Inside Girl Read online

  I didn’t know what to do. My first thought was to call my parents and confess everything: “Hey, I know I was supposed to be starting high school and concentrating on my homework, but guess what? I invited three of my friends to move in with us, and they trashed everything!” But something stopped me: maybe the possibility (unlikely) that my folks would freak out, hurry home, and kick my butt—or maybe the possibility (more likely) that they’d be mad but say it was my responsibility and leave me to fix it on my own anyway. So I kept my cell phone in my pocket. Instead I pulled off my shoes and yelled, “Philippa? Liesel? Sara-Beth? You guys around here anywhere?”

  They appeared, all together, at the top of the stairs. They didn’t look happy, but at least they weren’t yelling or clawing one another’s eyes out, so I took that to be a good sign.

  “What happened?” I asked, gesturing at the huge mess. “It looks like a mosh pit or something in here. This isn’t cool, you guys, seriously. I’m sorry I left you all alone, but I’ve had a really hard night.”

  But none of them said anything. They all just stared at me, and I started to realize why they weren’t fighting anymore. They were united now. Against me.

  “Listen,” I went on, “I’m really sorry I ditched you guys to go to that party. Believe me, I wish I’d just stayed home. I had an awful time. From now on, I promise I won’t go off and not invite you guys. It was mean and stupid and wrong of me. Okay? I’m really sorry. Beyond sorry. What else do you want me to say?”

  Philippa held up my chemistry notebook. “Maybe you could explain this.”

  For a second, I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I realized she had it open to the page where Judith, Meredith, and I had been scribbling notes to one another during the school assembly. And right in the middle of the page was the picture Judith had drawn of stick-figure SBB stripping.

  “How could you say those things about me, Flan?” wept Sara-Beth. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “It’s one thing to … double-book us, Flan,” said Liesel, “but it’s another to turn against someone who trusts you.”

  “But wait, I didn’t write those things. Judith—”

  “Sure, blame it all on somebody else,” scoffed Philippa. “That’s so mature.”

  “But I really didn’t—”

  “I know when I’m not wanted.” Sara-Beth wiped her eyes. “Tonight you can rest easy knowing you’ll never see me again. I don’t care if I am homeless—I’m not going to spend one more hour in this horrible, horrible house!”

  “Sara-Beth, wait!” But before I could get my shoes back on, she was running down the stairs, past me, out the front door, and out into the street. I chased her out onto the sidewalk, but she was already disappearing into a cab. “Wait!” I yelled. But she didn’t so much as say good-bye.

  Now I felt really sick. I went back inside the house. Liesel and Philippa were sitting on the couch now, their arms crossed, their faces as stony as a pair of judges’. I didn’t look at them as I ran up the stairs to my bedroom, shut the door, and locked it.

  As soon as I crashed down onto my bed, Noodles came out from under it. He hopped up next to me and started licking my face. But, as cute as he was, even he made me sad, because he reminded me of Liesel and Sara-Beth and how much fun we’d had hanging out at Cube the night I got him. I hugged the little doggy to my chest and started to cry. Everyone hated me: my friends from home, my friends from school, the guy I liked—everybody. I’d humiliated Bennett in his own house, made Judith and Meredith not trust me—and worst of all, SBB thought I’d basically called her an anorexic prostitute. It was awful and ugly and stupid, and I wanted to die.

  After several hours of crying and hating myself, I finally fell asleep. All night long I had a series of terrifying dreams, filled with people yelling at me and sentencing me to jail. But when I woke up the next morning, the voices I heard in real life were even more terrifying. They belonged to my parents, and they were coming from downstairs.

  Chapter 24

  Quality Time with the Folks

  I got dressed in a hurry, then crept down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible; maybe I could sneak out of the house before the fireworks started. My parents are gone a lot, sure, but when my dad gets back from traveling he sometimes gets randomly strict and expects everything to be a certain way, like he’s making up for all the time we were completely unsupervised. Patch and Feb and I will be like, “Whatever, when you guys were in Southeast Asia we did what we wanted and everything was cool.” And sometimes there’s an argument, but my mom hates fighting, so it usually settles down pretty quickly. This time, though, I knew even she wouldn’t be on my side—and I didn’t want to find out what would happen then.

  When I got to the bottom of the stairs, though, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The living room was immaculate. All the cushions were back on the sofa, the floor had been vacuumed, the pictures were straight on the walls, the lightbulb in the lamp had been replaced. Someone had even taken the time to dust the screen of the TV and put the remotes and video game controllers back where they belonged. What’s more, there was no sign of Philippa, Liesel, or SBB anywhere—not so much as a suitcase or a high-heeled shoe. It was like elves had come in the night and set everything right—only, somehow, seeing everything all in place like this made me feel even worse. It was like one of those awful fairy tales where someone gets her wish and spends the rest of her life wishing she hadn’t.

  I went into the kitchen and found my parents. Earlier, I think I said good looks run in the Flood family. Well, my folks are so beautiful that sometimes it’s hard to believe they’re parents and not just pictures cut out of a magazine. My mother is tall and kind of willowy, with ash-blond hair and a faraway smile that never quite comes into focus, like the fuzzy lenses they used to use on movie actresses back in the forties. She has the best posture of anyone I’ve ever seen—back in college, she used to think she wanted to be a dancer, but I guess she just lost interest after she married my dad and discovered the perks and pleasures of a life of nonstop world travel. Plus, she had three kids, which probably puts you out of commission for dancing, at least for a little while.

