Gorgeous
Authors: Rachel Vail
Tags: #Devil, #Personal, #Fiction, #Interpersonal Relations, #Young Adult Fiction, #Magic, #Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, #Beauty, #Fantasy, #Models (Persons), #Science Fiction, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #YA), #Social Issues - Friendship, #Self-Esteem, #Social Issues, #Humorous Stories, #Girls & Women, #Health & Daily Living, #Juvenile Fiction, #Family problems, #Fantasy & Magic, #United States, #Family - General, #People & Places, #Friendship, #Family, #Cell phones, #Children: Young Adult (Gr. 7-9), #Daily Activities, #General, #General fiction (Children's, #Social Issues - Adolescence, #New York (State), #Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, #Adolescence
Gorgeous
Rachel Vail
T
O MY GORGEOUS HUSBAND
Contents
I SOLD MY CELL PHONE TO THE DEVIL.
AFTER SUCCESSFULLY DODGING my nosy, annoying family by barricading myself…
“LEMON!”
I MANAGED TO KEEP MY little flirt-fest to myself, luckily,…
FRIDAY, JADE SAT DOWN next to me on the bus…
I GUESS I WAS KIND OF a wreck in the…
FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE I was one of the…
BANGING ON QUINN’S window unbalanced me, and I thought for…
I CALLED ROXIE FIRST. While her phone was ringing, I…
BY THE TIME THE FORMS arrived on Thursday afternoon, I’d…
THE NEXT MORNING ON the way to the bus stop,…
WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I used to wish my mom…
MY PARENTS WERE PROWLING our halls, trying to cheer us…
WHEN TY AND I WALKED back into the party holding…
NO HIDING TODAY, I told myself as I leaned close…
MOM AND DAD WERE both sitting in the kitchen waiting…
WHEN I HEARD A QUIET knock on my door about…
I WOKE UP AGAIN WITH Quinn banging on my door.
MOM CAME INTO MY ROOM a little later and sat…
WATCHING PHOEBE GIVE her speech at her middle school graduation,…
THE REST OF THE WEEKEND was hell.
A SHORT WOMAN DRESSED all in white frowned at me.
IT WAS A TEXT FROM QUINN:
I WOKE UP TUESDAY INTENDING to confront Jade about why…
DAD HAD DECIDED WE WERE grilling that night for dinner,…
LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. Good-bye, ninth grade, and don’t let…
I WALKED THROUGH THE double-height glass doors on the thirty-fourth…
I
SOLD MY CELL PHONE TO THE DEVIL
.
In my own defense, it had been a really crappy day.
The sun was in full show-off mode again, flattening our suburban town into a caricature of itself—rich, pretty, manicured. The lawns, the women, the girls my age: all manicured. Even many of the dads were manicured. Buffed, of course. No rough cuticles in our town. No rough anything.
“What a gorgeous day,” people kept saying, as if they were revealing a wonder, and as if the gorgeousness settled an unspoken argument about our worth. “Absolutely gorgeous!” they agreed with one another. Mothers couldn’t stop themselves from marveling out loud about the low humidity, the cuteness of each other’s new sandals (and pedicures), the fact that our pools were all cleaned and opened already, weeks before Memorial Day.
Can you believe it? Oh, I know—I love it!
Knees and shoulders reemerged, fake-tanned to perfection, tulips and roses mingled condescendingly with the so-yesterday daffodils, and only a few of the puffiest, whitest clouds accessorized the sky, punching up its cornflower blue.
I was finding it hard to breathe.
Beyond even the migraine-inducing falsetto chatter about the shocking fact that in these days of holes the size of Texas in the ozone layer, it could be—gasp—warm in the late spring in the New York suburbs, my fascist social studies teacher had started my day off by being a complete hypocrite and giving me a B–on my paper. I completely couldn’t give a rat’s butt about grades, honestly—it is my older sister Quinn’s job to bring home straight A’s, not mine—but I had for once actually put in some effort, and the only comment on it at all was that I had not gotten my concept approved.
Which was a lie.
We’d submitted our concepts three weeks earlier. The assignment was to write about someone who had changed the course of world history. My best friend, Jade Demarchelier, was doing Eleanor Roosevelt; Serena Smythson, who was apparently not allowed to choose to study Jade, who would obviously have been her first choice, was therefore also doing Eleanor Roosevelt. Leonardo da Vinci, Beethoven, Gandhi, and Shakespeare were other popular choices. I’d chosen to study Gouverneur Morris, a one-legged drunken carouser with multiple mad and murderous mistresses, who wrote practically the whole damn U.S. Constitution including the famous “We the People” section, despite the fact that he thought only
some
people (meaning rich people) could be trusted to self-govern. My thesis was that this “genius exotic” won power for the people in spite of his aristocratic worldview. I still had my thesis statement paper, with the Fascist’s two-word comment, the only one on that paper, in her tight-script purple ink:
Interesting! Approved.
