Good tidings to you, too!
Eleanor Rigby
Twenty-six
By Friday when I still haven’t heard from Mr. Calvin Burke, agent to the most glittering of literati, I’m so over myself, so sick of obsessively checking my e-mail, and rereading his original message over and over again, searching for hidden meanings in his words and punctuation choices, and wondering if it’s all been some kind of mistake, hoax, or even worse, just a foolish, impulsive offer that he now sincerely regrets ever making, that I begin to wonder if maybe, perhaps, I should be the one changing my mind.
I mean, obviously I’d chosen to move forward in a major fit of rage and vengeance. And I think we all know how you pretty much can’t find a worse time to make a life-defining decision. And even though it’s obvious that Sloane is a self-serving brat, and probably deserves to be exposed for the awful person that she truly is, there’s still this growing part of me that’s more than a little freaked by all this, because let’s face it, exposing Sloane also means exposing me.
And who’s to say she won’t retaliate and tell a few of my own secrets?
So with my head feeling all foggy and bloated with the weight of all that, I decide to head over to the café and hang out for a while. I mean, I hadn’t been there since the day I heard Sloane plotting a hostile takeover on my number one crush (well, actually number two, right after Joaquin Phoenix). And as my mom has been so busy lately, with all the packing and moving and just trying to get everything ready for the big renovation and party, I figure the least I can do is show up, make some small talk, and maybe even pitch in and help.
But when I walk inside, I hardly recognize the place. Because even though it’s barely been a week, the whole entire space has been completely transformed. I mean, the floors have been stripped down to their final layer of concrete, and now with all the fixtures and furnishings gone, but with the antique chandeliers still hanging, it actually looks pretty cool. Kind of industrial chic, and not at all shabby like you might think. And since the walls have been stripped completely bare of all of their formerly down-home, shrine signage to dorky songs from the seventies, they’re now serving as these huge floor-to-ceiling canvases that are completely covered in a riot of color, making for the most amazing, continuous, wall-to- wall mural, that based on a limited amount of knowledge salvaged from long-ago childhood art classes, seems to be telling an epic tale of life, beauty, truth, creation, celebration, and rebirth.
And as I stand there gazing at it, trying to soak it all up and take it all in, the person who seems most likely to be responsible for all of this approaches me with a wet paintbrush that’s dripping a trail of cobalt blue, and inadvertently turning the concrete floor into a Jackson Pollock canvas.
“Hey,” I say, gazing from him to the still wet walls. “Is my mom around?”
But skinny smoker dude just shakes his head, and then nods toward the wall before us. “So? What do you think?” he asks, looking at me with his head cocked to the side, like he just might actually consider my completely amateur, perhaps even bogus, opinion.
I gaze at the swirls of color so vibrant they almost seem to be pulsating, then I look at him and go, “I don’t even know the right words. It’s completely amazing. But it’s more than that.” I stop and stare at the walls and shrug. “I just can’t believe how beautiful it is,” I finally say, looking at him in wonder.
He just nods.
“But . . . aren’t you kind of sad to know that in just five more days it’ll all be knocked down? Reduced to a pile of dust and memory?” I gaze back and forth, between the walls and him, trying to imagine the moment when all of this beauty he worked so hard to create will no longer exist.
But he just looks at me, squinting one eye and staring into mine. “Memories are the only things we really own, the only things that stay constant.” He shrugs. “Everything else becomes dust.”
And I just stand there, looking at him. And then I gaze once more at these incredible walls. And then I turn and head for the door.
Because I finally know what I have to do.
And just as I step outside, I turn back and poke my head in. “Um, I was just wondering, well, I don’t even know your real name,” I say, embarrassed to finally be admitting this.
But he just looks at me and nods. “George,” he says, turning back toward the wall, lifting his brush to continue his story.
FROM: ELEANOR RIGBY
TO: CALVIN BURKE
SUBJECT: YOUR OFFER
Dear Mr. Burke,
I regret to inform you that for personal reasons I cannot divulge at this time, I am no longer able to accept your offer. Though I do thank you for thinking of me, and wish you all the best in your future projects.
Sincerely,
Eleanor Rigby
Twenty-seven
The second I sign off Autumn comes into our room, sees me on the computer, and goes, “So, any more secrets?”
And I totally freeze. And then I look at her, and go, “Huh?” And then I try to scrunch up my face like a person who was truly confused might. Even though I know I totally suck at things like this.
But she just sits on her bed, takes off her shoes, and goes, “Enough already, I know it’s you.” Then she levels her gaze, looking me right in the eye.
And even though I know I can probably drag this out awhile longer by going, “You know what’s me?” and just repeating all of the same words right back at her until one of us gets bored and gives up. The fact is, this is Autumn I’m talking to here, the twelve-year-old sage who’s light-years ahead of me. So instead I just shrug and say, “How’d you know?”
