Sorority Girls With Guns (27 page)

“
Oh...right. I'll be sure to watch it online.” What the fuck does Harry want right now? Oh, crap, what if he wants a date? Normally I'd probably say yes, but the guy's a reporter for fuck's sake, and there's no way I can date someone that nosy right now. “Something I can help you with? Did you have more questions for your story on the party tomorrow night?”

“
Oh, I'll have plenty of questions for you and the other guests - and Richard, of course,” Harry says. “But I'm interested in doing another story about you and this B Green 2 Save Green mission of yours. The response to last night's piece was great – it was one of the most-clicked stories on our website. Plus I see that your GluedToYou channel is gaining viewers by the hour. Your last video had 4,200 hits already!”

“
That's great.” It's really not, compared to the average viral video with millions of hits, but at least it's a step in the right direction.

“
I'd like to interview all of you about your mission. I know you're hoping to get an internship with a cause dear to your hearts, but I'd like to know what inspired you to do this particular project,” Harry yammers. “I just talked to your friend Morgan, and she said you'd love the publicity.”

“
Well...yes, I would.” Well, I would if Richard hadn't just figured out my secret. After all, none of us self-identified as rich or poor in the videos. But Richard's hosting of an expensive party sort of identifies him as rich, and he hadn't planned on getting that much publicity for a fifty-thousand-dollar party (according to the last numbers from Matt). That wouldn't matter if he wasn't expecting me to protect his secret, in order to protect his own.

But what else can I do? If I turn down Harry Harmon, Morgan's going to wonder why, and so will everyone else.

I look at the disastrous green shag carpet, which looks a lot like the spoiled-latte colored shag nightmare we had in the house where I grew up. The only way I can permanently live in the world I love, not the world I belong in, is to make this mess work for both Richard and me.

“
I'd be thrilled to talk to you about our mission,” I say. “But I'm afraid we're going to be very busy between now and the party.”

“
Of course, and ordinarily I'd schedule an interview for next week,” Harry says agreeably. “But you're going to be busy publicizing the event, right? And if you can find time to do the interview before the party, it'll help get you more publicity.  I was hoping to shadow you guys on Saturday, watch you work and ask a few questions. I promise not to take up too much of your time – I want to get you guys in your element, working on your project.”

“
Great,” I say, as another part of my brain screams, “No, it's fucking not!” in the back of my mind. “We'll see you then.”

Chapter Thirty

Friday morning, Richard and I meet on neutral territory, in a room of a suite he rented just for this occasion. We sit opposite each other at the table, phones propped up on kickstands with their backs to the wall so we can both see both of them. The purpose is so we can both watch the live feeds from our GluedToYou channel, so we know neither of us is broadcasting right now and the devices are not recording.

The concern about recording devices, however, is at an all-time high,and why wouldn't it be?

“
You wanna get naked?” Richard asks, hiking an eyebrow at me.

“
I don't think either of us wants a recording of this conversation,” I say, flinging my purse on the bed in the second room. “But if you want to strip down to our underwear, I'm fine with that.” I pull off my shirt and shimmy out of my skinny jeans (no easy task) and toss them on top of my purse, thus muffling any audio a recording device in my purse would get.

Richard shrugs and pulls off his own shirt and pants, not spending half as much time on it as I did. The whole skinny-jeans thing hasn't caught on as well with men, it seems.

“
You're welcome to examine my briefs if you want to make sure I don't have anything hidden there,” he offers, closing the door to the room with our clothes and taking a seat at the table by his phone.

“
That won't be necessary.” I sit across from him and sip the overpriced soy white mocha I ordered from room service. “I maintain that it's in both our best interests not to record this conversation. And I assume you'll be staring directly at my boobs the entire time, so you can be assured there's no recording device there.”

“
Looks okay to me.” Richard smacks his cup of African-blend, one-sugar-no-cream coffee onto the table.

“
Let's get down to business.” I like Richard distracted by my boobs, but not
totally stupid. “Tell me everything about your past.”

