18. P. P. doesn’t like to waste time in the morning by visiting the toilet when she can just relieve herself in the shower and kill two birds with one stone. “What’s the big deal?” she asks. “It all ends up in the same place!” Um, yeah, like a puddle up around your feet?
19. In junior high, we were hanging in the food court at the Mission Viejo Mall drinking Cokes and sharing fries, when P. P. spotted her crush. She was so busy watching him that when she leaned down to take a sip of her drink she missed her mouth and the straw wedged so far up her nose it required several yanks from me, mall security, and eventually, a paramedic, to dislodge it, while her grossed- out crush looked on.
Adios amigos,
Eleanor Rigby
Twenty
Things are getting weird, and I’m not sure what to do about it. I mean, on the surface everything looks great—I’ve got a new group of friends, I’m not fighting with Autumn as much, my dad’s preparing to go on TV (and I’ve actually made peace with it), and I’m finally starting to feel more comfortable with my role as backup singer in our new band, Social Exile.
But on the other hand, my mom has started dating (yes, of course I’m happy for her, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still a little freaked-out, since it seems like I’m the one who should be dating, and we all know that I’m not), not to mention how Rey is back with Shay (which I don’t think requires any further explanation).
And then, just to put me even more on edge, the other day, in the middle of the five free minutes between fifth and sixth period, I passed Sloane in the hall, and not only did she not trip me, scowl at me, bump into me, or curse at me, but she actually looked me right in the eye and nodded in a way that could definitely be defined as a nonthreatening way of acknowledging my presence. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, she continued to look me right in the eye as she opened her frosty pink mouth to say, “Hey.”
And even though to the uninformed observer this may appear as just another completely benign greeting, I think by now we all know better. And I was caught so off-guard that I can’t remember smiling, waving, nodding, or doing anything that could remotely qualify as acknowledging her back. Though later, when I came to my senses, I realized that this seemingly innocent exchange could only mean one of three things:
1. The Table A sabotage is moving along a lot quicker than I realized (since I admit to sometimes being a little preoccupied with Rey, and not as focused on her as I should be), and now she’s actually wondering if her enemy just might be them and not me, and so she is actively seeking an emergency backup friend just in case the whole thing blows.
2. She’s slumming for votes as sophomore class Ice Queen (or whatever the hell they call the tiara wearer at that overblown wingding they call Winter Formal), and wants it so bad she’ll even deign to acknowledge me in hopes of a vote.
3. She suffered a recent blow to the head, has been diagnosed with amnesia, and now says “hey” to everyone she comes across, just to cover her bases.
And then just as my plate is really starting to overflow, the very next day I discover that the blog is getting even bigger than I ever could have imagined.
I was at my locker, just changing out my textbooks and minding my own business, when these three girls, standing just two lockers over, start talking about The List, speculating about who it might be, and wondering what kind of sick, demented person would make out with their own cousin.
I just stood there, frozen stiff, I mean seriously unable to move or do anything other than pretend I wasn’t listening, until the bell finally rang and sent them scattering off to class.
And then later when I was at Rey’s, and we were taking a break between sets, Pete, the drummer, goes, “Oh, man, did you read number thirteen? So sick!”
So Shay (a.k.a. the permanent groupie who hangs around more than ever now), goes, “Omigod, don’t tell me. I just started reading it and I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
And I just sit there sipping my water, and acting all calm and normal, while feeling completely amazed that people are actually requesting spoiler alerts. Which, truth to be told, actually makes me feel pretty excited. I mean, who would have thought that anyone would even read my blog, much less talk about it?
But then I start to think about Sloane, and how I’m exposing all of her dirty little secrets for the whole world to read, and I start to panic. I mean, even though I still think it’s pretty safe to assume that she hasn’t seen any of it yet, considering how she’s not so big on reading anything that spans more than a page and a half and doesn’t contain a beauty tip, a diet tip, and/or a corresponding color photograph of at least one of her favorite celebs. Not to mention how if she had actually read it, I sincerely doubt she’d be nodding at me in the halls and saying “hey,” no matter how bad she wants to be Ice Queen.
But still, just because she hasn’t read it yet, doesn’t mean she won’t be scrolling through it sometime in the near future, especially if enough people at school start talking about it. And I have no idea what I’ll do if that happens.
So we’ve been practicing almost every other day, and we’ve even come up with a list of almost twelve pretty solid cover tunes that are a decent representation of the last thirty years in music, and which, thankfully, does not include our mangled version of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” since we were smart enough to scrap that early on. And even though Rey’s got some pretty cool originals that we like to practice now and then, the fact is, most people just want to hear songs that they already know all the words to, so if you plan on playing for your peers, you’ve pretty much got to nail a few crowd-pleasers.
But the thing is, even though all this practicing has actually been kind of fun, I mean, it’s a good excuse to hang with Rey (even if Shay’s pretty much always there, too), and it really doesn’t require much more from me other than a lot of standing around and gossiping with Hayden since most the songs don’t even require a female backup singer, the truth is I’m still kind of unclear on just what exactly the point is. I mean, are we going for the big record deal? Hoping for an American Idol battle of the bands? Booking gigs on the Bar Mitzvah circuit?
