Keeping Secrets: Two Books in One: Saving Zoe and Faking 19 Page 4

  The store is dead on Friday nights. I guess most people have better things to do than shop. So after I refold all the cashmere sweaters and try on a few leather jackets, I pretty much spend the rest of the time making a list of the five things Richard Branson and I would be doing during a Virgin transatlantic flight. Canoodling is at the top. I don’t really know what it means but they’re always accusing Julia Roberts of it in People magazine so I figure it must be good.

  My phone rings and it’s my friend Blake calling from the Men’s Suits Department where he works. Blake was on the Teen Board the year before me, he’s the one that got me into this. He’s also gay, but he’s way open about it so he’s definitely not going to mind my mentioning it.

  “Alex, what are you doing?” he asks.

  “Oh, just leaning on the cash register, staring into space, making lists. Hey, what does canoodling mean?”

  “It’s sexual.”

  “Yeah, but what exactly?”

  “Cuddling?”

  “Oh, is that all? Are you sure?” I ask.

  “No, I let my subscription to Teen People expire. Hey, what are you doing later? Do you want to get a coffee or something?”

  “Well, I told M I’d meet her at the baseball game tonight.” I lean against the cash register and look in the mirror.

  I can practically hear Blake rolling his eyes when he says, “You did not just say that. A baseball game?”

  “Yeah, it’s a night game, but it should be over by the time I get there. God willing. Wanna go?” I ask.

  “Honey I am never going back to that place.”

  Blake graduated a year ago.

  “And I can’t believe you’d choose sports over me. C’mon, I’ll even pay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well in that case . . .”

  At about ten minutes to nine I start closing out my register. I count the change as quietly as I can because the management here doesn’t like it when you start early. Then I just stand there until exactly nine o’clock and then I bolt upstairs to deposit the money. I see Blake on my way up. We both look at each other and then we start tearing for it, I mean, really running. I’m gaining on him big time until my heel catches on something and I go soaring and crashing. But I’m not hurt. I just lay there laughing on the floor, right next to some home furnishings display. Blake feels bad for me so he comes over to see if I’m okay. I give him my hand so he’ll help me up, and then right when we touch I pull him down and I jump up and beat him to the deposit spot.

  He walks up behind me, rubbing his elbow, and saying, “I can’t believe you’d cheat like that.”

  And I go, “Yeah, well, I really do have ambition, it’s just usually about all the wrong things.”

  So we end up in this generic coffee place somewhere between work and home. It tries to be hip but it’s really not that cool, and I’m not even going to mention the name because there’s already one on every corner and they don’t need me to advertise for them.

  I order a decaf latte, and try not to feel bad about ditching M. But let’s face it, I barely go to school during the day, why would I go at night?

  “So what’s new with Ronette?” I ask as we sit down. She’s the manager of the Men’s department. Her real name is Rhonda but we secretly call her Ronette, because she has totally retro hair, and, well, she’s kind of a bitch.

  “Honey, I can’t wait to give her my two weeks notice,” Blake shakes his head and takes a bite of his almond biscotto.

  “When are you leaving for Parsons?” It’s a question I’ve avoided asking.

  “Soon. June.”

  “What?” I practically choke on my latte, that’s only three months away.

  “I want to spend the summer there. You know, find an apartment. Get settled in, check out the scene.”

  I sit there staring at him. “Um, not to be selfish or anything, but what am I going to do without you?”

  “Come with me.” His oversize coffee mug hides most of his face, but his eyes are right on mine.

  “If only.” I look down at my cup and put my head in my hands. I don’t have the talent for design like Blake does. I don’t have any talent. It feels like everything is creeping up and closing in. I wish I could just stop time until I was ready for it to happen.

  “Have you been accepted anywhere yet?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, concern in his voice.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I look up at Blake and give what I hope will come off as a confident smile.

  “Alex, you’re smart and talented. You can do anything you want,” he says.

  “Oh, please,” I shake my head. “Nobody wants me. Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s one loser school that kind of wants me, but yesterday I found out that my grades suck so bad that I no longer qualify for a scholarship. And if they don’t get better then I won’t qualify for admission. And they’re even trying to tell me that I might not get out of high school, but there’s no way that’s true. They’re just trying to freak me out. Oh yeah, and I called my dad to ask for help but he won’t call me back.”

  “Why won’t he call you?”

  I shrug. “I guess he’s just really really busy.”

  “So, why don’t you visit him at his office or something?”

  “Because if he says no, then what will I do?”

  “Why would he say no?”

  “Because, for the seventeen and a half years that I’ve known him, he’s said it an awful lot.” I stop and take a sip of my coffee. “But he owes me this, he really does.”

  “Alex—”

  I hold up my hand. “Could we please not talk about it?”

  “All right.” He gives me a concerned look and says, “I just want you to know that you have more options than you think.”

  Chapter 7

  So instead of going home and writing my paper, I stop by M’s to see if she’s there because I feel kinda bad about not showing up at the baseball game. And as I park on the street and get out of my car, I wonder why the promises I make to other people always become more important than the ones I make to myself.

