Chapter 3
Frida turned out to be right about one thing: Gabriel Luna is a great singer-songwriter. And – truth be told – he was pretty cute too. He wasn’t one of those music-company-fabricated pretty boys . . . the ones Frida and her friends are always freaking out over on TRL or whatever. Nor did he seem to be harbouring any strategically placed, look-at-me-I’m-so-indie tattoos, or the latest popular trend amongst male singers, eyeliner. Gabriel, as far as I could tell (which wasn’t easy, since there was quite a crowd between us and the stage on which he was performing), appeared to be tattoo and make-up free. He was even dressed sort of normally, in a button-down shirt and jeans. His hair was choppily cut and a little too long (though not compared to Christopher’s), and very dark in contrast to his somewhat piercing blue eyes (not, you know, that I noticed), but it still looked good. His hair, I mean. But it was his voice – oh God, and that English accent – that got to me. Deep and rich and soulful – but also playful when the song called for it – his voice filled the Broadway Tunes and Soundtracks section of SoHo Stark Megastore, where the mini-stage had been set up for him to perform. People who were in the aisles looking for discount CDs couldn’t help but pause with their Stark shopping baskets to listen, because Gabriel’s voice was so compelling and his presence so commanding. He came out on stage with a fast dance number – the first single from his new album. And it was, I have to admit, pretty catchy. I found myself kind of bouncing along to it. But, you know, secretly, so Christopher wouldn’t notice, since I knew he’d make some cynical comment. Then Gabriel traded in the electric guitar he’d been using to accompany himself for a regular one, and went acoustic for his second number, which he performed sitting on a stool. And OK, I’ll admit, Frida wasn’t the only one who might have swooned a little. I had a hard time reminding myself that I’m not a teeny-bopper any more . . . even though I might have been attending an actual teeny-bopperfest. At least until it came time to get in line to get Frida’s CD signed. That’s when reality came crashing back, as we found ourselves surrounded by a mob of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls, all wearing sparkly low-rise jeans exactly like Frida’s, and all clutching slips of paper on which they’d written the name to whom they wanted Gabriel to personalize their CD . . . along with their cellphone number. Just in case Gabriel happened to ask for it. What had been a magical few moments turned tedious. And fast. ‘He’s not looking at you,’ I assured Frida as we stood in the long (did I mention it was long?) line to get Gabriel’s autograph. ‘Yes he is,’ Frida insisted as she waved. ‘He’s looking right at me!’ ‘No,’ Christopher said, standing beside us. Good friend that he is, Christopher had come along to lend me moral support . . . and also to check out Stark’s electronics section, which was featuring a newly released, Stark-designed hand-held gaming device with a screen wide enough that you could actually play tactic-style games on it without going blind. Even better, they were selling them for under a hundred bucks. Christopher and I are ethically opposed to Stark Megastores . . . but we’re not above taking advantage of their heavily slashed discount prices. ‘He’s looking at her. ’ Christopher pointed towards a plasma screen that was hanging from the ceiling above our heads, showing Nikki Howard – looking coolly beautiful in a filmy evening gown and ridiculously high stilettos – against a hot-pink background, gyrating in time to the thumping rock music that filled the store. There were dozens – maybe hundreds – of similar plasma screens suspended by thick wires from the open duct work along the ceiling all over the store, each featuring Nikki Howard in various states of undress, urging patrons to try Stark Enterprises’ new line of clothing and beauty products, which would be available exclusively in Stark Megastores worldwide in the new year. ‘He’s probably trying to see if she’s got anything on under there,’ Christopher joked. ‘Gabriel doesn’t think of women as sex objects,’ Frida sniffed with the merest flick of a glance in the direction Christopher was pointing. ‘I know. I read it in his interview with COSMOgirl!. He respects women with brains. ’ I nearly choked on my free Stark Cola at the suggestion that Nikki Howard had a brain. Frida got defensive right away. ‘She does!’ she insisted. ‘What other seventeen-year-old do you know who’s gotten as many modelling and product-endorsement contracts as Nikki has? And she started with nothing – nothing. Seriously, how could you not know that? Don’t you people do anything but play that stupid video game?’ Fortunately it wasn’t all that easy to hear Frida going on about how out of touch Christopher and I were with our own generation, considering the rock music that was blasting all around us (except that it was all right, since it was Gabriel’s music) . . . not to mention the hordes of people crowding the store. Not all of them were there to meet Gabriel Luna, like we were, though. A lot of them, in fact, were there for an entirely different reason: to make trouble. Every few minutes we saw a uniformed security officer dragging another protester from the store. The rabble rousers were pretty easily distinguished from actual customers, like Frida, by their combat fatigues . . . and the paintball guns they all seemed to be carrying beneath their trench coats. Their primary targets were the plasma screens, many of which had already been hit (in strategic locations) by giant blobs of yellow paint. In other words, the place was a zoo. Which meant that Frida was in her element. My little sister was taking in all the excitement like it was pure oxygen, frantically text-messaging her friends, letting them know what they were missing, and taking snaps with her camera phone. ‘Besides, you guys,’ Frida was saying as she pointed her phone in Gabriel’s direction – even though we were still so far away he was only going to appear as a white-shirted blob to whoever she was sending the photo, ‘Gabriel’s deeply spiritual . . . and intellectual. Just like I am. ’ I choked on another free sample of Stark Cola. ‘I am!’ Frida insisted. ‘Just because I’m not a math and science dork like some people . . . Besides, Gabriel says what matters is the size of a woman’s heart, not her bra. ’ ‘Right,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I’m sure Gabriel’d rather be with a total dog than Nikki Howard. ’ Christopher got a good laugh out of that one – even though as I said it I was sort of hoping it was true. But Frida didn’t find it funny at all. ‘I’m not a total dog,’ Frida said, shooting me an injured look. ‘Frida. ’ I stared at her with my mouth open. ‘I didn’t mean you. ’ But it was too late. I’d hurt her feelings. ‘Maybe you think of yourself that way,’ Frida said stiffly. ‘But don’t drag me down to your level, Em. At least I make an effort. ’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I demanded. ‘Well, look at you,’ she said. I looked at myself. And, OK, I’m not the fashion plate Nikki Howard might be, in her stilettos and bikini and spray-on tan, or Whitney Robertson, with her flirty skirts and sexy camis. But what’s wrong with jeans, a hoody and Converse? Frida was only too eager to tell me. ‘You look like a guy,’ she complained. ‘I mean, maybe you have a figure, but it’s not like anybody could ever tell thanks to how baggy you wear your clothes. And have you ever even tried to do anything with your hair except throw it back in a scrunchy, which, by the way, are completely 2002? At least I try to look nice. ’ I could feel myself turning bright red under the less-than-flattering Stark Megastore lighting. It’s one thing to be dissed by your little sister. But it’s another thing entirely to be dissed by her in front of the guy you’ve been secretly crushing on since the seventh grade. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ I said, stung. Really, did I need this? I didn’t even want to be in this stupid store, in this stupid line, to meet this guy who, OK, was cute, but who I’d practically never heard of before this morning. I could have been having a perfectly nice time at home, trying to reach level sixty of Journeyquest with Christopher. The last thing I needed on one of my rare days off from that hellhole otherwise known as Tribeca Alternative was this. ‘I didn’t know I was supposed to conform to some random standard of beauty dictated by some tween-queen fashion model. ’ This caused Christopher to snort with laughter. ‘Tween queen. Good one,’ he said. I felt my
