Starstruck (4 page)

I
’M SITTING IN THE BACK
of the short bus, wanting to pee my pants. Not from fear, totally. Mostly because I was late, trying to tame my triangle into a normal, human-shaped head, and trying to see if any of the outfits I owned could ever exude coolness, if accessorized correctly. Thus, before I knew it, the bus was out front, and peeing was not an option.

For the record, my hair now looks lopsided, more like a rhombus, and it’s hard like a helmet, and no amount of fake jewelry can make an XXL Hanes sweatshirt look stylish.

Evie is in the front, chatting with Becca. We’re the only three people on the bus. My sister is bouncing her legs up and down so that her flip-flops smack against her heels. Smack-smack-smack. She blows a noisy bubble with her gum and grins excitedly, like she’s in her own musical and about to break into song.

For a second, I think maybe, maybe, maybe things won’t be as bad as I’ve feared. Maybe when my mom and I meet Wish at the airport tonight, I can tell him about the dozens of new friends who welcomed me into their open arms and how we all sang “Kumbaya” together. Then we cross over the bridge and I see the school looming in the distance, like the house from
Psycho.
Vultures are circling over it.

Then I wake up and see the crowds of students standing outside, waiting to be let in. They’re all huddled in their tight, impenetrable circles. For some reason, this reminds me of that goofy sex-ed presentation they showed in sixth grade, the one where the egg is standing firm while all these little sperm flutter about, trying to break in, constantly getting the brush-off. Yes, in this scenario, I am the sperm. Thespian egg? Denied! Chess club egg? Denied! Future Homemakers of America egg? Denied! I don’t even bother to go near the really popular eggs, because that would be spermicide.

When I step from the bus, I imagine that this is how soldiers on the front lines feel when they’re being shot at. I duck my head, avoid looking directly at anyone, and find a spot in a corner, near the building, where I plop down on the grass and pull out a notebook. I’ll pretend to read something important in it—which is kind of difficult, since it’s blank. It is the first day of school, after all. I find a pen in my purse, and the point hovers an inch over the paper for the longest time. What to write, what to write? Oh, yes. A list of things I need to bring into school with me tomorrow. Like what? I already have all the pens and notebooks I could possibly need; my ever-prepared mother had my bag packed and ready to go in mid-July. I look up for a second and realize that someone—I’m not sure who—is staring at me, no doubt thinking, “Well, well, well, what friendless loser have we here?” and getting ready to launch an attack, so I get nervous and write the first thing that comes to my mind.

Salami.

Where the hell did that come from? I don’t even like salami. Or anything remotely salami-like. I quickly scribble it out, so hard that I almost rip through the page with my pen point. Fine. I can just look through my bag for my cell phone, like I need to make an important call. Even though I don’t actually own a cell phone.

Suddenly I hear someone yell above the noise, “Yo, baby!”

But it isn’t any ordinary “Yo, baby.” It’s in that horrible nasal Rick Rothman voice. And it’s really close by. I see a pair of filthy Vans backing up toward me. Rick may be one of the richest kids in school, but he has a way of dressing like he’s been raiding the nearest Dumpster. And he seems always to be walking backward, tossing greetings to his many admirers, completely oblivious to anyone who might be in his way. I freeze.

One of his mud-crusted sneakers steps right on my new khakis, leaving a nice footprint on my thigh. He nearly falls back, then turns to me. His eyes trail downward. “Yo, what’s up?” he says to me, almost civilly.

How do I answer that? I could say, “Nothing,” but that makes me look like a total loser who is up to nothing, which, even though it’s true, is the last thing I want to admit. I could tell him I’m listing lunch meats, but that’s even lamer. I could lie and say I’m writing a screenplay; that sounds cool. However, since my notebook is blank, he could easily see through that facade. A few seconds pass, and then I realize that I’m not saying anything, just staring up at him, like a deaf-mute, which is perhaps the most pathetic reaction of all. So I suddenly open my mouth and out comes this weird humming noise that sounds like a bee crash-landing on a windshield.

He doesn’t notice. He’s already yo-babying another bunch of girls across the green. This is probably like Christmas morning for him. I look down at the muddy footprint on my thigh as the crowd starts to funnel through the doors.

Ah, yes, school. The agony and the … more agony.

After making a pit stop at the girls’ room, I find a seat in the back of homeroom, hoping none of the people who like to cause a scene involving me and my ass, or another of my numerous large body parts, is present. The room begins to fill up; nobody looks at me, or if they do, they quickly drop their eyes. Nobody sits by me. I’m thinking it’s because I’m invisible when in walks Terra Goldbar.

