I bite my lip because I want to tell her that that’s a hundred times better than my fake date with Oakley last night. I settle for, “Justin’s not so bad.”
She snorts. “He’s no Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.”
We reach my room, where Kiki inspects the clothes Claudia sent.
“I don’t think I can wear these,” I admit.
“Why not?” She studies the shirt and then the skirt. The shoes with the ankle cuff and buckle get the most attention. I think I see a spot of drool on the side of her mouth.
“It’s see-through and I’m not comfortable with a bunch of fancy famous people looking at my nips.”
“How about a black tank?”
The only thing Kiki and I manage to find that’s remotely acceptable is an American Eagle bralette. All my tanks are the athletic kind and even I can tell that’s not going to work under the mesh and delicate embroidery.
Kiki makes me put the bra and shirt on and then sets out to put my hair in curlers.
“Do you have a look you want me to copy or should I just do what I think is best?”
“Just do whatever.”
“Goodie. I’m going to go with big loose curls, a smoky eye and then a mauve lip. How do you feel about fake eyelashes?”
“I tried to wear them to prom last year and found them on W’s shoulder at the after-party.”
She laughs. “We’re gonna skip those.”
“Good call.”
I watch as Kiki expertly sections off my hair and starts curling it. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s known she’s wanted to do hair and makeup. After graduation, she plans to attend the Aveda Institute.
Justin, her boyfriend, is going to UCLA, majoring in accounting.
Tracy feeds into the blonde stereotype—no matter how many times we explain to her that the sun is a star and we orbit around the star, she doesn’t believe us because we can’t see the sun at night, and stars are visible at night. But even Tracy knows what she’s doing after graduation. She’s going to USC to study to be a fashion buyer.
I’m the one who graduated early. Everyone assumes it’s because I know exactly what I want to do, but they couldn’t be more wrong.
I shift uncomfortably in the chair.
“Did I hurt you?” Kiki peers into the mirror with a worried expression.
“No. Sorry.”
“Just let me know.” She flips another curl over my shoulder. “You have such gorgeous hair. What’s Oakley’s favorite thing about you?”
That he can treat me like a piece of crap and I don’t complain? Of course, I can’t say that, but I don’t have any other answer. I don’t think that guy likes anything about me. “What’s Justin’s favorite thing about you?”
“My boobs. What do you think it is?” She giggles and then drags her fingers through my heated curls.
“Nah, I’m sure it’s your killer softball pitch.” Kiki’s the starting pitcher on Thomas Jefferson High’s girls’ softball team.
“That, too.” One by one she turns my straight locks into bouncy curls. “So does Oakley like your hair or your legs or your eyes? I want to highlight whatever it is that he likes.”
I can tell she’s not giving up until I reveal something. “He likes that I’m normal.”
“Hmmm.” She ponders this for a second. “I can see that, what with you wanting to be a teacher. That’s pretty normal. Now close your eyes.” She waves the bottle of hairspray in front of me.
I do as she commands. If Oakley did like me because I wanted to be a teacher, that would just be one more topping on the metaphorical cake that I’m baking for him.
“Did you know that Justin and me did it for the first time to Oakley’s song ‘Do Her Right’?” Kiki says casually as she dabs my face with the fat end of a pink sponge shaped like an egg.
“Um, no. I did not know that.” Questions such as What’d it feel like? Was it good? burn at the tip of my tongue. Because Paisley hated it and I think she wishes she never had sex. Meanwhile, W wants me to give it up to him right now and I don’t think I can. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
“Justin can’t hear it without getting a chubby.”
We stare at each other for a full minute before cracking up. The idea of Justin, her big linebacker boyfriend, getting turned on while listening to Oakley Ford croon that he’s going to do her, do her, do her right, is so hilarious that I laugh until tears form.
“How many people know this?” I choke out as I try to catch my breath.
“Everyone,” she admits. “Apparently it came on in the locker room, I don’t know why, and Justin popped a boner. Kirk Graham was teasing him about it at lunch a week ago.”
“Maybe we can get Oakley to give you guys an in-person concert,” I joke.
Kiki giggles. “I don’t think Justin would be able to handle it.”
I wonder what Oakley would think of this story? He’d look down at it, I decide. Oakley probably only gets an erection if he’s lying on a pool of hundred dollar bills, and Victoria’s Secret models are prancing around his bed.
Kiki helps me into the tutu skirt, which is surprisingly soft for all its volume. She also has me stuff cotton balls in the back of the shoes and in the toes until they fit okay. Then we go downstairs and I practice walking from one end of the living room to the other.
“Do you mind if I wait until Oakley comes?” She perches on the recliner situated by the front window.
An invisible hand squeezes my heart as I lay eyes on my dad’s favorite chair. If he were around, I wouldn’t be dressed up like a strange ballerina waiting for a pretend date to happen. I’d be at USC with W, taking classes in…crap, I don’t know. My dad would’ve figured it out for me. Or Mom. Or both of them.
Instead, I’m lost.
“Sure,” I say dully.
Fortunately, Kiki’s so distracted by Oakley’s impending arrival she doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. “So what’s he like?”
“Oakley?” I ask.
“No. The mayor of LA.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course I mean Oakley.”
He’s a jerk who can’t be bothered to give me his phone number, even though we’re supposed to date for an entire year. He demanded I pay attention to him. He kept making fun of W, a guy he’s never even met. He’s incredibly egotistical. Do I like his guns? Who says that?
He also thinks he’s better than the rest of us because no normal girl could handle him. Although…when he went through the litany of crazy things his fans do, I felt he might be right.
Then there was that weird, bitter note about his father. And I caught him rubbing my hair last night. I feel like maybe I should report that to W, because Oakley and I were alone and he shouldn’t touch me when we’re alone—not even my hair, because it does strange things to my stomach.
I don’t share any of this with Kiki, because we don’t have the kind of relationship where I can tell her all of my ugly inner thoughts without fear of judgment. I don’t know if I have that relationship with anyone. So I go with, “I don’t know him yet.”
She nods sagely as if that makes complete sense to her. “It’s different when you don’t grow up with them. I sometimes feel like Justin and I know too much about each other. Is that why you broke up with W?”
“I didn’t break up with W,” I exclaim. “Is that what people are saying?”
She shoots me a glance that says I must be kidding. “You’re the one dating Oakley Ford. No way that W broke up with you.”
“But I didn’t meet Oakley until after we were broken up.” I grimace. W won’t like that. He doesn’t like to look bad in front of his friends. Hence the no cheating accusations. But this is worse. W wouldn’t want people thinking that he was thrown over for some famous guy.
“Then why did you break up? Did he cheat on you? Did he end it because you wouldn’t enroll at USC?”
Oh, crap. I don’t know what to say. When my phone rings, I answer it without even caring that it says “Blocked Caller” because at this point, I’ll take salvation via telemarketer.