So when I got back my paper on Gouverneur Morris with not one correction on it but only the words
Unacceptable Thesis! B–
scrawled across the top of it, I was beyond pissed. I marched up to the Fascist and said, “Excuse me, this thesis WAS approved.”
She tried to argue, but I shoved the thesis statement paper under her beady eyes. She relented but then started arguing that there were “other problems, too.”
She wouldn’t say what, though I have a feeling she was referring to the section about his housekeeper/mistress who was accused of murdering her illegitimate child. But the Fascist said, “End of discussion,” an expression I seem to be allergic to because it sends me into fits of rage, and that is why I ended up tearing my report on Gouverneur Morris into tiny bits and hurling them at her face.
It is unclear who was the most shocked person in the classroom as the flakes of my report fluttered down over the Fascist’s head. The Fascist seemed pretty shocked. She may actually have been
in
shock, judging from how she froze, other than a slight tremor throughout her body. Or it could have been Jade, who would never ever talk back to a teacher, never mind throw stuff at one, and who stood there staring at me like I’d just sprouted a second head. But I think it might have been me, honestly, especially when the Fascist didn’t scream or send me to the principal’s office or anything. She just sat there, shaking slightly, allowing the scraps of my report to cling decoratively to her frizzy hair.
It was almost festive.
When the Fascist turned to talk with one of the nicer kids, I walked toward the classroom door. I could see Jade turning to whisper to Serena. I swallowed hard and kept walking, out into the hallway.
“You okay?” a girl named Roxie Green asked me.
“I hate everything,” I answered.
“Let’s cut second period,” she suggested.
“Okay,” I said.
She didn’t look surprised at all. I myself was by then totally blown sideways. And not just because I’d never cut before.
We walked out the back entrance of the high school and wandered around a bit. We didn’t really know each other that well, Roxie Green and I, so we didn’t have much to talk about. She had moved out to our lovely suburban patch of hell from New York City over the summer. She lived on my street, down a bit toward the corner, in two houses—one of which, supposedly, was being converted into a rec house: indoor pool, squash court, yoga studio, the works. The rumor was that her family was the richest in our town, which is saying a lot. Some people said Roxie had been a model in the city and the real reason they moved out was that her parents wanted to get her away from the wild life of clubbing and drugs. She looked like a model, that was for sure—tall, thin, and gorgeous. Jade and Serena and I had been eyeing her all year for signs of wildness, critiquing her hair (strawberry blond, very straight, jagged edges), makeup (lots of black eyeliner), and clothes (kind of out-there, weird combinations of pinks and reds, and lots of bracelets).
If she noticed nobody was really talking to her, Roxie didn’t show it. She didn’t seem to care. She didn’t seem to give a crap about anything.
“There is really nowhere to go here, is there?” Roxie murmured.
“Absolutely nowhere,” I agreed, checking around and behind us. I wasn’t sure if maybe there were security officers, watching for cutters. But even worse, if Jade saw me cutting second with Roxie Green, she’d definitely give me the silent treatment.
“You live down my street, right?” Roxie asked.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Welcome to the neighborhood, belatedly.”
“Thanks. It sucks.”
“You noticed,” I said. “You must miss the city.”
“You have no idea how much.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead with her pinky and thumb. “You know why we moved?”
“No,” I said, kind of telling the truth. What I knew was only rumor. “Why?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s the only good thing about me.”
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” she warned, watching my face. When I didn’t flinch, she whispered, “My parents had a sudden urge to garden.”
“Ew,” I said. “How hideous.”
She looked at me with her head cocked, and then nodded. “Beyond hideous. Let’s have a pool party.”
“Sure,” I said. “When?”
“Today,” she answered, pulling out her phone. “You know Tyler Moss?”
I’d had a crush on Tyler Moss since September. Once, just before February break, while pretending to look for my sister Quinn in the tenth-grade hall but actually stalking Tyler, I impulsively said hello to him and he hit me with his mitten. I was psyched out of all proportion.
Kind of pathetic, I admit. Jade knew I loved him, but nobody else did. Not even Serena, who would’ve told the whole school.
“Swim team?” I said, trying to sound blasé. “Dark hair?”
“That’s him,” Roxie said. “Bring a few friends,” she said, and texted at the same time.
Alison Avery and I are having a hard day. Come cheer us up.
“It’s two L’s,” I told her, feeling like a dork. “A-L-L-I-”
“I thought you needed a nickname,” Roxie said. “Alison for short. Do you already have a nickname? Allie or something?”
“No,” I said. “Well, my mom called me Allie Cat a couple times when I was little, but I hated that. My dad calls me Lemon.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Sour personality?” She looked horrified, so I added, “He means it in a loving way, I’m pretty sure.”
“Oh.” We kept walking. “How about Alison with one L?”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Her phone buzzed. Tyler Moss had texted her back saying only,
Excellent.
Roxie showed it to me and smiled, her dimples deeply indenting her cheeks.
We wandered back toward school as I spilled the whole story of why I’d torn up my paper and thrown it at the Fascist. Apparently it was hilarious in the telling. Roxie’s laugh bubbled up and then boiled over, making it seem like I was the funniest, wildest person she’d ever met.
