Authors: Meg Cabot
"So make them give her back," Luke said. "Make them do some other prank. This one’s not funny."
I agreed with him, of course, but what could I do? I was just a lowly junior. I had no control over Kurt and his friends.
Only it turned out Luke didn’t quite see it that way.
"That’s not true," Luke said to me. "And you know it, Jen."
I told Luke what I’d said to Kurt that day—the day he’d first stuffed Betty Ann into his backpack. I told Luke how I’d asked Kurt what he was doing. And that Kurt had told me to relax.
Luke, hearing this, just shook his head. He didn’t say anything more about it after that.
But I noticed that he was especially nice to Mrs. Mulvaney. Luke was nice to everyone—which was why practically every girl in school, not just Trina, had fallen in love with him before the weekend even rolled around—but he was more than nice to Mrs. Mulvaney, bringing along a latte grande for her, too, every morning, holding the door open for her, and even taking stabs at some conjugations.
In fact, if anything seemed to cheer up Mrs. Mulvaney—the spread in the
Register
wasn’t enough to get the perpetrators to step forward, and Kurt’s ransom note, which said only
Give all the seniors As for the semester, or Betty Ann bites it
, seemed hardly in the fun-loving spirit a senior prank should be—it was Luke. Mrs. M. seemed totally enamored of him, to the point that about the only time she smiled anymore was when he walked into the room.
Mrs. Mulvaney, like I mentioned, was hardly the only one who lacked immunity to Luke’s charms. Trina was falling harder for him every day. She came right out and asked him for his cell phone number—in front of poor Steve, no less, who looked crushed but didn’t say a word about it—and then complained bitterly to me when she called and only got Luke’s voice mail. Eleven times.
But Trina didn’t seem suspicious. If anything, Luke’s very unavailability seemed to make him
more
appealing.
The same was true of Geri Lynn. She couldn’t seem to get enough of Luke . . . especially at lunch and at
Register
meetings. Which was especially weird since all the two of them ever seemed to do was argue. Geri Lynn was always going on about the vital role journalists play in the making or breaking of a celebrity’s career, while Luke made no effort to hide his opinion that journalists are muckraking backstabbers only out to make a buck. The bickering finally got to the point where Scott assigned them a pro and con column, Geri Lynn taking the pro-paparazzi stance, and Luke the con.
I have to admit Luke’s column was surprisingly well written. Which only deepened my confusion about him. Sometimes he seemed totally bored and uninterested in everything and everyone at Clayton High But at other times (like over the whole Cara thing) he got surprisingly serious and intense This guy was clearly smart, too.
But while I could forgive Trina for her crush on Luke, I couldn’t quite bring myself to be so sanguine about Geri Lynn—who, in spite of the fact that she seemed to argue with him nonstop, nevertheless couldn’t take her eyes off him whenever he was in the room I mean, it’s not like Geri was going out with Steve, who isn’t exactly the world’s hottest guy. She was going out with Scott Bennett who I know most people wouldn’t consider anything but a geek of the first order, being, you know, the editor of the school paper and a lover of reading and cooking.
But those people don’t know Scott. They’d never argued with him, as I had, over the merits of the reissue of Stephen King’s
The Stand
, with the edited bits put back in.
They had never tasted, as I had, his cold cucumber soup.
They had never, as I had, listened at a campfire as he described his parents’ painful breakup, his decision to go and live with his mom, and then, years later, his decision to come back to Clayton and give living with his dad another try.
They had never noticed, as I had, that Scott’s eves are even more hazel than mine, sometimes looking green and sometimes even amber, the same color as the stuff the mosquitos were stuck in in
Jurassic Park
.
They had never watched Scott’s strong capable hands move over a computer keyboard as he corrected my Ask Annie copy. Or lift them up to grab a log before a wall of peanut butter crashed down on them.
They had never heard the butternut squash story.
Was a mere movie star worth throwing a guy like that away for?
Even if that movie star blew his cover, and everyone in the whole world suddenly knew that he wasn’t a transfer student at all, and
Entertainment Tonight
and
People
magazine started knocking on your door?
