Kim vs the Mean Girl Page 11

  I smiled to myself until I pictured little Kim Long insinuating I didn’t deserve the credit for solving the mystery of the missing ring since I stole the information from her diary. I’d say it was a good thing I did. Kim would make a lousy investigator. What was the point of collecting evidence if you kept it hidden in your journal? The guilty would go unpunished unless the journal talked back to you and helped solve the crime like David Hasselhoff’s car in the ancient television show my dad watched on cable—Knight Rider. Even the best crime stoppers had to step outside of the lines sometimes to get the job done. Like that guy Machiavelli said, the ends justify the means. Hopefully, my mom knew better than to invite Kim to the surprise party. It would be A-list only. Knowing Kim, she’d be rude enough to voice to anyone who would listen how undeserving I was, in the middle of my father’s toast. Fortunately for me, only Bridget and Jonathan would pay her any mind, and neither of them would be on the guest list, either.

  After my dad handed the car keys to the valet, the three of us entered the restaurant, and I immediately inhaled the aroma of steak cooking in its own juices. I had worked up an appetite after my near-physical confrontation with Caren and planned on eating whatever I wanted—even if my mom ordered her usual steamed halibut, red snapper, or some other healthy fish varietal. This was a special occasion, and besides, I was still the skinniest of my friends except Plum, and I planned to keep it that way by bringing pastries from The Sweet Stop Bakery to lunch every Friday to celebrate the weekend. I always made sure my friends were fed before me and conveniently only brought enough for them.

  As we followed the hostess to our table, I pretended not to notice any of the other patrons, but of course, I studied them out of the corner of my eye to confirm we were the most attractive clan in the dining room. We resembled a television family, and I bet the other kids in the restaurant wished their parents were as attractive as mine, and I was certain the parents wished their daughters had my style and grace.

  When we sat down, and the waitress handed us menus and began filling our glasses with ice water, it became clear there was no surprise party unless the guests were hiding in the kitchen. It was just as well—my dad hadn’t praised me yet, and he was too private to gush in front of all of my friends. Since I already knew what I was going to order, I took a sip of water and smiled at my parents. “Want to share a shrimp cocktail, Daddy?” My dad used to love to tell the story about how a four-year-old Hannah plucked a jumbo shrimp out of his platter, dipped it in cocktail sauce, and ate it in one bite without even getting her dress dirty. Ever since, sharing shrimp cocktail had become our thing, although we hadn’t done it in over a year.

  Looking at me from over his black leather-bound menu, my dad said, “I was planning to get the tuna tartare. But don’t let me stop you.”

  My shoulders dropped as I wondered if he forgot about our tradition. “Oh, okay.” I took another sip of water before giving the menu another glance. Of course, he remembered. He probably figured I was too grown-up now to split my food with him, which I was. I’d order a Caesar salad instead.

  “Of course, Hannah. Let’s share the shrimp cocktail.”

  Confused, I raised my head from the menu. “But you just said—”

  My mom smiled at me. “Your father changed his mind.” Directing her amber eyes at him, she said, “Right, Eric?”

  My dad cleared his throat. Without looking at my mom, he said, “Right.” Smiling at me, he reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You were so adorable eating shrimp off of my plate.”

  My cheeks warmed at his compliment. Wanting more, I urged him to continue. “Tell me the story again.”

  Before he could resume, the waitress came over and asked if we were ready to order. I fully intended to start where we left off after we finished, but my parents were exchanging odd glances. Assuming they were silently debating the best way to express pride in their only offspring, I beamed at them. “It’s been an eventful week, huh?” Someone had to break the ice.

  When my parents eyeballed each other again, I got a nagging feeling something wasn’t right. “Is something wrong?”

  Neither of them answered me. Instead, as the waitress placed our appetizers on the table, my mom pulled on a strand of her hair and stared down at the linen napkin on her lap, and my dad distractedly skimmed the restaurant. I watched them both while chewing on my strawberry-flavored lip gloss. When the waitress walked away, I asked, “What’s going on?” I tried to ignore the tremors in my voice. What was I so nervous about? This was a celebratory dinner, not a funeral.

