Kim vs the Mean Girl Page 12

  This was why, when the last bell rang after social studies, instead of grabbing my books and hightailing it to Spanish—my last class of the day—I lingered at my desk, hoping it would entice Jonathan to walk out with me. As I busied myself tossing my pen and highlighter into my backpack, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he headed toward the hallway, and my heart skipped several beats as I mentally summoned him to stop at my desk on his way.

  “Fascinating guy, that King Louie XVI,” he deadpanned.

  My hands had been balled into tense fists, but I relaxed my fingers as I felt Jonathan’s breath tickle my hair. When I glanced up toward him, he was smiling at me with a glint in his eyes.

  “Yes, the whole treason thing makes him all the more fascinating,” I agreed. Keep it cool, Kim.

  He squinted at me. “So, you like the bad boys, huh?”

  My face flushed as I racked my brain for an answer not akin to putting my foot in my mouth. I was pretty certain Jonathan was the kind of boy you could bring home to your folks without fear of him stealing your valuables or burning your house down, but I’d also heard that he and his friends smoked pot. He was the perfect amount of “bad” as far as I was concerned. I tucked a hair behind my ear and said, “Well, not bad as in criminal, but a little rebellion never hurt anyone.”

  Jonathan grinned and ran a hand through his unruly hair as my belly flipped in delight at the single strand refusing to be smoothed down. I stared at it for a moment before forcing myself to look away. As we walked out together, I crossed my fingers behind my back and said, “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.” He stopped in the hallway and leaned against a random locker, motioning for me to join him.

  I took a step toward him—not kissing distance, but close enough that hopefully no one would overhear our conversation. “You know my parents own a store, right?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Of course. My sister loves LONG-ing for Crafts. I think she’s made about fifty beaded bracelets from there in the last month alone.”

  I grinned. “Well, they have an annual holiday party every year. Friends, family, and valued customers are invited. It’s catered and everything.” I paused to gauge his reaction—a blank stare—just what I was hoping for. Spit it out, Kim. “Do you want to come?”

  Jonathan’s eyes opened wide. “Like a date?”

  I shrugged and glanced at my pink fingernails. “Yeah, I guess. Although you can bring your sister … if you want.”

  “Sounds great.”

  I screwed up the courage to meet his eyes. “Yeah?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Except one part.”

  I frowned. “Which part is that?” Please don’t say you have a girlfriend.

  “The part about bringing my sister.” He smiled.

  My lips curled up. “Ha!”

  He winked at me. “I can’t wait.”

  Neither could I.

  Ricky Martin could have been a guest speaker in my Spanish class for all I knew. I spent the entire forty-eight minutes daydreaming about standing with Jonathan under the mistletoe at the LONG-ing for Crafts holiday party. I could think of better venues for our first kiss—for instance, one where my parents would not be in attendance—but in my fantasies, we had the store all to ourselves with the lights dimmed, romantic holiday music playing in the background, and a light dusting of snow outside. Unlikely, but what good was a vivid imagination if you couldn’t suspend reality to spice things up?

  A smile playing on my lips, I practically floated down the hallway toward my locker after class until I walked past the headquarters for the school newspaper, The Liberty Beat. I stopped walking and peered through the glass wall at the students getting ready for a meeting. Several were hovered over a large desk at the front of the room, while others were tossing a crumpled piece of paper across the room like a baseball. I wondered if it was a draft of someone’s rejected article and grinned to myself, imagining it was a piece about Hannah’s “heroics,” which no one deemed newsworthy enough for print. As quickly as I let the thought cross my mind, I cast it aside. Hannah Marshak does not exist.

  I took a deep breath, and before I could chicken out, entered the room and marched toward Mr. Davies, the supervisor for the newspaper. He was talking to Greg Walsh, a senior and the current editor of The Beat. I had never spoken to Greg directly, but according to the rumors, the stocky, blue-eyed senior was arrogant, micromanaging, bossy, and so singly focused on the paper that he made no time for socializing or girlfriends. But The Beat had been a finalist for the best student newspaper in Long Island for the last decade and finally won first place the year before, when Greg had taken over as editor. I had to respect his dedication. I waited patiently until they noticed I was standing there.

