Cameo (7 page)

“Are you threatening not to speak to me? I've told you things not even my mother knows. She thinks she's my best friend. I'm practically betraying her by telling you.”

“Talk about shallow.”

“I'm not shallow,” Cindy said.

“Right,” I said.

“You talk a real good game, Nia, but you're acting pretty shady. I don't know anything about a prank. What do I look like? If it doesn't involve a fine guy, I'm not wasting my extracurricular time on it. Any best friend of mine would know that!” she said.

“I knew it. The poem, the bodyguard act, the hand holding, Jason liking me all of a sudden is some kind of hoax.”

“Jason likes you?”

“Don't change the subject. Someone is punking me.”

“Why would somebody do that?”

“Are you wearing a hat?”

“Um, by the lack of one on my head, I'd have to go with no on that one.” Cindy was the only person I knew who was more sarcastic than I was.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes at me. “I'm not punking you. Get that in your head. And I'm appalled that you think I would do something like that to you without telling you about it.”

I plopped down on the couch and threw my head into my hands. “What if it's Carolina?” I said.

“Hmmm. What is she doing to you exactly?” Cindy asked.

I nervously flipped my hair around. Just the thought of Carolina having any power over me made my blood boil. I didn't even know if she had the brains to do something like this. “I slipped on some Kool-Aid in the bathroom while someone held the door shut right before lunch.”

“What! Who even touches Kool-Aid! That is so '80s. Besides the fact that it doesn't have any vitamins. No wonder she's gross. She's malnourished,” Cindy said.

“Oh, gosh!” I said.

“Then again, she doesn't have the wherewithal to put something like this together. It's too complicated for her. Look how basic her insults are,” Cindy said.

“Since when did we start measuring intelligence by the intricacy of one's insults?”

“FYI, she couldn't get Jason to do anything. Especially not fake-like you. Nia and Jason sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” Cindy added.

If she only knew the half of it. “There will be none of that.”

“There might be if he shows up to the party tonight.”

“I knew it!” I shouted.

“Who told you?” she asked.

I was careful not to accuse Cindy. This time she was going to admit it. “A little birdie.”

“So you want to go?”

“Well, how could I not go?” Especially if it was going to be at my house.

“You're not wearing that, are you?”

“Maybe. You're not expecting me to play hostess, are you?” I couldn't believe I was entertaining this.

“You're not making any sense. Peter is hosting. I fully intend on being with Peter the whole night, but not as a hostess.”

“I have to stay over your house tonight.”

“It's cool. Just make sure you don't dress like that.”

We made our way up to my bedroom. “Turn on the hallway light,” I said. “Why are you so scary about everything?” she asked.

“Look, I said I was never going to go to any of these popular circuit parties again. If there's anything to be scared about, it's that!”

“Just think of it as a favor to Jason.”

“And will Roger be there?”

“Don't go there.”

“I think he's sort of eccentric. I mean, he's nice,” I said.

“Yuck! He's like a techie,” she said.

“Appearances can be deceiving. I'm learning. He could be some undercover hottie,” I said.

Cindy burst into laughter. I sifted through my segregated closet. One side was sexy, with my boyfriend-type gear, and the other side was I'm-cute-in-my-skinny-jeans-and-fitted-sweatshirt type of gear. I wore the sweatshirt-type gear nearly every day.

“No jeans, lover girl. It's all about the dress. Fluffy at the bottom to leave something to the imagination and super tight at the top. I say that if you can bounce a quarter off your belly, you got to show it off. It's all about the waist!” Cindy said.

She wanted to be a fashion editor at a teen magazine. Her sole purpose in life was to tell people how to dress for the season. I pulled out a hot black dress I had worn out with Craig once for our two-week anniversary.

“I'm in.”

I wanted to see Jason's face when he saw me in that dress. Though I hadn't forgotten how he hadn't called me that summer. It felt like I was holding on more than remembering. Hadn't he apologized? Too bad. I couldn't just unleash myself and throw myself into his arms.

“You are so kidding me,” Cindy said.

