Текст книги "Backlash"

Автор книги: Sarah Darer Littman

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

EVER SINCE I can remember we’ve had a Sunday afternoon family football-watching ritual. If Mom makes appointments to show a house during game time, Dad gets mad because he says it’s supposed to be our “sacred time” or whatever. Mom’s a bigger believer in the sacred principle of making money and paying the bills – at least that’s what she says whenever they fight about it, which is often.

But today, the sacred gathering around the big screen is on – well, kind of. At least we’re all in the same room, sitting around in front of the television, with the game on, pretending that we’re watching it together. Bree checks her cell phone every few minutes. Mom has her iPad on her lap to check work emails and browse real estate websites, but she’s smart enough to look up and comment about game plays often enough to keep Dad happy.

I don’t know why Dad insists on this whole family football deal. If you ask me, everyone would be a whole lot happier if he just let us do our own thing. But gathering around the TV to watch guys throw the pigskin is Dad’s thing with a capital T. So we do it.

The camera focuses in on the cheerleaders, who are totally hot in their short shorts, crop tops, and knee-high leather boots.

“Don’t they get cold when the game’s in, like, November?” I ask. “I mean, they’re not exactly, you know, wearing a lot.”

“Is that so?” Dad chuckles, glancing over at Mom. “I can’t say I noticed.”

My mother makes a pfft sound and rolls her eyes.

“That reminds me, cheerleading tryouts are this week,” she says to Bree. “Do you want to go through your routine with me before dinner?”

“No,” Bree says right away.

She couldn’t be more obvious about wanting to kill that idea in a hurry.

Still, I don’t blame Bree. Mom’s a frustrated cheerleader. She shows up at all the games with the school colors painted on her cheeks, like she’s trying to live out her regret that she didn’t make the cheerleading squad in high school through my sister. It makes me want to crawl under the bleachers – but if I say anything, she’s like, “Come on, don’t you have any school spirit?”

“Why not, Bree?” Mom persists.

“I just don’t, okay?”

“Bree, I —”

“Can’t this wait till halftime?” Dad says.

I can’t tell if he’s really upset that we can’t hear the commentator, or if he’s trying to shut them down before this turns into World War III, like so many conversations between Bree and Mom do these days.

“Yeah, it totally can,” Bree says, giving Mom a pointed look. “I’m gonna make some popcorn.”

“Don’t forget the butter,” I remind her.

“Not too much,” Mom says. “It’s already butter flavored.”

“But that’s fake butter,” I complain. “Real butter tastes better.”

Bree makes a disgusted noise and escapes to the kitchen to avoid the butter war.

Dad says, “Can we go for five minutes without arguing about something so I can actually watch the game? Timer starting … now.”

He looks at his watch. I turn my attention back to the game. Dad must be feeling lucky today. I’m pretty sure the longest we’ve ever gone without an argument is three minutes, ten seconds.

IF THE mayor’s speech goes on much longer I’m going to fall asleep on the stage. And seeing as how there are photographers from local papers and online news sites here, that will not go down well with Mom. Or His Honor, Mayor Robinson. But seriously, how many political speeches can one teenager be expected to stay awake for at a single event? So far we’re at eight and counting … Any more have got to count as cruel and unusual punishment.

It would be one thing if they actually said something interesting. But every single speech consists of the politician thanking all the other politicians and the people gathered to listen, before wrapping up with five minutes or more of bland generalizations about how proud they are to serve and democracy is great and blah blah blah God bless our town and the United States of America.

Because we’re in the front row, I can’t even check Facebook or Instagram or even send #Imbored selfies to my friends. I have to try to stay awake and look attentive, like the perfect politician’s daughter.

Syd, who is on the other side of Dad, looks like she’s struggling, too. We exchange a glance of mutual misery. I hope none of the photographers catch it. If they do, we’re going to be the ones who catch it from Mom.

When the thing is finally over, Mom makes us go over and say hi to the mayor.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” he says. “Two beautiful young ladies you’ve got there, Kathy.”

Mom gives him her high-wattage smile.

“I know. Smart, too.”

“Just like their mother,” the mayor says.

Gross. Political flirting, and in front of Dad, too.

One of the photographers asks if he can take a picture of us with the mayor.

So we pose with him – the perfect Kelley family. #LOL

“Can I take a picture with you?” I ask Mayor Robinson. I figure if I have to sit through hours of political speeches then I should at least have something to show for it.

Mom shoots me a disapproving look, but the mayor laughs.