Even if that movie star happened to ask you to the Spring Fling?
Ask Annie
Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.
Go on, we dare you!
All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School
Register
.
Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.
Dear Annie,
I think my boyfriend is cheating on me, but he denies it. How can I tell whether or not he’s lying
?
Dating a Dog
.
Dear Dating,
If he’s cheating, he’ll be exhibiting at least a few of the following behaviors
:
•
He is spending more and more Saturday nights the guys.
•
He gets phone calls while he’s with you that he doesn’t answer after checking the caller ID.
•
He suddenly starts caring about his hair/wardrobe.
•
He accuses YOU of cheating on HIM (guilt).
•
He starts asking seemingly random questions like you think it’s possible to love two people at the same time?
"
•
He gets a new job or has to "all the time
."
•
He shows a sudden interest in a type of music or a band he’s never liked before.
•
He stops e-mailing you as much as he used to, but spends more time online.
•
He gets a new e-mail address.
•
He stops trying to get into your pants.
Most important of all, if you suspect he’s cheating, he probably is . . . trust your gut. Unless you’re one of those stupid, insecure types who always thinks her boyfriend is cheating even when he isn’t—in which case, get a grip.
Annie
I
t started the
way these kinds of things always seem to, innocently enough. We were at the car wash on Saturday morning—the one the Troubadours were holding, to raise money for our stupid dresses for the stupid show choir invitational the following week.
It’s kind of iffy scheduling a car wash during an Indiana spring, because you just never know what you’re going to get, weatherwise. I mean, after June 1, you can pretty much be assured of warm weather. But you also run the risk of the occasional thunderstorm and even a tornado now and then. But mostly those hold off until later in June.
Still, you never knew if you’d wake up on any given Saturday in June and have a perfect spring day—temperatures in the seventies, warm breezes blowing the scent of honeysuckle everywhere, clear blue sky, rustling green leaves in the treetops—or something gray and blustery, with temps in the sixties and your toes freezing in the sandals you wore so comfortably the day before.
The Saturday of the Troubadour car wash, though, was like summer. By ten in the morning, it was eighty. Trina called and was all, "I’m wearing my swimsuit and cutoffs. You better, too."
I obliged her but only to get her off my back about Luke. She’d been pestering me since the night before about whether or not I thought he’d be showing up at the car wash. The truth was, I needed a day off from Luke. I mean, he’s nice and all—and of course extremely easy on the eyes—but a girl can only put up with so much. By the time Steve and Trina dropped me off at home Friday night, my nerves were shot. Between trying to
a) keep people from finding out that Lucas Smith was really Luke Striker and not a transfer student after all and
b) prevent Luke from thinking everyone at Clayton High was devil spawn on account of the whole Betty Ann and Cara Cow thing and
c) get Trina her hat on time during "All That Jazz," let alone learn the choreography and
d) not slack off all my other stuff, like Ask Annie and trig and keeping Cara from killing herself and all of that,
I was a wreck.
It was a relief to go baby-sit that night. I actually enjoyed playing Candyland seven million times in a row.
I wasn’t looking forward to the car wash. Trina and I usually spend at least part of our Saturdays at the mall, where we inevitably run into people we know, like Geri Lynn and Scott, for instance, at the Barnes & Noble, where we invariably fall into a long conversation about what’s new in the sci-fi aisle. Scott and I do, I mean. Geri Lynn and Trina usually go off and look at magazines.
Plus, I mean, hanging out with my fellow Troubadours isn’t exactly a thrill. Don’t get me wrong, I love the altos. Too-tall Kim and Pudgy Deb and Shy Audrey and Tough Brenda and Bored Liz are my homegirls. We have totally bonded over the la-la-las on middle C.
But the other misfit toys, as Trina had called them (though not, I noticed, until after she’d convinced me to join them) can get kind of annoying—especially the sopranos. They all totally worship Mr. Hall and will do anything he says . . . kind of like those clones in
Star Wars II
.
