Whip It (11 page)

Anyway, Ms. Meyers is always trying to get us to “learn something” about ourselves in her office. Despite her zero success rate on that front so far, I must confess I did actually learn something about myself today. I learned that nothing engages my gag reflex like walking into her office and seeing my parents sitting there.

Oh, yeah. I open the door, and there they are: Brooke and Earl Cavendar, sitting side by side.

What the—? Who invited them? Now, I don’t know why I’ve been summoned to Ms. Meyers’s office, but I assure you, whatever this is about, we do not need to bring parents into it.
Mom, Dad, just quietly go to your car and forget you were ever here. Ms. Meyers and I can handle it on our own.

If only. I can already see that my mother is on high makeup alert, which is never a good sign. Granted, Brooke routinely piles on so much Mary Kay, it’s difficult to tell what high alert is—for the untrained eye. But I know. The more nervous or upset she is, the more makeup she’s wearing.

“Never go into battle without your armor on,” she likes to say.

Ms. Meyers looks at me and smiles. “Hi, Bli-iss. Come on inn and haave a seeaaat.”

But Brooke cuts to the chase, staring daggers through her Tammy Faye lashes. “Bliss Cavendar, tell me you did not shove Corbi Booth into a locker yesterday,” she says.

“Oh, that,” I say.
Duh, I should have known that’s why I’m here.

Before I can explain, Ms. Meyers folds her hands on her desk and says, “Corbi has an enormous bruise on the back of her leg.”

“And she has to cheer tonight!” my mom adds in a panic, as if the very idea of Corbi Booth having a bruise on her leg is a sign of the cheerleading apocalypse, like the world order of pom-poms will come down on Brooke for having spawned the child who started it. Whatever.

“So,” I say, “cancel the game.”

“Bliss Cavendar!” my mother says, nearly jumping out of her chair. And then I start to get a little pissed—no, really pissed. My mother couldn’t care less about me and my side of the story. All she cares about is Corbi.

“Look, I know Corbi’s Little Miss Rah-Rah Perfect to y’all. But, for the record, when you’re not looking, she’s pretty evil. I’m not taking it anymore.”

Ms. Meyers tilts her head and keeps her voice annoyingly calm. “It’s ooookaaay to be aaaangry, Bliss, but what concerns me is how you deal with your anger.”

Maybe it’s the Babe Ruthless in me, but before I can censor myself, the phrase “I think I dealt with my anger just fine” comes out of my mouth.

The ever-silent Earl starts to chuckle in a way that lets me know that underneath the “united parental front,” he just might be on my side, after all. (Go, Earl!) But Brooke immediately shuts him down with a look of death.

In the end, Ms. Meyers is not equipped to deal with the slippery truths of high school bully-bitches and the wallflowers who unexpectedly challenge their power. So she quickly wraps up the meeting. I promise to be less of a klutz, and Ms. Meyers reminds me to “bee all I can bee” before sending me back to class.

Frock ’n’Roll

I
n light of the shame and humiliation Corbi-gate has brought upon my entire family (translation: Brooke and Brooke only), I am forced to do some swift penance to keep my mom from engaging in full freak-out mode. This is why I am currently standing in Clara’s Sewing Stop being fitted for a custom Miss Bluebonnet gown instead of hanging out with Oliver. Talk about torture.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of custom-made clothes. I mean, I would really love it if I were in Paris, Milan, or anything remotely resembling one of the world’s fashion capitals. Bodeen, Texas, however, is hardly the hub of haute couture.

But don’t tell Clara that. When it comes to proms and brides, anyone who’s anyone in Bastrop County goes to Clara’s for her frock. And her pageant gowns? Well, my friends, those are the stuff of legend.

“Pageants are the canvas for my art,” Clara likes to say.

And right now I’m wearing the muslin mock-up of what in six weeks is “guaranteed” to have me waltzing in the winner’s circle. The skirt is so huge you could hide a small car beneath it. Brooke stands behind me, prodding and pulling the muslin into a perfect fit, as Clara pins it in.

“Oh, Clara, the silhouette is just lovely.” Brooke sighs, tilting her head as she watches me in the mirror.

My survival tactic for this moment is to take a little vacation in my head, thinking about Oliver. And that kiss, that crazy-perfect kiss in the car with his hands on my wrists. It hasn’t left my mind—not even for a second—since it happened. In class, when I’m chewing on a pen, I feel him kissing me. Walking through the cafeteria line at school, I see him kissing me. Trying on this pageant dress, I taste him kissing me.

