So Not Happening (7 page)
Oh, and my iPod.
And my Wii.
Okay, and my new Chanel bag.
But still. You understand my pain. Keep me in your
thoughts during my dark hours of suffering.
That which does not kill us ... is probably not in Truman,
Oklahoma.
Your former
Ask Miss Hilliard
B
ella, I have a giant favor to ask.”
I put down my cereal spoon and glare at my mother. She and I haven't said two words to each other since last night.
“Oh, let me guess, you want me to go out back and get the eggs out of the henhouse?” Do we even have one of those?
Mom takes Robbie's oatmeal out of the microwave, slams it on the table, then all but jumps into the seat next to me. “I've had enough of this.” She pushes her blonde bangs out of her eyes. “You think this isn't hard for me too?”
“You signed up for this! I didn't.” But I would totally sign up for a stepfamily refund right now.
“All of this is just as new to me. I'm having to learn how to cook, take care of a house by myself, be a mother to two boys, and live on a factory worker's income. This is not easy.” Mom's chin quivers, and I see her brave mask slip.
“We don't belong here. We're like two Paris Hiltons stuck on Planet Wal-Mart.”
My mother places her hand over mine. “Yes, we do belong here. I do love Jake, and you need to accept that even though this is not a day at the Ritz, we're not going anywhere. Bella, this is all very, very difficult.” Lines crinkle on her forehead. “But I need you on my side—not fighting me every step. We're in this together.”
“Then why cut off my credit cards and totally humiliate me in front of my new friends? I wanted to
die.
Why leave me carless in my new hometown? I get why your life has to change—you're not connected to Dad anymore. But I am. Surely he can't be supportive of me living this second-rate life.”
“Actually, he is.”
“He's not! He's just too caught up in his own life to care what's going on in mine.” The man has yet to call me. “You know he doesn't have time for any family discussions, so he just agrees with whatever you say. And you're using that to your advantage.”
“You are my daughter, and I love you. But being here has made me realize that we led very shallow lives in New York.”
“Yes. And I liked it.”
I mean no!
I wasn't shallow. I was involved in my church youth group in Manhattan. I did mission work. I was a Big Sister. I took my Little Sis to Barneys every season. I dedicated my time to advising the hurting and downtrodden at Hilliard.
That's
shallow?
“Well, if you're not so wrapped up in material things, you won't mind catching a ride with Logan this morning.”
I choke on a bite of Corn Pops. “No way.”
“I have a job interview this morning and can't take you to school. Please?”
“I am
not
riding in that death mobile. It's ugly, it's a sign of your stepson's mental imbalance, and it's embarrassing.”
Budge chooses that exact moment to raid the fridge. “Too bad you don't have a car.”
I toss my hair and snarl. “I'm going to have a fabulous car very soon. Ever heard of a BMW?” If there's any perk to living here at all, it's that I get to drive.
He shuts the door and looks to the ceiling as if deep in thought. “BMW? I hear you're getting something of the used clunker variety like the rest of us
poor
Truman teens.”
I suck in air. “What? That's a lie.” Daddy promised I could pick out anything I wanted. I have this sporty little black one totally customized online. I turn to Mom. “Would you do something with him?”
“Logan, do mind your own business, please.” Mom's eyes drop to her lap. I'm instantly suspicious.
“Mother?”
“Well... your dad and I have been talking. And a new car is not in the cards for you right now. It's not fair to the family for you to drive a new sports car and Logan to drive his . . . his ...”
“Sign of my mental imbalance.”
I stand up. “What's not fair is you and Dad pulling the rug out from under me! What's not fair is forcing me to move here and leave everything and everyone I love behind. What's not fair is expecting me to give everything up just because you want me to blend in here. Well, I'm not like Budge and Robbie. My dad doesn't work in a paper factory. He's a plastic surgeon to the stars, and he
promised
me a new car!” Sure, it was his guilt talking, but I'll take it.
“You will live within the same means as everyone else in this family. Anything else just wouldn't be right.”
Who cares about everyone else!