And she shakes her head, and rolls her eyes, and goes, “Oh, please. It’s so obvious.”
But I need a little more than that. Because even as smart as she is, if Autumn knows, then there’s still a small chance that there may be others. “No, really,” I say. “What exactly gave it away? What was it that tipped you off?”
And this time when she looks at me, she also laughs. “Okay first of all, Eleanor Rigby? Please. I mean, come on, Winter. Who else would know that song? Mom only played it like all day every day for the month and a half after she and Dad first split. And skinny smoker dude? We’ve already covered that. So obvious. Not to mention how you practically couldn’t wait to tell me all about the breast enhancer—chicken cutlet fiasco like seconds after it happened.” She shakes her head. “But even after all that, I still checked the history trail just to make sure. Guess Mom was a little late on buying us separate laptops, huh?”
“Oh, jeez, who else knows?” I ask, feeling a little panicky now, not to mention kind of dumb for thinking I’d been so subversive and elusive, when the whole time a sixth grader was on to me from the very start. “You didn’t mention your theory to anyone else did you?” I look at her.
“Relax.” She shrugs. “As far as I know, you’re safe.”
And then suddenly, I realize, that for the first time in a long time, I really do feel safe. It’s like, now that my secret’s out, now that I confessed and got it all off my chest, I feel lighter, less burdened, more like the old me, only better.
I mean, who would’ve thought that keeping your own secrets could turn out to be such a heavy load?
Then I log into my e-mail and show her the one from Calvin Burke.
And after she reads it, she just stares at me, with her eyes all wide and full of questions.
So I show her my most recent response.
And this time when she looks at me, I can tell she approves. “You did the right thing,” she says, before heading out the door.
I just sit there, rereading the e-mail, knowing she’s right. I mean, if I had accepted Calvin Burke’s offer and sold my story, there’s no doubt that I’d be far richer, and far more popular than I ever could have imagined before.
But I also know that I would have gotten there the exact same way that Sloane got to the top of Table A—by selling out my values and beliefs, and by slamming an old an
d trusted friend.
And tell me, where’s the good karma in that?
Twenty-eight
I can’t believe I forgot to mention this before, but Easton is also coming to the party. And even though I know how it seems like that might be a big deal, and like something that I couldn’t possibly forget, the truth is, that it’s really not such a big deal, and I truly did forget. I mean, Easton and I are definitely still really good friends, but that’s about all. Because I think we’re both pretty clear on the fact that even though we had some fun, shared some laughs, and made out a little, the big, serious romantic attraction just isn’t there.
It’s like, he’s just looking to meet new people and have a good time. And I’m so lame and useless that I can’t even muster the courage to talk to the guy who risked a personal social exile by getting on stage in front of the entire student body and dedicating a song that practically nobody knows, to a girl that practically nobody cares about. And even though I’m fully aware of how the door really doesn’t open any wider than that, I’m so freaking pathetic that I can’t even ring the bell, much less go inside.
So a couple days ago when Easton called to tell me he had a small part in some indie film and would be shooting in and around Orange County for a few weeks, I just happened to mention my mom’s New Year’s bash and invited him to stop by. Then I gave him the details, closed the phone, and forgot all about it, until now.
But even though I’m not really all that into him, that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be into me. Or, at least think I look good, or hot, or at the very minimum not be embarrassed to remember how he once made out with me.
So with Autumn’s help, I pull together an outfit he’s never seen before, black leggings, vintage silver sequin mini-dress, and spiky black ankle boots. And then when I’m done getting dressed, I gawk in amazement when she puts on a new dress.
“Oh, my, is that for little Crosby Davis?” I ask, thinking how pretty she can be when she’s not all hippie-bohoed out.
“No. First it’s for me. Then it’s for Mom. Then it’s for Boyd.” She smiles shyly.
“Uh, who’s Boyd?” I ask, watching her closely.
“The new kid,” she says, slipping her feet into her new, mini-wedge heeled sandals.
The second I walk in the door, I scan the room for Rey. I mean, I’m kind of hoping I can talk to him before he gets too busy with the band, not to mention before I chicken out and lose my nerve completely. But, of course, now that I’ve finally found the words, he’s not around to hear them.
So I try to look busy by rearranging the plates and cups (even though my eyes keep darting toward the door), and when Dave walks in he kisses my mom, and her face lights up brighter than the Fashion Island Christmas tree. Then he picks her up and spins her around, making her beautiful new dress rise up in a circle. And when I catch a glimpse of her unshaven legs, I breathe a sigh of relief. Because even though I’ve pretty much made peace with all of her recent renovations, there’s still this small part of me that needs her to be my same old mom.
And as the room starts to fill with just about every single person we know (and definitely a few that we don’t), I’m feeling so anxious to find Rey and finally say my piece, that I don’t even notice Easton until his arms are wrapped around my waist, and he’s kissing the side of my neck.
“Hey,” he whispers, leaning back and smiling.