“Sure,” he says. “If world leaders can do these cell-phone selfies, then I reckon it’s okay for Mayor Robinson of Lake Hills.”

I stand next to him and take a picture of us with my phone. When I check it, I realize Syd has photobombed it – there’s half of her face with a cheesy grin and one of her hands giving a thumbs-up.

But I can’t yell at her because we’re being a Perfect Family, and Perfect Siblings don’t argue with each other – especially not in front of the mayor and the assembled press, who have just snapped pictures of him and me taking a selfie.

“Thanks, Mayor Robinson,” I say.

“My pleasure,” he tells me, smiling.

We’re all smiling around here. My face hurts from having to smile so much.

While Mom drags Dad around for more political chitchat, Syd and I retreat to a corner and check our phones. I post my pic on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtag #chillinwithMayorRobinson.

And I count the minutes until we can go home.

“WOW, SHE’S turned into such a show-off,” I say when I see Lara’s #chillinwithMayorRobinson picture on Instagram.

“Who?” Mom asks.

“Lara,” I tell her, handing her my phone.

She reaches for her glasses, but she can’t find them. I don’t tell her they’re on the top of her head, because it’s kind of funny watching her look for them when they’re right there.

“What does it say?” she asks.

“Chilling with Mayor Robinson,” I say, disgusted.

“Is that Sydney in the background?” Mom asks.

I look closer. “Yeah, looks like she photobombed it.”

“Let me see,” Liam says.

He studies it intently. “I wonder if Syd posted anything,” Liam says, pulling out his phone to check.

“Hand it over here,” Dad says, dragging his attention away from the game. “I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Why does she always have to brag about hanging out with the mayor?” I say. “She’s always posting pictures of them at the grand opening of some new restaurant or whatever.”

“It’s part of being a political family,” Dad says. “I bet you anything Pete Kelley would rather be hanging out watching the game than listening to speeches.”

“Maybe …,” Mom says. “But Kathy’s gotten pretty full of herself since she got elected to the city council.”

“She seems the same to me,” Liam says.

“That’s because you don’t have to deal with her in business,” Mom says. “I’ve been lobbying her about the tax breaks that would benefit my clients since I worked my butt off to help get that woman elected. Now that she’s in office does she help me, her friend and constituent? All I get are excuses about ‘balancing developer interests with environmental concerns.’ ”

Dad and Liam aren’t close enough to hear her when she mutters “The two-faced …” Her voice fades away before I can hear the end of that sentence. But it shocks me to hear her say something so horrid about Lara’s mom.

Still, at least she’s stopped nagging me about showing her my cheerleading routine.

I forward the picture to Marci and Jenny. #whoyouchillinwith #notthemayor

Jenny sends us back a selfie of her and her dog. #chillinwithBailey

Marci sends a picture of herself with a mannequin at Victoria’s Secret. #chillinwiththePinkdummy

Making a joke out of it makes me feel better. Like I don’t have to be jealous of Lara anymore.

WHEN BREE tells Mom she’s thinking of skipping cheerleading tryouts at dinner Tuesday night, you’d think Bree announced she’d killed someone by the way Mom reacts.

“What do you mean you don’t want to try out for cheerleading?”

Mom sounds like her head is about to explode. She’s been sending Bree to cheerleading camp since she was practically old enough to walk. When Bree was on JV last year, Mom was at every game taking pictures and video.

“I was just thinking … maybe I want to try something else,” Bree says, but now she sounds a little less sure. “Like dance team.”

“When you have the chance to make varsity cheerleading?” Mom nearly shouts. “Why would you do that?”

Bree looks to me for support, but I’m not about to stick my neck into this fight. Mom’s like one of those crazy stage moms, except it’s about cheerleading. And it’s not like she even made the squad herself.

“I’m bored of cheerleading,” Bree whines. “I’ve been doing it forever.”

“You want to give up because you’re bored?” Mom says. “You’re never going to get anywhere in life if you drop things the minute you get bored, Breanna.”

Uh-oh … Here we go … We’re in for another lecture about how we have it so easy and we need to get some grit, otherwise we’re not going to succeed at college, jobs, life, you name it. We might as well just give up and die because we’re so freaking soft and lazy. Okay, maybe she doesn’t go that far, but the whole time Mom’s on one of these rants you start feeling worse and worse about yourself. You just wait for it to be over so you can escape to your room, put on headphones, and listen to music that lifts you up again.