Terra is a girl who thinks she’s much cooler than she actually is. She has bright red hair and a horsey face, and her laugh sounds like a lawn mower starting up. She joins every club she can fit into her schedule, and so she is friends with everyone—or at least likes to think she is. Oh, except me, but I’ll get to that part in a minute. It’s odd to watch her change the way she acts between groups; one second she’ll be discussing the works of Plato with the brains, and the next second she’ll be like, “Girl! That nail polish is, like, so fabu!” to the fashion mavens. One could call her the Chameleon of Cellarton. Well, except for the stoplight hair.

Unfortunately, she’s not fooling anyone. She doesn’t really fit into any of the groups. For instance, her observation on Plato will be “Didn’t he write that play about the guy who does it with his mother?” and the nail polish will be the most hideous fashion don’t since culottes on short fat people. I think everyone keeps her around for the amusement value. Because she’s so oblivious they can make fun of her and she won’t get it. Because she’s loyal like a puppy. Oh, and because she’s freaking rich and has completely absentee parents, so she has been known to throw the most mind-blowing parties Cellarton High has ever seen.

She tosses her Gucci bag down on the floor beside the farthest possible empty desk from mine. Since the room is pretty full, it’s a desk kitty-corner to mine, so close she can reach out and touch me. Still, she pretends not to notice me, turns to Erica Dunleavy in the next row, and says, way too bubbly for this early in the morning, “Hey, girl! You got a new tat! Fabuloso!”

So here’s why, out of all the students at Cellarton High, Terra picked me as the object of her wrath. She and Wish are cousins. More than just cousins. She writes comments on his Facebook wall at least once a day, usually starting with “Hey, favorite cousin!” And no “favorite cousin” of hers should associate with the likes of me. I think she’s disgusted with me because in all my years, I’ve never had a birthday with a petting zoo, or a bat mitzvah with a robot fortune-teller. Even though his Facebook page says “In a Relationship with Gwendolyn Reilly,” she doesn’t get it. Maybe she thinks Gwendolyn Reilly is a figment of his imagination. If I ever went up to her and told her that Wish was my boyfriend, she’d probably have one of those brain meltdowns and start sputtering, “Does not compute! Does not compute!” So she has done well all these years just pretending I don’t exist.

I look over to see them both admiring a purple blotch on the top of Erica’s foot, right under the strap of her white flip-flops. Erica has this rough-voiced, mysterious, Harley-riding sex-kitten thing going for her, which means she is my polar opposite. And she’s had a reputation since before I stopped playing with Barbies. There was a rumor going around sixth grade that her father had come home one afternoon and found Erica making out with her new boyfriend, topless. I can almost believe it, because even though we were only twelve then, Erica already had the kind of rack one wouldn’t mind showing off.

She says, “Yeah, I got it from a local when we went to Fiji. It means ‘peaceful journey.’ ”

Is it wrong that I hope the local gave her a symbol that means “I have to pee” instead? Or “spoiled rich American teen hoochie”? I start to giggle to myself; then I have to stifle a snort. I guess I don’t suppress it well enough, because Terra turns to glare at me. Well, at least she acknowledged that I exist.

“Oh, hey,” she says to Erica, talking a mile a minute. “Did you hear about Wish?”

Obviously, seeing me has sparked the mysterious Dough-Wish connection in Terra’s brain. Erica nods, and for a second my heart does a free fall. I knew it was a lost cause hoping that when he came to school, nobody would remember him, that he would be just another faceless nobody like me. After all, though he hasn’t been around in four years, he still knows the people of Cellarton High better than I do, judging by all the messages they leave on his Facebook wall. But Erica? She can barely remember her own name. This is not a good sign. “Yeah, where is he? I thought he’d be here.”

“His plane got delayed or something,” Terra says. “He’s coming in tonight.”

Erica gives one of her famous sly grins. “I can’t wait to see him. He looks so hot in his pictures.”

I slide down in my seat. Well, yeah, four years ago, Wish was awkward and gangly, and the pictures of him now are a definite improvement. There was no question in my mind that Wish would be higher-shelf than me. But he’s not supposed to be right there on the top! If Erica, gorgeous Erica, thinks he’s hot, what does that mean for me? My best hope now is that he got glamour shots taken of him out in L.A. that make him look extremely hot, but in reality he is a puny little booger with acne and bad breath. How pathetic am I that I want a boyfriend with bad breath?

Terra flips her red hair. “I wanted to see if anyone would come with me to meet him at the airport tonight. As a welcome-back surprise. So far I have like twenty people. You coming?”

Erica nods. “Why not?”

