Diva Encounter
.
I
carry two of my vanilla cupcakes in my backpack. My plan is to give him one first, and after he’s experienced the sweet power of cake I’ll say, “And I make chocolate, too. With toffee bits. That was one square cake. Baked by one square girl. Quite an extraordinary feat for a plastic cold-blooded fish.” I’ll watch as the recognition seeps into his thick brain. I will own the moment when he realizes that I know all about the man challenge and I’m about to blow the whole thing wide open. The. Sweetest. Revenge.
I’ve turned away from downtown onto Will’s street, bungalow central, cheap and cheerful. I can’t wait to see the embarrassment on his face. Cake is power.
And then I see Annelise. Coming toward me, driving a brand new car. You know how some girls shine such a bright light that squinting and feeling at your ugliest is inevitable?
Annelise is one of the red carpet high school divas and today she’s in a canary yellow convertible something-or-other. She’s wearing all white, even her sunglasses—the old movie star look, complete with a scarf around her neck. She sees me and slows down, makes a U-turn in the middle of the street for a 360 view. It’s sort of wasted on me.
I usually don’t pay much attention to cars. If you don’t have a driver’s license it seems an inefficient use of time.
“Chantal.” Annelise stops the car. She turns her top 40 beat down. “Nice wheels. Don’tcha think?”
I nod, but go back to my thoughts. I wonder if the heat is going to melt my cupcake frosting.
“I’m taking it for a test drive.”
I move under a shade tree. Not just because of my skin cancer fears. I can’t let Annelise watch me walking up to Will’s door. She’s the kind of girl who’d invite herself along.
“Did you hear me?” Annelise’s voice takes on that little girl whiney sound.
“What?”
“Get in.”
“I can’t. I’ve got an appointment.”
She frowns. Motions me over. I move to the curb only because I want this finished, I need to get on with my life. “I had to, like, do some things, and I needed a car.” She tells me how she hates walking so she told the dealership guy that her dad wanted her to test drive some cars to pick one out for grad next year. Of course the sales guy was, like, all over it, she says, knowing, after all, that Annelise’s dad is the rich tourism guy. “Don’t I look hot?”
I can’t stop myself. “You can get some shade if you put the top up.” I say this with a straight face and, of course, because Annelise is a bit dim, she thinks I’m serious.
“I don’t mean that kind of hot.”
I shrug my shoulders and start walking back the way I came from, to knock her off my trail.
“Wait. Wait.” She beckons me with her Hollywood wave. “Hey, I have this problem that I wouldn’t even have if it weren’t for your best friend Jillian.” When she leans forward her cleavage mocks me. “Doesn’t she know that Parker is totally out of her league?”
I wonder if I could be any more disconnected than I feel right
now; like there’s a new set of rules that I wasn’t smart enough to study up on. “And that’s your problem because?”
“I’ve got Will after me. Will. He thinks I left him a cake at that stupid party that I wasn’t even invited to! I need Jillian to let go of Parker. I want my boyfriend back. We’re perfect for each other.”
She’s watching my face so I try to make it frozen like hers. I’m sure my smile isn’t nearly as cute. I don’t even wear lip gloss. So Parker is in her league and Will isn’t, but he’d like to be.
It pisses me off that Will thinks Annelise made him that cake; she’s maybe a nail-painting master, but not a cake baker. At least not a cake like that. But of course its specialness was lost on Will. “What did he say about the cake? What flavor was it? Was it anything special?”
“I don’t know what kind of cake it was! That doesn’t even matter. It was chocolate, I think.”
“Did you tell him you didn’t bake it?”
“He didn’t believe me! He thinks I’m playing hard to get. Not that me baking a cake is impossible! I bake cakes all the time. I get the box of Supermoist Triple Chocolate, that’s the best. And the Whipped Fluffy White frosting in the little tub. But why would I bake Will a cake? Honestly, he’s delusioned.”
“Delusional.”
“Whatev.”
She’s right. He has a hard time seeing reality. Which means that even when he tastes my Vampire Vanilla Cupcakes, he might not believe I made that chocolate cake. He might not care that I know about the man challenge. My revenge might not be sweet. It will simply be another embarrassment. Unless …
“So I think I get it. You don’t want Will after you?”