Richard stares down at the table. “You know Lila's Lingerie?”

I point at my boobs. “I'm wearing it, can't you tell?”

He blinks at my cleavage. “What was the question?”

I sigh. “You mean to say your parents are executives at Lila's Lingerie?”

“
My mom owns it.” Richard sighs. “And she was one of those weird rich people who insist on sending their children to a regular public school. Said she wanted me to have a 'normal' childhood.”

“
Did you start lying to your friends all the way back in grade school?” I've never met anyone who was such a lying prodigy as me at such a young age.

He shakes his head. “No, not until I left for college and realized it was my opportunity to start over.”

“
Me too. So, the other kids at school knew you were rich and kicked your ass?”

He rubs at the side of his face. “I still don't understand my mom's train of thought. She wanted me to go to school like a normal kid, but then she'd pick me up in her Rolls Royce. And if she couldn't make it, she'd send her driver – in the Rolls Royce. She brought pastries from the most expensive bakery in town to PTA meetings and after-school things, instead of bringing cheap crap from a mart store like all the other parents.”

“
So, they kicked your ass.”

He shakes his head. “I didn't get beaten up on the playground, no. I was a pretty tough kid and my mom taught me not to take shit from anyone.”

“
But they treated you differently.”

“
It was how they looked at me, how they all kept their distance.” He stares at the phones, at the feed of Tiffany sleeping and Morgan pacing the floor and Charlie and Matt picking out the cheapest beer at a mart store. “Sometimes they teased me, but mostly they just kept their distance. Until a couple of them got smart and started trying to be friendly.”

“
They wanted money?” I ask.

He leans forward, looks to the side, does that hair-smoothing gesture guys do when they're embarrassed. “You know how it starts. They ask for something small first, a Twinkie or an eraser or something. Then they want to borrow money for lunch. They never get around to paying you back.

“
They always want to go over to your house. They never want to have you over to theirs. They want to hang out at your place, with the X-Box and the big-screen T.V. and the swimming pool.”

  “
That doesn't mean they don't like you,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course it does.”

I shake my head. “No, it really doesn't. Trust me, if a person is annoying enough or smells bad enough, you're not going to hang out with them no matter how much cool stuff they have.”

“
So I wasn't the most annoying kid in school and I didn't smell that bad. That doesn't mean everyone really liked me.” He leans over the desk, hunching his shoulders. “The point is, I felt like my friends liked my stuff more than me.”

“
Did your first girlfriend ask for free lingerie?”

He rolls his eyes again. “No, but the first girl I ever got a bra off of was wearing Lila's Lingerie. I saw the label as I was pulling it off her.” He's starting to turn red. “That kind of killed the mood, if you know what I mean.”

“
Did you
see
the tape of Biff?”

“
Well, it seems like Biff has that problem a lot. It only ever happens to me when, um, when a girl's wearing
that
.”

“
You mean we can't consummate this unholy alliance?” I feign horror. “That's just awful!”

“
Well, we could have if you hadn't told me what brand those things are.” He ducks his head and stares down at the table like it's more fascinating than a magazine article about Kim and Kanye's relationship. “I've learned to look at anything but lingerie labels. Or, better yet, ask the girl if she minds having the lights off.”

“
I'm sure that works well with some of the girls you date.”

He clears his throat. “Why don't we talk about you?”

I shrug. “That's not really a priority. You're more vulnerable in this situation since you're funding the party.”

He leans back in his chair and looks me in the eye. “We're partners here. Don't you trust me?”

“
It's nothing personal. I don't trust anyone.” That's the truth, whether he believes it or not.

Richard gives me a cut-the-bullshit look. “This is where you tell me it's the result of growing up poor, right?”

“
Wrong!” I snap. “Believe it or not, I grew up with a lot of poor, trusting morons. Actually, that's how a lot of people get poor. And some of them don't even learn from
that
.”

“
You mean your parents?”