  Mr. Davies, who was probably five years older than my parents, with a head of brown hair and a thick beard with flecks of gray, turned toward me. “Can I help you?”

  My overactive nerves had the potential to render me catatonic, but I summoned the will to fake a sense of belonging. I was a writer. If I was skilled at anything, it was telling a story. I could do this. I swallowed hard. “My name is Kim Long. I’m a sophomore and interested in joining the paper next semester.”

  With a smile, Mr. Davies held out a hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Kim. We’re always looking for new talent—”

  Before I could shake Mr. Davies’s hand, Greg interrupted. “What makes you think you’d make a good addition to The Liberty Beat, Kim?”

  Not expecting the third degree, I gulped, feeling my face turn red. “I’m a good writer with an excellent grasp of grammar. I’ve gotten straight As in English every year since the seventh grade, and I spend most of my free time reading and writing stories. I’m working on a novel now.” I smiled, proud of what I considered to be a decent resume.

  Greg snarled at me. “There’s a difference between writing fiction and reporting a story. You do know that, right?”

  Curious whether Greg was girlfriendless because of his devotion to the school’s publication or because he had a wretched personality, I turned toward Mr. Davies for help, but he offered no assistance whatsoever. Seemingly amused by Greg’s cockiness, he crossed his arms over his chest as he awaited my response, making me question whether I wanted to work for the newspaper after all. Tempted to run away, but knowing I’d never forgive myself if I quit so easily, I stood up straighter and said, “Yes, I do.”

  “What are the five questions?” Greg prodded.

  I furrowed my brow. “What are the five questions?” I had no idea what he was talking about. Defeated, I clamped my mouth shut and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Greg sneered. “We need serious journalists here at The Beat. Perhaps you should stick to fiction. You can try again when you’re a junior if you’d like.” He turned away from me and shuffled through some papers as I stared at his back with my mouth agape.

  Mr. Davies shook his head at Greg before facing me again. “Please forgive Mr. Walsh here. He treats The Beat as if it’s his child—a child made of precious jewels. The questions to which he is referring are the basic questions a journalist asks when getting to the bottom of a story. Does that help you a bit?”

  I had to think a second, but then it hit me, and I nodded excitedly. “Yes.”

  Turning toward me again, Greg demanded, “Tell us.”

  I stared him down. “The questions I’d ask are: Who? What? Where? Why? When? and How? Only…”

  “Only what?” Greg asked, narrowing his eyes.

  I pursed my lips. “I’ve never been good at math, but I count six, not five questions.”

  His face lighting up as he finally smiled with his cheeks, Greg chuckled. “Wordsmiths are rarely good at math, Kim. You’re in good company.”

  Mr. Davies beamed at me. “Welcome to The Beat, Kim. We’ll be happy to have you on board next semester. Of course, you’ll have to start at the bottom, and we’ll need to assess your writing abilities before letting you publish anyth
ing, but there’s something for everyone to contribute.”

  “Don’t expect a feature or even an editorial until your junior year at the earliest. And that’s only if your writing far exceeds the minimal level of performance. The content, language, and organization must be superior,” Greg said matter-of-factly.

  I was tempted to ask how he planned to edit the paper from his college campus but nodded obediently instead. I was going to be a staff member of The Beat, AND I had a date with Jonathan. Best. Day. Ever. I couldn’t wait to tell Bridget.

  HANNAH

  My father had been pacing the room talking to God-knows-who on his cell phone for the last half hour. When he finally sat down at his desk in the corner of the room, I took the opportunity to capture his attention. I muted the television set where Notting Hill was airing on HBO and asked, “What are we going to do for dinner tonight?”

  Typing on his computer with his back to me, my dad answered, “You can order in anything you want. I’ve already collected a nice stash of take-out menus.” He pointed his finger in the direction of his modest-sized kitchen. “They’re in the bottom drawer to the left of the oven.”