It’s like, we’re pouring all this time and energy into all of these songs, and yet nobody’s ever made any mention of just exactly what it is we’re doing here, or what exactly it is that we’re trying to accomplish. We put in countless hours, rush our homework, and basically go to all kinds of trouble building a catalogue of songs that, from the looks of it, nobody outside of this room will ever actually hear.
And even though I’m fully aware that the only reason I’m here is so I can have a valid reason to hang with Rey after school without causing any undue suspicions, that doesn’t begin to address the question of just what the heck everyone else is up to.
And then, wouldn’t you know it, just as I’m pondering all of this, I mean just right out of nowhere, Rey looks at us, with his face set all serious when he goes, “People, I think we’re finally ready for the talent show.”
And since we’re not exactly a group of joiners who get all happy with school-sponsored activities (I mean, if you add all of us together you’ll come up with three different high schools and not one attended dance or football game among us), and since my last foray into a talent showcase resulted in parental outrage and a threatened suspension, I instinctively cross my arms, shake my head, and go, “Uh-uh. No way. Forget it.”
But Rey’s not budging. And since he’s the one who put this band together in the first place, everyone pretty much recognizes him as the leader.
But no way am I bowing to that kind of dubious, non- voted-on authority, so I just continue to stand there, refusing to budge. Because even though I fully admit that school is no longer the nightmare it used to be, there’s still no way I’m getting up onstage in front of Princess Pink and her Pastel Posse so that they can heckle, snicker, sneer, and laugh, while they scrounge around for stuff to throw at us.
Uh-uh. No way. Forget it.
But
Rey just looks at me and goes, “Get used to it, Winter, we’re going on.”
Then he picks up the mike and heads into a semi-rockin’ rendition of “American Idiot.”
Today is my sixteenth birthday. But it’s also Thanksgiving Day. Which, believe me, sucks even more than you can imagine. I mean, not only are all of my friends out of town with their families, busy enjoying the long holiday weekend in some exotic locale, but if you think being presented with a big, brown, one hundred percent organic, undercooked pumpkin pie masquerading as a birthday cake (and also acting as quicksand for the sixteen rapidly sinking candles that have been shoved in the middle), is remotely festive, well, think again.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, my mom has somehow gotten the idea that this is the perfect opportunity to unwrap her new boyfriend and present him to us. Who, don’t get me wrong, we’ve technically met before, but still, up until today our contact has mostly consisted of a brief hello, followed five minutes later by a somewhat awkward good-bye. I guess what I’m trying to say is that up until now he’s never actually attended one of our formal (well, formal for us) family gatherings, so this is actually kind of a big deal. But it also makes me wonder why she had to choose today, as opposed to some other day, when it’s not actually my birthday.
So it’s basically me, Autumn, my mom, and her boyfriend, Dave, and we’re all sitting around the dining-room table, with my birthday pie placed prominently before me. And they’re all gazing at me with this look of anticipation and excitement, and then completely simultaneously, as though they’d been rehearsing it for weeks, they go, “Make a wish!”
And as I gaze at these sixteen candles, I know I have about five seconds to accomplish this task before they’re swallowed up completely.
So I close my eyes, lean in, and think, Rey, Shay, Sloane, the talent show, the blog, my mom . . . and all these words and names just jumble together, rushing through my head in no particular order or sequence, and with no real wish attached—like a grocery list written on the fly.
And then Autumn goes, “Hurry up and blow! They’re totally sinking!”
So I do. I lean in and blow with all my might. And by the time I open my eyes again, I see that my mom’s already retrieving them, licking the tips of her fingers to protect her skin from the smoldering wicks.
And then I watch as she takes her index finger, the one covered in gloppy pumpkin pie chunks, and offers it to Dave’s lips so that he can lick it off. And as I’m looking at this, I realize I should be feeling way more grossed-out than I am. But the truth is, I’m actually focused on the whole candle-blowing gig, and how I’m now hoping and praying that there’s absolutely no validity to any of that supposed magic whatsoever. That it actually amounts to no more than just another one of those old, played-out, urban myths. You know, like Santa and his elves, the Easter bunny, and that fairy who pays you by the tooth.
Because with a wish list as random and nonspecific as mine, I’m afraid I’ve just inadvertently put myself in a very vulnerable position. I mean, by failing to define just what exactly it is that I want, I’ve left the whole thing pretty wide-open, serving as a sort of free-for-all where just about anything can happen!
But now, watching as my mom sticks her finger in her mouth, presumably to lick off any pumpkin morsels that Dave has left behind, I’m still so freaked about the wish that I’m just not as disturbed by that as I should be. So I push all paranoid thoughts out of my head and smile at my mom as she cuts the first piece of pie, then I force myself to look at Dave and admit that he’s not nearly as bad as I suspected or feared.
In fact, he’s actually sort of nice.