And just as I start to push him away, I glance toward the door and see Rey.
And he’s talking to Sloane.
And she reaches out to touch his arm at the exact same moment that she dips her head, gazes up at him, and then tosses her hair so that it misses her shoulder and falls back over her eyes. Which happens to be a move that is well known to me, as I helped her perfect it last summer in our cocreated Flirting 101 seminar.
So, instinctively, without even thinking, I grab Easton and hug him again, making sure to lean in just a little bit more than I should, lingering like that until I’m sure Rey has seen us.
“So, help yourself to some food and drink,” I say, suddenly sounding all perfunctory and businesslike. I mean, now that Rey is safely away from Sloane, and up onstage doing a sound check I’m pretty much over the need for any further displays of affection.
“I’m good for now,” Easton says, slipping his arm around my waist just as Sloane and her posse approach.
“Omigod, this is so great!” Sloane says, her mouth bestowing me with her most winning smile, while her eyes offer a pretty harsh look for someone who supposedly loves my party.
I smile at her, then gaze at her posse, all three of who are totally checking out Easton. So I go, “Easton, this is Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire.”
He nods distractedly, and pulls me even closer.
But this is not a group of girls who are used to being ignored. And believe me, to them, rejection is so not an option. So Jaci steps forward, and pressing her fingertips lightly to his sleeve says, “Oh, I love your shirt! So soft!” And she stands there, stroking the fabric between her thumb and index finger, and smiling at him like an open invitation.
So of course, not to be outdone by anyone, especially her competitive clone, Sloane grabs his hand and goes, “I’ve never seen you before. What school do you go to?”
And when he tells her, she turns and looks at me, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips with visibly seething anger. As though I somehow owe her an explanation of how I could possibly know two hot guys when I didn’t use to know anyone but her.
“So how’d you guys meet?” she asks, glancing from me to him, her eyes working overtime, attempting to calculate something that, in her mind, just doesn’t compute.
So I look at Easton and he looks at me and then I don’t even know why but we both start cracking up, while Sloane and her friends just stand there, looking at us like we’re crazy or something. Well, actually, they’re looking at me like I’m crazy. Because as far as they’re concerned, Easton is still the hot and mysterious stranger.
But when I finally stop laughing, Sloane is still glaring at me. And it makes me wonder why she just had to come to my party if all she plans to do is shoot eyeball daggers my way. So feeling pretty anxious to get far away from her, I just go, “We met in New York. But Easton can tell it way better than me.” Then I excuse myself and head for the other side of the room, hoping to put some distance between us.
The first song Social Exile performs is “Cinnamon Girl.” And even though I know it’s for my mom, because let’s face it, she’s the one that’s paying them, and only her and her friends (and freaks who have no choice like Autumn and I) even know that song to begin with, I’d be totally lying if I tried to pretend I wasn’t hoping it would be my song. Or our song. Or “A Hazy Shade of Winter.” Or whatever. And when I look around I see Autumn and her two best friends dancing together, just laughing and having fun. But I also notice how every few seconds Autumn glances over at this cute little sixth grader, who’s trying so hard to look cool, even though he’s peeking at her, too.
And all I can think is, Oh, jeez, it’s already starting.
Then I see my mom and Dave, holding hands and talking to some friends, and she looks more happy and radiant than I’ve ever seen her before. And then I see Hayden gazing at Mick as he plays the guitar, and Elijah pretending like he’s listening to Evan and Clark even though he’s actually watching Hayden gaze at Mick. And when Easton comes over, slides his arm around my waist, and asks me if I want to dance, I just shake my head and walk away.
And just as I’m about to head into the back room so I can chill by myself for a while, I’m cornered by Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire. And by the way they’re surrounding me, it’s clear it’s no accident.
“Oh, hey,” I say, stopping just shy of the door, wondering what they could possibly want. I mean, Sloane’s hands are on her hips and her eyes are all narrowed into angry little slits, as her posse remains on standby, poised and ready to act on a moment’s notice.
“You m
ust think you’re really fucking brilliant, huh?” Sloane says, her face a visible scowl, her right, stiletto-clad foot tapping ominously against the concrete floor.
But I just look at her and shrug. Because even though I really don’t think I’m all that brilliant, I am smart enough to know that answering a question like that is just totally asking for it.
“You must think you’re just so fucking funny, and clever, and witty, and mysterious. Don’t you?” she says, still glaring at me.
Okay, this is getting creepy. I mean, I have no idea what she’s talking about. But from the expressions on Jaci, Holly, and Claire’s faces, it’s pretty clear that I’m not the only one who’s confused by all this. So finally I just shrug and say, “Um, I really don’t know what your deal is, but I think I’ll be going now.” Then I turn and reach for the doorknob.
“Um, hello? Your stupid fucking blog, Winter, that’s what I’m talking about. Or should I call you Eleanor Rigby?”