“OMG no!” She digs in her purse for lip gloss. “Will over Parker? That’s like a fake Chanel classic flap bag over the real thing.”
“An imposter.” Like processed instead of homemade.
“Exactly.”
“And you want me to help you get Parker back.”
“Yes! Geez, Chantal, for the smartest girl in the class, you are pretty dense. You know what I’m saying? Get in my car. We need to talk.”
I hesitate. Maybe Annelise can help me get my revenge on Will. But my plan could work too well. She might end up on Parker’s front line again and Jillian would be benched. But who could blame me? I just want Will to know the wounds of rejection.
I cross in front of the car, open the passenger’s door and slide onto the leather seat. The door closes, solid, behind me. “I have an idea,” I say. “You can make Parker jealous …” I wait for her to catch on, “by …”
“By what?”
“By flirting with Will. Let Will think you’re all into him.”
I lean back against the seat, and catch myself in the side mirror. I look cool. The bright pink headband and my light pink T-shirt are happy against the background of the yellow convertible with white interior, Audrey Hepburn with a few more pounds and a whole lot more hair. I’ve never felt cool before and I always thought I wasn’t missing out. Maybe a girl with brains exudes more cool when she develops a talent for the art of baking.
Annelise’s smile has faded. “Why are you helping me?”
I am not stupid. I can’t tell Annelise that she’s part of my plan to set Will up. She’s only in this for herself. Better to give her a simple reason. “I want my best friend back.”
“I totally get that.” Annelise reaches over to me and puts her hand on my arm. “I always thought you were a stuck-up snob. But actually, you know how to keep it real.”
I am charmed by her sudden … genuineness. At least for a few seconds. Before I can get too comfortable she shatters my illusions.
“But … uh … maybe you should get out of my car before someone, like, figures out we’re teaming up. I’m not gonna tell anyone about this conversation, you know.”
“Right.” I’m reluctant to get out of the car because my practiced politeness is pushing me to thank Annelise for this encounter, to tell her that my whole day has just gone from bright to brighter. I end up saying, “Have a nice day,” as I wave to her from my spot on the sidewalk.
Now that Annelise has gotten what she wants from me she reaches for the radio and turns it on. Pink sings, Annelise presses the gas pedal. The car moves forward half a block before it lurches to a stop. She turns around and shouts back at me. “Chantal. You’ve got to ditch those capri pants—they cut you off in the middle of the calf. Wrong, girl, wrong. And the shoes, go for sleek and sporty. Those shoes are for running. Only. They were never intended as streetwear.”
“Uh … thanks.” I wave weakly at her.
“Style is for everyone!” She drives far enough away that I know she won’t be stopping to insult my hair or my skin. I can’t believe I didn’t say anything back. Nerdy
is
a style category. They don’t make capri pants for short legs.
Cars pass. RVs follow. And dogs go by. And people at the end of dogs’ leashes. And kids on bikes. And skateboards. And the ice cream truck. And I stand, my cream cheese frosting melting. This is my last chance to back out. If I don’t go to Will’s house, I can hope that Annelise leads him on and his heart is broken. If I go to Will’s house I can make sure the job is done right.
I read that Nigella was often nervous about filming her TV show. “I need to be frightened of things,” she said. “I hate it, but I must need it, because it’s what I do.”
Thank you Nigella, you’re brilliant. I’m meant to be the girl who moves bravely forward despite the threat of panic attacks. It may not be the first cake or the second, but for sure by the third my plan will have Will cradled in its sugar-coated claws.
Will thinks Annelise baked him a cake? Well, she’s about to bake
him some more. That’s what he’ll think anyway, with cards saying,
From your secret admirer.
As their deliciousness grows, so, too, will his expectations. When the secret admirer cakes no longer arrive and he realizes that he has been publicly dumped by a secret admirer—who by the way, is definitely not Annelise—his humiliation will be more acute than a burst appendix.
This is the easy part of the plan. The hard part: I have to go to Will’s house to create a distraction. Right back where we started: a summer project.
This Charming Man
.
T
he Smiths. Snap. Johnny Marr’s guitar and Steven Morrissey’s vocals on “This Charming Man” find the sweet spot on my playlist. The guitar forces me to sit back from the screen and stop. My brain connects with sound. Parker calls The Smiths intellectual pop. For shizzle. I know it works. Especially today. At this moment.