I look at him, at the slack dimples and blue eyes and twelve-dollar-front-of-the-mart-store haircut, and I remember all the conversations we've had when he thought he could talk to me. He might not have told me the truth about his financial background, but he's sure told me stuff that left him vulnerable.

“
My parents learned from their mistakes, but it was too late,” I say. “There was a rich aunt on my dad's side of the family, and his own sister screwed him out of his inheritance.”

“
How?” Richard's brow knots quizzically.

“
My great aunt, Rosie, she didn't like my dad's sister, my aunt Etta.” I stare at the phones, at the boring feeds of my friends, and think that this story is more interesting than anything they're doing, but it'll never see the light of day. “I was too young to remember, but apparently she called Etta a cheating whore at Thanksgiving dinner one year.”

Richard raises an eyebrow. “Was it true?”

“
From what I've heard, yes.” I stare out the window at the beachfront view. Still no sign of trash. “Also, her husband apparently doesn't know he's not the biological father of their son. I don't know how aunt Rosie got the four-one-one on that, but she knew Etta was screwing more than one guy at a time, and Rosie was all old and religious and super-judgey about stuff like that, so...”

“
So there's no way she'd have left Etta anything in her will?”

“
Exactly.” I take another swig of coffee. “So she dies, and all of a sudden there's this handwritten will with a barely legible signature in which she leaves everything to aunt Etta. And just six months before that, she'd had a real will drawn up by a lawyer, with witnesses and crap.”

Richard frowns. “How could something like that possibly have held up in court?”

I shrug. “No one contested it, that's how. If you're ever looking to further your education on being poor by pursuing a life of crime, I recommend will-forging. It's surprisingly easy to get away with that shit.”

Richard rolls his eyes. “First of all, rich people steal all the time. Look at Bernie Madoff. And second, why didn't your dad just contest the will ?”

“
Society is more likely to forgive poor people who steal. Robin Hood and all that crap.” I shake my coffee cup, trying to redistribute all the white mocha sauce that usually sinks to the bottom. “For one thing, legal battles like that cost money, which he would have still owed if he lost. That's a big consideration for a poor person, Richard.

“
Second, the lawyer he consulted wasn't all that optimistic that they'd win, since they had no proof. Third, it would cause a big rift in the family, and he was worried some of his other relatives would take Etta's side and disown him.”

“
So?”

I shake my head. “I know, I know, they probably weren't worth being close to in the first place if they'd take the will-forger's side. Actually, I think a couple of them were in on it with her. But  the bottom line is, he never had the balls to take his stupid sister on.

“
I think that's one of the reasons he was so unhappy when I was a kid. He was always starting fights with my mom over nothing, always criticizing me. I was never good enough at anything – sports, dance lessons, school. It was always, 'you need to work harder', 'you'd be doing so much better if you just listened to me', crap like that.”

“
That must have been tough,” Richard says. For once he doesn't sound sarcastic.

I shrug. “Yeah. And the lack of money made it worse, you know? I know he felt bad when he and my mom couldn't pay their bills. They had their own business, and they just could never make it profitable. And keep in mind, this was back in the nineties, when the economy was fucking awesome.”

I drain my coffee cup and toss it at the trash can. No one's more surprised than me when it makes it into the basket. “You know, today you see stories about millionaires selling their shit in yard sales on their front lawns. GM would have gone under without a government bailout.
Everybody's
broke.
Everyone's
living off Uncle Sam. I guess it's less embarrassing now. But back then, the economy was rocking and I guess it was embarrassing for my parents to be the only people around who couldn't make a buck.”

“
So they taught you to lie about it?”

“
No.” I shake my head. “I learned to lie from my extended family, the will-forgers. And when I say learned to lie, I mean that I learned what not to do so I'd be better at it.

“
As for my parents, they used to tell me all the time that being poor was nothing to be ashamed of, that having money didn't make other people any better than us and I should never feel that way.”

“
Really?” Richard narrows his eyes at me.

“
Absolutely.” I dig my fingers into the arms of my chair. “But they also didn't let me have friends over to the house because they didn't want them to see how bad it looked inside.”