“Now, if we could just nip in this waist here.” Brook pulls the bodice so tight I feel my ribs fighting for their life.

“Mom,” I say, gasping out of my Oliver daydream, “I can’t breathe.”

“Sure you can. Now, just one more thing,” she says, ignoring my plea for oxygen. She whips out a pair of silicone breast enhancers, then stuffs them down the front of the strapless gown.

“Aaarrgh!” I say, mortified. “You’re totally molesting me!”

“It’s for a good cause.” Good cause? What the hell is she talking about, “good cause”? Is she planning on donating my Miss Bluebonnet crown to the victims of natural disasters?
Now, bless y’all’s hearts, I know that awful storm destroyed your lives and made you homeless and whatnot, but here you go. Here’s a rhinestone crown to help get you through.
Good cause, my ass.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection. The waist is pulled so tight and my boobs suddenly look inflated—I’ve been Barbiefied against my will.

“No,” I declare. “I am not wearing stunt boobs.”

“Oh, honeybunch, I’m not sayin’ your little nuggets aren’t darlin’. They are—in daily life. But this is not daily life. This is Miss Bluebonnet, and we need the ta-da.”

Are you paying attention to this? My mother not only just publicly felt me up, but she then referred to my breasts as “little nuggets.” Lovely.

Live it up, Shania, as you skip around playing with your fairy wand. One day it’s gonna be you up here.

An hour later, when the bonding train chugs on over to Wal-Mart for some prime-time grocery shopping, we bump into Corbi and Val. Perfect. Just perfect.

“Well, look who it is!” Val says, rounding the corner with her basket. “How’re y’all doin’?” Val has a way of making the sweetest phrase sound like she’s drawing a sword.

“Oh, we’re busy, busy, busy! Just got back from Clara’s for Bliss’s dress fitting,” Brooke says, trying to brag.

The primal competitiveness simmering beneath Brooke and Val’s sugary exchanges turns up a notch.

“Oh. Y’all are still doin’ Clara’s—that’s so . . . adorable. We just got back from Houston. For Corbi’s gown.”

A silent malfunction happens in Brooke’s mind. I’m sure it never occurred to her to go to the big city.

“What? Y’all aren’t havin’ Clara do Corbi’s gown?”

“Oh, Brooke. Clara’s is fine—for Bodeen. But we’re thinkin’ bigger than just pageants. Modelin’, movies, music, TV. I mean, a big talent agent saw Corbi in Houston, and he said there’s no reason why she couldn’t have her very own
Laguna Beach.
” She’s a star in the makin’.”

“Wow. Well, that sounds excitin’.”

“Sure is,” Val gloats. “Well, happy shoppin’, y’all!”

“Happy shoppin’!” Brooke smiles through her bitterness.

When Val and Corbi disappear down the cereal aisle, Brooke turns to me, her eyes flickering with competitive concern. “Bliss! What is
Laguna Beach
?” she demands like a squealy preteen on the hunt for the newest, coolest brand of jeans before anyone else discovers them.

Is this what my life has come to? Telling my mom about a shallow MTV show chronicling a bunch of spoiled bitches who steal each other’s boyfriends? As much as I’d prefer not to be my mother’s pop-culture crutch, I know if I don’t produce an answer fast, she’ll never shut up about it.

So, I shrug my shoulders and say with utmost seriousness, “
Laguna Beach
is this reality show about a bunch of super-interesting teenagers who are really deep and smart and just doing their best to make the world a better place.”

“Well. If Corbi could be on one of those shows, you could too. You better step it up, Bliss,” Brooke says. Her sarcasm detector is clearly malfunctioning today.

The Big O

I
t feels like a million years later when I finally get to see Oliver again. Okay, so it’s only been forty-eight hours, but I’m already addicted and jonesing for a fix.

I’m at Pash’s when he and I start a massive IM-a-thon before Pash so selfishly boots me off her PC. (Something about having to do actual homework. Craziness.)

