“He’s kind of a stickler for tradition,” Tri said, his voice apologetic.
“Well,” said A. A., her heart racing and her mouth dry. What about Ashley? she wanted to ask. Your girlfriend? My best friend? But maybe it didn’t matter, because it was only a stupid game. It didn’t mean what she thought it meant. All they had to do was sit around in a closet for seven minutes. She could do that. “Then I guess we have to.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, not meeting her gaze. “I guess we do.”
Tri led her into the big double closet, turning the sign to OCCUPIED before closing the door. It was so dark in there that she almost tripped on something before Tri steadied her with a hand on her elbow.
Unlike the last closet A. A. had found herself in, this one was empty apart from two cushions on the ground.
“Very thoughtful,” she said, sitting down on one and scooting over so Tri could sit down next to her. She had this sudden nervous urge to talk. “Unless this is what they use their closets for—you know, to keep cushions in. Which doesn’t make sense at all. I mean, who has extra cushions?”
He chuckled, and the noises of the party were muffled, but A. A. felt like the loudest sound in the closet was her pounding heart. They were alone together in the dark. The two of them had been alone before—countless times, just hanging out in her room, but never like this. She pulled her knees up to her chin. She liked it inside the closet; it felt warm and cozy sitting next to Tri. She had really missed him.
“So how do you like the new version of Call of Duty: Ghosts? Is it everything they said it would be?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. My brother got us a subscription to a multiplayer Wii channel. It rocks. You should get one—we can team up maybe.”
“Sure, why not?” They talked a little more about video games and the latest episode of Cheaters, which neither of them was allowed to watch but did anyway. A. A. started to relax and enjoy his company. She’d almost forgotten the reason they were sitting in the closet, when Tri reached over and put his hand over hers.
“A. A.” His voice was soft.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to spend seven minutes talking. . . .”
“Oh . . .” A. A. tried to keep the panic out of her voice. She’d known Tri forever. “You mean we just sit here in silence?” He wasn’t thinking what she was thinking, was he? How could he? He had a girlfriend! Who was Ashley. What was she doing in here with someone else’s boyfriend? A. A. felt confusion and excitement and guilt.
“Well, technically, we have to kiss,” said Tri, and now he sounded nervous as well. “Those are the rules of the game.”
“I know,” A. A. said. She’d wanted to play. Besides, it was just a seven-minute-long game that involved kissing. Kissing Tri. Omigod! Is that what he wanted them to do? He had pulled her phone out of the bowl—but what about Ashley . . . but all thoughts of Ashley, and all the guilt she felt, disappeared when she looked at Tri.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see he looked exactly the way she was feeling. Nervous, and shy, and . . . eager. He wanted this too, she could tell. Maybe this even meant he felt the same way about her? She felt a wild, reckless happiness.
“I mean, unless you really don’t want to,” he said.
“No,” she said quickly, giving his hand a squeeze. “I mean, yes. What I mean is, we really should. I mean, it’s the rules and all,” she said, as if that were the most sensible thing to do. They couldn’t disappoint the Bowlmaster, could they?
“It’s the rules,” he agreed, and even in the dark she could see Tri’s face leaning toward her. She closed her eyes, and he pulled her closer so she pressed against him and felt the galloping beat of his heart. It was pounding even more loudly than hers.
Then she turned her face to his and felt the heat of his breath just before his soft lips touched her own.
Ashley would have to understand, they were just following the rules of the game . . . it didn’t mean anything.
Still, it was the sweetest—and most amazing—seven minutes of her life.
We’re experiencing some technical difficulties here at the Rank. Bear with us as we crunch the numbers on this week’s tally. Since opening the floodgates, we’ve been swamped by legions of new rankings, and we promise to post the new pecking order as soon as our server is back online.
In the meantime, put another layer of Glossimer on your lips, slip on your sweetest pair of Genetic jeans, and strut like you own this town. The whole world is watching and ranking your every move. . . .