  Although we’d shared the space of the living room in my father’s new townhouse for the last two hours, these were the first words we’d exchanged in at least one of them. I lowered the base of the black reclining chair I was sitting in—the fresh smell of leather evidence of the new purchase—and frowned at my dad even though he’d only be able to see me if he spared the precious time to turn around. “We’re not going to eat together?”

  My father didn’t respond except to rest his forehead in the palm of his hand.

  “Dad?”

  He mumbled through his fingers, “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “You’re eating dinner with me, right?”

  Angling his body toward me at last, he said, “I’ll probably order something, as well.”

  “Fabulous.” We’d have an intimate dinner just the two of us. We had a lot to talk about. For one, I was having second thoughts about my red hair. I’d asked Fred if he preferred me as a brunette or a redhead, and he said he’d never noticed my hair before—yeah right. He was sure I’d look equally stunning either way, but I wanted another man’s unbiased opinion. The television show hadn’t been picked up, obviously, or else I’d be famous already, so I could lose the highlights if I wanted.

  I lifted myself to a standing position and marched over to my dad with a smile. “I’ll go through the menus and choose something divine before I set the table. Maybe I can act out a scene from the play for you afterward.” Marla and Plum had come to the rehearsal the week before and said my rendition of June was captivating.

  My dad pursed his lips.

  “What?” I asked with my hands on my hips.

  “Tonight’s not a good night. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. I should rehearse a few more times before I give a performance to anyone outside of the Thespians.” Marla and Plum didn’t count because they were my best friends. “Should we break out the good china?” Even though we’d eaten with paper plates and plastic utensils on all of my visits so far, I knew he had a decent set of dishes in his cabinets, and if we ordered something a cut above pizza or Chinese, we could get away with fancier dishware. His cleaning lady could do the dishes when she came by the following day. I looked expectantly at my father. “What do you say?”

  With an amused grin, my dad said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, pumpkin, but I’m so close to a breakthrough on this project, I can’t afford to take time out for a real dinner.”

  I dropped my gaze toward the hardwood floor. So much for a cozy dinner with my dear old dad. I softly bit the top of my hand until I felt his eyes on me and let my arms fall to my sides. “Can I go to the mall?”

  My dad jerked his head back. “Now? What about dinner?”

  I shrugged. “Well, if you’re too busy to eat with me, I’d rather go to the food court with my friends.” I held my breath. Maybe he’d reconsider, and we’d have our dinner after all. I knew he had to work hard to give me a good life, but he needed a break, and it had been so long since I heard him laugh. Besides being a great actress, I was also somewhat of a comedienne.

  He glanced at his gold Piaget watch. “I suppose I can drop you off. Can you get a ride back?”

  I turned my back on him as my lips trembled. I didn’t want him to think I was a baby. “I’ll figure it out,” I muttered.

  “Okay, just tell me when.”

  Already heading toward my room down the hallway, I called out, “I’ll need money.” Then I shut the door behind me before he could answer.

  I jumped on my new four-poster bed, slipped under the lavender duck down duvet comforter, and removed my Nokia phone from the top drawer of my mirrored nightstand to call Plum. She answered on the first ring with a cheery, “Hello!”

  “It’s me. Wanna go to the mall?” I puckered my lips at my reflection in the nightstand. First stop: Sephora for new plumping lip gloss.

  Plum giggled. “Always. When?”

  “Right about …” I pretended to contemplate. “Now.” Plum didn’t respond, but I could almost hear her frown through the phone. “What’s the problem?”

  She let out a loud breath. “I’m going out to eat with my parents tonight.”

  “No problem,” I said, sitting up. “I’ll call Marla.”

  “Wait … why don’t you come to dinner with us? I’m sure I could persuade my folks to drop us at the mall after. Could your mom pick us up later?”

  “I’m at my dad’s house.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. But I thought you guys were going to have a special dinner tonight.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “He wanted to, but I told him he should finish his important project first. He was upset, but I promised we’d cook together on my next weekend.” I hugged Tickle Me Elmo—the one doll I kept at my dad’s place—against my chest and squeezed it until Elmo chortled. “Thanks for the invite, Plum, but I’m itching to go shopping. I’ll call Marla. Bye.” I pressed end on the phone and quickly called Marla.