“No, I would never kid about gossip, cross my heart and hope to die. Peter smiled when he found out that you said you were coming. It is a must hook-up,” Jane said.

“PG, of course … for tonight, maybe,” Cindy said, as if she had actually thought about how far she would go. They called Cindy and Jane the Gossip Mafia. Jane had better intelligence sources than the CIA, and Cindy always got the word on corroborating evidence to support Jane's gossip.

They had met in freshman year when they had both tried out for the school drill team, until they realized that the team did not practice anywhere near the basketball team. Add to that the fact that practice was a grueling three hours each day with social bottom feeders as the boy assistants to the team. It was more than enough to make them ditch the tryouts. They clicked instantly, Cindy says. Me? I was just an innocent bystander—a friend, if you will. When I hung with them, it was less of the Nia show and more of the circuit news. I used to love it when I dated a boy who was hot on the circuit, but now I was just an observer. People just started calling them the Gossip Mafia. It could've been because that's how they signed the original morning text messages: B
Y
G
OSSIP
M
AFIA
.

Anyone who was anyone in school got the morning gossip text, and all you did was pray your name wasn't in it. Of course, anyone who replied back to retaliate against any of the accusations of lust and betrayal would only incite more flagrant news about them the following morning and their phone number would somehow get deleted from the forward list. Eventually, word spread not to respond when you received the gossip text, as it could never result in anything pleasant. Jane was sweet, though. She was the type of clever girl who never bought the shirt she tried on at a store. She always put that one back and got a new one in the same size to take home. She was the only person I
knew who had an official jaywalking strategy. She only stood off the curb when attempting to jaywalk if she was standing behind someone else who took all the risk out of getting hit if a car jumped the curb because they were in front. Whoever heard of a jaywalking strategy? Jane was creative.

“Thanks again, Jane, for the blended latte!” I said.

“Oh, no worries. You're gonna need it if this is your first rendezvous on a weeknight since …” Jane said.

She looked at Cindy and whispered, “Is it cool to mention his name now, or are we still all mum's the word since, you know, the Craig thing?”

Cindy looked at me. I shrugged like it was cool. Cindy tried to inconspicuously nod her head to tip Jane off.

“Great! This brings me to my latest and greatest piece of meat,” Jane said.

Cindy gasped. Were they drama queens or what?

“So, the word is …” Jane paused to take a sip of her latte. Cindy and I waited in anticipation. “Michelle wants to break up with Craig.”

“No! She was just bragging about him in our section of the hall. Where did you get your info?” Cindy asked.

“Swear not to tell anyone,” Jane said.

Cindy looked at me, and I knew she would swear not to tell anyone but she would dare to tell everyone. That was kind of their thing. They liked to pretend that the gossip was sacred, but we all knew Jane would begin texting that to everyone in the morning.

“Swear,” Cindy said.

“Lucy was whispering it to someone in the D3 bathroom,” Jane said.

D3 was, like, this half floor where the girls' gym class was.

“Check it. We're about to roll up to this party in an over-priced foreign sports utility vehicle, dressed like supermodels,” Cindy said.

“I'm poised for a comeback,” I said.

“In that outfit? I'd say it's going to be epic,” Cindy said.

I took a deep breath. I hoped I was ready for this. Jane jammed the breaks on her SUV in front of the house. My mouth dropped open maybe two nanoseconds before Cindy's.

“What is she doing?” Cindy was as serious as a high school senior being interviewed for the college of her dreams, though even then she probably wouldn't have sounded so direct.

Cindy jumped out of the car as if it were on fire. She marched up to Carolina, who was holding Jason's hand. I, on the other hand, acted as if I had not even seen them. I didn't know what this had to do with my incidents, but I didn't want to look directly in her eyes without knowing what I was going to say. It took me a second or two, and then I had it.

Cindy stopped in her tracks. She surveyed Carolina's outfit. “I see last season's pink, last year's poplin shirt, and an in-season belt with matching shoes. I get it. You, Jason, must be ushering her to the Secret Fashion Victim's page photo-op. Did I mention I voted you in for that page, Carolina?” Cindy had joined the yearbook committee to even the playing field. Some of her enemies would go down in high school history as the worst dressed, least liked, most likely to be single forever, and best class kiss-up.

