“I will,” I say.
“The dinner?” Taylor asks once Tom is in the house. She pops up out of her stretch, then leans back down and picks up her books. “What dinner?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “I really have to get inside and wash up.” I start crossing the lawn as fast as I can, but Taylor’s legs are about three times as long as mine, and she catches up to me in no time.
“Is he talking about the You Girl dinner?”
“No,” I lie. Which is, of course, fruitless, since Taylor isn’t stupid.
“Samantha, you know that dad isn’t going on his Turkey trip, right? And that he thinks he’s going with you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know, I just . . . I haven’t had a chance to tell Tom yet.”
“Well, you better,” she says. “You better tell him quick, before he goes out and spends tons of money on some suit that he’ll never wear again.” Yikes.
“I know,” I say. “I’m going to.”
“When?” she presses.
“Soon.” Right after I figure out how to save my business and keep Emma from stealing Jake. Not necessarily in that order.
“THIS IS AWESOME,” EMMA SAYS, HOLDING up a turquoise-and-gold flapper dress that has fringe on the bottom and skims her knees.
“Eww, no,” Charlie says. “We don’t want to look like we’re going as twenties girls.”
“Why not?” I ask, fingering the fabric. It’s soft and delicate, and it feels silky and perfect between my fingers. If I were looking for a costume, it’s what I would want.
“Because last year at our school Halloween party, Jennifer Pritchard showed up wearing a flapper dress, and hers was real, and we would constantly be compared to her. Plus it is way too Halloweeny.” Charlie makes a face.
“Oh, right,” I say, even though I kind of have no idea what she’s talking about.
Charlie’s aunt’s consignment shop isn’t exactly what I pictured. I thought it would be all kinds of, you know, clothes. Instead, it’s a costume shop. And not even the normal kind of costume shop, like with fake blood and witches’ hats and stuff like that. Instead, it’s more of a . . . I don’t know. A dress-up shop, I guess. Like a consignment shop, only with weirder stuff that people might use to make their own costumes. And it’s all used, which I guess is where the consignment part comes in. So I guess it’s kind of a consignment costume shop?
Anyway, when we got here, I asked Emma why there were no Halloween costumes, and she looked at me like I was nuts. “Samantha,” she said. “You don’t go to the Fall Festival in a Halloween costume, that is soooo fifth grade. You dress up in a costume costume.” I didn’t really get the difference, so I just said, “Oh, right,” and rolled my eyes like I just got confused for a second.
“Oooh, that’s right,” Emma says now. “Jennifer Pritchard. She’s so pretty; did you know that her hair is naturally wavy like that? And it’s completely real, she doesn’t have extensions or anything.” She looks at me and waits for me to be impressed.
“Wow,” I say. I don’t even know who Jennifer Pritchard is. Like, at all.
“She is pretty,” Charlie chimes in. “But I wouldn’t want to look like her.”
“So who do you think is pretty that you would want to look like?” Emma asks.
They start chattering on about who they think is pretty versus who they think is pretty that they’d actually want to look like. I don’t really get the conversation. I mean, if someone is pretty, why wouldn’t you want to look like them? Unless, of course, you thought that you were prettier than the pretty person in question. The logic of all this is very hard to keep up with, and it’s making my head spin.
“Girls.” Charlie’s Aunt Camilla comes out of the back room, where she disappeared to find us something “perfect” after Emma’s mom dropped us off. “I have the perfect outfits!”
From behind her back she pulls out what looks like three scraps of brown fabric.
Emma and Charlie scream in delight and start jumping up and down.
“Um, what are they?” I ask.
“Cowgirl costumes!” all three of them shriek.
Then Aunt Camilla pulls a cowboy (cowgirl?) hat out from behind her back, which makes Emma and Charlie scream even more.
“Oh my God, Aunt Camilla, you are a genius!” Charlie jumps up and down and Emma hugs me.
I don’t really get why they’re so excited, but I don’t want to seem like I’m completely out of it, so I just smile and kind of go along with it.
