KEEPING AN EYE ON HER two friends who were walking slightly in front of her, nearly identical handbags dangling from their arms, Ashley Alioto tapped a message on her cell phone. talk 2 u l8r txt me i have re<< i have a brk @ 11.
Silly. She’d almost texted him saying she had recess at eleven! She turned off her phone, rubbed the rhinestones embedded on its stainless silver cover, and exhaled. She’d caught herself just in the nick of time, thank God.
He was just sooo amazing. She was totally into him. And it was mutual, she could tell. Not that he’d said anything of the kind, but after all, they’d only just met a month ago online. Their whole relationship consisted of trading e-mails and instant messages and syrupy comments on each other’s home pages. She was too scared to commit to a real-world F2F encounter yet. They’d never even spoken on the phone—he’d suggested it once, but she deflected it out of nerves.
Not that she had anything to worry about. She was certain he was three-name cute, even though he didn’t have any pics on his profile—just a cute Speed Racer cartoon. She just had a feeling. A. A. liked to think she was a little bit psychic, and she could sense a hot boy behind those sweet e-mails. He’d already changed his profile to “In a Relationship” ever since they’d confessed their affection to each other a week ago. He kept telling her he couldn’t wait until they met for real.
And there lay the problem. They could never meet for real.
Because laxjock (his online handle) was a high school boy. Who thought she was four years older than she really was.
If only she really were sixteen years old like it said on her profile! She’d kind of fudged with her age on the site, everyone did. Who in their right mind wanted to admit they were in junior high? Duh. In her defense, the stunning, professional black-and-white portrait on her page certainly made her look sixteen.
Her mother, a former model who had walked the catwalks of Paris, Milan, and New York, had asked a famous fashion photographer to take shots of her daughter as a favor, and the resulting photograph—of A. A. in a sleek black Eres bikini—was totally Teen Vogue–worthy.
Although the photo was sort of a fluke, really. A. A. had always been a bit of a tomboy, and she was most comfortable in Puma sneakers and yoga pants. It always bothered her that all her life she’d been taller than everyone she knew, had filled out the earliest, had gotten her first bra years before her friends had.
It was embarrassing how people were always commenting on how she looked older than her real age, how she looked “more mature.” Was there ever a word more depressing than “mature”? A. A. thought “mature” meant a wheelchair, a nursing home, and sensible shoes with the crepe wedges. She’d always hated looking older than she was. Until she had turned twelve years old but looked sixteen—then suddenly the world opened up in all sorts of delicious ways, like being able to sneak into R-rated movies and all-ages teen nightclubs.
She figured she would just delay their meeting until she was sure he was so in love with her that he wouldn’t care that she was only in seventh grade. Right?
“Loverboy?” Ashley asked, noticing A. A. putting her phone away.
“It’s her online Romeo,” added Lili with a knowing smile.
“Yeah.” A. A. sighed, trying not to look too pleased.
“So when do we get to meet him already?” Lili asked impatiently. “We’ve been hearing about him for weeks. Time to give up the goods.”
“Soon,” A. A. said airily. She had yet to confess to her friends that she herself had never met him. Some things were best kept secret for a while.
“You’re so mysterious about him, maybe he doesn’t really exist,” Ashley teased.
A. A. shrugged, knowing they couldn’t help but be just a tiny bit jealous she had boy drama in her life. For all of Ashley’s sophistication, she had yet to kiss a boy. Lili swore up and down that she’d kissed a boy over the summer in Taiwan, but with no way to prove it, she got only dubious credit for the experience.
Whereas she, A. A., had already made out with not one but two boys—last year her older cousin had taken her to a high school party and she’d made out with two Saint Aloysius freshmen during a game of Truth/Dare/Double Dare/Promise to Repeat. One of them had even stalked her for weeks, even after finding out she was only eleven. He was cute, but a little demented. She finally had to get her cousin to tell him to buzz off.
“Yeah, sure, A. A. has a boyfriend—but only she can see him!” Ashley teased. “It’s like The Sixth Sense.”
“An imaginary boyfriend, how cute!” Lili laughed condescendingly. “They must have lots to say to each other.”
“Shut up!” A. A. said, flicking Lili on the shoulder.
“Owww.” Lili pouted. “That hurt.”
A. A. briefly wondered what her life would be like if her parents had named her Samantha, like they had originally planned. She knew Lili was still peeved about Ashley’s handbag switcheroo. A. A. wasn’t thrilled about it either, but she had known better than to complain about it.
