Exposed (16 page)

“Ha, ha,” I write. The jumpy, electric zings in my stomach get worse, then change to something like a low, hot buzz. “You’re supposed to like looking at me. You’re my boyfriend.”

Paul’s shadowy outline leans back, then forward again as he types. “By this time tomorrow night, I bet I could have $300 in that Portal account, all from guys who paid to see that stream.”

“What—you’re talking about pervs?” The buzz in my stomach spreads out to my arms and legs, then turns cold.

Paul hesitates before he types. He turns his head to the side, like he’s staring at his bedroom door.

Not now. Christ!

We’re both old enough to know what we’re doing. His dad needs to bug off and quit giving Paul crap. Paul’s grown, for God’s sake.

My eyes jerk toward the closet door, then toward the bedroom door I can see through the opening, as if the whole world just heard what Paul wrote about selling the video. As if my parents might explode into my space, grab my computer, and shatter the whole thing into
hundreds of pieces. Chills—the bad kind—crawl all over my body. I don’t know if I believe in premonitions, but if premonitions happen, I wonder if I’m having one.

Of Mom, standing in my door with a horrified look on her face….

The blinking icon on my computer grabs my attention.

Paul is typing.

“Well, yeah. Some of them might be pervs, but perv-bucks spend just like everyone else’s money, you know?”

Paul’s shaded outline looks … tense.

Oh, God. Is he serious? “Don’t show my video to pervs! No way!”

“You’re dressed, Red.” His shoulders lift and fall, like he’s shrugging. “It’s not like you did anything illegal.”

I can’t quit looking from the computer to the closet door to my bedroom door. “Hey, I did that show for
you
.”

Weirdness drifts all around my brain like lightning, looking for a place to strike. If I half close my eyes, I bet I can see it. Something strange. Something I can’t touch. Something I probably shouldn’t let get anywhere near close enough to touch me.

Paul types, “I know you did that for me. I loved it, big-time. And if I loved it so much, I know other guys would cough up for it, too. Sorry. My dad’s big into business. Can’t help thinking that way. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll make a bunch of money and really make him proud.”

The weird sensation in my head burns away as I think about how much pressure it would be to have a power-crazy dad who controls everything and treats you like a baby, even though you’re an adult. Paul has it harder than me, for sure.

Besides …

A smile tugs at my lips.

It’s sweet that he thinks other guys would find me sexy enough to pay money to see me. And a little exciting, to think about dozens of guys who look like Paul, all paying big bucks to drool over me. Another electric charge travels up and down my body, like when I was handling the weights. Like working out for Paul and knowing he’s watching.

I’ve never felt so far away from the world, so totally in my own space. My closet seems like a magical place, where I can live the way I want to and not worry about anything. And where I have Paul, and he has me, and we have our secrets—safe together, completely.

God, I’m probably maroon, I’m blushing so hot and hard. Good thing Paul can’t see much with just the light from my laptop.

Still …

“Don’t you dare show that video to anybody.”

His shoulders move again. Another shrug. “You’re missing out on some major cash, Red. You have no idea how hot you really are.”

“Come on. Do you really think you could make that much money off ten minutes of me lifting weights?

Paul’s hands fly up, like,
Oh my God
. Then back to the keyboard. “I’m sure of it. I’ve got a friend who knows how to do that kind of stuff.”

My eyes narrow as I stare at his profile in the streaming box. My next question pops out of my fingertips, and I press SEND in a hurry.

“Have you ever made money that way, Paul?”

He sits back. Looks at the door again. Seems to get more tense. Then his head droops a little, and I want to climb through the screen and give him a hug.

“Tell me,” I type. “Like I promised before, I won’t judge you if you just
tell
me stuff when I ask, I promise.” I cue up a serious, businesslike smiley with little bifocal glasses. “This chat is a no-judgment zone.”

Paul leans toward his keyboard again and writes, “Yeah, I’ve made a few bucks selling some pictures of myself with no shirt—you know, muscle shots—just to see if I could.”

I gaze at Paul’s words and his image for a while, then send: “You’re a man of many secrets.”