27
GENTLEMEN PREFER BRUNETTES
NORMALLY ASHLEY SPENT SUNDAY MORNING in bed, picking at the breakfast delivered to her on a white-clothed tray—scrambled egg whites with a fruit cup and a bowl of soy latte, prepared by their live-in chef—and watching an America’s Next Top Model or Project Runway marathon on the flat-screen TV above her antique dresser.
Her parents would wander in occasionally to kiss the top of her head, or to tell her about some dull story from the Sunday Chronicle, or to retrieve the Style section when she was finished picking it apart. She’d lie there in her Limited Too PJs and fluffy slippers, playing with Princess Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus, her labradoodle puppy, sending texts to the other Ashleys, and thinking over important long-term plans. Like: They all needed a new handbag next semester. And the black tights were getting old. Should they do knee-high argyle socks and fur-lined Givenchy totes?
But today was different. The big live results party for Preteen Queen, when the winner of the San Francisco episode would be announced—and her reaction filmed for the next round—was scheduled for Wednesday night. There were going to be five of these parties going on simultaneously around the country, so all the winners were announced at once. All this meant was extra pressure on Ashley to look fabulous.
She had spent most of the morning rehearsing what she’d do when her name was called. She didn’t want to cry in an unflattering way, sobbing like a Miss America contestant. She had to achieve the right mix of joy, hysteria, false modesty, and fake surprise, all while looking cute. It had to all seem spontaneous as well, which was the hardest thing.
And, of course, she had to have the perfect dress to wear. Preferably one that worked with her blue animal-print Louboutin high heels, the ones she’d seen Heidi Klum wearing. Today would be dedicated to rampaging on a search-and-destroy mission through her mirrored walk-in closet and dressing room, trying on every possible look and deciding if she needed something new.
When her name was announced as the regional winner of Preteen Queen, Ashley had to look perfect. But there were only so many hours in the day for shopping once boring old school had sucked up half of it. Maybe Ashley could persuade her mother to let her take Tuesday off. She needed a haircut, a facial, a massage, an eyebrow wax, and a mani/pedi.
The party had to start at five, just like the one in L.A., because of stupid Pacific time: The New York and Miami parties were all starting at eight, while Dallas’s began at seven, and the producers wanted the parties to be simultaneous. There was barely enough time after school to get her makeup professionally done and her hair blown out. Oh well, Ashley thought—this was what actresses had to go through for the Oscars every year, getting ready in the middle of the afternoon for a big evening event. The only difference was, they didn’t have to waste the whole day at Miss Gamble’s.
The other thing complicating today’s schedule was Tri. He’d sent her a text to ask if he could come over to talk, and she’d agreed at once. They had so much to discuss. He was her date, and he had to live up to the image. He couldn’t just arrive at the party wearing his Gregory Hall uniform or—even worse—jeans and a T-shirt, no matter how cute he looked in them.
Their outfits needed to complement each other, without looking all matchy-matchy in a suburban–old couple–tourist sort of way. Maybe she could talk him into a haircut as well. Ashley could be very persuasive when she tried. She was used to
telling people what to do.
The butler ushered Tri into her room not long after she replied to his text message. He looked desperate to see her as usual. He was all rumpled and gorgeous, though wearing precisely the kind of clothes Ashley did not want him to wear on Wednesday night—a ragged Death Cab T-shirt and jeans with a ripped pocket. She didn’t want the world to think she was going out with a weepy emo boy, hello.
“Hey, Ashley,” he said, looking around the room for somewhere to sit. Every possible surface, including the bed, was scattered with discarded clothes and accessories. She brushed a heap of bright H&M tops off a chaise, and he sat down, looking really awkward and weird.