I shake my head. “Is there anything more I need to know? Any other grenades you want to lob my way?”
“No, I believe that's it.” Mom purses her lips as Jake enters the now-quiet kitchen.
“Something wrong?” he says, and I nearly leap out of my chair and tackle him.
Except that would be like trying to tackle a giant redwood.
I rinse my bowl out in the sink then turn around, a memory surfacing. “Jake, what is it you do at the Summer Fresh paper plant again?”
He coughs. “I'm an assembly line manager of a department.”
My brown eyes loconto his. “Really?” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “I hear there's more that goes on at that plant than making some wide-ruled. Did you know this, Mom?”
Budge laughs as he unwraps a Pop-Tart. “Dad, didn't you tell her about the military arsenal that's stored there?”
“What do you
really
make there, Jake?” I ask. “My mom and I have a right to know.”
“Bella—,” my mother warns.
“Something is going on here, and I want the truth. Mom, I believe this could be something illegal. Drugs, smuggling, weapon manufacturing—”
“Dad is chief of operations on the feminine product assembly line.” With a smirk, Budge grabs the keys to his hearse then walks out the door.
My world tilts and I grab the counter again.
It's worse than I thought. My stepdad is a cow-raising, truck-driving, chicken-feeding craftsman of maxi-pads.
Life could not get any worse than this.
H
appy fourth hour, Truman Tigers! I'm Bailey O'Connell here to read your morning announcements.”
Truman High's morning news show blares to life on the classroom TV
The perky brunette spouts off the announcements like they're the juiciest Hollywood gossip.
“And that's all you need to know for today, Truman High. But before we sign off we here at Tiger TV would like to personally welcome our newest students.” A PowerPoint follows of the new kids, using their school ID photos. Great. Mine looks like a mug shot. Maybe God will grant me a favor and they'll skip me.
“... And welcome to junior Isabella Kirkwood, who comes from the prestigious Hilliard School for Girls in New York City. Did you know Callie French, lead singer of the Killer Petticoats, is a famous Hilliard alumna?”
People in the class murmur and turn to stare in my direction. I smile bravely.
“And according to a reliable source, Bella is known for her advice-giving skills and has a super-fun blog you'll want to check out on the Hilliard Web site. I can't wait to look at it myself! Get to know this new Truman Tiger. Next we have senior Lance Denton...”
The breath lodges in my throat.
The voice on the TV becomes a buzz in my head.
No.
They can't go to the
Ask Miss Hilliard
blog! They'll read all the horrible things I wrote! I was mad. I was sad. I was hurt. I didn't
exactly
mean all that stuff
Okay, calm down.
What are the odds someone will actually Google Hilliard and locate the blog? Hardly anyone even knows me here. Just Emma, Jared, Brittany, and that group—and they'll probably just agree with it.
Don't freak out. This is not a big deal.
I take the hall pass and escape to the girls' bathroom. Shutting myself in a stall, I pull up the blog. It won't accept my password! I call Mia, knowing this is lunchtime at Hilliard. She answers on the second ring.
“I'm locked out of the blog. You have
got
to delete my last post to
Ask Miss Hilliard!”
“No way. That was good stuff. The Pulitzer people ought to be calling you any day now. It was better than anything J. K. Rowling's ever written.”
“This is not funny,” I hiss. “By some freak twist of fate, everyone at Truman High could be pulling it up after school today. Mia, you have to remove the post. It's easy to do, you just—”
“I know how to do it. I'm just not.” She snaps her gum. “Transitioning to a new Miss Hilliard has been hard. My readership took a total dive when you left. But everybody 's been reading your entries”
“Oh, really?”
That is so great. I have such loyal friends, and
— “No, wait! Seriously, if these people here read what I said about them—about their town—I am dead. Don't hurt their feelings just for the sake of your blog. I'll send in another post. I'll write something else.”
“I came up with this totally cool idea to have the readers write in with their advice to you. You should check it out. There's some really good—”
“Delete it!” I've created a blogging monster! “You have to get rid of it. Mia, how can you do this to me? I have to live here. These people will run me out of town if they read it.”