  Finally focusing on me, my dad said, “We wanted to talk to you, Hannah.”

  Nodding eagerly, I said, “About my heroics, right?”

  My dad furrowed his brow. “Your … what?”

  I gulped before whispering, “My heroics. I saved the day at school.” I glared at my mom. “Didn’t you tell him about Miss Clarke?” My heart beat rapidly under my black sweater. She didn’t even tell him.

  My mom blinked. “Of course, I did. Didn’t I, Eric?”

  My dad waved his hand at me. “Yes, she did. We’re both very proud of you for hunting down your teacher’s ring.”

  I beamed at him.

  He ran a hand through his short brown hair. “But that’s not what this is about.”

  Fighting the ominous feeling in my gut, I argued, “Of course, it is.”

  “We have something important to discuss with you,” my mom said, placing her palm over my hand.

  I pulled my hand away. “I know. It’s about my reward.” Ignoring their confused expressions, I continued. “But I don’t need one. Making Miss Clarke and her fiancé happy is all the reward I need.”

  My mom dropped her head toward the table, and I watched as a fat tear rolled down her cheek. In barely a whisper, my dad said, “Hannah. We need to talk to you. About us. Your mother and me.”

  “What about you?”

  He turned to my mom, but she was still staring into her watermelon salad like it contained the meaning of life. He blew out a stream of breath and locked eyes with me. “Your mother and I … we’re separating.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “I’m moving out,” he said.

  “So, yeah, there are elliptical trainers, treadmills, bikes, and tons of other equipment,” I said as I held my friends’ rapt attention during lunch a week later in between bites of Italian pasta salad—made from scratch, of course, since the premade ones from the grocery store were doused in oil.

  My dad had moved into a new apartment complex the day after the celebration dinner that wasn’t. My mom had taken me shopping after breakfast, and his stuff was gone by the time we got back. He hadn’t even said goodbye—the note he left on my pillow said he’d call to set up my first overnight soon. My mom had said my not being there when he left was less painful for him, but let’s just say I didn’t get my acting talent from her, and I didn’t buy her lame attempt to defend him for a second. If it weren’t for Fred, I’d never speak to either of them again. The self-help book he gave me, Understanding Your Parents: A Kid’s Guide to Separation, urged me to be sympathetic to what my mom and dad were going through, and open to their attempts to be good parents despite all of the major life changes happening to all of us—not just me. Whatever.

  “So jealous. Can you bring guests? My parents won’t let me join their gym until I turn sixteen,” Shannon said.

  “I’ll ask my dad. Anything I can do to help my friends lose those stubborn ten pounds,” I said, grinning broadly at Shannon.

  Shannon gave me a closed-mouth smile before tossing a napkin over what was left of her tuna fish sandwich. “Thanks,” she said with a trembling chin.

  “I didn’t mean you, of course, silly.” Shannon was at least seven pounds heavier than me, and I had no desire to change the status quo.

  Shannon glanced up at me cautiously.

  “But if you did need to lose ten pounds, I’d still support you.”

  Shannon smiled b
rightly. “You’re the best.”

  I returned her grin, ignoring Fred’s eye-roll.

  “Tell us more about your new digs. You’ll have your own bedroom, right?” Marla asked. “We can’t have man talk while your dad watches football.” Marla shared a room with her brother when she stayed at her dad’s house.

  Holly snorted. “As if Hannah’s dad would want to share a room with her.”

  The table grew silent, and I raised an eyebrow, awaiting the inevitable apology.

  Holly cleared her throat. “Not because of you, personally, but because he’s like … your dad!” She dipped her head toward her tray of food and hid her face with her long, black hair before muttering, “Wouldn’t it be weird?”

  “Yes, I can’t imagine doing my dad’s makeup or having him paint my nails if that’s what you mean.” I laughed, breaking the tension. “But anyway, I’ll have my own room. And the best part …”

  Four sets of wide eyes landed on me in anticipation.

