Keeping Secrets Page 3

  And I go, “Um, red?” like it’s a question not an answer. What a retard.

  We watch him walk away and then M looks right at me and goes, “Wow, what a hottie. Way to go, Alex.”

  “What?” I squint at her. I mean, is she kidding? She’s been acting like Columbus crawling all over a newly discovered continent and now she’s giving me the finder’s credit? “Are you kidding?” I ask her.

  “What?” she says, and looks at me innocently.

  But I just shake my head and don’t say anything because I’m not sure what’s going on anymore, or what I’m even doing here in the first place. I should be home writing a paper, not hanging in LA, in a scene that I clearly have no part in.

  When Connor comes back he’s juggling these three glasses of wine and M grabs the white one and goes, “Don’t wait up!” then disappears into the crowd, just like that.

  I look at Connor and shrug and I hope that he’s going to be a little better at the small talk than I am.

  We’re wandering around the gallery, looking at these big huge oil paintings of what appear to be floating body parts on a sky blue background. And I’m wondering if he understands it any better than I do. Then he turns and looks at me and asks, “What do you make of all this?”

  And I go, “Well, um, I think it’s really LA.”

  “What do you mean?” He looks at me intently.

  “Well, you know, it’s about body parts, and LA is about body parts, for the most part.” Oh god, do I sound stupid or what? “I mean, I think it’s lonely, really. Like there’s an arm over there on that canvas and a knee over on that one and they are all alone because someone has deemed them too imperfect to join the other body parts.” I can barely breath.

  And then he looks at me, smiles and says, “Thanks for explaining that, I’m always a little confused by modern art.”

  And I feel totally relieved since I was just talking off the top of my head and I’m not really sure what any of it means either.

  So we’re just standing there looking at the paintings and I’m desperately trying to think of something to say to fill the growing silence, when I hear someone yell, “Connor! Hey!” And over walks this kind of short, kind of strange-looking guy. And I don’t mean strange looking in a genetic way, I mean like he’s dressing that way on purpose. You know like black-frame geek glasses, vintage metal band T-shirt, jeans dyed to look dirty, silver Puma tennis shoes, and a black, nylon, man-purse slung over his right shoulder that he probably thinks is a “messenger bag,” but it’s not. Oh yeah, and his curly, dark brown hair is all brushed and frizzed like Jack Osbourne’s.

  So Connor goes, “James, hey!” And they both shake hands and then James smiles at me expectantly and I have this momentary fear that Connor might have forgotten my name. Because you know how easy it is to do that when you’ve just met someone and you’re all nervous and you’ve only heard the name once anyway, but then he goes, “Oh, Alex. James. James. Alex.” And I’m totally relieved.

  We say hello and I’m expecting to shake hands or something but James leans toward me with his eyes closed and his lips all puckered up. And right when I’m thinking there’s no way I’m letting this guy kiss me he makes this loud smacking noise somewhere in the vicinity of my cheek, and I just stand there frozen, wondering if I’m supposed to reciprocate, in this pseudo-European greeting even though we’re both American. But then he starts talking about business and stuff so I just try to look involved even though I have no idea what any of it means.

  Finally James looks at me and smiles then says to Connor, “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your date. Let’s do Ivy next week.”

  And Connor says, “Definitely.”

  I watch James walk away and ask, “What is ‘doing Ivy’?”

  Connor shakes his head and laughs and says, “It’s a restaurant.”

  Oh. I guess that’s one of those places you’re just supposed to know, and not knowing makes me feel like a total outsider and a big loser. “Is he a good friend of yours?” I ask, trying to save myself.

  “Not really. I don’t mean that he’s a bad guy, he’s just more of an acquaintance I guess. He owns this gallery. Actually I’m looking for another friend of mine, Trevor. He said he’d be here but I don’t see him anywhere.” Then he looks at me and smiles and says, “But that’s okay, ‘cause you’re here and you happen to be way better looking than Trevor.”