Wait, wait. No. My mom and I were going to meet Wish at the airport. That was the plan. I’d imagined the whole thing: Wish hurrying up the ramp with a bag slung over his shoulder, then dropping it and running for me. He would take me in his arms and twirl me around. Okay, maybe not twirl me, but just pick me up. Okay, maybe not pick me up, but give me one momentary heave-ho so that my sandals fell off and my cute little pedicure, the only thing cute about me, showed. Airport lighting makes people look like the dead, yes, but there was a chance he’d be so jet-lagged he’d think Mrs. Potato Head was hot. And maybe if I shoved my feet in his face, first thing, he would be so mesmerized that everything north of them wouldn’t matter.

Terra goes right on ignoring me, making plans to pick Erica up at whatever time tonight, and meanwhile, my first twinge of disappointment fades and I’m left feeling … relieved. Because if they’re going to be his welcome committee, I don’t need to be. And if I don’t go, then I won’t see Wish tonight. And if I don’t see Wish, I don’t have to worry about my biggest fear: his face distorting in anguish as he screams, “No,
no!
You ate my Gwen!”

Which is actually more believable than his being able to pick me up and twirl me through the airport like I’m Julie Andrews.

My breath catches when I hear Erica say, “He’s not going with anyone, is he?”

And here’s the best part: Terra shrugs and says, “No, not that I know of.”

I didn’t expect her to say, “Why, yes, I hear he’s with her,” and point me out. I mean, maybe she really doesn’t know who I am.

But then she says, “He never talks about anyone, anyway.”

Hello? What part of “In a Relationship with Gwendolyn Reilly” is in any way unclear?

Maybe Terra is just saying that he never talks about me to rip my little heart to pieces, but part of me also thinks it could be true. Maybe Wish never does talk about me. But why would he, to someone who hardly knows I exist? Seriously, Dough, in his past few emails he’s been so excited to see you, I tell myself. He even had a little countdown of the hours and minutes and seconds in there, like a total nerd. He’s not ashamed of you. Not yet, anyway.

The imprint of Rick’s sneaker on my thigh looks even darker now. I rub at it, but it doesn’t help. Not that it matters. I’m probably going to get stepped on a lot more today, so I might as well get used to it.

O
N THE WAY HOME
, I have the bus to myself. Well, I do have a companion; I’m sitting with my stack of books, which seems to have a life all its own. It’s a good thing I’m not going to the airport tonight, because I have so much homework that I couldn’t fit everything in my backpack and had to carry some books in my arms, which nearly killed me. I made it to the bus, huffing and puffing, but the bus driver didn’t see me. She closed the doors on me, and now I have two black marks on my shoulders from the rubber. Evie and Becca are nowhere to be found, meaning two things: 1) they found some seniors to give them a ride home, and 2) I am officially the only living dork on the island of Cellar Bay.

Other than that, my first day of school was everything I’d expected. In class, nobody talked to me, and everyone attempted to sit as far away from me as possible. During lunch, one lost freshman tried to sit at my table, but three other freshmen pulled her from the brink before it was too late. “Don’t do it!” they cried. “You still have worth! People still love you! We have a seat over here!” She heaved an enormous sigh of relief and scurried off to join them. Things could have been worse, though, I tell myself.

I’m trying to think of how when the bus pulls up outside the bakery, and I can already tell that we have no customers. Through the glass, I can see the outline of someone—probably that dude Christian, leaning against the counter, looking bored. I’m thinking I should have shown him a couple of things he can do—folding boxes, refilling the cookie trays, sweeping the floor—when he doesn’t have anything else to do. As I’m climbing off the bus, a little fearful that the doors are going to close on me again, which kind of hurt, I drop my brand-new trig book. It falls into the gutter, open, where there’s a small river of sandy water from last night’s rain. As I rush to pick it up and minimize the damage, I see behind me a small flash of fire-engine red from someone’s car. Someone’s really nice car. I turn, because it’s impossible to avoid looking at a car that’s that tiny and sporty and sleek, if only to see what idiot would buy a mode of transportation that has absolutely no storage, no passenger room, and no traction in bad weather. Oh my God, I fully realize I am turning into my mother.

Beyond the glistening BMW hood ornament, I see a waterfall of equally shiny blond hair. Evie’s. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, giggling spinelessly at the driver.

I drop my books again.

I knew it.

I knew it.

I knew it.

I stand there for a moment, holding my breath. Then I pick up my books and run into the bakery, only to throw them down again on the linoleum. Then I scream. Scream like there’s no tomorrow. Scream every curse word, in every odd combination I can think of, until I’m red in the face and want to puke. Christian just watches me, squinting.

Finally, I calm down. I’m still breathing hard, but my voice lowers a few octaves. “Sorry,” I say. “You see, that guy out there … I sort of … ‘Hate’ is too nice a word.”