“
You mean it was a mess?”

“
No, you can clean a mess.” I stare at the big, heavy hotel room door. “It's just that when stuff broke, there was never any money to fix it. Like, most of the inside doors didn't have doorknobs, including the one to my room. There was just this splintered hole where the knob was supposed to be. If I wanted to close the door, I had to stuff a rag between the door and the doorjamb to keep it closed.

“
And the carpets-” I wave around the room, at the dark green pile carpet. “-were these old disasters from the seventies, like the ones in our cheap motel room down the road. So, my parents didn't want my friends or their parents to see the inside of our house. And if they happened to drive by and see the outside, with the peeling paint and the hanging gutters, I was supposed to say that we were 'in the process of remodeling'. We were in the process of remodeling for eighteen fucking years!” It occurs to me that I'm yelling, then it occurs to me that I don't care.

“
And then you went to college, probably on a
real
scholarship, and you got the idea to lie.”

I shrug. “Everyone reinvents themselves when they go away to college. Geeks try to act like frat boys. The uncool join sororities and frats. The ugly get plastic surgery or go on a diet or get a makeover. Girls who get called dumb blondes dye their hair and get glasses they don't need. Girls who get labeled as 'smart' or 'intellectual' go blonde and act stupid when they're anything but, like Morgan.”

“
I guess you're right.” Richard looks surprised. “I can't think of anyone back at school who's being themselves.”

“
I beg to differ,” I say. “I think we're all finally being ourselves. I think yourself is the person who want to be, not the result of gene expression or your background or the amount of money you actually have.” I wave around the room. “
This
is who I really am, Richard. My lack of money is simply a challenge I have to overcome in order to be myself.”

“
So you do that by making people assume you can afford stuff you can't?”

I shake my head. “No. I also
buy
stuff on Feebay, Richie Rich. You can actually get expensive stuff cheap on there. Maybe some of it belongs to those now-broke millionaires. Maybe it's people like me, buying stuff in bargain bins and selling at a profitable price that's still half as much as Barney's. But I can get real designer clothes at a fraction of what my friends pay.”

“
And you do have a scholarship?”

I smile. “Like I said, the financial aid office isn't going to discuss that with anyone but you. And yes, I do. And you don't, do you?”

It's Richard's turn to shake his head. “Nope. But how do you pay for everything else? Even at cheap prices, clothes still cost money, and you have new clothes every week. And you have the latest cell phone, and that tablet you carry around and that car you drive. Unless your parents won the lottery, I'm guessing they can't afford to send you enough money for all that.“

I sigh. “You already guessed my main source of income – Feebay. I go shopping in bargain basement stores and use my smartphone to look up what stuff goes for, so I can tell if it'll be profitable or not.”

“
You make that much money selling stuff on Feebay? I thought it was hard to earn a huge profit these days, especially if you're one person and not a big company?”

I shrug. “I make about twelve grand a year. It's not a fortune, but it's enough for my needs. And keep in mind, I get a lot of free merchandise, too.”

“
From where?”

I grin. “Ever gone dumpster diving behind a sorority or fraternity? You might run into empty beer bottles and used condoms, but sometimes you also hit the motherlode of designer clothes – especially if you go in the spring, right after the graduates move out. Sometimes people are in a hurry and they don't have time to donate stuff, so they just trash it. Last year I sold three genuine Louis Vuitton bags that some dumb sorority shits just threw away because they were last season's or something. That should be a crime,” I mumble as an afterthought.

“
So you made enough to pay for food with coupons and clothes from Feebay and
maybe
your rent. But there's no way you can afford a Mercedes on twelve-grand a year.”

“
You know who owns the Mercedes dealership in Fenton?” I ask.

“
Where the fuck is Fenton?”

“
It's a little town about an hour out from campus. And the answer is, Will Wharton.”

“
Who's he?”

“
The father of Hal Wharton. You know, the guy who tried to sue the student health center for not writing him an excuse note when he was too hungover to go to class?”

