Babe in Boyland (5 page)

“No thanks,” I say too quickly.

Her eyes narrow. “Didn’t you come here with Chloe and Darcy?”

Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse!
“Yeah . . .”

“But you’re in here”—she looks around—“and they’re out there?”

A high-pitched trumpet of laughter escapes my pursed lips. “We’re not attached at the hip! Like I said, I just
love
baby clothes. Plus I saw something in the window that would be so perfect for my nephew.”

“Oh yeah?” She tries to make it sound like friendly interest, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. “What?”

I look around and seize on the closest item without frills. “This! Isn’t it great?” My hand lands on the butt of the rocking horse in the window. The horse rolls forward, bumping its nose on the window noisily, making the plate glass rattle. The women at the counter shoot me alarmed glances.

“Something I can show you?” calls the one at the register.

“Not just yet.” I waggle my fingers in apology. “Still deciding.”

“For your nephew, huh?” Summer says, eyebrows arched. “I thought you were an only child.”

“I call him my nephew. Because we’re so close. Really he’s my third cousin once removed. Something like that.”

Summer looks out the window again. “Oh! Josh is leaving. Maybe I’ll run out and say hi. Sure you don’t want to—?”

“No, go on! Really.”

She shoots me one last calculating look, obviously trying to figure out what’s up, but the lure of Hot Josh proves stronger than her curiosity. I crouch behind the rocking horse again and peek over its butt to watch. She floats over to them, blond hair bouncing. Josh has already started toward the parking lot. Summer calls out a greeting and Josh turns, waves, makes a gesture of apology, then keeps going.

Finally! I breathe a sigh of relief but wait until he’s turned the corner before I venture out.

As I approach, Summer’s saying, “You two ready for tech week? It’s going to be grueling. Late rehearsals every night. I can’t believe we open Friday.”

Chloe looks bored. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“It’ll be fun,” she trills. “Well, I better get back to Autumn before she gets mad.”

“Autumn?” Darcy asks, looking around.

“My sister. See you tomorrow!”

As she flounces back into the boutique Chloe mumbles, “Who the hell names their kids Summer and Autumn?”

“People whose offspring have agents before they’re potty trained,” Darcy replies.

“I know, right?” Chloe shakes her head. “Did you hear her talking about this big audition she has coming up? Some big movie? Like she’s even that good! Her dad’s just well connected.”

“I don’t like that she saw me,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I don’t like it at all.”

Darcy says, “Why shouldn’t she?”

I tug at my hair. “She was already suspicious. She’ll be at Underwood every night this week. If she catches me there the whole plan is dead in the water.”

Chloe winces. “I didn’t think of that.”

“We’ll have to keep her away from you.” Darcy pats my arm. “Don’t worry. How could she possibly guess what we’re up to?”

“She has ESB,” I say.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “ESP you mean?”

“No, ESB. Extrasensory Bitchyness.”

They both laugh. We slurp the last of our coffee and toss the plastic cups. As we make our way back to Chloe’s car I tell myself it’s all going to be fine: I’m going to perfect my disguise, write a fabulous article, learn all about the inner workings of boys, and prove myself as a serious journalist. Nobody’s going to get in my way, certainly not Summer Sheers. It’s all going to work out just great.

Really.

Chapter Six

A
s I drive my Buick to Underwood Monday morning I feel seriously nauseous. I can’t stop chanting
What am I doing? What am I doing?
over and over as I maneuver through the familiar streets. Our plan seems deeply delusional in the brilliant morning sunlight.

At least my mom seemed to buy the school project story when I sprang it on her last night. She’s so busy right now with a huge civil rights case, I suspect the idea of not having to worry about dinners for a whole week made her eager to believe. She’s not a bad mom, just super into her career. Dad hasn’t been on the scene since I was a baby, so she’s had to keep us afloat, which couldn’t have been easy.

Actually, having no dad is part of what makes me extra-nervous about infiltrating Underwood. If I’d grown up with a father or at least brothers in my life I’d know
something
about living with guys. As it is, I’m like Dorothy walking right into the Emerald City—absolutely clueless.

I reach down and adjust my sock nervously. It’s stuffed into my new BVDs, and in some weird way touching it is reassuring. Like a talisman or something. Okay, that’s just weird.

“Hello,” I say in my deepest voice, “I’m Nat Rodgers.”

It sounds okay. The double layer of sports bras strapping down my boobs feels so tight, though, like they’re cutting off my circulation. I’m wearing a blazer over my button-down shirt, and the autumn heat is getting to me. I pause at a red light and roll down the window, yanking at my collar.