Except now I’m stuck at the dinner table and Dad’s working late tonight, so he’s not here to cut Mom off, which he does when she starts getting out of hand. So thanks to Bree, I have to listen to the full-length tirade.

Bree stares at her plate, picking at her food with her fork.

“Colleges and employers don’t take kindly to quitters, Bree,” Mom continues. “I want you to think about that before you make an irrational decision.”

If Dad were here, I could ask him if people really look at what you did after school in high school when you apply for a job. He’s okay with those kinds of questions. But Mom takes it badly when you dispute her Truth. Very badly. So I don’t.

But I kind of wish that Bree would. I mean, this is her life. Her fight. If she really wants to try out for dance team, then why doesn’t she speak up instead of letting Mom lecture her out of it?

Whatever. I eat as fast as I can and ask to be excused, leaving Bree to fight her own battles. Or not.

I’M SO nervous the morning of cheerleading tryouts I can barely eat.

“Are you sure this is a good idea if it’s making you so stressed you’re losing your appetite?” Mom asks.

“I’m fine!” I snap at her, and shove a few more spoonfuls of cereal I’m not really hungry for into my mouth just to prove it to her.

Syd slams her cereal bowl down on the table.

“What’s the matter?” Mom asks.

“Nothing,” Syd says. She pours her cereal and milk and starts eating with quiet determination, ignoring Mom and me.

My sister is such a drama queen. But at least Mom’s annoyed at her now, so I manage to finish breakfast and get out the door to catch the bus without her giving me any more grief about trying out for cheerleading.

Bree is waiting at the bus stop when I get there. She nods hello as I walk up. There was a time when we would have started talking nonstop the minute we saw each other, even though we’d been texting and chatting for hours the night before. But that was before we got to high school, and she decided I wasn’t worth being friends with anymore. She started hanging out with Marci Liptak and Jenny Cole, two “cool girls” who had gone to the other middle school. Bree made it very clear I wasn’t invited when they went to the mall or the movies.

That wasn’t the best time of my life. But I’ve moved on, too.

“Hey,” I say. “You going to cheerleading tryouts after school?”

Bree looks surprised that I’d ask. I guess it is kind of a dumb question, because she was on JV cheerleading last year, and she’s been doing cheerleading practically since she could walk.

“Yeah,” she sighs.

“Me too,” I tell her.

Her look of surprise turns to shock.

“You’re trying out for cheerleading? Why?”

“Why not?” I say. “I’ve always wanted to do it. I just wasn’t in good enough … you know, shape to do it before.”

What I mean is that Lardosaurus would never have been allowed on the cheerleading team. But I’m not her anymore. I’ve changed.

“But it’s not like you know any moves or anything.”

“That’s not true. You taught me, remember?”

Bree shrugs, because it’s true. Back when we were friends, the minute she’d get home from cheerleading camp, we’d get together and she’d show me what she learned that day. I begged my parents to send me to the same camp, but they wouldn’t. They thought I should be more “well rounded.” But I think the real reason was because Mom was afraid I was too rounded.

“Well, good luck,” she says as the bus pulls up. She doesn’t sound like she means it.

“You too,” I tell her, but it’s to her back because she’s already getting on the bus. She goes to sit in the back with someone else, making clear that our mutual cheerleading tryout isn’t something to re-bond over.

Whatever. I tried. I guess you can’t repair some friendships, no matter what.

“Hey, if you’re not going to eat your potato chips, can I have some?” Julisa asks me at lunch.

“Me too,” Luis, her twin brother, says. “What’s with you anyway? You buggin’ about something?”

I hand him the bag of potato chips. “Share them with Julisa. And yeah, I’m bugging about cheerleading tryouts.”

“Oh yeah, they’re today, right?” Julisa says.

“Yup. I’m soooooooo scared I’m going to mess up,” I tell them.

Luis observes me intently as he crunches on a mouthful of potato chips.

“What?” I ask.

“I just don’t see it. Why are you trying out for cheerleading?” he asks. “You don’t seem the type.”

Is he saying I’m too fat to be a cheerleader?

That’s the first thought that goes through my head. I cross my arms defensively over my belly to hide it from his view.

“I mean, going from yearbook and debate club to trying out for varsity cheerleading?” he continues. “That’s … different.”

“Shut up, Luis,” Julisa says. “Lara can do whatever she wants.”

“I’m not saying she can’t,” he says, keeping his brown eyes trained on me. “I’m just curious. Why?”