blush turn into a flush. Of pleasure. Because Christopher had appreciated something I’d said. Yeah. I’m that far gone. It’s sad really. ‘Anyway’ Christopher went on, ‘I think Em looks fine . . . ’ Fine! Christopher thought I looked fine! My heart soared. I mean, I know fine wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest compliment, but coming from Christopher it was like being called earth-shatteringly gorgeous. I was pretty sure I’d died and gone to heaven. ‘ . . . and at least she’s not some big plastic phony like her,’ he added, nodding at the screen above our heads. ‘Yeah,’ I said, throwing Frida a triumphant look. Fine! Christopher said I looked fine! But Frida was barely even paying attention. ‘For your information,’ she snapped, ‘Nikki Howard has taken the beauty and fashion industry by storm. She’s one of the youngest models ever to have done so. Nikki and her friends—’ ‘Oh, here we go. ’ I rolled my eyes. ‘A lecture on the FONs. ’ ‘What’s an FON?’ Christopher wanted to know. ‘Friend of Nikki’s,’ I translated. ‘According to last month’s COSMOgirl! she runs with a whole posse of FFBFs. ’ ‘Wait . . . what’s an FFBF?’ Christopher looked even more confused. If it didn’t have to do with a computer or computer game, Christopher often didn’t know what it was. This was what set him so adorably apart from every other guy at TAHS. ‘You know. People who are in the media all the time, but they’re only Famous For Being Famous,’ I explained to him. ‘They’ve never done anything to get famous – because they don’t have any talent? They’re usually rich people’s kids, like Nikki’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, Brandon Stark. ’ I was in a good mood, on account of the fine remark, so I lowered my voice to sound like a television news announcer: ‘Nineteen-year-old son of billionaire Stark Enterprises owner Robert Stark. Or celebutantes, like Tim Collins’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Lulu. The Tim Collins,’ I went on. ‘Who directed the Journeyquest movie. ’ Christopher’s jaw dropped. ‘And completely ruined it?’ ‘That’d be the one,’ I said. ‘Lulu’s an FON. ’ ‘Why do you guys have to be so mean?’ Frida whined. ‘It’s like everything fun you look down on. ’ ‘That’s not true,’ Christopher said, crumpling an empty Stark Cookie bag, the contents of which he’d scarfed earlier, and stuffing it into the pocket of his copious jeans. Christopher had zeroed in on the bags of cookies Stark was giving away for free, and seized as many as his pockets could hold for us to snack on later. The Commander doesn’t allow junk food in the house. ‘We don’t look down on Journeyquest. Well, the game. The movie freaking sucked. ’ ‘Besides that stupid computer game,’ Frida said, scowling. ‘Music,’ I said, noting that Gabriel’s voice was still booming over the speakers above us. ‘I like music. ’ Well . . . this music, to be exact. ‘Oh, right,’ Frida said. ‘Name one popular musician you listen to. And don’t name any of that horrible metal crap Christopher likes, either. ’ ‘One popular musician?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine. How about . . . Tchaikovsky?’ ‘Nice one,’ Christopher said with a burst of laughter and an approving nod. ‘Mahler. He’s good too. ’ ‘Too dour,’ I said. ‘Beethoven. ’ ‘That dude is rad,’ Christopher said, raising his fists – thumbs and pinkies upright – in a rocker’s salute to Beethoven. ‘Beethoven rules my world!’ ‘Oh God,’ Frida moaned, dropping her head into her hands in mortification. ‘Come on, Free,’ I said, elbowing her chummily. ‘We aren’t that embarrassing, are we?’ ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You are. You really are. Don’t you realize that you guys look down on everything normal people like? Like Nikki Howard and her friends –’ It was kind of funny that as Frida said this, Nikki Howard herself actually materialized – along with some of her friends – before us. Except that Frida didn’t notice right away. I mean, that Nikki Howard was standing in front of her. Well, practically. That’s because Frida was too busy defending her idol tome. ‘You’re always going on about feminism, Em,’ Frida went on. ‘Well, do you really think Nikki would have gotten where she is today – the Face of Stark, one of the highest-earning models right now – if she weren’t a feminist?’ ‘Uh,’ I said. Because I couldn’t believe the person we were arguing about was walking past us. ‘And I don’t see how you can even call yourself a feminist, Em,’ Frida went on, oblivious, ‘when you are so totally mean about a member of your own sex. I mean, Nikki’s just a girl, like you are. ’ Except that I could see with my own eyes that Nikki was very far from being just a girl – let alone a girl like I am. For one thing, she was about a foot taller (thanks to a pair of five-inch heels, but even without them, she had to have been about five foot ten), and about half as wide as me. Seriously. Two of her would have fitted into my jeans. And for another, her shiny blonde hair flowed smoothly down past her elbows, not a strand out of place, even though she was practically running – despite her heels – across the store. Strangely, her filmy dress seemed to cover everything it was supposed to too . . . despite the fact that it was the lowest-cut thing I’d ever seen – aside from what Whitney Robertson wore to school last year on Picture Day. How did Nikki keep those thin straps of material over her nipples, anyway? Double-sided tape? I’d heard about that kind of thing of course, but never had a chance to observe its use in real life. And it was a good thing too (that Nikki had thought to use tape to hold in her breasts, which weren’t huge enough to need their own zip codes or anything, but – unlike my own – definitely stood to attention when called to duty). Because she was carrying a tiny ball of fluff that appeared, at first glance, to be a pompom and, at second glance, to be a small dog, trying frantically to burrow its head between her boobs and get away from all the crazy lights and sounds in the store. If it hadn’t been for the tape keeping him out, well, that dog would have dived right inside Nikki’s dress. Frida was still going on about what a bad example of feminism I am (about which, can I just say, Hello, Pot? This is Kettle. Yeah, you’re black), completely oblivious to what was going on behind her – even though everybody else in line was staring, slack-jawed, at the rapidly approaching supermodel and her entourage of dog, some kind of agent or publicist (red-haired lady with a briefcase jabbering into a headset), hairdresser (man in a silk shirt and leather trousers, carrying a can of hairspray) and the Number One FON herself, Lulu Collins, an equally skinny, equally pretty seventeen-year-old girl in a faux snakeskin-print wrap-dress, who couldn’t seem to stop looking at her Sidekick, even to watch where she was going. I swear, it was just like at school when Whitney and Lindsey and the rest of the Walking Dead start their morning promenade from the front of the building to their lockers. Every single person in the vicinity just stopped talking and stared as if transfixed. And not just the people all around us either. I noticed that Nikki had caught Gabriel Luna’s attention as well. He was still smiling at the girls clustered in front of him thrusting CDs (and their phone numbers) at him. But he was also keeping a pretty close eye on Nikki . . . . . . as, I might add, was Christopher. It was at that moment that Frida finally turned round to see what Christopher – his mouth slightly agape – and I were staring at. And completely lost it. ‘Ohmigodohmigodohmigod,’ Frida cried, waving her free hand (the other was still clutching her cell) in front of her face as if she were fanning tears from her eyes. ‘Ohmigod, it’s her. It’s her. It’s HER!’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Free,’ Christopher said. ‘That Gabriel guy maybe sensitive and all that. But he is totally staring at her chest. ’ ‘Um, he wouldn’t be the only one doing that,’ I muttered, noting – with dissatisfaction – the direction of Christopher’s gaze. He realized what I meant and began to turn bright red. But I noticed he didn’t look away. Funny how, all of a sudden, I wasn’t feeling so fine any more. ‘Ohmigod, you guys,’ Frida said, clutching my arm. ‘Lulu Collins is with her! I have to get their autographs. I have to!’ But at that very moment, the line in which we’d been standing for the past hour reached the very table that, mere minutes before, had seemed so very far away and out of reach. Gabriel Luna himself was within autographing distance. Heck, he was within TOUCHING dis