And the tenors can be a little irritating, too. Most of them are freshmen or sophomores, and you know freshmen and sophomore boys. It’s all about fart jokes and Limp Bizkit. Even with guys who’d willingly sign up to be in a choir.
But it wasn’t like I had much of a choice. Thanks to Trina.
And I’d only have to put up with being a Troubadour for a couple more weeks, and then school would be out. It didn’t matter what kind of pressure Trina put on me either: No way was I auditioning again next year.
Anyway, even though there were a lot of places I’d rather have been than the Troubadours’ car wash—playing Candy-land with some four-year-olds comes to mind—it helped that the weather was so nice. Trina and I really would be able to work on our tans—with the help of SPF 30, since, being the girl-next-door type, I burn more than I tan. So it wasn’t a total loss.
At least that’s what I figured at the time.
Because Mr. Hall wanted to raise as much money as possible—some girls didn’t have a hundred and eighty dollars to blow on a dress, even one with a sequined lightning bolt down the front, I guess because some girls don’t baby-sit as much as I do—he’d asked the Chi-Chi’s Mexican restaurant on the corner right before you pull into the mall if we could have our car wash in their parking lot, and Chi-Chi's, for community-relations reasons I suppose, said yes.
So when Steve and Trina and I showed up for our twelve-to-two shift at the car wash, there was actually quite a bit of action going on. Besides all the cars belonging to the friends and parents of members of the Troubadours—and there are thirty of us, so you know that’s a lot of cars—there were the cars belonging to the people who’d showed up to have lunch at Chi-Chi's, the cars belonging to the people who worked at Chi-Chi's, as well as the cars belonging to all the people who couldn’t figure out anything better to do on a beautiful Saturday than go to the mall.
In all, a lot of cars.
Business was jumping. We’d been in the parking lot for maybe two seconds before Mr. Hall came racing up, a bucket of soapy water and a sponge for each of us, and went, "Get to work! We've raised two hundred dollars in just the past two hours. But we need two thousand more before we can knock off for the day."
I don’t want to cast Clayton in a bad light or anything—I mean, except for the occasional bias crime (it’s southern Indiana, after all), it’s a pretty nice place to live.
But can I just say that the Troubadour car wash wouldn’t be making half the money it was if it weren’t for the fact that Karen Sue and a bunch of the other sopranos were standing out by the Chi-Chi’s sign, wearing nothing but bikinis?
And, okay, they were holding signs that said
SUPPORT CLAYTON HIGH
’
S TROUBADOURS
, but I highly doubt that’s why so many guys in pickups, who were clearly on their way to go fishing up at Clayton Lake or whatever, pulled in.
You have to have pretty big . . . um, lungs, to be a soprano. Well, at least if you’re a Clayton High Troubadour. Thus, you know, the padded bras Mr. Hall has us wear for "uniformity of appearance."
Anyway, Trina and Steve and I grabbed our sponges and buckets and went to work. I found my fellow altos, and we were having a pretty good time cleaning people’s station wagons and occasionally flicking soap suds at one another, when all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Scott Bennett’s beat-up old Audi. He and Geri Lynn had been going by on their way to the mall, spotted us, and pulled over to join in the fun.
Well, at least Scott wanted to join in the fun. He even forked over ten bucks for us to wash his car.
Geri Lynn didn’t look as if she was very thrilled with the idea, though. Apparently, they’d been on their way to Compusave, to look at laptops. Scott was going to help Geri pick one out for college.
"Compusave’s not going anywhere, Ger," Scott said to Geri Lynn, when she objected to stopping.
Then, even though he’d paid us to do it, he picked up a sponge and started helping us wash his car. In fact, he started scrubbing right next to where I was working on one of his hubcaps.
Geri, in a yellow mini and espadrilles, wasn’t really dressed to help wash a car, though, so she kind of flounced over to where the sopranos were standing by the Chi-Chi’s sign and started talking to Karen Sue Walters about the Spring Fling. Geri and Scott were going, of course. Karen Sue was going with one of the tenors. I guess she and Geri have a lot in common, seeing as how they’re both dating younger men.