Which was odd, since he had a bunch of sisters and should be used to all this girly stuff. Plus he spent a lot of time with A. A., although she was more like a guy, really, playing video games and talking about sports all the time. Ashley was more of a girly-girl, more of a lady. Which was why she was going to win Preteen Queen by a landslide.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she told him, pushing one of the bureau drawers shut. “There’s so much we have to do before Wednesday, and I—”
“I have to tell you something,” he interrupted. He stared over at her, his face stricken. “It’s about . . . something that happened last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yeah, at the party,” he said at last, looking away.
“What party?”
“The Seven party.”
“You went?” Ashley accused, feeling betrayed. They had agreed that the party would be mega-lame. But maybe it was okay. Since she hadn’t been at the party, what he was going to say wasn’t about her at all. And if it wasn’t about Ashley, it wasn’t bound to be very interesting. She pushed some more clothes onto the floor so she could sit down for a minute on the window seat. All this trying-on was exhausting.
“Yeah, I went. And, anyway”—Tri bit his lip—“I kissed somebody. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. I kissed someone else, and I think you and I should break up.”
What? Tri kissed someone? Not Ashley, his publicly acknowledged, as-seen-on-TV girlfriend? The one he’d never even kissed ? And now he wanted to break up with her? Three days before the Preteen Queen results party??
Ashley couldn’t believe her ears. This was worse than the ending of Titanic, when Leonardo DiCaprio died. No hottie should freeze to death!
“I’m really sorry,” Tri was saying. “I just don’t think it’s fair to you to keep going out when I like someone else.”
He liked someone else??
Whaaaat??
This was even worse. Ashley had thought Tri just kissed some random girl and felt guilty. Now it seemed like he actually did it on purpose . . . because he liked this girl.
“Who is she?” she demanded, kicking at the nearest pile of clothes. “I can’t believe she tried to move in on my boyfriend !”
“It’s not like that!” Tri leaped to his feet and walked toward her—keeping just beyond kicking distance, she noticed. “She didn’t even want to play Seven with me, but I said she had to! I nicked her phone and told her that rules were rules. I made her kiss me, okay? Because I wanted to. Because . . . I like her. I’ve always liked her.”
Ashley felt like her head was about to explode. “You’ve always liked her?” she repeated. She felt a cold stab at her heart. It was her worst nightmare. She knew it before he confirmed it.
“It’s A. A.,” he said. “And don’t be mad at her, okay? Like I said, she didn’t want to kiss me. She’s never liked me in that way, and she still doesn’t. She has no idea that I’m here today breaking up with you or anything.”
“Then why are you doing it?” said Ashley in a baby voice, tears of self-pity drizzling down her face. Tri liked A. A. He preferred her to Ashley. Why? Why? Why?
“Did you ever even like me at all?” Ashley wailed. “Just a little bit? I mean, we have a lot of fun together, right?”
“I did like you.” Tri turned red. “At first. But I think I just felt really guilty about almost killing you. I was the one who brought you the cupcake. And you looked so vulnerable and helpless and . . . I dunno. I think going out with you was a mistake. I was just mad that A. A. thought some other guy was laxjock. I just wanted to make her jealous. But I didn’t want to . . . I never wanted to hurt you.”
Ashley sniffed, trying to look vulnerable and helpless again. She raised her doe eyes to him, hoping it would change his mind.
“But we’re not meant to be,” Tri said strongly. “I can’t go out with you when I really like someone else. It’s just not right. It would be a big lie.”
“It’s only a little lie,” Ashley murmured, but Tri shook his head.
“If I’m going to have any chance with A. A., I have to break up with you. She’ll never look at me if she thinks I’m her best friend’s boyfriend. You know that.”
Ashley rubbed her damp eyes with the back of her hand. She needed a plan, and she needed one quick, if this week wasn’t going to be ruined.
“So you haven’t told her you’re breaking up with me,” she said, her voice plaintive.
“Like I told you, no.”
“You haven’t told anyone?”
“No one. Honestly.”
“Well.” Ashley sighed, releasing the fluffy cushion she’d had in a death grip for the last five minutes. “Maybe you’d consider waiting a few days. For my sake.”
Tri looked puzzled.