  I just sort of stand there and I probably blush, but I don’t say anything because when someone tells me I’m attractive I never really know what to say. Not that it happens all the time or anything.

  So then Connor starts talking about some of the people who are here tonight. Stuff like, that guy over there works for Maverick records, or that girl with the pink hair is a makeup artist. And even though it’s interesting I sort of stop paying attention to the actual words because he’s looking at me in the sexiest way and it’s making me feel really nervous again.

  I start thinking about my virginity. I mean, it’s not like I’m very religious, or moral, or even scared (well maybe a little scared). I guess I just never had an opportunity that I could take seriously. Last summer I had this boyfriend for like, a month. I met him on a weekend sail to Catalina with M and her parents. At first I thought he was exotic, you know, from somewhere else, but it turned out he lived in the town next to ours and was still in high school too. So we used to make out and stuff, and at first I was really into him, but it wasn’t long before I noticed what a major knuckle dragger he was. You know, like a total caveman. M used to call him Thor. He was really jealous and used to get mad when other guys talked to me. So I had to let him go. I won’t have any guy telling me who I can talk to. After that I just figured I would hold out until someone glamorous comes along. I just hope I don’t get hit by a car or something first. It would be just my luck to die a virgin.

  So I look at Connor and realize I have no idea what he’s been saying. I swear my glass of red wine is still half full but my stomach is feeling all queasy and I’m getting kind of dizzy. There’s just no way I’m gonna let myself vomit in front of him, so I thrust my glass into his free hand and tell him I’ve got to get some fresh air.

  I push my way through a crowd of people and when I get outside I’m surprised at how cold the night is, but I take off my cardigan anyway and let the cool air just wrap around my shoulders. I look down at the ground and breathe deep and slow just like they taught in the yoga class I took that one time, and I try to convince my mind to convince my body to not puke. To not totally humiliate me in a public place, in front of a totally cute, sexy guy from England, who met Richard Branson at a party once.

  When I start to feel better I lift my head and look at the night, and even though I search I cannot locate one star in this polluted LA sky. So I close my eyes and roll my neck and sort of sag against the glass brick wall. Suddenly Connor is there and he’s kissing me. At least I think it’s Connor. I mean, my eyes are closed so I can’t be too sure. It’s the most amazing kiss. I just let it linger as long as possible. After awhile I open my eyes and Connor’s smiling at me. He brushes his fingers lightly across my cheek and asks me if I’m feeling better now and all I can do is nod, because I’m totally breathless. Then he grabs my hand, entwining his fingers around mine and walks me back into the gallery. That’s it. No struggle, no date rape. Sometimes guys surprise me.

  I look around the room for M and I see her in the corner talking to some guy in plaid pants. He’s completely focused on her and I’m wondering what it is that she’s saying. But I guess it doesn’t really matter, because there’s just something about M that keeps people standing there.

  Connor squeezes my hand and says, “I’ve got to take off soon ‘cause I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow, but I’d really like to see you again. Can I call you?”

  So I say “Okay” and act really nonchalant as I’m writing my number down on the back of his card, but inside my chest my heart is hammering and my hand is a little shaky and I real
ly hope he doesn’t notice.

  He kisses me on the cheek then walks out the door, but I don’t turn around to look after him because I don’t want to know if he’s looking after me, or if he’s already moved on to the next big thing. I mean, this night has been practically perfect and I don’t want to wreck it by seeing something that might upset me.

  On the drive home I ask M about the guy in the plaid pants that I saw her talking to. She just laughs and says that she can’t remember his name but that he’s British too.

  “Do you think he knows Connor?” I ask. I like saying his name.

  “I have no idea.” She yawns and cranks her new Strokes CD and starts singing at the top of her lungs.

  When she turns onto my street, I start to panic because I didn’t do what I promised myself I would, and now it’s too late to write twelve pages about Tolstoy’s technique. And you can bet there will be hell to pay, if not tomorrow then someday soon, because if there’s anything I got out of that meeting today, it’s that they’re watching me now, and I won’t be getting away with much.

