I turn to face him. “Sorry, what?”
“I was asking if you wanted to check out this band on Friday. They do this amazing rendition of ‘Gobsmacked.’ I swear, it’s so good, you’ve got to hear it.”
“That’s my dad’s song,” I mumble, turning back toward Sloane (who, by the way, has just now made her way to the top of Table A), watching as she tosses her long, shiny blond hair (just like she practiced in front of her mirror all last summer), while her hands wave all around, rehearsing some of her cheerleading moves. And believe me, even though I know that I’m staring, and that staring is considered to be universally rude (right up there with finger-pointing and flipping the bird), it’s not like I feel the least bit bad about it. Because:
1. It’s research.
2. I’m only giving her what she wants.
I mean, why sit on top of something if you don’t want everyone to look at you?
But apparently Rey’s still stuck on this whole “Gobsmacked” business, because he goes, “Excuse me? Did you just say that’s your dad’s song?” Then he reaches across the table and grabs my arm.
But I just nod because I’m busy watching Sloane pretend that she totally hates it when Cash picks her up, throws her over his shoulder (yes, you can see her underwear, but since she’s wearing those thick, opaque, cheerleader modesty bloomer things I don’t think it really counts), and acts like he’s going to drag her back to his cave or something. And when he finally puts her back down, she takes full advantage of the opportunity to fluff up her hair so that it falls all loose and wild around her shoulders, before fake-punching him in the arm and breaking into perfectly timed, yet totally insincere, squeals of laughter. And as I watch her put her hand on his chest, giving him a delicate little push, I imagine her saying, “Omigod, Cash, stop! You’re making me so ditzy! Oops! I meant dizzy!”
But Rey, totally oblivious to the three-act play that’s been unfolding at Table A for the last ten minutes, and seemingly determined to get to the bottom of all this “Gobsmacked,” daddy-rock-star business, goes, “I wonder why your mom never mentioned that before?” Then he looks at me, waiting for an answer.
So I drag my gaze away from Sloane, and turn to face him, determined to give him my full attention for a change. “That’s because my mom hates pop,” I tell him, looking into his deep dark eyes. “And she hates my pop even more.”
THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY
Wednesday, September Whatever, 2006
3:47 P.M.
Current Mood—Elated
Current Music-”Hero Takes a Fall” by the Bangles (so appropriate)
Quote of the Day: “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
—Benjamin Franklin
Come as You Are
Okay, so as not to bore you with a long-ass list of boring details, I’ll just give you the gist and move on: My former best friend (who will from this point forward be referred to as Princess Pink, or P. P. if I’m lazy), has catapulted into the social stratosphere, earning herself a spot so coveted, so sanctified, and so exalted, while leaving yours truly both literally, and metaphorically, in the dust.
Now, just in case you’re ready to click off, thinking this blog will amount to nothing more than some big, fat, pathetic, crybaby crap about how I was cast out and betrayed—well, think again. ‘Cause if you’ll just bear with me, and read a little further, you’ll see that it actually aims much deeper than that.
This is a story of humble beginnings, a quick, yet well- choreographed ascent, and (if I’m lucky), the inevitable fall. This is how it began:
Eight years ago I sat in my living room, spying on the house across the street as a tired-looking mom and her tiny daughter climbed out of an old, beat-up U-Haul and carried their meager belongings inside.
Cut to the next day at school, when that same girl is looking so scared and lonely that I invite her over to my table, so that she can sit with my friends and me during lunch. That’s right, I had other friends. Kids were nicer back then, less mean and judgmental. But let us not forget the main point, that I’m the one who rescued her
But it’s not like she’ll ever admit to that. In fact, now that she’s so cool and popular and important she won’t admit to much of anything.
And that’s where I come in. As a sort of recorder of history, a spiller of secrets, the one and only person with access to the long list of P. P.’s misdeeds, as well as the burning desire to set the record straight.
So, without further ado, I present to you a random list of secrets, in no particular order of importance or occurrence, that Princess Pink most definitely does not want you to know, a.k.a. The List:
1. That’s not her real hair color.
2. That’s not her real eye color.
3. Her first kiss was with her first cousin when she was in sixth grade, and he was in seventh. They were inside her closet, crushed against her hanging sweater shelf, and yes, they used their tongues.
More from me soon,
Eleanor Rigby
Twelve
The second I clicked Post I felt exhilarated. I mean, to think that I’d actually put something out there that others just might possibly want to read was so unbelievably exciting that I felt all revved-up and giddy inside. And I got so addicted to the idea of some stranger reading it that I kept checking it myself, rereading it again and again as though I wasn’t really the author, and that I didn’t actually know either me or Princess Pink. Like I was learning this story for the very first time. And I gotta admit, I got so carried away that for a brief moment, I actually considered sending it to Rey. You know, just so he could read through it and give me his expert blogger opinion.
But then I thought better of it. I mean, if I wanted to stay anonymous, then I couldn’t confide in anyone, not even Rey. Because staying anonymous meant staying honest. And really, wasn’t that the whole point?