“And,” Aunt Camilla says, her brown eyes twinkling, “I have three of them!”
“Yay!” Charlie says.
“Yay!” Emma says.
“Yay!” I say. And then I realize what they mean. They want me to wear one of those horrible cowgirl outfits. That, of course, is completely ridiculous since (a) I cannot go as a cowgirl. I would look totally out of place in an outfit like that. And (b) I am supposed to be going to the Fall Festival with Daphne, and so we should be coming up with costumes together.
“Oh, I can’t.” I take a couple of steps back, away from the offending costumes. “But you two go ahead.”
“We have to have three,” Charlie says. She narrows her blue eyes at me. “Otherwise it’s stupid.”
“Completely stupid,” Emma agrees. “If we don’t have three, we won’t be able to do a dance or anything.”
“A dance?” I don’t like the sound of this.
“A step dance,” she says. “Like they do on ranches and in cowboy bars out west.” I doubt Emma has ever been on a ranch or in a cowboy bar out west, and I tell her as much, but all she says is, “I’ve seen them in movies and music videos,” and then they’re both pushing me into the dressing room and the next thing I know I have the cowgirl outfit on.
“This is a little too small on me,” I say, surveying myself in the mirror. The skirt is super short with fringe all along the bottom, and the brown vest is tight and if I lift my arms up, it shows a strip of my stomach. “So I guess that settles that,” I yell over the door and start to take off the costume. But before I can, the dressing room door goes flying open and Charlie and Emma are standing there in front of me.
“Geez,” I say. “Have you ever heard of knocking?” Or better yet, putting locks on the doors? Aunt Camilla says they don’t let the energy of the room flow freely.
“You look ah-mazing,” Charlie says. She jumps up and down and claps her hands, her hair bouncing.
“Yes,” Emma agrees. “It fits you perfectly.”
“It’s too short,” I say, pulling on the bottom of the skirt.
“We’ll wear tights under,” Emma says. “It’ll be too cold without them anyway.”
“The shirt is too short too,” I say.
“Duh, you’ll have a T-shirt on underneath.” Charlie rolls her eyes like she can’t believe how stupid I am.
“Wrap them up,” Charlie instructs Aunt Camilla.
“I don’t have any money,” I say.
Charlie looks at Aunt Camilla. “Aunt Camilla?” she pleads.
“For my favorite niece? On the house, of course. Just make sure to send me some pictures.” Charlie hugs her. Emma hugs her. I hesitate. And then, finally, I hug her too.
“You’re going as what?” Taylor asks later that afternoon. I’m in her room, on her laptop, going through my email address book and emailing all the other You Girl finalists and Candace. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m hoping against hope that maybe one of them might not be able to go to the banquet, or that maybe one of them knows someone who can’t make it and can give up their ticket. Then Tom and my dad can both go. Of course, I’ll have to somehow convince my dad to be in the same room as Tom. But I’ll think about that later.
“Shh!” I say. “Keep your voice down.” I get up and shut Taylor’s bedroom door. I came in here as soon as I got home, so that I could hang out with her and send my email. I was just sitting here typing away and minding my own business and then Taylor asked me what I was going to the Fa
ll Festival as, and at first I tried to lie and say I didn’t know, but Taylor can always tell when I’m lying, ever since I was three and she was five and I tried to tell her that I didn’t paint her favorite Barbie’s hair green. I don’t know how she knows, but she does.
Anyway, I had to tell her I was going as a cowgirl and now she’s freaking out.
“You’re going as some kind of wild cowgirl?”
“Not wild,” I say. “Who said anything about wild?”
I read over what I’ve written.
Dear You Girl finalists,
Hi! How are you? My name is Samantha Carmichael, and I am one of the You Girl Young Entrepreneur of the Year finalists. I met some of you at the photo shoot. Anyway, I cannot believe that the banquet is in a couple of weeks! We are getting so close to finding out who the winner of the You Girl Young Entrepreneur of the Year award is! So very exciting!