  “Fisher residence.”

  I rolled my eyes at the proper greeting coming from Marla’s baby brother, Drew. “Is Marla there, Drewpy?”

  “Negative, Hannah Banana. She’s out to dinner with my dad for a father/daughter night. Can I take a message?”

  My stomach dropping, I said, “No,” before hanging up and staring at my cell phone. I scrolled down to where I had added Fred’s name as a quick dial and pressed send. At least he wouldn’t let me down.

  “Hello,” he said, sounding more like a frog than a “Fred.”

  “What’s with your voice?”

  Instead of answering me, Fred coughed. “I’m sick,” he said through his nose before hacking again.

  “Well, that sucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said somberly. “I’ve been in bed since last night.”

  Sinking my teeth into my palm, I asked, “I suppose you can’t come to the mall with me?”

  “Ha! I’m under lockdown. My family’s extremely overprotective when it comes to my health.” He sniffled.

  “Well, they can’t take chances. After all, you’re their prince.” I snickered. Maybe he’d confess his secret under the influence of cold medicine.

  He didn’t take the bait. “You mind if we talk tomorrow? I’m not the best company right now, and I bet you have more exciting plans for this Saturday night.”

  “Yeah … exciting.” Muttering under my breath, I added, “Thrilling.”

  “Everything all right?”

  I grimaced at the sound of his nasal voice and gazed up at the white ceiling. “Perfect. Get better soon, Prince Fred.” I disconnected the call and flopped back against my pillows. Closing my eyes, I let out a frustrated groan. Behind my lids, I imagined Plum with her parents somewhere fun like Japanese Hibachi or Korean barbeque. Her cheeks would be pink, and her blond ponytail would bob up and down as she
enthusiastically regaled her folks with details of her day. Knowing Plum’s old-fogey parents, the venue was more likely the Chinese buffet or the early-bird special at the Plaza Diner, but I was certain they’d dole out attention—reserved solely for Plum—the entire duration of the meal. And Marla … well, Marla’s dad was the Danny Tanner of the New Millennium, and I didn’t dare attempt to envision their father/daughter night since I was certain it looked nothing like my evening with my own dad. I opened my eyes and sat up, my feet dangling over the edge of my bed. It was time to conclude my pity party and make someone else’s day. I could use the worship, and Shannon would be thrilled to have me all to herself—two birds. Humming to the tune of “I Do (Cherish You)” from the Notting Hill soundtrack, I dialed her number and let it ring once, twice, three, four, five times before ending the calling with force. What loser family didn’t have an answering machine? I knew what would be at the top of Shannon’s wish list for Santa Claus this year once I told her she blew her chance for a girls’ night with me because I couldn’t leave her a message.

  With all of the A-listers otherwise occupied, going to the mall on a Saturday night was off the table unless I resorted to B-listers like Holly or went by myself—second only to going to the movies alone—clearly, these were activities reserved for social outcasts. Since it was too late to call anyone outside of my direct social circle without appearing desperate, I resigned myself to staying in. No one would ever believe Hannah Marshak—most popular girl in the sophomore class—had nothing to do on a weekend night, and I had no intention of disclosing such an embarrassing secret. I could watch another movie or read a book. Too bad I didn’t own anything by Sarah Dessen, the author Kim Short gushed about in her diary. Of course, if Kim liked it, I’d probably hate it. We didn’t share the same taste in … anything. Certainly not boys—I tried to see the appeal in Jonathan Middleton but couldn’t get past the awful hair. And what was with the annoying strand that stood straight up? Maybe if the school did a remake of The Little Rascals—Alfalfa much? Her taste in friends—or should I say “friend”—left much to be desired, too. If she wasn’t such a bitch, I might take pity on her—she was practically a midget with bad taste in boys and only one friend now that even Denise Porter had blown off her and Bridget for a new crowd. It was no wonder she spent so much time scribbling stories. She was probably imagining a different life for herself.