Luis and Julisa also went to the other middle school in town. They don’t know the sad, painful history of Lardosaurus, and the last thing I feel like doing is going on an archaeological dig so they do. I don’t want to explain that, for me, getting on the cheerleading team would mean that Lardo was well and truly gone and that all the hard work I did to get in shape was worth it.

“It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” I tell him. “And I guess I figured … now or never.”

“Good for you, Lara,” Julisa says. “Go for it. You’ll be awesome.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you will be,” Luis says, even though I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t get why I’m doing it. “Good luck.”

When the bell finally rings and it’s time for tryouts, I go down to the locker rooms to change into my shorts and T-shirt. Even though I’ve lost weight, I still get really self-conscious changing in public, worrying that everyone is still looking at me and thinking, Lardosaurus.

“Are you new?” the girl next to me asks. “I don’t remember you on JV last year.”

“I was here at Lake Hills, but I wasn’t on JV,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she says. “What made you decide to try out this year?”

“I’ve always wanted to,” I confess. “And I finally got up the courage. Well, except that I’m so nervous now I’m not so sure about the courage part.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” she says. “My name’s Ashley, by the way.”

“I’m Lara,” I tell her as I bend to tie the laces on my sneakers.

“Well, good luck!” She heads off into the gym with a bounce in her step, looking way more confident than I feel.

I walk over to the sinks and take a final look in the mirror, making sure my hair is neatly tied up so it won’t get in my face when I do tumbles.

Bree completely ignores me when I walk into the gym. Whatever. I’m here to try out for the Lake Hills High Varsity Team, and I’m not about to let Bree Connors psych me out. I just hope I make it.

“DON’T FORGET to text me,” Mom says for what must be the twentieth time since we left the house.

“Omigod, Mom, I will,” I snap, slamming the car door on whatever else she was about to say, because I’m so sick of her nagging me.

She cares more about me making the varsity cheerleading team than I do.

Because Mom didn’t make it as a cheerleader in high school, it’s super important to her that I do. Ever since I can remember, she’s told the story of the Mean Girls and the Evil Coach who came between her and her dream of wearing a short skirt and waving pom-poms. It was her favorite fairy tale, but without the usual happily-ever-after ending.

“But it toughened me up” was how the story ended instead. “It gave me the grit that made me the successful real estate broker I am today.”

Still, when I made JV last year you’d think I’d gotten into Harvard she was so excited. She took me out shopping at the mall and then for frozen yogurt to celebrate. I began to wonder if she’d be half as excited if I actually got into Harvard, not that there’s the slightest chance that will ever happen.

The whole reason she drove me today instead of making me take the bus is because Ms. Carlucci might post the list before school, and she wanted to make sure I got in early enough to check. Personally, I could have waited until lunch, but I’ll take any excuse not to have to ride the bus.

Marci and Jenny are hanging out on the wall near the front door, playing Fashion Firing Squad before the bell rings.

“Hey,” I say, settling my butt on the cool concrete next to Marci.

“What’s up? Awesome day, right?” Marci says. “Well, it would be if I didn’t have to look at Maribel Agesta’s muffin top explosion. Ugh.”

“Seriously,” Jenny groans. “Doesn’t she look in the mirror before she leaves for school?”

I wonder what they said about my outfit before I walked into earshot, or if being their friend gives me a pass from judgment. The thing is, even if Marci and Jenny aren’t judging me, I know there’s always someone at our school who will. You walk into the wild jungle of judgment every time you open the door to the student center.

“Check out Tim Daniels. He’s expecting a flood,” Marci says. “I think he’s been wearing the same pair of jeans since sixth grade.”

“And that shirt – did he get it at Nerdcrombie?”

Marci laughs at Jenny’s lame joke. They both look at me because I’m not laughing. They expect me to say something – to agree, to make fun of him, too.

The thing is, even though he wears the same pair of high-waters every day and he’s kind of strange, Tim’s okay. Last year when I was struggling with algebra, he helped me with my homework in study hall a bunch of times.

Still, if it’s a choice between Tim Daniels and me, guess who’s getting thrown under the bus?

I giggle, but it’s a couple seconds too late.

“What’s with you this morning, Bree?” Marci asks.

“Oh, I’m just nervous because the lists go up for cheerleading today,” I tell her, even though that’s not what’s really the matter.

I wonder: Is there anyone I can tell that sometimes I want to crawl out of my own skin and be a different person than who I am? Be someone other than the Breanna my mother wants me to be?

“Ohmigosh, when?” Jenny squeals. “I’m sure you’ll make it.”