Richard rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he gives whole new meaning to entitled assholes. He makes you and Matt and Charlie and Tiffany and Morgan all look like a bunch of amateurs.”

“
Well, his father lets him pick out a new car from the dealership every year. Usually he brings back the old one, but at the end of freshman year he told his dad he'd auctioned the car off for charity.”

“
And he gave it to you?” Richard raises one eyebrow in m”y direction. “Why would he do that?”

“
Stop looking at me like that!” I snap.

“
Like what?”

“
Like Cliff's mother used to look at me,” I say to my Mystic-tanned lap

“
You dated your cousin?”

“
I think we both know he wasn't my cousin.”

“
But that
was
a true story.”

I change the subject. “You think Will could pass all his classes without help?”

“
You help him cheat?”

“
Nah, it's too hard to cheat during an actual test.” I drum my fingers on the pink granite tabletop. “I just write his papers and complete his projects, which allows him to earn B's in most of his classes even though he gets C's and D's on the actual tests.”

“
And that allows him to keep Daddy's Mercedes and the monthly checks?”

“
That's right,” I say.

“
Well, you just have it all figured out.” Richard stares at me as if he's looking over a stranger for the first time. “Okay, I know you're a top-of-the-class liar. Now, how are you going to help me out of this mess?”

Chapter Thirty-One

“
Is Richard Walters your real name?” I ask. I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, and I'm not going to like it.

“
Yeah.” He looks at me like it would never have occurred to him to change it, probably because it would never have occurred to him to change it.

I sigh. “At least it's a common-sounding name.” I snag my phone and run a web search. As I scroll through the many Richard Walters, I feel better. “Well, you've managed to get the privacy settings on your social media accounts right, which most people don't, and you're nowhere near the top of a Google search. You're not even on page two. I mean you, not the other Richard Walters.”

“
Who are they?”

“
An actor I never heard of, probably does Indie films. A five-star chef, whatever that is. A whole bunch of lawyers.”

“
So nobody will find out who I am?”

I roll my eyes. “It depends how hard they want to search. Is your mom's last name Walters?”

He shakes his head. “No, it's my dad's last name. My mom uses her maiden name for her business. You've probably heard of Lila Lawson, head of Lila's Lingerie?”

“
Got it.” I complete another web search and peruse a few articles about Lila while Richard rolls his empty coffee cup between his fingers.

“
Well, this is encouraging,” I say, skimming an article in
Vogue
. “These fluff pieces frequently mention Lila has a son in college, but none of them mentions your last name, and only a few mention your first.”

“
So what are the odds of anyone connecting me to my mom?”

I shrug. “Well, any reporter who really wants to look into you is going to assume you have rich 'rents. So they'll be looking for rich people named Walters, but a really good reporter won't stop there. They'll run searches for 'Richard', 'Richard Walters' and 'son of' to find articles about rich sons named Richard. Fortunately there will be plenty.” I twist at a hanging cuticle that would have been pushed back if I hadn't stopped pretending to be rich almost a month ago. “But when they don't find you, they'll get creative. They'll add 'Walters' to the boolean search I just outlined.” I pick up my phone and run the search. “Well, at least they won't find a photo.”

“
So they can't prove it's me?”

“
Not necessarily.” I sigh. “Most reporters have an account for searching public records. They could pull your driver's license photo, match it up with the one you had in California when you lived with your parents. Then they look at the birthdate, match it up with the birthdate of Lila Lawson's only son-”

“
And I'm screwed,” Richard grumbles at the table. “Can you think of a good lie to explain all that?”

I sigh. “The best bet would be to discourage all the reporters from investing their time in such an expensive search. Just because they can track you and your past down, doesn't mean they're necessarily going to go to the trouble. If you don't make it seem interesting, they probably won't bother.”

“
How do I seem uninteresting?”

“
Well, droning on about the plight of the poor and how greedy and materialistic rich people are is a great start. Unfortunately, it won't fit with your current cover.”