I study myself in the rearview mirror. It’s so weird, going out in public with absolutely no makeup. I’m not one of those girls who slathers on an inch of foundation every day, but I usually wear mascara and lip gloss, at least. I feel kind of exposed, going without, but obviously I don’t want anything calling attention to my big eyes and full lips, which are already girly enough to arouse suspicion, I’m afraid.

I try out my Nat voice again. “Hey! What’s up? I’m Nat. How’s it hanging? Oh yeah? She’s cute. I’d do that in a heartbeat.”

A horn blares at me, followed by another, and I jump. Apparently the light turned green while I was shooting the shit with my mirror.

“Jeez, calm down!” I put the Buick in gear and cruise west, my face burning with embarrassment.

I’ve never been to Underwood before, even though it’s only about ten minutes from town. I follow the signs, which lead me higher and higher on a twisty, tree-lined road.

Suddenly the road levels out and the tangle of disorderly forest gives way to a long paved driveway. It seems to go on and on. Birch trees line up like sentries on either side of the dark ribbon of road, their pale branches and silvery leaves casting dappled shadows on my dirty windshield. Beyond them stretches an impeccably manicured lawn.

I pass a large brass sign that says UNDERWOOD ACADEMY and my heart starts pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I turn another corner and the main building looms large before me, drawing from me a small, involuntary gasp. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen outside of the movies. The stone walls reach up and up, half obscured by tangled ivy. The windows are tall as a grown man and elegantly arched. Gothic spires point straight up at the clouds like proud, accusing fingers. It couldn’t be more intimidating.

I pull into a parking lot right behind the main building. The trappings of big money are hard to miss: I spot a Jag, a convertible Mercedes, a black BMW, a brand-new canary yellow Ferrari. The cars gleam in the morning sun, their paint jobs still so bright and new they hurt my eyes. You’ll find some sweet cars in the parking lot of Mountain View High, sure, but here nearly every vehicle looks crazy posh and fresh off the showroom floor. My 1960 Buick LeSabre, a kitschy old relic I inherited from my mom, sticks out even worse than usual here.

I can hear the crunch of gravel on tires as more cars drive up, doors slam, male voices call out greetings. All the students at Underwood live here, but some of them go home on weekends. Everyone’s wearing uniforms: navy blue blazers and pants, crisp white shirts, red ties.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “What am I doing
?”
My palms are slick and the blazer I’m wearing is stifling—I can feel big wet patches forming under my arms.

I remember all the times my adrenaline spiked as I stood in the wings, waiting to go onstage. I’d try to think of my first line, but my brain would be blank as a fresh sheet of paper. Then my cue would come and I’d force my legs to propel me into the hot glare of the stage lights. I’d hear my own voice saying my line and the sick churning storm inside my belly would go dead calm, smooth as glass. This is just like that, right? It’s scary now, but as soon as I’m saying my lines I’ll be fine.

A tap on my window makes me yelp. I whip around and see a guy about my age standing there in an Underwood uniform, studying me with interest. Oh, Jesus, that was not a manly sound that just escaped me. Did he hear? Cautiously, I roll down my window.

“Hi. Are you Nat Rodgers?”

“Yeah,” I squeak, then lower my voice a couple octaves. “Who wants to know?”

He shoots me a curious look. “The headmaster told me I should keep an eye out for you. When I saw this car, I figured it might be you. You’re new, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great! I’m supposed to show you around. I’m Tyler Woodrow.” He reaches a hand through the window, which I shake awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t notice my clammy palms. “Student body treasurer, MMORPG enthusiast. You a gamer?”

“Not really.” I smile weakly and get out of the car. It’s now officially impossible for me to turn around and pretend this whole plan never happened. I’m here now. It’s definitely happening.

“Welcome to Underwood. I’ve been watching the parking lot, hoping I’d catch you. It’s unusual to start this late, but don’t worry, I can answer any questions you might have.”

Chloe would definitely dub Tyler a POKSI. I know that’s kind of mean, but my social radar tells me immediately the label fits. He reminds me of Kevin Snodgrass—he’s got that earnest, cherubic quality that moms love but everyone else sees as decidedly uncool. He’s got brown hair parted neatly and combed way too carefully. We’re about the same height, probably the same age, but something about his eager, open expression and his clear gray eyes make him look way younger. I guess in junior high he missed the memo about developing a cynical distrust of the world in general, and he’s never really caught up since.