  As I walk toward the front door I hope that her parents aren’t home. I guess they’re not that bad, but it’s always better when they’re not around. I mean, M’s mom really doesn’t do much except think about her weight, it’s like she’s a professional size two or something. And M’s dad makes me call him “Doctor” because he is one. Still, what an ego. I mean, he’s a plastic surgeon doctor, not a real doctor. He saves noses, not lives.

  So M opens the door and says, “Hey what happened? You weren’t at the game.”

  “I had coffee with Blake,” I tell her as I walk inside and head for the living room ‘cause that’s where we always hang out. When I hear a voice I stop and look at M and whisper, “Are your parents here?”

  M shakes her head, “No, it’s just Tiffany.”

  “What? Why?” I stand in the hall. Tiffany is my least favorite of all of M’s fellow cheerleaders.

  “She had to pick up a sweater I borrowed at the game last week, and now she won’t leave. She’s wasted too, you’ve gotta see it,” M says as she pushes me into the living room.

  “Hey Alex!” Tiffany waves at me from the couch.

  “Hey Tiff, what’s up.” I plop myself onto an overstuffed armchair and grab one of the beers sitting on the table.

  “Well,” she slurs, “I was just telling M that I’m totally considering breaking up with Dylan, even though I totally love him.”

  M shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and picks up the remote control for the stereo. And I’m left with no choice except to ask, “Why are you breaking up if you still love him?”

  “Because I’m so sick of him flirting with other girls.” She starts crying then and I look at M totally alarmed, but she has her eyes closed, singing along to some Alicia Keys CD.

  “He was totally flirting with Amber tonight, you should have se
en him. And I got so mad I just left without him. I even fell off the top of the pyramid, but he didn’t care.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask her. For some reason I’m genuinely concerned.

  “My arm kind of hurts, but the point is he didn’t even notice! And I love him. I love him so much, and I don’t understand why he always flirts with her. She’s not that pretty!”

  I just look at Tiffany and I want to tell her that life really isn’t one long beauty contest. That everyone’s just trying to find what makes them feel good, but I don’t say anything. I just hand her a tissue, and wish she’d stop talking because she’s really starting to depress me.

  Then she clutches her stomach and says, “Oh, I don’t feel so good.” And I watch her run for the bathroom.

  M opens her eyes and goes, “Dammit. She better make it in time, ‘cause I’m not cleaning that up.”

  “How much did she drink?” I ask.

  “Three of those empty bottles are hers. I’ve been putting up with this shit for like an hour now and I’m totally over it.” M sits up and puts down the remote and looks at me. “Tiffany is such a loser. She’s all upset over some retard jock. I swear, high school is so small time. I am so over it.” She shakes her head and takes a sip of her beer.

  I look up then to see Tiffany standing in the doorway and at first I’m afraid she might have heard us. But she just goes, “M will you take me home? I don’t think I should drive.”

  Tiffany’s clutching her stomach and she looks pretty bad, but when I look at M she looks really mad, so before she can say anything I go, “I’ll take you home Tiffany. I was just getting ready to leave anyway.”

  I take one last sip of my beer and grab my purse and guide her out the front door to my old Karmann Ghia that used to belong to my sister. I put her in the passenger seat and buckle her in and she just sits there with her eyes closed. And even though throwing up didn’t make her sober, I’m thankful that it made her quieter.

  When we get to her house her eyes are still closed and I can’t tell if she’s passed out or dead of alcohol poisoning. So I tap her softly on the shoulder and say, “Tiffany, wake up. You’re home.”

  And then she opens her eyes and bolts out of my car and runs straight for her mother’s prized rose bushes where she vomits orange all over them for like the next five minutes.

  I get out of my car and watch her and I’m torn between being totally grossed out, and hoping that her parents don’t wake up, see this mess, and hold me responsible.

  When she’s finished I hand her another tissue and walk her to the door and assure her that she’ll feel much better in the morning, which is a total lie because once the hangover sets in, it will be much worse.

  As I’m driving home I look at all the sleeping houses, all locked up and tidy until morning. And from the outside everything looks so protected, so safe. But you just never know what kind of lives are being lived in those houses. I mean, you just never really know anyone. Like Tiffany, it was weird watching her break down like that. It’s not that I thought she was without feelings, it’s just that at school she always acts so perfect and together, like nothing bad ever happens to her. So it was really surprising to see her crying over some guy and heaving in the rose bushes.

  And I remember how I used to be like Tiffany. How I used to care about the things that happened at school. How I used to be part of that ruling class of cool kids that spend most of their time making everyone else feel bad about not belonging. I used to take it seriously too. But then my parents started regressing, and messing up at all of the things they were supposed to be guiding me through, and it forced me into a whole new set of problems. I mean, once you start worrying about your mom’s mortgage payment, you can’t really worry about Sadie Hawkins with the same intensity that you used to.

  So when I get home the first thing I do is go into my room and check my messages: nothing. No one called. Not even Connor. But it’s only been a day. Usually guys wait longer than that, right? Well, unless you’re M. When you’re M, they’re dialing your number before you even get home.

