There’s a sleek white Porsche in the visitor’s lot with tinted windows and polished chrome rims, a tricked-out 911 Turbo like the one Angelica Darling drives on the show.
If getting my own scandal was the first sign of the impending apocalypse and getting a Get-Out-of-Jail-Early card was the second, the Porsche is definitely the third.
“You couldn’t rent a Camry like a normal person?” I ask.
“Mom thought it was clever,” Jayla says, all faux Jackie-O fab in the head scarf. She clicks the key fob to unlock it. “Get in.”
“What the fuck, Jay?”
“Ever hear of keeping a low profile? Shut up and get in the car. I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”
“Ditto,” I say. Jayla’s been going by her stage name ever since she scored a national shampoo commercial her junior year, and as far as I know, Ellie, Griff, and Cole are the only ones in my class who know she’s my sister. But anyone with half a brain cell could do a little digging and connect the DNA dots. Sharing a dip in the gene pool with Angelica Darling? My scandal quotient would skyrocket.
I collapse onto the front seat without further argument, velvety black leather hot on my thighs. Jayla races into the street before I even have my seat belt buckled.
“You know what would be awesome, Miss Low-Pro? If you didn’t kill me before we got home. Today sucked enough without dying in a fiery crash.”
“We’re not going home.” She banks around the curves that lead to the highway, pink peep-toes jamming the gas pedal. “We’re going to therapy.” Her eyebrows wriggle. “Retail therapy.”
“Don’t be gross.”
“Don’t be stupid. When your rich sister offers to take you shopping, you say ‘how high.’ ”
“You must be high if you think a shopping trip can fix this.”
“Shopping is the single most effective way to survive a scandal,” she says. “They’ve done, like, clinical studies.”
“I thought we were supposed to quote unquote discuss this as a family?”
“Oh, there’s an idea!” Jay downshifts as we merge onto the highway, the engine growling at the change. “Let’s be grateful I already dropped Mom and Dad at the airport by the time Zeff called the house, and leave the rest of the parenting to me. Deal?”
“Wait. What? Where did Mom and Dad go?”
“Laguna Beach,” she says breezily. “I sent them on a couple’s retreat so you and I could bond. No worries—they’ll be back before graduation. Oh, they said to tell you bye.”
Ignoring my gaping stare, Jayla jerks across four lanes of afternoon traffic and zooms us down the highway, parentless, bound for the only place I hate more than school.
The Lav-Oaks Mall.
• • •
“There’s something you should know,” Jayla says, dragging me by the arm into the Apple store. No one’s paying us much attention—I made her ditch the scarf and heels for a Broncos hoodie and flip-flops from Dick’s Sporting Goods the moment we arrived—but she’s no less dramatic without an audience. “While you were wasting the morning on your education, I was monitoring the online sitch. Your classmates are bastards.”
“Brilliant.” I yawn. Retail therapy is exhausting. “Will this difficult conversation be the sort that requires a cookie?”
“Just . . . here.” Jayla taps a URL into an iPad from the display table and turns it toward me.
My once-desolate Facebook profile has become, in just two days, a bustling communications hub. Most of the tagged pictures are old news—me kissing Cole, me kissing Marceau, me and Cole in bed. There’s a new one tagged from Olivia’s profile of me and Cole leaving the emo bathroom this morning, and a few others tagged from a new profile named Narc Alert—shots of me moping around the school this morning and another with me getting into the Porsche, Jayla a thankfully unrecognizable blur. Cole & Marceau just can’t compete with this sugar daddy. A girl has needs! #scandal.
“What kind of disease would, like, legit force me to graduate by mail?” I ask, eyes watering with shame. “And where can we buy a vial of it?”
“Lucy. First of all, don’t cry and ruin your Sephora makeover.” Jayla rubs her thumbs beneath my eyes to fix the lines. “I showed you this to motivate you. Find your inner lioness, okay? You can’t let these people dictate your life. They’re piranha. And they don’t go away after high school.” She closes out the page and returns the device to the table. “Since your principal is obviously pro-piranha—”
“Ms. Zeff is okay.” I downgraded her from “cool” because oatmeal-raisin cookies should never, under any circumstances, be advertised as chocolate chip. Also, the fake apology letter she’s making me write kind of blows.
“That woman is more concerned with crossing off her little ‘how to stop cyberbullying’ checklists than doing her job,” Jayla says.
“That is her job.”
“I have a better strategy for you.” Jayla leans in close like she’s about to go all (e)VIL conspiracy theory on me. “When you post your apology, tell them you’re sorry . . .”
Dramatic pause. Raised brows. Deep breaths all around. Aaand . . .