tance. Not that, you know, I was going to reach out and grab a big hunk of his shirt, or anything. I’m just saying I could have. If I’d wanted to. Up close, he looked even better than on stage. Up close, I could tell he definitely didn’t have any tattoos. Nor was he wearing eyeliner. His eyes really were that blue. And his gaze really was that piercing. Except that it wasn’t looking anywhere near mine. It was, in fact, still glued to Nikki. ‘Frida. ’ I found myself as unable to tear my gaze from Gabriel Luna as he was apparently unable to tear his own away from Nikki Howard. ‘Uh. Frida?’ Except that when my sister didn’t reply, and when I finally forced myself to look in her direction, I saw that Frida had actually stepped from the line and was heading towards Nikki and her entourage – not like she meant to be doing it, but like she simply couldn’t resist the pull of Nikki’s celebrity . . . kind of like how Leander was drawn into the Dark Castle by the beam of the Ring of Ashanti in the Journeyquest movie (which sucked). ‘Frida?’ I called after her. Then, realizing that Gabriel Luna had finally stopped staring at Nikki and was instead looking curiously at me, I turned towards him slowly and heard myself murmur, ‘Um. Hi. ’ ‘Hi,’ Gabriel said back. And then he smiled. And – I’m not kidding – it was like reaching level sixty in Journeyquest. No, it was even better than that . . . it was like waking up in the morning and hearing your mother go, ‘Guess what? They just cancelled school. It’s a Snow Day’ Seriously, that’s what his smile did to me – gave me a jolt of pleasure that was almost physical, it was so strong. Which is weird, because I’d felt something very similar just minutes before when Christopher had called me fine. Boys are confusing. Of course I couldn’t say anything. Of course I could only stand there gazing at him with my mouth hanging open, wondering how anyone so beautiful could be real, and not a product of airbrushing or computer animation. ‘What’s your name then?’ Gabriel asked in his gorgeous English accent. ‘Um. ’ Oh God. He was talking to me. He was talking to me. What should I say? Why was this happening? Where was Frida? Where the frack was FRIDA? ‘Em. ’ ‘Em?’ Gabriel smiled some more. ‘Short for Emily?’ ‘Um,’ I said. Oh God. What was wrong with me? Normally I had no problem talking to cute boys. Because normally, all the cute boys I met – Christopher excepted of course – were sexist creeps who needed to be taken down a peg or two. They weren’t sweet British hotties with a voice like an angel and blue eyes that seemed to pierce my soul. ‘No . . . ’ ‘Do you have a CD you’d like for me to sign?’ Gabriel wanted to know, looking questioningly at my empty hands. Oh no. ‘Hold on,’ I said, my heart pounding. ‘My sister –’ I spun round to find Frida and ran smack into Christopher, who was still staring at Nikki. Only now he wore a look of concern. ‘Uh, Em,’ he said. ‘Look –’ What happened next seemed to unfold as if it was in a dream. Or more accurately, a nightmare. I saw my sister walking towards Nikki Howard and her posse. At the same time, I saw a guy standing nearby suddenly throw open his trench coat to reveal an ELF T-shirt . . . along with a paintgun. A Megastore security guy in an earpiece, seeing this at the same time I did, grabbed Nikki by the wrist and jerked her back. Meanwhile, Paintgun Guy, grinning balefully, raised his rifle and fired at the plasma TV hanging directly over Nikki’s head, leaving an enormous yellow splotch across the screen where Nikki’s boobs had been. Actually, it looked like she’d been eating a hot dog with mustard that had slid out on to her chest . . . something that happens to me not infrequently. Only this time, the plasma screen came loose from the wires suspending it from the ceiling. First one wire popped. Then a second one. And standing directly beneath it stood my sister Frida, still holding her pen towards Nikki for an autograph. ‘Frida! Move!’ I yelled, my heart giving a lurch. I darted forward to push her out of the way just as the last wire holding the giant television in place broke with a pinging sound that was easily audible, even over the music blasting from the Stark Megastore’s speakers. And then the whole thing came crashing down. On me. And – just like in Journeyquest, when I make a mistake and my character loses a life – everything went black.