“Oh, will they be wearing their cowboy boots when they run?
If so, send me a picture to go with the blog.”
“Why won't the blog let me on?”
“Because I have full administrative privileges now. There's no need for you to have full access. So from now on, please post your letters where reader comments are.”
I close my eyes and lean on the less-than-clean metal divider. “You're not hearing me.”
I recap the morning and explain the situation detail by detail.
Mia laughs. “Bella, you're overreacting Do you really think those people yon go to school with are going Lo read the blog?”
“Yes. No.” I groan. “I don't know. Probably not. But just in case—”
“Fine.”
My heart returns to beating. “Really? You'll do this for me?”
“Yes. I guess. I'd hate for my best friend to be hog-tied, or whatever it is they'd do to you. I'll do it next hour in the computer lab.”
“Great. Thanks. You're the best, Mia.”
“That's what friends are for. Oops, there's the bell. Ta-ta. Call me later.”
God,
please don't let anyone at Truman get to the blog before Mia
does. I'll do anything
—
I'll feed Jake's stupid roosters. I'll teach Mom how
to make toast without burning it. I'll play baseball with Robbie. I'll let
Betsy lick me in the face. Anything.
I exit the stall.
And come face-to-face with Emma and Brittany.
“Hey, girls.” I slip my phone into my purse. “Thanks again for taking me shopping last night. I—”
“We wouldn't know a Marc Jacobs bag if Wal-Mart put them on clearance?” Emma plants herself right in front of me.
“I... um ...” How? Why me?
Brittany scrolls through her iPhone. “Nobody understands fashion here?”
“I didn't mean you guys. Come on, I would never make fun of you all.”
“Living in the
pit
of the country?” Emma shakes her head and looks at me like I'm dog vomit. “You know, it's kind of like family. When you're part of the family, you can talk about them. But nobody else can.”
“I'm really sorry. I'd had this horrible night—oh, not the shopping. Well, the credit card thing was awful, but that's all because—”
“And I do happen to know what a Marc Jacobs bag looks like.” Emma holds hers up, a lovely butterscotch number.
“You have to believe me. I wasn't including you in that blog.” I push my hand through my hair and force myself to inhale. “Look, I was mad and upset when I wrote all that. My life is totally in the crapper right now. I was lashing out at anything I could. Had I known there was any way someone from Truman would find that blog, I wouldn't have written it. I still don't know how that girl from Tiger TV found out about the Web site.”
“It doesn't matter.” Brittany's lip curls. “Maybe you should go back to your fancy private school in New York where people know how to dress and talk and act civilized. Sorry we're not good enough for you.”
With matching eye rolls, the two swivel on their heels and storm out the bathroom door.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed like I've run a marathon, my eyes wide and panicked. My heart pounds beneath my funky Betsey Johnson t-shirt.
Oh, God.
What have I done?
I punch a button to redial Mia. I need a status report. Now.
No answer.
Redial.
Straight to voice mail.
Rounding my shoulders and straightening my spine, I fling open the door and walk down the hall back to class. So two girls know. They have nothing to gain by telling anyone. And the blog should be down by now. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.
When lunch comes, I'm praying for the rapture. A lightning bolt to take me out. A plague of locusts to carry me off
But the only catastrophic occurrence is that all the school knows.
“I wear Wranglers.” The cafeteria lady hands me my fruit plate. “You got a problem with that?”
I swallow. “No, ma'am.” I throw out some money and leave the kitchen.
Half the room stares at me. Old conversations stop. New ones begin. The cafeteria is engulfed with talk of my
Ask Miss Hilliard
blog. Groups are gathered around printed-out copies. They pass it around and fan the flames that are destroying my reputation—my life—by the millisecond.
I clutch my fruit and all but run out of the building. I fly by tables and hear my name, taunts, threats, my own words twisted and thrown back at me.
Outside, I keep going until I reach the parking lot. I yank out my phone and call my mom.
“You have to pick me up.”
“What's wrong?”
“My life.” I sit down between two cars, out of sight. “My life is wrong.”