“Sorry you’ve wasted four years of your life with a bunch of bottom-feeding ass-vampires who thrive on inventing tragedies just so they can suck the blood of the innocent, turning a young woman’s private pain into a public feeding trough for a pack of raisin-balled drama-whoring maggots who’d trade in the ashes of their own grandmothers for five seconds of pleasure at the expense of those very women on whom their sham-factory, boob-envying livelihoods depend.”
I blink. “Ass-vampires?”
“Well, I’m obviously paraphrasing, Lucy. The point is, they can all just pucker up and suck this—”
“How can I help you, ladies?” The Apple guy must not recognize my sister, because she’s flipping the iPads the double Fs, and he’s giving us a look, like, You flip off my merchandise, you buy my merchandise.
He’s also giving Jay’s boobs a look, like, Where have you two been all my life?
“As a matter of fact”—Jayla squints at his name tag—“Steve, you can help us. I want the iPad. Two of them. And we’re getting my sister a replacement phone since some dirt-snogging jackass stole hers for nefarious sexting purposes. Is that not the great injustice of our time, Steve?”
“Sorry,” I tell him. “She skipped her pills this morning. Bad idea.”
“Steve!” Jayla snaps her fingers. “Are you helping us, or just staring inappropriately at my junk?”
Steve goes, “Um.”
“The activities aren’t mutually exclusive, Jay,” I point out.
“Helping and harassing?” Jay says.
“Yes!” Steve is the color of hot sauce. “I mean, no. Yes, I’m here to help. How can I be, um, helpful?”
“Give us a minute to confer.” Jayla flashes her movie-star smile and shoos him away with a flick of her pear-perfumed wrist. Steve shuffles off behind the Genius Bar, shoulders slumped.
“Too much?” she asks me.
“Gee, you think?”
“This whole thing just has me so riled up,” she says.
“Steve?”
“The scandal!” Jayla sighs. “It’s so typical. Blame the woman. There’s a name for it now, not like when I was your age. Slut-shaming. Slut-shaming, Lucy! Like a girl who has sex is vile, but the guy? It takes two to tango, right? Or whatever you guys were doing in—”
“We weren’t doing anything.” Tango?
“The point is, this is exactly like what happened in episode seven, season three,” she says, “when everyone thought Angelica slept with her mother’s fiancé?”
“Angelica did sleep with her mother’s fiancé,” I say, for one thing. And two, advice from a fictional slut is so not helpful, especially considering that three, I’m not a slut. Not that I’m shaming. I’m just, by even the loosest definition, not one. And four, “Jay, you realize we’re not on TV, right?”
“I’m just trying to help.” She bumps her hip against the table where the iPhones are tethered. “Here comes our boy Steve. Better decide what color you want.”
“You don’t have to get me a phone, Jay. Or an iPad.”
Jayla swats the air. “I said I’d take you shopping. Key word: shopping.”
“Key word: this.” I twist around to display the bags draped over my shoulder: Urban Decay eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara from Sephora. Five different kinds of OPI nail polish, plus a bottle of Burberry Brit she found while the counter girls did my makeover. Two pair of Lucky Brand jeans. Gucci sunglasses that cover the entire square footage of my face. A black-and-silver bikini that covers way less.
“I hate how we left things in California, okay?” Jayla’s fierce confidence is gone. “You were storming out and I . . . I just didn’t know what to say. Not my shining moment as a sister—I get it.”
The weight of those memories presses on my lungs, squeezing the air into a sigh. “Jayla, you just—”
“Let me make it up to you,” she whispers. “Pick out a phone.”
• • •
Steve assembles our gear, including cases and accessories and AppleCare plans, and cheerfully swipes Jayla’s credit card.
His iPad lets out two short chirps.
“Let’s try that again,” he says. He reswipes the card twice, no luck.
“Is there a problem?” Jayla asks.
Steve blows on the card, then gives it one more go. Chirp-chirp!
He looks sheepish when he tells her the card’s been declined. “It’s probably a bank error.”
I switch my overloaded shopping bags from one shoulder to the other. “It’s probably ready to melt.”
“My assistant must’ve forgotten to let them know I’d be traveling,” Jayla says dismissively. “They must think it’s stolen. I’ll call her later and get it straightened out.” She fishes another card from her wallet, then changes her mind and swaps it again. “You take debit, right?”
Steve looks from us to the pile of gear, back to Jayla’s chest, and taps his head. Eureka! “Didn’t you say you’re a teacher? I forgot to give you the educator discount.”
Jayla bristles. “Teacher? I’m the—”
“Best drama teacher at Lav-Oaks,” I finish. “Everybody loves her. She’s superdramatic.”