I am This Charming Man. Annelise is making my world glow all kinds of groovy-ass colors. The girl is all in. She left me a cake. A cake! And it even tasted great. Okay, so she tried to deny it. That’s just one of those girl games. Parker has told me all about how Annelise brings you close and pushes you away until you can’t stand it anymore. And I intend to play the game right back at her. The how of this hasn’t come to me yet, but it will. I am the master planner.
I lean back in my chair, let the music flood my veins. This is where it’s at. It’s all good.
I’m interrupted by a knock on my door. Must be my mother. The Ogre never knocks.
“Will. Turn that down. Please.” Another knock. “I need to talk to you.”
I start out polite with my mother. I try hard to like her, even when I think she’s weak and I wish she’d get a new haircut and wear something other than those hideous mom jeans and track
pants. She sits in my desk chair and I shift to my bed. When she says, “Your dad’s been talking to me,” I know I want the conversation to end. “He says you need to get a job. And, before you interrupt me, I don’t think it’s a bad idea.” She reaches out to pat my leg and I push farther away. “What about the hardware store? Maybe they’d take you back on for a few weeks?”
“I don’t want to work for them.” She doesn’t know that Del’s Hardware is the reason I won’t be getting a job. Anywhere. Last summer the guys at Del’s treated me like I was a dumb kid moving lumber from one place to another. I guess that’s why I started sticky fingering things. I kept the stash under my bed, tools mostly—a cordless drill, a set of wrenches, screwdrivers, some knives. After a few weeks, I was shopping for the future and I yanked a coffeemaker. The boss called me into his office three days later and I left my nerd apron behind. I told my mom they laid me off.
“Mom. I can’t get a job, not this summer. You said it yourself, high school is the best time of your life and it’s almost over. Remember, you met Dad in the summer and if he’d been working and you’d been working, well …” I would never have been born.
“He wanted to work, though, Will. But his father made him stay home to take care of his brother.” And that didn’t work out too well; Uncle Bob ended up in jail for armed robbery—holding up tourists at the KOA campsite. “He wants you to stay out of trouble.”
“This is my last summer. Everyone is at the lake, every day, and I want to be there, too.” I know it’s bullshit, and probably lame, but I say it anyway. “I deserve what you and Dad had, at least.” It could work. It’s got potential.
“Will. Honey.” She’s got those pity eyes like I’m a UNICEF commercial kid. “You have to get a job if you’re going to take girls out on dates.”
“Mom. We’re not having this conversation.” Before I can tell her my personal life is just that, personal, the doorbell interrupts us.
I’m chewing at the dead skin at the edges of my thumb nail, having bitten all of my nails down to the quick, when my mother appears at my door again. “You’ve got company.” My mother’s wearing her fancy apron. Bad sign. She couldn’t say no to whoever came to the door.
Now, she’ll want me to get rid of the intruder. “Mom. I’ll give you ten dollars to buy the Girl Scout cookies or make a donation to the bible pushers. I’m busy.” I reach for my headphones.
“It’s Chantal,” Mom whispers. She smiles.
“Chantal?” I stand up too fast, knock the keyboard off my desk. What the hell? I check my look in the mirror. Out of habit. That’s all.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You know, her dad is the nicest man. And she’s sweet.”
“Mom. Stop. This isn’t what you think it is.”
The smile on her face caves. I hate like hell that I’m as much a disappointment as my dad. I wish I could tell her that I am reaching beyond my potential and Annelise, not Chantal, is part of that. Instead, I wrap my arm around my mother’s shoulder, squish her in toward me, and her head lays soft against my shoulder. “I wanted to tell you, Mom. I didn’t know she was coming over.”
Stunned. If I looked into the mirror I’d see a stupid grin plastered on my face. Only my mom would believe I’m happy to be seeing the girl who puked in my mouth.
“Big summer plans, Mom.” I know this is what my mother has wanted all along, for me to meet her expectations of a limited life. A girl like Chantal. A job. This town. Grandkids. Money has never been as important to her as family. “Chantal and me, we’ve been hanging out.”