Before the smart-girl interruption, Oliver and I make plans to meet tomorrow. He’s gonna pick me up from the Oink Joint at noon so we can go to Austin to hang. There’s no delicate way for me to leave school at eleven
A.M
. without arousing major administrative suspicion (I’d have to have my mom sign me out). So, I decide to just skip the whole day to make the rendezvous worthwhile. All I have to do is bring a sick note the day after (I’ve always wanted to put my forgery skills to good use), and we don’t have to bring parent / office face time into this transaction. We’ve had enough of that lately.

When I tell Pash I’m ditching, she gives me THAT look—her signature stare that starts with disapproval and dissolves into complete approval. She’s good at that one.

“Does Oliver have a friend?” she asks, only half meaning it, but that half
really means it.

“Um, maybe,” I grunt. I don’t want to be selfish, but I sort of want to spend my ditch-day with Oliver alone. At least this one time. But I’m not about to tell her that. I’m hoping she’ll back away quietly.

“Oh, forget it,” she says. “I’m not gonna be your tag-along. Just . . . if you meet someone you think is right for me—”

“Totally.”

To kill time before the Oliver chariot squires me away, I hang out at the Oink Joint, flipping through mags and listening to my iPod. Bird-man gives me this “what are you doing out of school?” look. And I greet him with a silent “it’s none of your business—go back to managing” look.

I do kind of have a soft spot for the B-man, but I totally resent how he promotes any and all rebelliousness, but then turns on you if he’s not included. Sorry, Bird-man, but you can’t come on my date. Deal with it, dude.

It’s 12:37 when Oliver comes rollin’ in, all sleepy-haired and adorable.

“Am I late?” he asks.

“Nope,” I lie.

“Good,” he says, pushing the door open from his side of the car. I hop in.

“I’m starving,” he says. “How ’bout you?”

“Yeah, but I
don’t
recommend the Oink Joint,” I say, staring at the air-conditioning vent. I can’t look at him without getting nervous all over again. I seriously have to get over that.

“No worries. I got the food thing covered,” he says, heading out of town.

I love it when Oliver drives. He’s watching the road, and I can steal all the glances I want.

In Austin, we go to the Tamale House and have the best cheap Mexican food ever. We sit on the curb, chucking bits of beef at grackles, greedy little black birds that are a chicer, cooler version of pigeons.

With my grubbing complete, I nudge Oliver. “We should go to a record store,” I say.

“Record store,” he says, dramatically pondering the suggestion. “Hmm. Okay, I’m all for it.”

We head to Waterloo, the original Austin spot for music consumption. As we head inside, Oliver shakes his head. “Man, it’s so soulless to get your music online. This is the way real music fans shop.”

Inside, the place is covered with concert posters, and music lovers browse with hard-core seriousness.

Oliver nods to the completely gross but surprisingly friendly fat redheaded dude behind the counter.

“Oliver, ’sup?” Fatty asks.

“Same ol’, same ol’,” Oliver answers.

We go our separate ways, flipping through racks of CDs. At one point, Oliver brushes past when we’re in the same aisle. He hooks his finger in the belt loop of my jeans, pulls me back to him, and whispers “you are hot” in my ear before disappearing behind a case of vinyl.

I get so distracted, it takes me several seconds to refocus on my CDs, and when I do, I realize I’m holding a copy of Ashlee Simpson’s latest transgression. I quickly put it back and get my hands on a Dead Boys CD, just so I can feel normal again.

Waterloo has a wall of sealed-off listening booths that look like old-school telephone booths you see in ’80s movies. You can step inside, shut the door, and sample the music before you buy. Or you can go inside with the boy you skipped school for and pretend to listen to the new Bright Eyes disc while stealing kisses when no one’s looking—that’s what Oliver and I are up to.

That is, until Oliver finally says, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Totally,” I say. As if I have any idea of where we could go.

Movie Make Out 101

O
liver parks a couple of blocks away from the UT campus and leads me through the grounds like he owns the place. That’s one of the best things I’m starting to observe about Oliver. No matter where he goes, he just belongs there. And when I’m with him, I belong there too. He’s my passport to all things cooler and more interesting than Bodeen.

We end up at Hogg Auditorium, where all the hipster film students hang out watching old, obscure movies and it costs, like, two dollars to get in. Today, some ’60s black-and-white French flick called
Breathless
is on the marquee. Oliver and I sneak in fifteen minutes after it’s started, sit at the very back, and pretty much make out the entire time. At least, we attempt to until I have a little grooming confidence meltdown that throws everything into a tailspin.