  “I’m having a professional interior designer come in to help me pick out a new set of furniture.”

  “Wow, your life is so awesome, Hannah. It almost makes me wish my folks would get divorced,” Shannon said dreamily.

  Marla released an audible gasp, and Fred placed his hand on my leg as if trying to trap me in place lest I jump across the table and punch Shannon in the mouth.

  I smiled through my teeth. “There will be no divorce. This is a temporary separation, but my parents want to make it as comfortable for me as possible. It’s not as if they don’t have ample funds.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s a well-documented theory that children of couples who have been married for more than fifteen years and take a year apart do better in school.” I jabbed a spiral piece of pasta with my fork and sucked it down my throat without chewing.

  When the bell rang a few minutes later, I said goodbye to my friends and went to toss my garbage in the trash can on my way to my next class. Feeling breath on my ear from someone walking way too close behind me, I whipped around, ready to tell whoever it was that my awesomeness was not contagious and they’d best step back. When I found myself face-to-face with Fred, my throat closed up, and my posture slumped. He held out his hand, and I grabbed it.

  “You all right?”

  I swallowed back a tear. I refused to cry at school. “Uh huh.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Ever thought about being a writer?”

  When I stopped walking, Fred did, too. Turning toward him, I asked, “Why do you ask?”

  And like the sun peeking through the clouds after a rainstorm, a smile appeared on Fred’s previously somber face. “You say I’m a good writer, but my poems have nothing on that theory of yours.”

  KIM

  “Brainstorm Plan Bad Diary phase four after school?”

  I crumbled Bridget’s note in my hand and dropped it in my backpack. When she looked over at me, I shook my head vigorously.

  Bridget pressed her lips together and crinkled her brow. Then she cocked her head to the side and mouthed, “No?”

  “Later,” I whispered and turned my attention back to the teacher. Discussing Julius Caesar in English class was actually the highlight of my academic day, and I didn’t want to waste it thinking about Hannah. As far as I was concerned, I’d already devoted too much time on her. Like my mom said, it was time to let her be and live my life. I was finished with Plan Bad Diary and, like it or not, Bridget would have to deal with it. I had bigger fish to fry.

  The second the bell rang, Bridget was on me like sheets on a bed. As we walked to our next class—me to math and she to science—she pressed me about why I’d shut down her plans to scheme revenge after school. “You’ve got a hot date or something?” she asked motioning her head toward Jonathan who was standing by his locker with some of his friends.

  With a fleeting glance at Jonathan, I tugged a hair behind my ear. “No,” I said, although I hoped a date with Jonathan wasn’t out of the realm of possibility since I had a very important question to ask him in social studies. “But I’ve given some thought to this revenge plot we’ve got going on. We need to talk.”

  “About?” Bridget asked, stopping in her place as Kyle Moore plowed right into her.

  “Whoa,” he said, raising a hand in the air. “Watch where you’re go—…” As he lowered his gaze and met Bridget’s eyes, he looked almost sad. “It’s you.”

  Bridget shrugged. “It’s me.”

  I stood there awkwardly as they remained in a staring contest.

  Finding his voice, Kyle said, “I didn’t meant to bang into you. I’m sorry.”

  Giving him a closed-mouth smile, Bridget said, “Not your fault. I stopped short in the middle of the hallway. It’s how collisions happen.”

  Kyle returned her grin before running a hand through his hair. “I’ve gotta ask …”

  Bridget said, “You have to ask what?” while I stood there like a third wheel knowing I should give them space but not about to miss out on the rest of the conversation.

  Kyle blushed—actually blushed. “It’s okay if you are … there’s nothing wrong with it … but, are the rumors true? Are you a lesbian because …”

  “Because why?” Bridget demanded, her cheeks ruddy. When she crossed her arms across her chest, I lightly tapped her on the shoulder, wordlessly urging her to calm down.

  Kyle glanced at me and then back at Bridget. “Because you’re adorable, and if you’re not into girls, I’d love to take you out.”