“I do have lots of secrets, Red. I warned you. Are we still okay?”

I touch his image in the streaming box, outlining him with my fingertip. So much about him I don’t know … but I want to know.

Can I live with what I find out?

I think I can.

And I don’t want Paul to feel bad. I so know what it’s like to be the biggest freak on the block, thanks to Adam-P.

“Just because I don’t want you to sell my video to pervs on the Net doesn’t mean we’re not okay. Of course we’re okay.” I hit a smiley, one that bounces and rolls.

He perks up a little. “Good.” Then, after one of those heart-squeezing looks with his perfect mouth in a perfect smile: “I really can trust you, can’t I?”

We spend the rest of the chat talking about Lauren and her nightmares, because I’m getting a little worried about her. Paul says he doesn’t think I should tell Mom yet. Sibling-secret-loyalty and all that, and Lauren would be totally furious if Mom made her drop out of
Sound of Music
.

“This play stuff sounds as important to her as twirling is to you,” he types. “You don’t want to risk that.”

“Yeah, but if she doesn’t start sleeping soon, I’ve got to do something.”

“Give it a little time. Sometimes things work themselves out.” He sends me a winking smiley, and I kiss my fingers and press them against his image on the screen.

He makes me feel hot, even if I’m not. He makes me feel good, and better, and that’s what matters.

As for the selling streaming video part—no, no, not happening, no way.

Monday morning, when I come downstairs for school, Mom’s eyebrows lift the minute I walk into the kitchen. “Are you sure you want to wear that shirt? It’s a little tight.”

Drops of rain stream down the bay window of the breakfast nook. I focus on them to keep from rolling my eyes, work very hard not to shrug, and manage, “I like the way it fits,” in a voice that I hope doesn’t sound
argumentative
or
disrespectful
. Mom hates
argumentative
and
disrespectful
.

Her sweatshirt has a picture of the United States divided into red states and blue states. The blue states are labeled
United States of America
, while the red states are labeled
Dumbfoolistan
.

That one takes me a second.

Definitely wouldn’t pass dress code at school, unlike
my
shirt. Mine’s a long-sleeved black T-shirt that’s a year old, and I haven’t been able to wear it. Now I can because of starting to tone up with Paul’s training program. The shirt
has a high neck and no print or pictures at all, so it won’t piss anyone off. Yeah, it hugs my curves a little, but I
have
curves. Isn’t it okay to show them off? I’m not eight or anything, like Lauren, who’s jabbing at her eggs with a fork.

Dad’s chowing on an omelet, some bacon, and some toast. At my place is a single serving of eggs, one strip of bacon, and a grapefruit half. Just what I ordered. Dad’s the best.

When Mom sits down with her omelet and bacon and toast and a bran muffin, she says, “That doesn’t look like enough food for a growing girl, Chan—especially one as athletic as you are.”

Don’t be disrespectful. Don’t be argumentative. Be
responsible.

What would Paul say?

Paul talks like he has a knack for parent appeasement, maybe because he’s older. Or smarter. Or something. I imagine him leaning back in his chair, imitate that laid-back adorable grin as best I can, and say, “Thanks for worrying so much about me, but I’ve been reading a lot about nutrition like you suggested, and I’m trying to eat five smaller meals a day instead of three large ones.”

Mom blinks at me, opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says, “Okay. What good does that do?”

I swallow a bite of grapefruit and give her another polite smile, or at least I hope that’s how it looks. “It keeps my portion sizes more normal and reasonable so I don’t get all stretched out and stay hungry, and it’s better for
active people like me. It’s supposed to keep my blood sugar stable as I practice and work out. That kind of thing.”

Thank you, Paul.

Thank you, Bear.

Thank you, Web sites.

“Well, okay.” Mom wipes out her muffin, then fixes her gaze firmly on my face. “I just don’t want you too obsessed with weight and body size and all of that. If twirling’s going to cause that, then—”

“Please don’t say you’ll make me stop twirling.” My voice is too quiet, and the words come out too fast. My back goes stiff, so do my arms and hands and face. My entire body. “Twirling’s my life right now. Twirling’s everything.”