“Not sure,” I mumble. “Maybe before school. Maybe during the day. Maybe not till after school.”

“Why aren’t you there checking now?” Marci asks.

I don’t have a good answer. So I pick up my book bag and stand up.

“I guess I better go and look before the bell rings.”

“Good luck!” Jenny calls after me.

I’m not sure if I want it. Because I secretly half hope I don’t make it, even though it would suck if I didn’t because it would just give Mom another reason to think I’m not good enough. What I really want is to make it, and then tell Mom I’m not going to do it. That I’m going to try out for the dance team, no matter what she says.

If I could actually get up the courage to do it.

I can see from down the hall that there’s nothing posted on the cheerleading trophy cabinet yet, so I turn around to head to my first-period class. Lara Kelley is coming down the hallway, obviously going to check if the lists are up. I could tell her that they aren’t yet, but I don’t. I just nod in her general direction and keep walking.

I can’t believe we were best friends once, running back and forth between each other’s houses like there were no doors to stop us and sharing secrets up in the tree fort. I’d been so excited when Mom sold the Kelleys that house and told me a girl my age was going to live there. Dad always used to look over at the big oak tree in our backyard when we had cookouts and say how it would be great for a tree fort. Mom would laugh and say she’d never trust us in a structure that Dad built up in a tree. It was different somehow when Lara’s dad said the same thing. Dad said, “That’s what I’ve always said,” and Mom suddenly changed her mind. Our dads worked together on the tree fort for months, and all these years later it’s still standing.

That’s more than you can say for our friendship. Everything is different now. Awkward. Ever since seventh grade when Lara got all crazy and depressed, and I had to spend night after night listening to her go on about her awful life. High school gave me a chance to break free.

Now she’s lost all this weight and tried out for cheerleading. Why is she trying to force her way back into my life? I’ve made other friends now. Like, I’m happy for her that she’s managed to get her act together and all that, but I’ve moved on. Can’t she get a life of her own?

Mom texts during second period, asking if the list is posted yet.

No. STOP. I’LL TXT YOU! : /

I press Send.

Shouldn’t she be busy selling houses or doing her volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity or whatever? She should know better than to text me during school anyway.

I’m trying to pay attention while Ms. Blackstock reads from Julius Caesar, “ ‘A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities, but Brutus makes mine greater than they are.’ ”

She tells us that means Caesar thinks friends are supposed to put up with their friends’ faults, but that Brutus exaggerates all of Caesar’s.

It makes me wonder if that’s how Lara feels about me. It’s not that I didn’t feel bad about pulling away from her when we got to high school. But seriously, I’m not exaggerating what she was like in middle school. The girl was totally cray-cray.

How long do you put up with someone’s faults before you get sick of it and give up? I totally get why Brutus stuck it to Caesar. If you ask me, Brutus got a raw deal. The play should have been named for him.

I check to see if the list is up again during lunch. It’s not. I send Mom a text telling her that so she doesn’t text me during class again.

What’s the matter with Coach Carlucci? This is her JOB, Mom texts back. Maybe I’ll call her.

NO!!!! DON’T!!!!!!!!!!!!! I text back.

Ugh. My mother isn’t just a Tiger Mom. She’s a freaking Great White Shark Mom. She should have her own week on the Discovery Channel.

By the time the end-of-school bell rings, Mom’s texted me three more times, even though I told her I’d text her as soon as I knew anything. You’d think it was her who was waiting to hear if she was going to make cheerleading, not me.

When I walk down to the trophy cabinet, there’s already a bunch of girls hanging around the list. Lara is one of them, and I hear her let out a shriek as I approach the group. I’m not sure if it’s of disappointment or excitement, but then she turns around and starts jumping up and down. It makes my stomach clench tighter as I draw closer to read the names.

They’re in alphabetical order and … there’s no Connors. It skips from Chapman to Dresner. I read it twice, just to make sure. There’s Kelley, Lara. But no Connors, Breanna.

I can’t believe it. Am I being punked? Lara made the squad and I didn’t? This is just wrong.

Lara is talking to Ashley Trapasso, a junior on the team, and she is all giggly and happy. As if she senses my gaze, Lara looks in my direction and laughs.

Seriously?! After all the time I spent listening to her whine about how much her life sucked, she has the nerve to laugh at me when I get cut from cheerleading? I turn on my heel and head out of there. I feel my phone buzzing – probably another text from the Great White Shark. I ignore it. I can barely handle myself right now. The one thing I do know is that someday, somehow, I am going to make Lara pay for laughing at me when my life sucks after all those times I listened to her whine when hers did.