  M drops me off at the bottom of my driveway and asks, “What are you gonna wear tomorrow?”

  I open the car door and reach for my backpack that got wedged into the tiny space in the back. “I don’t know,” I say. “But definitely not denim, I did denim today.”

  She nods her head and pulls away with a loud screech and I can hear her car all the way to the end of the block.

  As I walk up the slope of concrete that leads to my house, I look at the moon and try to determine if it’s a man or a woman or something else all together. And I remember how when I was a little kid my mom used to hold my hand and point at the sky and show me how all the dents and craters and shadows could create the illusion of a changing face. I thought there was magic in the moon and we could stand there for hours. But that was back when I believed in things like that, and she believed in me.

  I go into my room, throw my purse onto a furry leopard chair, and pick up my phone to check my messages, but I’m greeted with a steady hum so I know no one called. I guess I just couldn’t help hoping that Connor had phoned to say how much he enjoyed meeting me, even though I know how totally improbable that is.

  But there’s a call I have to make, and I glance at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock next to my bed and wonder if 10:52 is too late. It might be, but I call anyway. While I listen to it ring I rehearse what I’m going to say. But on the fourth ring it goes straight into voice mail so I just go, “Hi Dad, it’s me. Um, Alex. Can you give me a call? It’s important. Thanks.” And then I hang up feeling kind of relieved that I didn’t actually have to ask him because he’s my only hope now and I’m not really sure what he’ll say.

  I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on this soft, pink, vintage slip that I like to sleep in. I climb into bed and the sheets feel cool and the blanket is warm, and I know that when I wake up I’m going to have to face Mr. Sommers about the paper I didn’t write, but I don’t want to think about that now. So I try to think about dining with Richard Branson at the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower, but Connor’s head keeps appearing on Branson’s body.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning my mom peeks her head in my room to make sure that I’m up and thinking about getting ready for school. I assure her I’m wide-awake, then roll over for another ten minutes.

  She’s back. “Alex, I’m not kidding. I’m leaving for work now and you better get up or you’ll be late for school.”

  “Is that the worst that will happen?” I ask her.

  “Alex, now!”

  “I’m up.”

  I wait until she leaves my room then I crawl out of bed and go into my bathroom and turn the shower on high and hot. I sit on the closed lid of the toilet seat and watch the room get all steamy. The dream I had last night is still lingering but it wasn’t about Richard Branson or even Connor. It’s that same old recurrent nightmare about when my horse died.

  I was in the seventh grade and it was a terrible time. It was not long after my dad left, and next to M, my horse, Lucky, was like my best friend. One day when I went to feed her I found her in her stall just lying there. I got scared and called the vet. He gave her shots and vitamins, he did everything he could, but after three days he said he just couldn’t help her and he’d have to put her to sleep.

  I really hate that term, “put to sleep.” Sleep is when you get to wake up. And it didn’t help knowing that my dad had just bankrolled some gorgeous thoroughbred at some cushy stable for his latest girlfriend. I think my horse died of poverty, exposure, and depression, just another casualty of the divorce. I tried to love her enough to keep her alive, I really did. But she died anyway. I guess it’s just as well since we could barely afford to feed her. Horses really eat a lot.

  I climb into the shower and lather up. I’m big into grooming. In an average shower I use shampoo, conditioner (deep conditioner in the summer), lavender-scented shaving gel, facial cleanser, facial scrub, and body cleansing gel, followed by body scrub. While my skin is still damp I spray on body oil, which I let soak in for about sixty seconds, then I lightly pat my skin dry and apply body lotion, deodorant, astringent, lip balm, leave-in conditioner, and a tiny bit of some perfume sample. This month it’s Gucci Rush because I like the name. I’m a total product whore.

  With a towel turban around my head and a robe wrapped tightly around me, I stand in front of my closet looking for something to wear. I mean, I’ve spent the last three and a half years building a fashion reputation and now everyone expects me to show up in something cool and unusual and sometimes it’s a real burden.

