I rub my forehead as the implication hits me. I’m being mean to an orphan. A family of orphans. And it doesn’t escape me that we’re both kind of in the same situation—two teenagers without any parents in the picture. My folks aren’t dead, but they might as well be, considering how often I see them.
“My turn again,” she says. She turns toward me, pulling a knee up onto the sofa and tucking her foot under a jean-clad thigh.
“Why are you doing this? Out of all the people in the world, I would think that you’d have the least amount of trouble finding someone to go out with—even a ‘normal’ person.” She air quotes the word normal.
It’s hard to hide that I’m fondling her hair when she’s staring at me, so I pull my arm away on the pretense of reaching for my beer, which tastes like warm piss.
“Everyone in LA says they want someone normal, whatever that is, but in the end they don’t because creative types are made differently, live differently. I’m crazy, and everybody else I run with is slightly crazy. You have to be to want to live in a fishbowl and have no privacy. Where ninety-nine percent of your relationships—whether they’re friendships or fuck buddies—are set up for publicity purposes.”
I throw back the rest of the warm-ass beer before continuing. “That’s a long way of answering your question, but the short answer is no normal girl can handle me.” Vaughn opens her mouth to object, but I barrel on. “I’m not saying it’s because I’m great, even though I am—”
She snickers.
“But it’s because she won’t be patient enough to understand there are times that I get so lost in the music I can’t remember to eat, drink or take a shit. All I want to do is sing and play my guitar until my fingers bleed and my voice is sore.” I can’t count the times that April would pound on my home studio door and whine that she was bored. “No normal girl is gonna be able to handle it when I go on tour and find a naked groupie in my hotel suite who got my room number from the bellhop she blew in the stairwell. No normal girl is gonna be able to stand the long concert tours unless she wants to come with, and I promise you by the third tour stop, she’ll be begging to be left behind because she’s tired of the long hours of doing jack shit followed by listening to the same damn set list followed by an endless amount of glad-handing with the tour promoters followed by another flight, bus ride, radio, print and television interview where the people ask the same damn question a million times. So that’s why you’re here and not someone else.”
She’s silent for a long time, and when she does open her mouth, she says something completely unexpected. “That was actually two long answers. Not a short one and a long one.”
“Does it answer your question?” I mutter.
Vaughn bites her bottom lip. “Yeah. It does.”
13
HER
1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 They were out together again? Any pics?
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 No! just the tweet from @OakleyFord.
1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 is it serious? R they going out together? Why no pics?
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 Ugh. I kno.
Notification of date number three doesn’t come from Claudia or Oakley. Instead, it’s a khaki-clad delivery guy who sticks a white box with a big black ribbon in my hands and orders me to sign here.
I barely scrawl the tip of my finger across the screen before he’s down the steps and climbing into his white delivery van.
“Thanks,” I call after him, but it’s a wasted effort.
Gingerly, I carry the box into the kitchen where I’ve been answering Tweets for the last two hours. Claudia sent me a message this morning ordering me to respond to my fans—the ones that made the cut before the account went private.
I have no fans. I have…girls who went crazy after Oakley Tweeted from his account that next time he’d remember to feed me.
If I could tell those girls the truth—that Oakley is a condescending jerk who thinks that normal girls can’t handle a guy like him because we’d be too jealous or impatient or unsympathetic—they’d move on to crushing on someone else.
One of them is already calling W hot. I had to force myself to delete a response that told the girl to keep her grubby mitts off my boyfriend. Because I’m not supposed to have a boyfriend.
I settled for Tweeting back responses like “I don’t know what’s happening, either” and “This is all new to me.”
Paisley called at noon to tell me how happy Claudia was with my performance. That put me in a bad mood, which this fancy box with its set of interlocking embossed GGs on the top only worsens.
I’m kind of scared to open it. The most designer thing I own is one of my mom’s Coach purses. Until a few days ago, I was a waitress at Sharkey’s, serving steaks in borrowed polyester black pants that are too tight and a white button-down shirt that’s too big.
I flip the lid over the card again to make sure it’s got my name on it. It does. The envelope is addressed to Vaughn in beautiful calligraphy. The card says, “Wear this tonight.”
The bow comes undone with one tug and I lift the top of the box off. Inside, under a layer of tissue paper is…it’s a shirt…I guess. I hold it up and can pretty much see through the lace fabric to the back door. Underneath it is a short black skirt and sky-high pumps.
My stomach sinks. So our third date must be in public.
Since I’m not allowed to have direct contact with Claudia, I text my sister.
Where am I going tonight?
There’s no response. She must be in a meeting.
I carry the items upstairs and lay the two pieces of clothing on the bed. I slip the shoes on and they’re weirdly too big and too small at the same time. My toes are squished into the pointy toes, but there’s a gap between my heel and the back of the shoe. Plus, they’re so high I feel like I’m tipping forward. The only thing keeping them on my feet is the wide cuff around the ankle.
I try to maneuver around the bedroom, but my ankles feel unstable and strange. I look about as sexy as a horse.
I try on the rest of the outfit—what little of it there is. The shirt is just as sheer as I’d feared, with lace flowers placed around a few strategic places in front. The rest is a see-through mesh. I hate it. It’s probably the most expensive thing that’s ever touched my skin, but I hate it.
I pull on the skirt and then look at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of my door. I look like…an awkward reject from a Nutcracker casting call.
If I’m going to have my picture taken tonight—which I assume is the purpose of this public date and my specially couriered outfit—then I need some help. Carrie might be my closest friend, but Kiki is the one who does everyone’s hair and makeup at sleepovers.
Kiki, when you’re done with class, can u come over?
She texts back immediately.
Will Oakley Ford be there?
No. I’m supposed to see him tonight. He sent me this.
I take a picture of myself, arm across my boobs because the appliqued flowers are not big enough.
OMG! Is that Gucci?
Yeah, but u can c my boobs thru the shirt. I can’t go out like this.
Oakley Ford sent u a sxy outfit from Gucci?
Can u come ovr or not?
YYYYYYY!
Kiki must break several traffic laws, because she shows up thirty minutes after school lets out.
“Hey, girl,” she squeals when I open the door. “Is he here?”
“No.”
“Oh, okay,” she says with obvious disappointment, but she rallies immediately, lifting her backpack. “I brought my stuff. How much time do we have?”
I pull her inside. “The twins won’t be home for another forty-five. Paisley doesn’t come home until six. Sometimes seven or eight, depending on what kind of work they have for her. Why? Do you need to be someplace?”
Kiki laughs and trots up the stairs. “Not until your fam gets home, Vaughn. When are you going out?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Her eyes widen. Not in dismay, but excitement. “This is so amazing! It’s a mystery date. He sends you clothes and then picks you up and whisks you off to someplace wild. God, I wish Justin could be more spontaneous. His idea of a date these days is to drive me over to Colin’s house so the two of them can go over their fantasy lineup for the weekend. And the last thing he bought me was a grande mocha at Starbucks.”