But since my mom really hasn’t dated since the divorce (or at least not to my knowledge), I guess I’ve pretty much always pictured her with some kind of embarrassing, skinny, heavily bearded, eco-freak guy. You know, like the kind who drives an old, beat-up, rusted-out car covered in political bumper stickers, who never leaves home without his moldy Birkenstocks, and who, no matter what the season, is always sporting a glaringly white vegetarian pallor to go with his permanent affliction of bad tofu breath.
But Dave’s nothing like that. I mean, he’s normal, tan (probably because he surfs every morning), with kind eyes, a nice smile, and a pretty cool, easygoing personality. Also, he’s an architect. Which I think is like a pretty cool profession. And even though I’m kind of shocked that my mom would date someone who makes a living, as a sort of “land rapist” (her pre- Dave words, not mine), putting up buildings where bunnies once multiplied and wildflowers swayed happily in the breeze, I guess she thinks it’s okay now, because he’s “green.” Which means he builds in a responsible, earth-sustaining, ecologically sound kind of way.
So after eating a piece of my b-day pie and opening all of my presents, which consisted of three gift cards (Barnes & Noble and Urban Outfitters from my mom, Sephora from Dave), and a supercool necklace that Autumn made and that I’m actually already wearing (and not just out of familial loyalty but because I really do like it), I excuse myself and go to my room, because I kind of want to be by myself for a while so I can read some of the comments that people have posted on my blog.
And as I log on and scroll through them, I’m amazed at how many people have something to say about the goings-on in my day-to-day life. And even though seeing all of this makes me feel kind of happy, popular, and cool (and even, I admit, a little bit famous), I’m also growing increasingly worried about getting caught. Not to mention how I’m starting to feel the building of some serious pressure to come up with even bigger and better stuff. You know, like juicier secrets, and more examples of Sloane’s awfulness.
Because from what I’ve already gathered by reading just a few of these comments, this is one outspoken, highly opinionated, bloodthirsty crowd. And they’ve made it painfully clear how not a single one of them appreciated the more mundane secrets, or anything to do with junior high farting incidents or shower peeing, which apparently, is way more common than I would’ve thought.
It’s like these readers are so desensitized, so impatient, and so overexposed to sensational tabloid headlines that scream stuff about heiress porn, dehydrated starlets, and all manner of celebrity couch-jumping antics, that nothing short of the big scandalous story will do.
Which is fine for them. And it’s not like I’m judging or anything as even I’ve been mesmerized by the shocking sight of telephoto-lens-captured celebrity cellulite, wondering if it was actually real. But the fact is, I don’t work for the Enquirer. Not to mention how I’m just an ordinary sixteen-year-old girl from small-town America (yes, Laguna Beach is a small town, population 24,000, thank you very much), who just felt the need to vent a little, and yeah, I admit, get some good, old-fashioned, healthy, yet well-deserved revenge on a former friend who done me wrong.
But now I’m starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’ve gotten in a little too deep.
And if so, then I also have to admit that I really don’t have the slightest clue how to get out.
I mean, sure I could just close up shop and blog no more. But the thing is, I promised these people the whole story, the unmitigated, fact-based truth. So I really can’t see how quitting right smack in the middle is in any way a valid option. It’s like, if nothing else, I like to think that I’m a person who makes good on my word (unlike Sloane). And yes, even though I realize how that may, on the surface at least, seem really hypocritical, since obviously it’s not like I’m standing by my word when I expose all of her secrets, the fact is, that after what she did to me I now firmly believe that any former obligation or loyalty to her has become sort of null and void. Besides, I really think that once I’ve said my piece and am winding down, the whole thing will lose steam, my readers will be more or less satiated, and everyone will just click over to the next big thing. And I promise, that once that happens I will happily close up shop, and quietly fade into blog oblivion.
But until that day arrives, I definitely feel the need to come up with s
ome major juice, or suffer at the hands of some very angry readers.
And just as I’m about to log off, Autumn walks in, takes one look at the screen, and goes, “Oh, jeez, don’t tell me you’re into that, too? Everyone at school is talking about it.”
And when I turn and look at her, I concentrate on keeping my expression calm and serene, because deep down inside, my heart is hammering, my palms are sweating, and it pretty much feels as though my entire nervous system has gone into crisis mode.
“A lot of speculation on who it might be,” she continues, getting onto her hands and knees and retrieving her art portfolio out from under her bed.
“But that’s ridiculous,” I say, frantically staring at the back of her head. “I mean, it could be about anyone, from anywhere.”
But Autumn just shakes her head, sits on her bed, and starts flipping through her drawings. “Nope, it’s definitely local,” she says, not even looking at me.
“What makes you so sure?” I ask, trying to sound sort of neutral, and only mildly interested.
“Well, for starters, did you read the one where she talks about skinny smoker dude? I mean, hello, there’s only one of those that I know of.”
I just laugh. I mean, if this is the only evidence she can come up with, then I’m starting to feel pretty good about my prospects for keeping my anonymity intact. So I just roll my eyes and go, “Autumn, that’s insane. I’m sure there’s a skinny smoker dude on practically every corner, in every downtown area, in every city in America, if not the entire world!”
But she just shrugs, finds the picture she’s looking for, and carries it out of the room. While I frantically scroll back through all of my entries, wondering how on earth I could’ve been so careless.