“So how often do you talk to your dad?” Rey asks, breaking apart a cranberry-orange scone and handing me half.
We’re on our way to school, carrying our coffees and sharing breakfast, just like Sloane and I used to. “We go through phases.” I shrug. “It’s like sometimes we talk a lot, couple times a week, and then later it will just sort of die down and a couple months might pass without so much as a single e-mail. Why?” I ask, gazing into his brown eyes and wondering why he’s suddenly so interested in my parental situation.
“No reason.” He shrugs. “I just think it’s kind of cool that he was in a band and all. And also I guess because now that I know your mom pretty well I’m kind of curious about your dad. Do you guys get along?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.” And then, realizing that once again, we’re talking about me, I look up at him and go, “Well, what about you? What’re your parents like?”
“Well, my dad’s a psychiatrist, author, and sometime professor, and my mom’s an artist and screenwriter,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee, and popping a piece of scone in his mouth.
I just stare at him, totally amazed. I mean, I’m starting to think that either this guy is a major pathological liar, or he truly is one of the coolest, most interesting people I’ve ever met. “You’re mom’s a screenwriter?” I ask, still gazing at him, still amazed.
But he just nods and gives me the last remaining piece of his scone since I’ve already gobbled all of mine.
“Like anything I’ve ever heard of or seen before?” I ask, wiping the crumbs from my mouth.
He just shrugs. “Probably,” he says, as humble as ever.
And just as I’m about to ask him for names, titles, locations, and all kinds of important insider details, Cash Davis’s shiny black Hummer pulls into the school parking lot, and splashes gutter water all over us.
But believe me, that’s not even the worst of it. Because when he finally parks that big stupid beast and the passenger door flings open, I gawk in amazement when I see that the person who jumps out is Sloane.
And I just stand there staring as she p
erforms her much practiced and now completely overdone hair toss, then reaches inside, kicking up one flirtatious foot as she retrieves her books, and breaks into delighted, phony giggles when Cash comes around the side, reaches out his hand, and grabs her right smack on the ass.
And as I watch all of this unfold, all I can think is:
If Rey is right—and Sloane is hooking up with Cash— then Jaci, Holly, and Claire are destined to turn on her.
And believe me, I plan to be front row center when it happens.
But Rey just shakes his head, brushes the gutter water off his tie, and goes, “Come on, show’s over.” Then he tugs on my arm and pulls me away, like a dog from a weird smell.
“So, I’m thinking I’ll come by around ten,” Rey says, taking a sip of his water and gazing at me.
“What?” I ask, eyes glued to Sloane and Cash, thinking how ironic it is that I’m now using Table C to spy on her, when originally it was us spying on them.
“The band? The one I told you about? Are you even listening to me?” he asks, obviously annoyed.
“Of course I’m listening,” I say, patting his hand distractedly while tearing a piece off my sandwich. Watching Sloane wrap her arms around her tiny waist and bend forward, as she fake-laughs at something Cash just said, using the moment to discreetly tug on the hem of her top, pulling it down just barely an inch, so that she can reveal a tad more cleavage.
”You know what, just forget it,” Rey says, shaking his head and looking away, clearly over me now.
And by the time I tear my eyes away from Sloane and focus on him, I realize I may have gone just a bit too far with my whole Table A fixation. I mean, I know how on the surface it probably seems like I’m obsessed with her, just because I watch her a lot and then report on everything she does. And how in the course of just a few days of knowing each other, Rey’s been forced to suffer through the retelling of our entire friendship history so many times he can probably recite it in his sleep. And even though he’s been extremely patient, and has even participated by offering more of his amazing insight, I guess by now, he’s pretty much reached his limit. And if I don’t get a grip, rein it in, and start paying a little more attention to him, I’ll risk losing my one and only friend on the planet.
And the truth is, he really is my only friend. And I’m completely amazed at how in such a short amount of time he’s almost managed to replace Sloane. And the only reason I even say “almost” is because he’s a guy, so naturally there are certain things we just don’t talk about. But even though he has my mom’s seal of approval (which I fully admit, really does kind of bug me), we actually have so much in common, so many shared interests that it’s almost kind of eerie. I mean, we both love eighties music (but only the good stuff like the Jam and the Clash, and not Toto). We both read a ton of books, both fiction and nonfiction. We both prefer the kind of small, interesting movies that don’t star Tom Cruise, Vin Diesel, or pull in big summer crowds. And we both write our own blogs (although he still doesn’t know about mine).
But even after all that, one of the best things about Rey is how he’s so comfortable just being himself, wearing his black suits to school and lugging around his guitar, and how he truly doesn’t care what other people think. I mean, Sloane and I pretty much cared about what everyone thought, and even though it may have worked for her, it pretty much failed for me. And even though I freely admit that I really do still care about everyone else’s opinion, it’s pretty cool and inspiring to hang out with someone who doesn’t.
But I don’t share any of that with him. I mean, I just can’t. So instead I look him right in the eye and say. “Got it. Ten o’clock. I’ll even meet you at the café so you don’t have to come by my house or anything.”