Whatever. It was the first day of school. Seventh grade. Finally. Boy-girl dances. Coed parties. Free-dress Fridays. It was going to rock.
School was just a few steps away, and A. A. could sense her friends subconsciously starting to move at slow-motion speed, and she did the same, savoring the feeling of having all eyes on them. Lili began to toss her long dark hair back over her shoulder in an exaggerated shampoo-commercial way, while Ashley pursed her lips as if preparing for a camera close-up. A. A. walked a little taller, arching her back and keeping her arm swing to a minimum.
They sat on the bench by the playground, where they could check out everyone and make judgments on new back-to-school haircuts and sock choices. There was very little room to make a fashion statement with the uniform (or as A. A. called it, the prison outfit), so every variation was scrutinized to death, from skirt hemline—rolled up to super mini length was totally out and way too much like the slutty Helena Academy girls down the street—to necklace choice: the Tiffany bean was so cliché; these days everyone wore Isabel Marant charms.
“Skiddoo,” Ashley growled at a couple of first graders who’d had the unfortunate idea to play hopscotch in front of the bench.
A. A. took her customary place on Ashley’s right, Lili on Ashley’s left, the three of them sitting cross-legged, kicking their ankles high so everyone could take note of their matching red-soled Louboutin Mary Janes, whispering to one another as girls from their class walked by. Those in their favor stopped and said hello, while those beneath notice scurried by with their heads bowed low, hoping to escape criticism. No such luck.
“Nice jacket,” Ashley sneered, as Daria Hart, a fashion-challenged seventh grader, walked by in a metallic raincoat. “It’ll come in handy when the aliens land.”
Lili giggled, while A. A. gave Daria what she hoped was a she-didn’t-really-mean-it smile. Ashley could be pretty funny, and A. A. enjoyed a cutting comment as much as anyone, but A. A. was feeling less and less inclined to be mean just for meanness’ sake.
Melody Myers, an SOA, stopped to trade what-I-did-last-summer stories and oohed over their matching Prada charms. As Melody hurried away when the first bell rang, a shiny silver Tesla pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the school. The girls didn’t give it a second look—expensive eco-cars were a typical sight in the mornings at Miss Gamble’s—but the hot guy climbing out of the front seat definitely caught their attention.
He was tall and chiseled, with a cool buzz cut, and he wore a pair of silver wraparound sunglasses. When he opened the back door, his biceps flexed in a most heart-stopping manner. A. A. couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Then a pair of tanned legs wearing last year’s chunky socks and brand-new high-heeled black-and-white spectators emerged, as a girl none of them had ever seen before got out of the car. She was so pretty it almost hurt to look at her. Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect nose. A Proenza bag, in the much more expensive silver snakeskin that was sold out at Neiman’s, was hanging on her shoulder.
Too bad about the socks. Ashley had decreed chunky socks passé, and all of them were wearing black tights that morning.
A. A. raised an eyebrow. She looked at Ashley’s and Lili’s blank faces and knew what they were thinking. Here was a girl pretty enough to steal the Ashleys’ thunder. Did she know what she was in for?
The girl walked by with her nose in the air, completely ignoring them, as if they didn’t matter. Nobody said a word. Then Ashley stuck out her foot. A. A. gasped inwardly. It was the oldest trick in the book. But here was the thing about old tricks: They worked.
For a split second it looked like the new girl would be able to catch herself before connecting with Ashley’s outstretched ankle, but there would be no such salvation that day. She went flailing on her Chanel pumps, tumbling to the ground as the contents of her designer handbag spilled, showering books and notebooks and pencil case everywhere, and her skirt flew up to her waist, revealing baggy Carter’s underwear. Not so perfect after all.
“Oops.” Ashley giggled. “I’m so sorry,” she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic.
The girl brushed her bangs away from her face, and A. A. suddenly recognized her, as did her friends.
“Omigod. It’s Lauren Page,” said Lili in a shocked tone.
“Who?” Ashley sniffed. “Never mind.”
“You should really watch where you’re going,” A. A. cautioned.
“Yeah, try not to bump into my foot next time. You almost gave me a bruise,” Ashley added.
Then, without another word, the Ashleys stood up from the bench, climbed daintily over Lauren’s sprawled body, and walked into school.