“Jealousy is such an ugly color on you,” Carolina said.

“Whatever. I don't look ugly in anything. You should know. Seems like I had those shoes on last week. Of course they looked like showstoppers on my feet, but on your feet they look like bargain basement pumps!” Cindy said.

I would've questioned Carolina if I thought I would get a straight answer out of her. If that ridiculous jealousy comment showed me anything, she was definitely not smart enough to be operating alone. Since when is jealousy a color? Though she was hand in hand with someone who could be the enemy in disguise. He was steadily disarming me with his charms. How clever! I couldn't keep my eyes off him for a second.

“Nia, hi,” he said.

I passed him by without so much as a smile. My eyes told of my disapproval and suspicion. Or, at least, I thought they did. It's like you always think you're giving signals to guys, but you never really know how they'll interpret them.

Next thing I knew, his hand was on my arm, pulling me back to him. He had let go of Carolina's hand to come question me.

“Now that you're fancy, you don't know me?” Before I could answer, he put his lips to my ear. “You play a good game, but you're still not at checkmate. I'm feelin' the dress, pretty lady,” he said.

“Do you like the dress?”

My black stretch, strapless cotton dress that ended just about three inches above my knees was doing its job then. So he thought this was like playing a game of chess. And what would've been the prize if I won? Him? I leaned close to his face and rocked my head slightly to the left then the right as if I was looking for the best way to kiss him. If he was going to go all romantic comedy on me, I had to step up to the plate. Then, just when he leaned into me, I turned my face and let him kiss my cheek.

“You can look, but you can't touch. You might be at check, but you haven't won the game yet.” I turned on my heel, knowing he would watch me all the way to the door. Who was running the pranks now? As soon as I hit the door, I remembered just how obnoxiously loud these parties could be. My ears would be ringing for days thanks to the huge speakers bumping club tracks with mad bass.

I turned to the shamelessly enormous great room, I think that's what these folks call their second living rooms these days—or at least that's what my mom says. Inside the great room, every girl within 100 feet looked at me out of the corner of her eye and whispered something to the girl next to her. This bunch was discreet. I spotted Cindy sitting on Peter's lap, laughing loudly near the picturesque ocean view. She was cuddling him close; for a second, they looked like a couple.

She always knew what to do to get a guy eating out of the palm of her hand. And, with her, there was never a moment wasted. It was an exact science. Every move was calculated down to the way she threw her hand across his chest as she laughed at his jokes. Watching Cindy was like getting a lesson in Flirting 101. Anyway, the lesson was over. It was time for me to circulate.

On my way to the punch bowl in the dining room, I passed Lucy and Michelle. By the time I spotted those two hags, I was already on their radar.

“Who cleaned that old dog up?” Lucy asked Michelle.

I was surprised she even had her own lowly insults to throw. For the most part, it seemed like they shared a brain. But lo and behold, this was evidence that Lucy might actually be able to come up with her own thoughts.

“I don't know whether to pet you or give you a treat. Wait, that would be your owner's job. She's all yours, Michelle,” I said.

Michelle studied my face intently, hoping that on some freak chance I might submit to her nonverbal aggression. I guess someone told her she was intimidating. Please! I flipped my loosely curled hair over my shoulder and into her face.

Where there was Michelle, Craig wasn't far behind. There he was, carrying—better yet, juggling—two of every drink available. What were they doing? Using him for a taste test. He tried to
make eye contact with me. Just to mess with him, I purposely didn't look at him while I walked toward him. And, well, my foot might have mistakenly interrupted his path.

“Timber!” I yelled. With the high, cathedral ceilings in that place, my voice echoed. Everyone in the dining room couldn't take their eyes off Craig. It was good to have someone else feeling the heat for once. I got a little ginger ale on my leg. It was a small price to pay, considering Craig's fresh white tee was now an array of wet, patchy fruit juice colors.