling the bell. She places her order, then joins me; the barista will bring her drink when it’s ready. There are a few other people in here, mostly artsy types. They like the ambiance better than the fried meat grease and dull roar over at DQ. A couple of them double-take at the sight of me hanging with Lila, as we’re not really from the same social strata.

“So why don’t you tell me what this is about,” I say, sipping my drink.

“I can’t put anything past you, huh?”

“Unlikely.” After I say it, I realize that’s Shane’s word, and a goofy-happy feeling sweeps over me. It’s absurd, but it makes me feel like he and I have a thing.

She cuts her eyes to both sides, as if there are spies from JFK nearby. “Sophomore year, I broke up with Dylan Smith.”

“Rings a bell.” Now that she’s mentioned it, I remember. “He’s such a tool. You were spirit squad, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

After the breakup, she hung a sharp left away from the beautiful people, swapping her dance routines and pom-poms for thick eyeliner, lots of black, and a bad attitude. Dylan went around with his crew talking about what a druggie whore she’d become without him. Personally, I thought she was better off, especially given the way he treated people he saw as lesser beings.

“At first, my old friends were all, ‘OMG, are you insane? He’s
so hot,
you two are
the
power couple.’” She shrugs. “They didn’t care that he was a controlling asshole. When I refused to ‘see reason,’ they just cut me off. I had like a month where I just didn’t talk to
anyone
.”

I wait, guessing there’s a reason she’s telling me this. The waitress brings Lila’s frozen mocha, which delays the story for a few seconds. Then she carries on as if there’d been no interruption.

“So in the middle of this, I get a Post-it on my locker. I don’t even remember what it said now.”

Oh.
“I do. I said I loved your black corset top.” It wasn’t something I’d be brave enough to wear, but it looked stunning on Lila.

“Right.” She smiles at me, the look untouched by her usual cynicism. “I was trying to show Dylan what he was missing at that point. I really needed somebody to be nice to me. It helped that you were. So now that you’re basically in that same situation, I want to return the favor. I’m not the Post-it type, and that’s your thing anyway. So…”

“Hence, the fraps.” Although I’m not drinking one, she is.

“Exactly.”

I’m no longer worried about the potential pitfalls, but I mentally go back over something she said. “Same situation? You mean Ryan’s talking shit about me?”

If he is, I don’t even. Everything freezes inside me.
How
can he? I’m not the one who lied on so many levels. I was just there.

“Not that I’ve heard. I just meant … you can’t hang with your usual crowd anymore. I know how awkward that can be. And I really am in the market for a new best friend. My current crew keeps me from being forever alone, but they’re not…” She taps her temple and grimaces, conveying that they suffer from stoner brain.

I can’t believe she’s just
telling
me this. It seems so unlike Lila, but then I realize I really don’t know her. For the first two years, I saw the side she showed while running with the beautiful people, and then the new version she created to fit in with the goth crew. Maybe neither Lila was exactly the person she wants to be; that thought is kind of revelational. It’s probably true of me, as well.

“I’m definitely willing to hang. I might be quitting a number of my clubs.” That thought pains me, as I joined them for my college application, but I just can’t see working with Ryan at this juncture.

“What’s your cell number?”

I give her the number without my usual spiel it’s for emergencies only. When I check the time, I see I need to get moving. “Work beckons. Want to set something up for this weekend?”

“Do you ever go to the Barn?”

That sounds like it would be a club, but it’s actually a barn. Oh, the joys of rural living. There’s a kid who graduated last year, still famous for hosting parties. Which strikes me as a little sad. Why does he want to be the Man to a bunch of minors? I mean, maybe that’s all he has.

“I didn’t last year.” But maybe it’s time to change it up.

“There’s a bash on Saturday. You want to check it out?”

“Sure.” Then I realize that transportation will prove a problem. “Can you text me the address? I’ll meet you there.”

Parties are always hosted at night, so I’ll need to ride out to the farm, which could take a while. It also means I’ll be gross and sweaty when I arrive. I’ll also be covered in reflectors. I close my eyes and sigh. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.