  And I’m thinking maybe that was the wrong approach, drawing that kind of attention to myself. Maybe I should tone it down a little, you know, work a little harder at blending in. So I slip into the safety of some faded, denim overalls, a lacy camisole, an antique-beaded cardigan, and my split toe Nikes. I quickly brush on a little mascara to accentuate my brown eyes and grab two rubber bands and braid my wet hair during the red lights on my way to school.

  I see M in French class. And I don’t mean to be rude but she’s got a pretty major zit on her chin, and I can’t stop staring at it. You know how trying not to look at something just makes you obsessed with it? Well, that’s what it’s like with M’s chin. At least she didn’t try to cover it with makeup like some girls, ‘cause that never really fools anyone. But it’s still kind of funny to see M looking less than perfect.

  She sees me staring so I go, “Rough night M?”

  “Very funny,” she rolls her eyes. “I thought you said absolutely no denim today.”

  “I almost wore my pajamas,” I tell her.

  “I know what you mean. I’m feeling a little sleep deprived, but it was totally worth it, don’t you think?”

  “Totally.” I look around the room to see if anyone’s listening. I have to admit we usually talk loud enough so everyone can hear, but then we get annoyed when we catch them.

  M leans in and says, “That guy in the plaid pants called last night. He must have dialed right after we left ‘cause there was a message from him when I got home.”

  “No way.” I look at her in amazement. Even though I’m used to M always stealing the show, I can’t help feeling a little jealous. “Did he leave his name?”

  “No. He just started talking so I still don’t know it. Oh, and I got accepted into Princeton! The letter came yesterday when we were in LA. The maid put it in my room.”

  I’m staring at M with my mouth wide open when Mademoiselle walks in. “Bonjour!” she says.

  “Bonjour Mademoiselle!” I hear my classmates answer, but I can’t concentrate now because all I can think about is how my life totally sucks compared to M’s. She’s got a new boyfriend, and she’s going Ivy. I’ve got an empty voice mailbox, and I may not get out of high school. I mean, I’m happy for her, really I am, but there’s a part of me that feels like vomiting.

  I manage to slide through the rest of the
day. Partly because we have a sub in Economics (I hate that class), so I don’t even pretend like I’m paying attention, and partly because Mr. Sommers makes absolutely no mention of the paper I didn’t write. It’s like he still doesn’t know or something, and I’m hoping that will buy me an extra day or two since that’s all I really need because I’m totally gonna do it tonight, after work. I promise.

  After school I go to work for four hours. I’ve been working in this department store for like a year and a half. I entered this contest where they picked one student from each local high school and the winners got to be in what is called Teen Board. It involved instore modeling, fashion shows, charity events, and a job for anyone who was interested. I was really nervous at the interview and totally didn’t expect to be chosen. I mean, all of the usual suspects showed up, you know, the cheerleaders and supermodel wannabes, everyone clutching their portfolios. I didn’t have a portfolio, just the application and some majorly sweaty palms.

  I was only there because I needed a job. Those child-support checks were getting few and far between, and quite frankly, I was sick of begging for them. Believe me, I never took the modeling part seriously. I’m not like all the other girls in my school carrying around composite shots and taking voice lessons. That’s the funny thing about California, life somehow becomes one long audition. Anyway, for whatever reason, they picked me and I’ve been working here ever since. The modeling part was fun, I’ll admit, but when it was over I didn’t really miss it. This isn’t the most exciting job, but it’s decent. I mean I get to work with nice people and I get a good discount on clothes.

  Well, a couple of months ago the managers here transferred me from the Junior Department over to Women’s. They told me they thought I was very mature and could handle a more professional group. That really cracked me up. I mean, I never really think of myself as being mature. But I have to admit I like being over here. The women I work with are really nice. They worry about me and give me advice. I usually don’t like it when people act like that with me, like I need help or something, but it is kind of nice when these ladies try to make it easier. The other difference about working over here is how these customers, who are like my mom’s age, talk so freely about their cheating husbands and plastic surgeries. I just give them a sympathetic look, and vow to never grow old.