  Bridget’s eyes opened wide, and she dropped her arms to her sides. “Oh!”

  This time, it was Kyle who shrugged while I remained like a statue—saying nothing, doing nothing—on the outside. On the inside, I was pleading with Bridget not to blow it.

  “You don’t have to answer me now.”

  “I’d like that,” Bridget belted out. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and added, “I’m not into girls. It was a silly rumor.”

  Kyle’s grin took up his entire face. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to debunk a rumor in my life.”

  The hallway emptied out as students arrived at their next class. “We should get going,” Bridget said as she gazed into Kyle’s blue eyes.

  “Yeah,” Kyle nodded without moving.

  Enough already. Grabbing Bridget by the elbow and leading her toward her next class, I said to Kyle over my shoulder, “She’s in the book.”

  I had a funny feeling Bridget wouldn’t care about Plan Bad Diary anymore.

  HANNAH

  As my path crossed with Kyle’s on my way to trig, I flashed him my brightest smile and then kept walking—not looking and not caring if he was still watching me. I was late to class, thanks to a play rehearsal that had run five minutes over, but lucky me, I was right on time for a viewing of the Kyle and Bridget show. His performance as a love-sick boy was Oscar-worthy. Kyle might be curious whether “the carpet matched the drapes,” but he’d be lucky if Bridget let him find out if her bra was lace or cotton. While he sweet-talked Bridget into lowering her inhibitions with promises of how good he could make her feel, he’d waste no time searching for more action on the side. I almost felt sorry for Bridget—almost. He was her problem now. As I walked into my math class, I skimmed the room for prospects for my own love life. Spotting no one “Hannah-worthy,” I sighed loudly and sat down at my desk.

  A few minutes into class, Mr. Walker turned his back on us to write a symphony of mathematical formulas on the chalkboard. The shirt he wore reminded me of the gift I bought my dad for Christmas the year before, even though Mr. Walker wore a midnight-blue button down, and the present for my dad was a deep-purple cashmere sweater. Last year, my mom and I went shopping together for his gift, but I wouldn’t dare ask her this year in case she urged me to buy something fugly as a revenge gift. Maybe my dad would want to do this year’s holiday shopping together on one of his weekends. It could be good quality time, unless he left me alone in his apartment to watch one of the two hundre
d channels on his television while he worked—or hung out with Roselyn. Was she really only a business associate like he told my mom, or was she the homewrecker who split up my parents?

  I pulled my pencil out of my mouth noting the dent my teeth had made and slickly dried my saliva off of the tip. Less than halfway through the most boring math class ever—and that was saying something—I glanced over my shoulder. Kim was doodling in her journal—probably scribbling “Kim loves Jonathan,” “Kim + Bridget = BFFE,” or maybe even “Bridget loves Kyle.” I frowned, thinking I should probably warn her about Kyle. A lesser person wouldn’t bother, but even though Bridget probably didn’t deserve it, I wanted to live up to my heroic reputation.

  As if sensing me watching her, Kim stopped writing and turned my way. We locked eyes. I opened my mouth to tell her to meet me after class, but before I got a chance, she gave me a whiny pout, picked up her pencil, and resumed writing. This time, I was able to make out what she wrote: “Hannah does not exist.”

  As a laugh escaped my throat, I threw my hand against my mouth. Poor Kim. She’d probably read one of those books on self-fulfilling prophecies, hoping if she thought it hard enough and wrote it down enough times, it would come true.

  Too bad for her I wasn’t going anywhere.

  KIM

  This was it. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of taking indirect advice from “she who no longer exists in my world,” but Hannah had a point—I knew Jonathan liked me “more than a friend,” but we couldn’t move any slower without going backward. If his less-than-platonic feelings weren’t obvious from the little things he did —joining me at lunch, talking smack about Hannah after her Napoleon stunt, checking me out when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’d clinched it when he jumped in during my oral report and deflected attention away from the rampant questions about Bridget’s sexual preference. Someone had to make a move, and I was prepared to be that someone—it was the new millennium, after all.