“What do you mean, waiting?”
“I mean waiting until after the party on Wednesday night. Just be my date one last time, and then we can break everything off. No tears, no recriminations. You’ll be free to ask A. A. out, and I won’t try and stop you.”
“I don’t know.” Tri hesitated, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Why wait?”
“Because it’s the most important night of my life, okay?” Ashley started crying again, thinking of the humiliation of turning up at the party without her supposedly in-love-with-her boyfriend. “And I don’t want everyone asking mean questions. It’s the least you can do for me, considering what you did to me last night.”
Tri hung his head. He gave a long sigh.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll take you to the party, and then it’s all over.”
“And you won’t say anything to A. A. until then?”
“No.”
“Or anyone else?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” said Tri, looking totally miserable, and Ashley knew that he would keep his word.
28
JANE AUSTEN’S GOT NOTHING ON ASHLEY SPENCER
THE PRETEEN QUEEN RESULTS PARTY was held at a hot new club downtown. A. A. drifted around the room, wishing the lights from the cameras weren’t quite so bright: Her makeup felt like it was melting off her face. A giant screen hung on one wall, and there were TV monitors in every corner and above all the food stations. Each was tuned to a different Preteen Queen party in a different city.
The live broadcast on Sugar was about to run on the big screen, with Alexa Chung presenting from Los Angeles. Jasper, the British producer, had motioned A. A. over as soon as she arrived and told her that the San Francisco results would be announced last.
“We’re having some last-minute technical difficulties, unfortunately,” he said, frowning at the BlackBerry in his hand. “Nothing for you to worry about. Tiffany will give you the signal when we’re ready for you girls, and then you should make your way to the marked spot in the middle of the room.”
A. A. nodded, though she was only half listening. There were too many other things to worry about than the stupid vote tally. The sooner this show was over and done with, and she could get back to her normal/abnormal life, the sooner she might be able to get a clear head. Everything was so foggy right now. And by right now she meant SSN—Since Saturday Night. Why did Tri have to pick her phone out of the bowl? Why did he have to insist on kissing her? And why did she have to like it so much? br />
The room was already crowded with Miss Gamble’s girls, almost the whole upper form and a bunch from the younger grades as well, all dressed to the nines, and a number of boys from Gregory Hall and Saint Aloysius. The photographer from the school newspaper was there, taking pictures for Miss Gamble’s gossip column, “Page Seven.” Lauren had arrived with a cute date. A. A. knew it—Lauren hadn’t been lying. She wondered where Lauren’s other guy was that evening. And Lili had swept in looking superchic, her hair in a perfect chignon, wearing a darling little navy dress—navy was apparently the new black.
A. A. half wished she’d gone to more trouble with her own outfit. Her mother had arranged for the professional makeup artist to come over to their penthouse suite after school, and then insisted that A. A. wear a lacy chiffon dress Jeanine had brought back from Argentina. A. A. had just done what she was told without arguing—and without caring. So what if she forgot to wear earrings, or if her lizard-skin bag didn’t really go with her silver Choos? What did any of it matter?
All that mattered was that Tri hadn’t called her. She’d thought for sure that things would change after they’d kissed in the closet. That night, when they’d finally had to stop kissing because another couple was banging on the door, the two of them hadn’t even felt embarrassed about what had happened. Tri looked really happy. He couldn’t stop grinning, and neither could A. A.
“I’ll call you,” he’d promised, and she’d nodded, still on cloud nine, her head spinning from that illicit kiss.
But there had been no calls. Nothing. Not a word. Not an e-mail. Not an IM.
A. A. was out of her mind, especially on Monday at school when Ashley mentioned in passing that Tri had been really sweet the day before, coming over to help her choose her outfit for the party. But there wasn’t a chance to ask her any probing questions: Ashley was out of school with a “cold” all Tuesday and Wednesday, although A. A. suspected it was just an excuse so that Ashley could avail herself of dozens of beauty treatments before the results taping.