“I can give you a ride,” she says.

I shake my head. “It’s not that. I have a thing about cars.”

“Are you scared of them?” She sounds worried, like if this is true, I’m 100 percent weirder than she banked on, and I’ve already lost her.

Fortunately, I have a valid reason to cover the deeper motivation behind my dogged avoidance. “No, I just don’t ride in them. They’re killing the world.”

“Oh, it’s like a protest?”

“Pretty much. I know it’s not getting media coverage or anything, but
I
care. I’d know if I broke down just because it’s easier.”

“That’s cool,” she says, visibly relieved. Then I see an idea register. “My dad restores golf carts as a hobby. Don’t ask. If I picked you up in one of those, would you go?”

“Totally.” I can’t believe she’d do that for me. It’s so dorky and she hardly knows me. “But is that even legal?”

“They’re allowed on back roads, as long as I yield to faster moving traffic. It’ll be faster than a tractor at least.”

I laugh, but she has a point. Country roads are often clogged by farm machinery this time of year. So I offer a quick nod. “Then I’m in. I really appreciate it.”

“Where do you live?”

I scribble my address on a Coffee Shop napkin, then groan at the time. “Now I really have to jet. Mildred will eat my face if I’m late.”

That’s the owner of the Curly Q. She’s a hundred years old with thinning, dyed-orange hair. From the look of her, you’d be scared to let any of her employees work on you, but the stylists are great. They like practicing on me when it’s slow. Usually, I don’t let them do anything permanent, but tonight, I’m feeling reckless. It’s just hair, right? Since I’m going to a party at the Barn with Lila Tremaine
in a golf cart
it seems like I need to update my look.

I have forty seconds to spare when I burst through the doors. Mildred gives me the side-eye, but since I’m not technically late, she just says, “Get your smock on, girl. There’s cleaning to be done.”

Though it’s not strictly legal or sanitary, I’m pretty sure they save the hair for hours. The stylists just sweep it away from the chairs and pile it out of the way. So by the time I arrive, there’s a small Sasquatch on the floor. It takes me an hour to get the shop pristine. Customers come and go, mostly walk-in haircuts. Around six, it slows down, and Grace beckons me to the chair.

“When are you gonna let me give you some highlights?” She asks this often.

This time, however, I say, “Tonight, if you have time.”

Grace gets excited. “Mildred, get the camera. I’ll do it free if you let me take a picture for the before-and-after wall.”

I eye the wall, not sure I want to be immortalized up there, along with all the eighties hair and prom refugees, but eventually I shrug. “Why not?”

My hair is a dark blond, mousy and forgettable. I mean, it’s decent hair, neither straight, nor curly. Left to its own devices, it falls in messy waves. That’s why I wear a lot of ponytails and braids. Aunt Gabby has similar problems, only she gets it lightened and highlighted so it looks bright and flirty, and she spends forty-five minutes a day straightening hers, so it’s sleek and smooth by the time she goes to the shop. UPS Joe seems to like the results anyway.

Grace fastens me into the plastic smock, then snaps a Polaroid. I still don’t care that much how I look; I mean, it’s so superficial, but a small part of me would like to be prettier, at least maximize what I’m working with. I tell myself this is more of a social experiment, and I can evaluate how people react to the new me. But that’s not it.

I’m totally doing this to see if Shane notices. Sometimes I hate being a girl.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It’s dumb to be so nervous.

This is a Tuesday. Nothing earth shattering ever happens on a Tuesday. It doesn’t even have a catchy nickname, unlike Wednesday, aka Hump Day. Still, I can’t shake the butterflies in my stomach. Instead of my usual leggings and skirt, I’m wearing jeans, an old pair that miraculously still fits; and I try not to think about how much of my butt they reveal. I didn’t discard my sweater shrug for unavoidable reasons, but instead of wearing an ordinary cotton tank, I borrowed a lace-trimmed cami from Aunt Gabby. Why all the effort? I want to be worthy of my new hair.