As I’m sure all of you are aware, we are allowed two tickets to the banquet. Unfortunately, I have a stepfather and a father, and I’m sure they would both just love to attend. I was wondering if perhaps you or your family has an extra ticket you would be willing to give to me? I am not saying that it is more important for my family to go than yours, of course, but it would help me out greatly.
It was so amazing meeting some of you at the photo shoot, and I hope we can all keep in touch!
Good luck to all!
Best wishes,
Samantha Carmichael
I tried to sound like I wasn’t just getting in touch now because I needed something, even though that’s obviously the reason. I feel bad about it, but I would feel even worse if I have to break poor Tom’s heart. I read the email through one more time, spell-check it, hope for the best, and hit send.
“Well, it sounds wild,” Taylor’s saying. “Cowgirls are known for being wild. They ride bulls and, like, lasso people.”
“It’s not definite that I’m going as a cowgirl.” Which isn’t a lie. “And I’m definitely not going to lasso people, that’s ridiculous. Anyway, I told you—I’m probably going to try to find another outfit with Daphne.”
“If you say so,” Taylor says, not sounding like she believes it.
“Gotta go,” I tell her, hopping off her computer chair and heading for the door. “I’m supposed to be at Jake’s. Thanks for letting me use your computer.”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Jake lately,” she says lightly. I turn around. She’s on her bed, painting her toenails a color called Pumpkin Spice.
“No, I haven’t,” I say. I sound defensive. Very defensive. I try it again. “No, I haven’t.” Yikes. Still defensive.
“Didn’t you just have breakfast with him this morning?”
“Not really,” I say. “I mean, yeah, we did meet up, but we weren’t having breakfast. I mean, yes, I did have a lemonade, but we were mostly getting together to talk about something else. Something having to do with business stuff.” Taylor looks at me skeptically, then caps the nail polish she’s using and opens her mouth to say something else. But I don’t wait for her to catch me in a lie. I slide my feet into my shoes and hop out the door to go to Jake’s house.
“Oh, hi, Samantha!” Mrs. Giacandi says when she opens Jake’s front door. “So nice to see you!”
“Hi,” I squeak. This is the first time I’ve been over to Jake’s house since he came back from camp. The first time I’ve stood on his mat since I started liking him. The first time I’ve rung his doorbell. The first time—
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Giacandi asks. “You look a little . . . ah, pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Oh my God! Jake’s mom can tell! She KNOWS THAT I LIKE HIM. Moms are very good about picking up on that stuff. And now maybe she’s going to tell him. Maybe they’ll sit down to breakfast tomorrow and she’ll be all, “Wow, that Samantha was acting very flustered last night; she really has a crush on you, Jake.” And Jake will be all, “Yeah, I kind of noticed that, it’s weird. I want to be friends with her, but not if she’s going to get crazy.” And then Mrs. Giacandi will be all, “Jake, you know girls at that age are very vulnerable; I don’t think you should be friends with her if it’s going to mess with her mind.”
“Jake’s upstairs,” Mrs. Giacandi says, closing the door behind me. On second thought, maybe she doesn’t know, if she’s willing to let me go up to Jake’s room without worrying about us. What is with everyone? Is it so strange to think that Jake and I could like each other as more than friends? Or do people just think it’s weird that Jake could like me as more than a friend?
I bound up the stairs, which doesn’t really help the fact that my heart is racing. Jake’s bedroom door is open, and he’s at his desk, his back to me, playing a video game on his computer. He has his headphones on.
“Hey,” I say. But he doesn’t hear me. He’s moving his hands and arms all around, trying to kill something on the screen. Or outrun something. It’s hard to tell. Whatever it is, it looks very violent and loud. Also maybe a little bloody. I think it’s one of those video games parents are always protesting against.
“Hey!” I say again. Still, he doesn’t hear me.
I take a few steps toward him. I wonder if I should, like, touch his shoulder? Or maybe just scream his name really loud. “JAKE!” I yell. He doesn’t turn around. Finally, I reach out and touch his shoulder.