I study his face for signs of
Oh my God you’re a girl,
but can’t find any. He just returns my gaze, placid and accepting. He peers into the backseat where I’ve put my stuff. Darcy lent me her plain black duffel bag; we decided my bright pink polka-dotted luggage might attract attention.

“You can leave your stuff here for now,” he says. “We’ll come back and get it before I take you to the dorms. Ready for our first stop? The headmaster wants to see you before class.” He glances at his watch. “We’d better hurry.”

The headmaster’s office has polished wood floors, pale walls, and an art deco lamp suspended from the ceiling. A very thin woman with an enormous confection of hair sits behind an old-fashioned wooden desk, a computer angled toward the wall. She glances at me when we walk in, but to my relief, her eyes slide right over me and land back on the papers she’s been leafing through. I don’t know what I expect—I guess that she’ll stand up, point at me, and scream,
Female! Female with a sock!

“Yes, Tyler?”

“Ms. H., this is Nat Rodgers. He’s new. Dr. Papadopoulos said I should show him around.”

She looks up from the stack of paper. “First day?”

I nod. She swivels toward her computer monitor and starts clacking away at the keyboard with long red talons. A brass plaque on her desk reads
Ms. Honaker.
I stand there, waiting, painfully aware of my hands hanging at my sides but afraid to move them for fear of girly gestures.

“Nat—is that short for Nathan?”

Oh, God,
is
it short for Nathan? Darcy’s little hacker cousin didn’t give me much information. Then again, who names their kid
Nat
? Could it be short for something else? Nathaniel, maybe? Why didn’t we cover this? Why, why, why?

“Uhh . . .”

“Oh! Here you are. Nat Rodgers. Just Nat. Okay . . .” She jabs at a few more keys, studies the screen. “Uh-
huh.
Very interesting.”

My mouth feels so dry I’m not even sure I can speak.

“You just appeared”—she frowns at me over her glasses—

“out of nowhere. We normally don’t even take students mid-semester.”

“It’s hardly mid-semester,” Tyler says. “Midterms aren’t for another few weeks.”

God bless the little POKSI; he’s sticking up for me.

“Okay, well, let’s get you settled, then. Fall semester started three weeks ago. It won’t be easy, trying to catch up, and you’re a junior, so you’ll have to buckle down.” She takes her glasses off and uncoils from her chair. In one hand she cradles a huge coffee cup with the words
Born to Party. Forced to Work
. She uses it to gesture at a large, imposing oak door down the hall. “That’s the headmaster’s office, Dr. Papadopoulos. He likes to meet all the new boys, so we’ll start there.”

Tyler and I follow her. I notice she has on these beautiful Prada sling-backs in candy apple red. “Cute shoes.”

She looks at me over her shoulder, an incredulous expression on her face. “I’m sorry?”

Cute shoes
?! ! Am I completely brain-dead? What sort of boy meets the school secretary and compliments her pumps? Tyler’s behind me, so I can’t see how he’s taking this, but probably even he knows this isn’t normal.

“I mean, they look new.”

Ms. Honaker’s eyebrows are still akimbo, but she accepts the compliment. “They are, actually. And thank you.” Under her breath she adds, “That’s a new one.”

After a perfunctory knock on the oak door, she swings it open, saying, “Dr. Papadopoulos? We’ve got a new student here. Nat, this is the headmaster.”

I peer around Ms. Honaker at the somber, tastefully furnished office and the man inside. Only his back is visible, but I can see a tall, powerfully built man with the confident, wide-legged stance of a football coach. His hands rest in the pockets of his charcoal gray suit while he stares out the window. He turns his head slightly but doesn’t really look at us. “Hello. Welcome to Underwood. Ms. Honaker will take care of you, I’m sure.”

“Hi, Dr. Papadopoulos,” Tyler says. “I’m showing him around.”

“Excellent, excellent.”

With that, Ms. Honaker shuts the door and bustles back the way we came. Fine by me. The last thing I want is a lot of questions from Dr. Unpronounceable. I’m still pretty freaked out by my “cute shoes” slipup. If I expect to pull this off, I have to get into character and stay there.

Tyler leads me brusquely down the grand stone steps of the main building, back out into the parking lot. It’s still early—my watch says seven forty—but there are quite a few students hanging around in groups, some of them cradling coffee in paper cups, all of them looking crisp and well pressed in their uniforms. I can feel their curious glances, but I’m afraid to make eye contact with anyone. If I see the slightest hint of suspicion in their faces it will totally psyche me out, so I keep my eyes mostly on the ground.