Our total plummets two hundred bucks. The debit card works, and once he sets me up on the new phone—restoring the data from my old one by way of, ironically, the iCloud—we’re out of there.
Jayla puts a hand to her forehead and feigns a swoon. “I’m famished! Cantina Blue?”
“Don’t you have to call Macie?” I ask. “About your credit cards?”
“Like I don’t carry enough cash for Tex-Mex? Come on.” Jayla stalks ahead toward the food court, pointing at her wrist. “Hey there, boys and girls! It’s margarita-o’clock!”
• • •
“And it’s, like, so stupid,” Jayla’s saying. “Steve doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my bank account.” She downs her second margarita and flags the waitress for a third, and I’m pretty much definitely driving that Porsche home.
I poke straw holes in my virgin strawberry daiquiri. “He saved you two hundred bucks, Jay.”
“It’s the principle!” She’s wearing the pout that made her famous, and if she were a puppy, I’d totally pet her. “He assumed I have, like, financial problems. He didn’t even recognize me. He felt sorry for me.”
“Maybe he felt sorry for me because I have such a pain in the ass for a sister.”
Jayla huffs. “It’s not too late to return that Sephora stuff.”
“Touch it and die.”
“You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“A fly, no. A sister, yes.” I wield my slush-covered straw like a blade. “I’m a highly trained zombie fighter. Don’t mess with me.”
Jayla laughs, deep and genuine, and by the time the waitress brings our Mile High Nachos and Sizzlin’ Veggie Fajita Rollups, I’m glad she dragged me to the mall. However temporary, my sister’s back. Not Jayla, but Janey, and we’re snarfing too much Tex-Mex and groovin’ to the ranchera music and ordering more margs and then she gets that determined gleam in her eye that means our south-of-the-border soiree is about to head, well, slightly more south.
“Lucy! Lucy! Ohmygod!” Jayla stumbles out of the booth and grabs my hand. “They have a mechanical bull! Come on!”
I try to hold her back, to bribe her with the promise of fried ice cream and coffee, but when Jayla Heart sets her mind to public disaster, nothing can stand in her way.
Eight seconds later, I’m shoving quarters into a metal box, praying to the God of Tourist Attractions that my sister has decent medical coverage and that Cantina Blue is void, at present, of Jayla Heart fanboys, CelebStyle paparazzi, my Lav-Oaks classmates, and—just to be safe— anyone with a mobile Internet connection.
“Let’s do this, Toro! Yee-haw!” Jayla squeals as the bull jerks and grinds to life. The quarters get her five minutes and an “authentic” cowgirl hat for the ride, which she’s currently pressing to her head with one hand, the other gripping the saddle horn.
A half-dozen men and little kids gather, everyone encouraging her from the sidelines to “hang on” and “ride hard” and “get ’er done, darlin’!” After three minutes, convinced she’s got both Toro and her audience entranced, Jayla whoops, tossing her hat in the air. “Go, cowgirl, go—ohh!”
In a tangle of arms and legs and flip-flops, my sister is on the safety mat, laughing as the bull clinks to a stop above her.
“Screw you, Toro. Screw all you . . . stupid . . . bulls.” Flat on her back, Jayla’s flipping off the bull, laughing, and a few more curious heads pop up from the surrounding booths. One of the busboys has his phone out, thumbs working the screen, probably uploading video to Blue Cantina’s Drunken Cowgirl Wall of Shame. Behind me a mother hushes her child, calls for their waitress to bring the bill.
We’re about one customer complaint away from an “Everything all right here, ladies?” visit from the manager.
I kneel on the mat beside her. “Time to go, Jayla.”
“Call me Cowgirl!” She grabs the discarded hat and flings her arms out, two limp noodles around my neck.
“Time to go, Cowgirl. Lose the hat.” I get her on her feet and lead her back to the booth. Aware that we’re still being watched and possibly filmed, I slap a wad of Jayla’s cash on the table and hastily collect our things. We’re almost to the exit, me balancing our shopping bags and purses on one arm, my sister on the other, when Jayla goes boneless.
“Lucy! It’s horrible!” she wails, a blond puddle on the fake tile floor. “I’m a terrible parent!”
“You’re not a parent.”
“I’m not setting a good example,” she says. “I’m fiscally irrespicable. Sponsible.”
With tired eyes, I take in the pile of Jayla, the salsa stain on her thigh, the cowgirl hat–shaped lump inside her hoodie. “Oh, you’re an awesome example.”
“If Ms. Zeff saw me, she’d call social services. They should lock me up and throw away the keys! Do prisons still use keys, or is it, like, electronic? Do you think social services will send me to jail? I’m awful!”