Then I hold his gaze for as long as I can, before turning back toward Sloane.
THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY
Friday, September Something, 2006
3:58 P.M.
Current Mood—Snarky
Current Music—Some song by the English Beat
Quote of the Day-”You can observe a lot by watching.”—Yogi Berra
Wake Me Up When September Ends
It’s official, Princess Pink is now dating Captain World. That is, if ass-grabbing, fake-laughing, hair-tossing, lunch-table straddling, SUV-riding, and cleavage-flaunting are in any way indicative of a relationship in progress.
Also, for today, the final count for number of times P. P. passed right by and pretended not to see me? 4.
But the number of times I caught her gazing at my friend and me with intense curiosity when she thought I wasn’t looking? 2.
And since I’m burdened with a ton of homework, not to mention the very rare occurrence of after-plans, I’ll just cut to the chase and present to you the next installment of The List:
4. That cleavage P. P. is flaunting? So not hers. Mad props can be sent to:
Victoria’s Secret
Miracle Water Bra section
Fashion Island
Newport Beach, California
5. In seventh grade, P. P. had such a major crush on the principal she sent him a secret Valentine gift of a little, furry stuffed bear. His black eyes were shiny, his stitched-on mouth was smiling, and his arms were stretched wide-open, bearing a banner that read, “I wuv you this much!” But when the principal discovered who sent it, he wasted no time in ordering an emergency conference that included P. P.’s mom, the vice- principal, a random female staff member, and Princess Pink herself, who was forced to apologize for “sending a very inappropriate Valentine’s Day gift that bore a very inappropriate message,” before signing on the dotted line, solemnly swearing that “the only physical contact that ever occurred between them happened only in her head.”
Enjoy your day,
Eleanor Rigby
Thirteen
I head for the café early, hoping that I can maybe use some family connections to get poor Rey out of there a few minutes before his shift ends, only to walk in and find him, my mom, and Autumn sitting at one of the empty tables, sipping Let It Be green tea and laughing at one of my mom’s lame stories.
“Hey.” I smile, wondering if Rey truly thinks she’s all that funny, or if he’s just hoping to win Employee of the Month. “Um, are you ready to go?” I ask, my eyes darting between my mom and him.
My mom slowly gets up from the table in a way that favors her occasional bad back, and that never fails to make me feel guilty for not being nicer. “Go ahead, you guys have fun,” she says, as she and Autumn gather the empty cups and head behind the counter, while Rey goes into the bathroom to change.
I head for the back room and wait by the door, so we can bail out of there like the second he’s done. And when he finally emerges in a crisp black T-shirt, a pair of dark-rinse jeans, and some Van’s tennis shoes with skulls all over them, I just sort of stand there and stare, feeling all speechless and weird. Partly because it seems odd that he gets all dressed up in a suit and tie for school, then goes casual on the weekend, but also because it kind of feels like I’m just now seeing him for the very first time. But I guess that’s probably only because that day when I really did see him for the very first time I was so upset and freaked-out about Sloane and Cash that I could barely even focus. And then later in class, he was just this kind of annoying lab partner I thought I was stuck with. And then after that he somehow turned into my friend. So I guess I never really looked at him until now.
But still, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m just now noticing how hot he is because I was way too distracted to notice before. So clearly this is really no more than just a simple, delayed reaction. And could never be considered, in any way whatsoever, as indicative of anything more.
Yet even knowing all that, it’s still sort of weird how now that he’s standing before me, dressed so nice, smelling so good, and gazing at me and smiling, I’m getting this kind of weird sensation in the pit of my stomach, and I’m not exactly sure what it means. All I know is that it was
n’t there before and now it is.
He reaches for the door, holds it open, and goes, “After you.”
And I practically run outside, totally relieved to be in the alley, where the sky is just dark enough to hide my face.
“So where is this place?” I ask, feeling ridiculously nervous to be walking alone with him, and even more foolish when I find myself wondering if this is a date.
“Couple blocks up.” He nods. And when he sees skinny smoker dude standing in his usual spot, right outside the back door of the liquor store, he waves and goes, “Hey, almost done?”
But dude just crushes his cigarette between the ground and his big, sturdy boot, shakes his head, and says, “I’m never done.” Then he glances briefly at me before heading back inside.
“You know that guy?” I whisper, squinting at Rey, wondering why on earth he’d even be talking to him.
But Rey just shrugs. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Then he throws his arm around my shoulder and leads me across the street, as that weird feeling in the pit of my stomach just grows even stronger.
By the time we’re standing outside the Dirty Bird, I’m thinking there’s no way they’re letting us in. I mean, this is like a real club, the kind where they serve alcohol and check your driver’s license at the door. And since the only license in my wallet was issued from the uniformed attendant working the Autotopia ride at Disneyland, you can see why I might hesitate.
But Rey just walks right up to the bouncer and shakes his hand, and before I can even blink we’re inside.
And it’s not until we’re well past the door that I whisper, “How did you do that?”
But Rey just laughs. “As long as you don’t try to order a drink, it’s all good,” he says.