I don’t know, was I expecting a reaction from a guy who has yet to utter more than three syllables to me? Because he just stares at me, looking confused.

“That girl out there. She’s my sister. And she’s only fourteen. And obviously stupid.” I clench my fists and let out a growl. “Is English your second language? ’Cause you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

It kind of just slipped out. I guess that fear I harbored, the one of his maybe stabbing my heart with the butter knife, has been trumped by the fear of having to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to a little Rothman niece or nephew.

He clears his throat. I wait eagerly for his words, though I’m not sure why. Was I expecting this stoner dude to hold the key to the universe? “She’s your sister?” he finally asks, clearly shocked.

I sigh. “I know. It goes against the laws of nature that two completely opposite-looking creatures can be related by blood. I get that.”

He shakes his head. “What the hell is a scumbling screwfinger?”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. I vaguely recall those words escaping my lips during my vent. My inventory of expletives could probably use some work.

He’s still looking out the window. “Are you jealous?”

“Of course not. That guy’s a jerk. And I have a boyfriend.” At least, for the time being. “He’s been in California for a few years, but he’s …” My voice trails off when I realize I’m explaining something to someone who should not matter. Why is it that suddenly all the things that never seemed to matter in my life do?

He nods, looking unconvinced.

“What?” I demand. I mean, what did he mean by that? It’s her right to spend time with jerks if she so chooses. Okay, yeah, maybe I was a little bit sore about having to take the bus home while my younger sister got a ride, but I was not jealous of who she had to spend that entire ride home with. It would be like riding home with nails screeching across a chalkboard. “Why would I be jealous?”

He shrugs. “Because I am. That’s a sweet ride.”

I think I liked him better when he didn’t talk.

I growl again, then gather my mountain of books and run upstairs. My mom is nowhere to be found. I’m so eager to get my sister in trouble that I call, “Ma?” over and over through the apartment. I hear a faint “Hi, hon” echoing, but can’t tell where it’s coming from. Sounds like she’s stuffed in a closet, under a pile of clothes. I throw everything in my arms onto my bed and turn on my computer. There’s an email from Wish that must have come last night, after I’d gone to sleep. More of his goofy countdown:
00:20:04:36! CAN’T WAIT!!!

Then I find my mother lying on the floor of the living room. At first I think she’s trying to do push-ups, which is something my mother never, ever does, since she runs around like crazy all day baking and has the physique of a matchstick. Then I realize she’s Swiffering under the couch. She cleans like a madwoman.

“Ma, did you see what Evie is doing—”

She picks her head up. “Hi, hon. How was school?”

I hold up my hand and beckon her to the front window. “Glorious. Mom. Look. Look what Evie is doing.”

She pulls the cloth off the Swiffer and smiles at all the dust she’s collected, then dips one of the slats of our metal blinds and peers outside. “Wow. Nice car.”

“Ma, that’s Rick. He’s way older than her. And a jerk to the highest power.”

She nods, very seriously. “Wow. In what way?”

“You know, full of himself. Player.”

I think she’s going to whip down the stairs and drag Evie from the car by her hair. Instead, she starts to chew on her pinky fingernail. “Nice car.”

Frustrated, I look out the window myself. They’ve somehow moved closer together. I can hear Evie’s girly “a-hee-a-hee-a-hee” from here. She sounds like an asthmatic donkey. “He’s two secs away from swallowing her head.”

“You think?” She doesn’t sound very concerned.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“Like drag her from the car by her hair?”

I shrug. Well, why not? “She’s only fourteen.”

She smiles at me. “Thank you, Love Police.” Then she turns back toward her Swiffer. “They’re only talking. You’ll probably be doing a lot worse tonight.”

I realize, at that moment, how completely out of it she is. No, I won’t. I have morals. I have dignity. I have a body that, when unclothed, scares even my shower curtain. My mouth hangs open. My own mother is encouraging me to get nasty with my boyfriend. Aren’t there laws against that?

She runs a dust cloth over the TV, then inspects the tiny room. “What do you think? Good enough for the honorable Mr. Wishman?”

It takes me a moment to realize that this was a special psychotic cleaning binge. She did it for my boyfriend. “Um.”

“We’d better leave for the airport soon, hmm?” she asks, checking the clock.

“Change in plans. He’s coming in late,” I fib. “After midnight. So I’ll just see him at school tomorrow, I guess.”

She closes her lips. “Oh. Bummer.”

I take one last look out the window. Rick now has his arm around Evie and is playing with her hair.

So today is a red-letter day. The day my sister gets involved with her first scum-sucking pig. The day my boyfriend, who I haven’t seen in years, comes back to town. And the day I’ll be doing trigonometry until my head falls off. Perfection.