More waterworks.
“Jesus, Jay. How the fuck did you get so wasted?” I set down the bags and loop my arms around her waist. “Help me out here, Cowgirl. I can’t—”
“Lucy? Last name Vacarro?”
I stand and turn around slowly, plastering on a festive smile. “Marceau! Hey! I’m . . . um . . . my sister’s contact lens . . . Have you been here long?”
Jayla moans from the floor.
Marceau’s eyes are warm and kind, and with no more judgment than a playfully raised eyebrow, he says, “Let me help, chéri.”
He grunts as he hauls Jayla to her feet, letting her use him as a human kickstand while I scoop up the bags. “I’m here with my host mom,” he tells me. “She says I’m not allowed to leave Colorado without trying the Miles High nachos.”
“Mile High,” I say. “Just the one.”
“Nacho?”
“Mile. It’s the altitude,” I explain.
“Welcome to Denver!” Jayla blurts out. “One mile above the sea.”
Marceau smiles. It’s basically award-winning. “At home we would say ‘one point six kilometers high nachos.’ ”
Guilt needles the back of my neck. I can’t believe he’s so sweet. I probably ruined his official prom experience, and now I’m screwing up his official nacho experience, and he’s still helping me drag my drunk cowgirl sister to the car without complaint.
“You smell really really good,” Jayla says, leaning into Marceau’s neck. “My sister should totally hook up with you.”
“Aren’t you a funny little lamb,” I say. “Now be quiet, okay?” I turn back to Marceau. “I know this is . . . crazy. But do you think you could, like, not say anything about this at school? My sister’s kind of—”
“I’m famous!” she slurs. “Bulls bow to me!”
Marceau’s still smiling. “I can understand why.”
I fumble for an explanation, but I’m pretty sure Jayla just passed out, and Marceau doesn’t press. It’s likely that he doesn’t recognize her—unless his host mom’s a fan, he’s probably never seen Danger’s Little Darling.
“So, our secret?” I ask.
He nods once. “My older brother, he is like this one. Party all the time.”
We’re at the car now, Jayla draped around Marceau like a scarf, me digging through her purse for the keys. Once I’ve situated the packages in the trunk and myself in the driver’s seat, he gently lowers Jayla to the passenger seat, tossing the stolen cowgirl hat into the back. He leans across her to buckle the seat belt just as I move to do the same. Our cheeks brush, his long hair silky against my jaw. Our eyes lock.
Damn. He does smell really really good.
Why can’t I just like a boy who’s not connected to my best friend?
With a sigh, I thank him and start the car, and Marceau tucks Jayla’s floppy arms against her body and shuts the door. He watches as I reverse out of the spot, the slump of his shoulders the only trace of regret at what just can’t happen between us.
Or maybe he’s really missing on those nachos.
Dear Suckers: To my Lavender Oaks classmates:
Even though it totally wasn’t my fault, I’m hella very deeply sorry about the photographs that appeared through no fault of my own on Facebook over the weekend after some jackoff stole my phone and hacked into my account.
I understand that the photographs are inappropriate for posting publicly because unlike aforementioned jackoff, I’m not a perv, and I sincerely regret any embarrassment, pain, or trouble they may have caused especially the ones that are ruining my own life at this very moment. I assure you that the original photos have been deleted from my profile. I’ve also deactivated and replaced my old phone, on which the photos were taken. The replacement phone contains neither compromising photographs nor stored social network passwords. So don’t even think about it, ass-vampires.
I’d like to encourage other students to follow my example in flipping you all the double-Fs deleting any remaining shared or tagged photos from your profiles. Especially you, Miss Demeanor, you gossipmongering nitwit. It’s kind of your fault this whole thing got started. Scandal of the Month? Who does that?
Social networking can be a fun and valuable communication tool, especially for those who don’t know how to have actual, real-life communications, but only if we all decide agree commit to treating one another with respect and dignity, online and offline.
Sincerely,
Lucy Vacarro
P.S. Zeff is making me write this.
P.P.S. My sister says SUCK IT.
With Jayla conked out in my bed, I revise the fake apology a dozen times. When I finally post it on Facebook, I tag a bunch of people who were tagged in the original photos, bases covered.
I’m such a spineless jellyfish that I can’t believe my jellyfish tentacles have the strength to type, but Zeff’s right—this needs to go away.
Mission accomplished, I change into Cole’s bear shirt and do a breath check on Jayla. She’s alive, out cold, definitely not moving tonight. I shimmy off her jeans and tuck the blanket around her shoulders. She’s a little girl lost beneath the bedding, and I crawl in next to her and fold myself around the empty spaces, knowing she won’t be here when I wake up.