Jade stalked up to me in the hall as soon as she saw us round the corner. “You weren’t in math,” she whispered. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, and then realized I meant it. “Everything’s great.”
“Is it?” Jade raised her eyebrows. “I don’t want to be late for French.” She hurried away with Serena, as always, in her shadow.
“She’s a real party,” Roxie said, and despite the fact that Jade was my best friend, I felt myself smile a little.
“She’s just serious,” I explained.
“I don’t get it,” Roxie said. “You’re so fun and she’s, like, the tightest girl in the school. Why do you hang with her all the time?”
“Um,” I said, thinking,
I’m fun? Seriously?
“I…she’s…we’re, like, practically cousins, for one thing.”
“You are?”
“Family friends, you know? We always used to rent houses together, Augusts, Fire Island…”
“Used to?”
I shrugged. There wasn’t a nonobnoxious way to explain that we’d stopped doing that a few years ago, when Mom got her hedge fund job and my family moved to the way nicer section of town and started renting August houses, just us, in Europe.
“Whatever,” Roxie said, strolling down the hall as I scurried to keep up.
“We have a lot of history, Jade and I,” I said, feeling again like a total dork—but what was I going to do, explain that, although Jade sometimes drove me nuts, nobody else was exactly chasing me around school begging to hang with me, and a person has to eat with
somebody
at lunch? Can you spell loser? So I mumbled, “Plus, she’s smart, and…”
“Uh-huh,” Roxie said, sounding unconvinced.
“She is—and loyal, loving…” How weird to be defending the perfect Jade Demarchelier, my own personal Jiminy Cricket, so patient with my cranky selfishness she was practically a saint. “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. You get used to her, and then she’s great, really.”
“She’s an acquired taste?” Roxie asked, turning down the corridor toward French.
“Yeah, maybe,” I agreed, worn out. “I guess so.”
“I don’t really acquire tastes,” Roxie said. “I still hate grilled eel, and bourbon.”
“Yeah, well.” I laughed. “I never thought of Jade in quite that company.”
“Sometimes a new person sees clearer.” Roxie held the door open to the French classroom and whispered, “Seriously. Eel. Bourbon. Trust me.”
Madame gave us a slightly dirty look as Roxie and I tumbled to our desks, cracking up while the bell rang. Jade’s expression was much more disappointed than Madame’s. I had to turn away because that scowl of Jade’s actually did make her look a little like an eel who’d sipped too much bourbon, and I was on the verge of peeing in my pants, thinking that.
After French, everybody moved in a blob toward the cafeteria, and for the first time, Roxie sat with me, Jade, and Serena. It was weird. Roxie was the only one who talked at all. I mostly nodded and tried not to smile.
By seventh period, Roxie had convinced me that the
excellent
from Tyler Moss earlier in the day had some possible reference to me.
So after school, I had to go dashing home to have a bathing suit crisis as fast as possible, while denying completely to my older sister, Quinn, that I had cut despite the fact that she apparently saw me sneaking back into school at the end of second period.
I let my younger sister, Phoebe, help me choose a bathing suit, because she is beautiful and popular and irritatingly cheerful, so she would know which bathing suit would look good. Also, she is very honest—so if one suit made me look dumpier than another, she would tell me. I yanked an assortment of possibilities out of my closet for her to evaluate.
She chose my new black-and-white print. I pulled on my cutoff shorts, my low-top sneaks without laces, and a loose tank. My hair is impossible, so I didn’t even bother doing more than pushing it in front of my weird face, to cover as much of my alien-looking eyes as possible. Over Easter weekend, my grandmother had said I was “interesting-looking.” Sweet, right? How clear was it that she meant “ugly”? Especially after she had just been going on and on about how lovely and refined Quinn had become, a classic beauty with such porcelain skin like you never see, and how much Phoebe looked like Mom, so vivacious and getting prettier and prettier every day, before she spotted me and added, “Now Allison, she is more…more
interesting-looking.
” Great. Thanks, Grandma. Subtle. I left my chocolate bunny in pieces on her kitchen counter when it was finally time for us to leave.
What a treat, to spend my life between the two pillars of perfection that are my sisters. Joy! Delight! Ain’t life grand?
And yet as if I had never met myself, I went la-di-da across and down the street to Roxie Green’s, like something lovely might happen with half the boys’ swim team gathered at her magnificent pool.
Not having thought to bring his mitten in the 85-degree heat, Tyler Moss completely ignored me, preferring instead to join with his three best friends, one more hard-bodied than the next, in a flirt-fest with the stunning Miss Roxanne Green.
Roxie laughed hard over something one of the boys mumbled. They all laughed along, too.
I almost went in the pool for something to do, until I remembered my hair looks even worse after a dousing. Bored and lonely with only well-muscled backs to look at for entertainment, I was about to doze off until one of the boys accidentally sat on my leg. Emmett O’Leary. My existence had not registered in his consciousness, apparently.