This morning, when she saw the highlights, my aunt insisted I let her use the straightener on me. It only took fifteen minutes, but I admit it was worth it. My hair’s never looked this sleek and glossy, and the delicate golden streaks brighten the darker part until it’s positively pretty. I don’t know that I’ve ever thought that about myself before. It’s kinda nice.

Lila waves as I come down the hall toward her. “Wow. You look fab.”

“Thanks. I let one of the stylists work on me last night.” I dial my combo and pop open my locker, getting the stuff I’ll need for first period.

“Trying to show him what he’s missing? Good plan.” She cuts her eyes toward Ryan, who is standing with one hand on his locker. He can’t seem to look away.

This time last year, I would’ve given a kidney to see him look at me like that, but he was oblivious.
And no wonder,
I think with a touch of bitterness.
He was sleeping with somebody else.
At this point, however, that’s not why I changed things up. My reason isn’t here yet.

“I’ve got to admit,” Lila says, still studying Ry. “I’m surprised. I would’ve thought he was fundamentally decent. He
seems
like a good guy.”

Crap, I don’t want her to think he’s a cheater. Technically we weren’t together, so the mess with Cassie isn’t that. “He is. He just … made a mistake. Lied to me. And I can’t handle it.”

“Oh. So we don’t hate him?”

I shake my head. “Mostly, I’m sad. I wish he hadn’t done it, but some lies change everything.”

“Absolutely, they do.” From the ferocity of her tone, I’m guessing Lila has some personal experience with this, but I don’t pry.

Privately I wonder if Dylan lied, and that’s why they broke up. Once we get to know each other better, maybe she’ll tell me. It’s pretty cool to have somebody who wants to hang out with me, not because of Ryan or because we’re in the same club. Just … because. Since moving here, I’ve avoided that kind of closeness, mostly because the more friends you have, the harder it is to keep secrets. More people mean more questions. And I wasn’t ready. My first year here, I was barely functional, so it’s no surprise I imprinted on Ryan and let him drive my social life.

“I have to get to class,” I say then.

“Sucks we don’t have any together. See you at lunch, though?” It’s a question, not an assumption.

“I brought mine, so I’ll get a table.”

Lila acknowledges the plan with a jerk of her chin, then she dives into the stream of students, letting them carry her toward her class on the opposite side of school. I haven’t seen Shane this morning, but maybe he’s running late. I wander through my morning classes hoping for a glimpse of him, but still, nothing. Geometry confirms it; he’s not in today. The desk diagonal, one up from mine, seems more than usually empty; I’m so disappointed, and I hate that I am. To put the cherry on the crap cake, I get my quiz back. As expected, it’s another circled red F. That clinches it—I have to tell Aunt Gabby. It’s not that she’ll be mad at me; I can’t stand her
disappointed
look. Maybe the news that I have a tutor lined up will help. Kind of,
I see there’s a problem and I’m working to solve it.

“Miss Czinski, I need to see you after class.” Mackiewicz levels a serious business stare on me while the rest of the class goes “ooooooooooooh” in that super-annoying way.

“Yes, sir.”

As anticipated, he lectures me on how poorly I’m doing and tells me how he expects better from someone of my academic stature. Seriously, that’s verbatim. I listen meekly until he’s finished, and then offer, “I’m definitely struggling, but I’m taking steps and getting help. My performance will improve.”

Mackiewicz seems mollified. “Good. I know you can do better.”

Glad somebody’s sure of that.

On impulse, as soon as I escape from his class, I head to admin. Ms. Smith is the only one around at this time. She looks young, to the point that I suspect she was my age when she had Dylan. I imagine her wanting to be a dancer or something; I doubt her dreams included working in the school office.

“I was wondering if you could get me a copy of Shane Cavendish’s schedule. He’s out sick today, and I’m taking his homework to him.” My voice doesn’t reveal that I happen to know a juicy secret about her.