  But my dad didn’t call either so that means I’m gonna have to call him again. And I can’t believe it’s gotten to the point where I’m dependent on the one person I could never depend on.

  I dial his number with a shaky hand, and when it goes into voice mail I leave the same stupid message as last night.

  Then I put on an old T-shirt with a faded picture of Lisa Simpson, and instead of starting my paper, I lie on my bed and look at this month’s Vogue. I fall asleep wishing I looked like Gisele Bundchen.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday afternoon I’m staring at the cover of Anna Karenina and a blank piece of paper when M calls. “Alex, did Tiffany barf again on the way home?”

  “No, she was fine,” I lie. For some reason I don’t feel like telling her about the rose bushes.

  “Well she missed the toilet, and the poor maid had to clean it up.”

  “So why didn’t you do it if you felt so bad for her?” I put down the book and pick at a hole that’s forming on the knee of my sweatpants.

  “Yeah, right. Oh my god, I forgot to tell you. Tiffany totally fell off the top of the pyramid last night!” M is cracking up. “You should have seen it! She just went flying off the top and hit the ground!”

  “Yeah. She mentioned it. But she seemed fine,” I say.

  “She seemed fine because she was so drunk she was feeling no pain.”

  “You mean she was drunk at the game?”

  “Big time . . . Amber brought these little water bottles full of vodka for everyone, and they were all like totally guzzling in the parking lot before the game. But I gave mine to Tiffany because I don’t like vodka without juice, and she totally downed that too. Everyone was fine except her. She can’t handle drinking. What do you bet she shows up Monday morning in a neck brace or something? I swear she did it on purpose.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not really. I think she was trying to get Dylan’s attention, but he didn’t even notice.”

  “Why are you guys doing pyramids at a baseball game anyway?” I ask. Everything cheerleaders do is a mystery to me.

  “Because school’s almost over, it’s our last chance. So anyway, listen, there’s a major party tonight in LA and we’re invited.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, that guy that I met at the gallery, the one in the plaid pants? It’s at his house.”

  “Did you remember his name yet?”

  “As far as I’m concerned it’s Plaid Pants because I still don’t know it.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, really. When he called he just said, ‘Hey,’ and I went, ‘Hey’ and I totally missed my chance to say ‘Who is this?’”

  “Well, how did you know it was him?”

  “The accent, he’s British. Anyway he’s having some big bash and he told me to bring a friend if I want. Are you in?”

  “I guess,” I walk across my room, peer into the mirror, and hold up the back of my hair, wondering if I should cut it.

  “What do you mean? You’ve got something better to do?”

  “Well, I really should write that stupid paper for English,” I say.

  “Do it tomorrow. C’mon Alex, it’s gonna be great.”

  “Well,” I twist my hair back really tight and try to imagine what I’d look like with a pixie cut, “I was kinda hoping that Connor would have called by now.”

  “He hasn’t called yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well forget him. There’s gonna be tons of hotties at this party tonight, we’ll find you a new one. Are you in?”

  “Yeah, I’m in.” I drop my hair and watch it fall, stopping just short of my waist.

  “Good. Apparently it started at noon, but I’ll pick you up at seven, we don’t want to look too eager.”

  When I hang up I’m in a total panic about what I’m gonna wear. M will just grab daddy’s plastic on her way to
the mall, but I don’t have that luxury, so I have to come up with something hip with what I’ve already got. I’m usually pretty good at this, you know necessity being the mother of invention and all. But today I’m a little short on inspiration. I put on a Hole CD and listen to Courtney scream about wanting the most cake. Yeah, me too. I crank up the volume and head down the hallway to my sister’s old room.

  Every time I look in her closet I’m amazed at all the clothes and shoes she left behind. I mean, it looks like she was in such a hurry to bail out of here that she didn’t bother to pack. I come across a slinky old prom dress of hers that still carries the faint scent of Obsession perfume, and run my fingers over the silky fabric remembering how she always used to spray that on her clothes so my parents wouldn’t know she’d been smoking.

  I pull off the sweatpants and tank top I’ve been wearing all day and slip the dress over my head. I’m the same size now that she was then so it fits perfectly. I stand in front of the mirror and gaze at my reflection. I like the shiny cream color and the deep V-neck and spaghetti straps. The only problem is the length, which is nearly to the floor, and since it’s not my prom night, that just won’t do.

  I gather the fabric around my waist, then I go back into my room where I put on these really cool, strappy, high-heeled sandals that I bought at a thrift shop last year and glued tiny silk flowers all over. I know it sounds kind of overdone, but trust me, it works. On top of my dresser is a little tiara barrette I bought in the children’s department at the store where I work. I pull the top part of my hair back, like J Lo does, and secure it. It might be a little too fairy princess, but I like it. So then I take everything off and lay it on my bed and get to work on hemming the dress.

  I like to sew. I learned how in my fourth grade Girl Scout troop. It’s probably the most useful skill they taught me besides making s’mores. I mean, since I love clothes and I don’t have much money, I mostly go to thrift stores, buy stuff cheap, then bring it home and tweak it. That way I never look exactly like everyone else because mine is one of a kind. I also find it calming. I like the hum of the machine when I do a really long seam.