Lauren looks up from her scooted-around eggs, and I notice the dark circles under her eyes. “That’s mean, Mom, threatening somebody with their worst fear to get your way. Isn’t that unethical? Like what the Nazis did to Captain von Trapp, threatening his family and his home to force him into military service?” She lets out a breath and answers her own question. “Definitely unethical.”

I don’t know who starts gaping at Lauren first or biggest, me or Mom or Dad.

She shrugs. “I read Web sites, too. I knew I had a better chance of landing a role in the play if I really understood what it’s about, understand the director’s
vision
. I might need voice lessons, a voice coach, too, to work on my projection and carriage.” Then she looks down at her
plate, goes back to playing in her eggs, and just like that, we don’t exist to her again.

We all take a bite of food, staring at the strange little eight-year-old, who, for whatever reason, just defended me better than I could defend myself. Better than most of Mom’s politicians could have defended me. With a vocabulary better than Devin’s.

Projection and carriage? Jeez. That had to come from her director.

Mom’s not saying a word, but she’s probably calculating ways to adjust Lauren’s Internet filters to eliminate Web sites with the words
Nazi
and
ethics
and probably
voice coach
, too. Mom’s opinion of voice coaching ranks just above—or maybe even below—her opinion on dieting and consulting nutritionists.

Extracurricular activities are fine
, she tells us all the time.
I just don’t want you girls to be so overinvested and anxious. We aren’t raising you to be obsessive.

“Are you sure that director’s not putting ideas in your head?” Mom asks Lauren.

I glance at the United States of Dumbfoolistan once more, then close my eyes.

When I open them, I watch Dad finish his giant omelet. He eats a bite of Lauren’s toast, tries my grapefruit, then starts cleaning off the table whistling tunes from
Sound of Music
.

The whole scene’s just too weird for me. I actually can’t wait to get to school.

Which happens soon enough. School, and class, and finally, practice.

Except, as I head into the gym, I see Adam-P in his football pads, lip-locked with Ellis.

I stop so fast that Alice, one of the freshmen, bumps into me from behind.

When she sees what slowed me up, she grabs my hand and gives me a tug.

“Gonorrhea, anyone?” she says loud enough to be heard two buildings away.

Why can’t
I
ever think of good things like that to say—when they’re right in front of me?

Ellis breaks off their kiss and smiles at me like a rich benefactor giving pity to a starving orphan. Then she tries to kiss Adam again, but he takes off down the hall toward the practice field. Ellis jogs after him, saying something about a time to get together later that night, but Alice and I don’t stick around.

Later that day, I don’t really want to leave practice and go home, but Devin comes with me, and we work on our competition routines in the garage. I go through mine too many times to count, but Devin keeps stopping me in the middle. “You’ve got to get that toss-illusion better, Chan. The whole performance hinges right there. It’s pivotal. Nail that, and nail first place. Again.”

She starts the music over.

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again….”

And so it goes.

I’m not any easier on her. Devin competes in the dance sections, and I stop and start her music twenty times. By the time we finish, both of us are sweating.

Yes, Devin’s sweating.

When we get back inside the house, Lauren’s playing on the computer, some computer game with a lot of bouncing puppies on a bright pink background. Mom’s hovering close by, glancing over now and then.

After cooling off and sucking down a liter or two of water, Devin asks Mom for a ride home. When Devin hugs me good-bye, she reminds me that our first Emily rough draft is due next Monday. She doesn’t get me in trouble with Mom by mentioning the outline I screwed up, but Devin’s don’t-you-do-it-again look is enough to keep me in line.

“I’ve already got a few paragraphs,” I assure her. “I’ll tell you as soon as I’m done.”

After Mom leaves, I take a short walk with Dad.

When I come back in, Lauren’s still on the computer. She jumps when she sees me, but when I glance at the screen, it’s just the pink puppy game.

“Don’t you have homework?” I ask.

Ohmygod. Did I just sound like Mom?

“I did it at school,” she says without looking at me.

“Are you finished with the garage?”

“Yeah, for the night.”

Lauren shuts down the computer. She grabs her duffel, double-checks something inside it, and beats it out the door to rehearse for her play.