He screams and throws his controller up in the air. “Ahhh!”
“Ahh!” I scream back. On the screen, a dragon starts to beat Jake’s character into a bloody pulp. Gross.
Jake laughs and pulls his headphones off. “Sorry,” he says. “You scared me.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “I was calling your name but I guess you didn’t hear me. Since, you know, you had your headphones on.” I’m babbling, so I take a deep breath and then grab a chair that’s leaning against the wall. I pull it over toward the computer but not, you know, too close. No need to tip him off.
“What are you doing way over there?” Jake asks. “Can you even see the screen?”
“Uh, no,” I say. I scoot the chair closer and throw my bag over the back. I hope he won’t be able to notice my drawn-on eyebrows when we’re this close. Jake, of course, looks fabulous. He’s wearing a Tony Hawk T-shirt and a pair of baggy cargo pants.
“Now,” he says, pulling up Olivia’s website. “If you look at what Olivia has set up, basically her website form gets filtered into a normal email account.” He taps around on the screen and shows me. “So if we can somehow prove that her email account is corrupt, then we can break into her emails and prove that the whole system isn’t secure.”
“But is it corrupt?” I ask, trying out the word. Corrupt. It sounds so . . . sinister.
“Well, it’s not corrupt per se,” he says. “She just doesn’t have any security measures in place.” He types around some more, opening up a program that asks him for the email password. “So if we can figure out her email password, then we can probably get into her account.”
“Try ‘IhateSamantha,’” I say.
Jake laughs. I love making him laugh! I reach over and pretend to type “IhateSamantha” into the computer, and at the same time Jake reaches over to type something, and our hands brush against each other and he doesn’t pull away right away and neither do I and my face gets all hot and electricity runs all the way from the tips of my fingers down to my toes, making me all tingly.
I yank my hand back, and Jake looks over at me and smiles, and then just keeps typing like nothing happened.
“So, uh, what are you doing now?” I ask. I slide my hands into my lap and will myself to keep them there so that there are no more mishaps.
“Well, I tried all the normal passwords she might use, like ‘Olivia’ or the name of her dog, or ‘ZacEfron.’”
“How did you know the name of her dog?” I ask.
“I found it on her Facebook page.”
“Oh, right. And Zac Efron?”
“She has Photoshopped pics of herself with h
im in her photo gallery.”
“Right.” I giggle.
“So now I’m just running a simple hacking program that’s going to try and find out the password.”
“Do you think it will work?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
I watch as the program runs on the screen, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel like I want to cry. It seems so pointless. Trying to bring down Olivia’s Secrets, when really all she did was figure out a way to do what I was doing, only better. What am I going to do when Barb comes to my school next week? I have no clue if things will even be back to normal by then. How am I going to figure out a way to mask the fact that I am basically getting no secrets anymore? And to top it all off, what the heck am I going to tell my dad?
“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, noticing the look on my face.
“Nothing.” I try to make my voice sound bright. “Just tired, probably from getting up so early.” I give him a tentative smile.
“Right,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing!”
“Samantha,” he says. “We’ve been friends since we were eight, you can’t tell me nothing’s wrong when something definitely is.”
“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that Barb is coming to school next week to follow me around for You Girl. And I haven’t really been getting any secrets anymore.” An image of Barb standing in front of my locker while I open the door to see nothing there flashes through my brain. “And she’s going to think I’m a total loser.” My throat is catching on itself, and I’m trying not to start crying.
“You’ll be fine,” Jake says. “You’ll think of something, you’ll fix it.”
“Maybe I will, “ I say. “But not in time for when Barb comes. And then there’s the whole mess with the You Girl dinner. Do I bring Tom or do I bring my dad? Now that I’ve realized there’s probably, like, no chance I’m going to win, I know I should probably bring Tom. My dad will freak out if I don’t bring him, but if I do bring him and I don’t win, then, then . . . and . . . and . . .” That’s when I lose it. I start to cry, the tears sliding down my face.