When I get home I fling myself onto my bed and blast music and decide to repaint my nails. I can’t believe I didn’t make the team, even if deep down, there’s a part of me that’s relieved, because now I have an excuse for not doing cheerleading. But I just can’t believe Lardo made the team over me. Something has to be seriously wrong with the universe for that to happen.

My phone is buzzing constantly. Mom’s probably flipping out, wanting to know if I made the team. But I’m not up for the sigh, the rant, the way she’ll make this all about her. Because this isn’t about her. It’s about me. And Lara. And her laughing at me for getting cut. This is about me figuring out how to get my revenge for that, somehow. The question is: How?

“Bree!” my brother shouts from downstairs. “Pick up the freaking phone! Mom wants to talk to you!!”

Guess I can’t avoid talking to the Great White Shark Mom any longer. Time to be reminded of what a disappointment I am. Always such fun.

“Yeah,” I say when I pick up the phone.

“Breanna, your father and I don’t pay for you to have a cell phone so you can play stupid apps. We pay for it so we can communicate with you when we need to. That means you pick up the phone when we call and answer our texts when we text. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“So? What happened? Why have you been avoiding me?”

I take a deep breath and exhale the answer into the phone. “BecauseIdidn’tmakeit.”

“What do you mean you didn’t make it?”

“I mean, I’m not a varsity cheerleader. I got cut.”

“That can’t happen!” Mom shouts into my ear. “I paid for all those camps! You were on junior varsity! You can’t get cut!”

“Apparently I can, Mom,” I point out. “My name wasn’t on the list.”

“Did you go to Coach Carlucci and ask her why?” Mom asks.

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” Mom asks. She’s sounding increasingly irritated, and I can tell that she’s winding up for a lecture.

“I didn’t feel like it, okay? I just wanted to come home.”

“You didn’t feel like it?” Mom repeats in a scathing tone. “You have to start advocating for yourself, Breanna. You’ll never get anywhere in life if you stay a doormat.”

“Wow, thanks for the pep talk, Mom,” I say, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “You always know just what to say to make me feel better.”

And I hang up on her.

Picking up the nail polish and turning my music back up to loud, I finish painting my nails bright red and start adding glitter stripes.

“Hey, can you turn that down or use headphones?” Liam says, sticking his head into my room. “I’m trying to do homework.”

“Can you do it? I don’t want to ruin my nails.”

My brother rolls his eyes and grunts but stomps into my room to reduce the volume on my Jambox. And just before he does, I hear the chorus of the song that was playing:

You said you loved me, but it was all a liiiie.

Now I’m so lonely, all I do is crrrry.

That’s when I get the idea. The genius idea of how I’m going to get my revenge on Lara for laughing at me.

The first step is to set up a new Gmail account. That takes all of, like, two minutes. Then I use the new Gmail account to open a new Facebook account. I search Google images for a really hot guy, the kind of guy I know that Lara would think is gorgeous. The kind she’d totally flip out over if he showed the faintest bit of interest in her.

This is where I have an advantage from being her former best friend. I know her taste in guys. We used to sit in the food court at the mall, rating guys on a scale of one to ten. She’d sigh every time we went into Abercrombie, because the models were so hot. Not that it did her any good. The salespeople in that store looked down their noses at her because she was overweight. She usually ended up more depressed after we went in there, and then I’d have to hear about it. It got to the point that if I wanted anything from Abercrombie, I’d make sure to go there with ABL – Anyone But Lara.

I end up picking an Abercrombie model, but just his face, because he’s got to look like he’s still in high school and there aren’t that many guys at our high school who have washboard abs like this dude. His name’s Adam Bernard, but I create a new identity for him. I search for some other pictures of him and upload them so it looks like he has a reasonable profile. On his new fake Facebook profile, I call him Christian. Christian DeWitt. He goes to East River High, which is about an hour away from here – far enough that Lara wouldn’t know him and close enough that she’d think they might have a chance of meeting someday. I give him some of the same musical and TV likes as she has and then have him friend me. I send a bunch of friend requests from him to other kids I know at our school, and then a whole bunch to freshmen and sophomores at East River High. East River is a big school and he’s supposed to be a senior there, so they might not know him, and since he’s good-looking I figure they’ll probably just friend him.

Sure enough, by the time I finish my homework, Christian already has 150 friends. That’s when I figure it’s safe for him to send the friend request to Lara.