  She loves being a mom too; when we were little, she spoiled us all rotten, and there’s still nothing I like better than when she takes me shopping. Today she had on a pair of Versace jeans and an old burntumber cashmere sweater of my dad’s. She’d kicked off her shoes, these sandal-y heels with a bunch of interwoven straps, but the way she’d left them on the floor, they looked more elegant than they would on most people’s feet.

  I probably look more like my dad, who’s also blond, but in a more sunshiny kind of way. He plays a lot of tennis, so he’s always tan, which just makes his huge smile seem even brighter. When I was little, I used to think he looked like Guy Smiley from Sesame Street, but now I think he’s more like Dennis Quaid. Right now, he was sitting at the table, doing the Times crossword. He was so intent on it that he barely noticed me come in, but my mom, who was peering into the refrigerator, turned around with a big smile and clapped her hands together.

  “Flan, honey! We’ve missed you so much.”

  “What are you guys doing here?” I asked, coming over to give her a hug. My dad set down his pen.

  “Don’t look so glad to see us,” he said, getting up.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. I thought you guys were going to Marrakech.” I gave him a hug too, then sat down at the table. “Uh, and I’m not sure we had a chance to clean up—”

  “We were about to leave, but on the way to the airport, we decided that maybe we should be around for our baby’s first year of high school. So we turned the car around and drove straight into the city.” My dad grinned. “Of course, we called and had the cleaning service in before we arrived—you know how your mother hates to come home to a messy house. Anyway, look at you, so grown-up! I hope your brother and sister have been taking good care of you.”

  “Um … yeah.”
r />   “Where are they, sweetie?” asked my mom, taking a bag of oranges out of a drawer in the fridge. “They really shouldn’t leave you home alone like this.”

  “I think Patch had to be somewhere … early this morning. Besides, I can take care of myself okay,” I added defensively. If they only knew. “Is it okay if I go check my e-mail?”

  “Don’t take too long,” said my dad. “We’re making breakfast. Thought you kids could use a home-cooked meal for a change.”

  “Sure.” Forcing a smile, I walked out into the living room, wondering how I’d explain that I hadn’t seen my brother or sister for weeks. But before I could get too worried, I spotted Patch, slouched on the sofa in an old DEFEND BROOKLYN T-shirt and jeans, eating a croissant.

  “Mom! Dad! Patch’s back!” I called, trying to hide the delight in my voice.

  My mom appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a spatula. “Oh, good. Honey, don’t spoil your appetite. We’re making omelets.”

  “’Kay,” said Patch, finishing the croissant and licking his fingers. My mom went back into the kitchen.

  “Where have you been?” I whispered as soon as she was out of earshot. “I thought I was going to have some serious explaining to do.”

  “I’ve been staying with some friends. You know—chilling.” He settled back on the cushions. “I met this girl. She’s pretty awesome. The only problem is, her fiancé’s this French diplomat and they’re going back—”

  I shook my head. “Listen, Patch, I’m really sorry if you’re going through a hard time. But seriously, I have enough problems of my own right now.” The minute I said it, I felt really bad. What was I turning into? Queen Bitch?

  Patch whistled. “Whoa. Sorry.”

  “Wait, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just, things’ve been crazy since you left. You have no idea. I’ve made such a mess of everything. My friends … this guy …” Suddenly I felt like I might start crying. Patch scooted over on the couch and I plopped down next to him, covering my face with my hands.

  “Hey, hey, be cool. I understand.” Patch ruffled my hair sympathetically. “It’s easy for me to forget you’re growing up sometimes. I still just think of you as my kid sister, you know? But you’ve got your own life. That’s the way things should be.” He scrutinized me. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Ugh, no,” I said. “I don’t want to get into it all right now. It’s just something I have to figure out. But thanks for asking—really. It’s good knowing I have someone I can talk to.” It wasn’t every day that my big brother treated me like one of his friends. I thought about how much had changed since he drove me to Connecticut at the beginning of the summer. He was right: it was easy to forget sometimes, but I really was growing up. And doing a pretty lousy job of it too. “I wish I was more like you, Patch. You’re so good at making friends.”

  “But don’t you get it, Flan? You don’t want to be like me, or anybody else. The only way to get along with people is by being yourself. It’s a cliché, I know, but it’s also a good way to avoid a lot of bull.” He folded his arms behind his head. “Listen, I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but I’d hazard a guess that if you just open up to people, let them see who you really are, a lot of these so-called problems’ll disappear. Because people like you, sis, they really do—but what they like about you is that you’re real.”

  I nodded. He was right, and I had so not been doing that. But now I was starting to get an idea of how to fix the situation.

  While my parents made omelets and juiced oranges in the new high-tech juicer they’d bought, I went back upstairs to my bedroom. I sat down at my desk and took out my stationery—the pale yellow monogrammed stuff I hardly ever use—and carefully started to write. As I wrote names on the envelopes, I thought about what it was I really wanted. Because I used to think I wanted to be normal, just a regular teenager like everybody else. But now I was beginning to realize it was more complicated than that. I didn’t want to blend in—I wanted to stand out. Not for knowing celebrities or all the best clubs, not for who my brother was or for how much money my parents had. No, I wanted to stand out by being me. The real me—Flan Flood.

  Chapter 25

  Patching Things Up

  On Monday, I got to school way early and started combing the halls for Meredith and Judith, and it was a good thing I did, because they were practically impossible to find. They weren’t at Meredith’s locker, or Judith’s; they weren’t in the hall outside our first-period class, and they weren’t by the cafeteria. Finally I found them hiding out by the sixth-floor escalator. I kind of had a feeling that they were avoiding me, but I tried to tell myself I was just being paranoid.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’ve been looking all over for you guys. What are you doing up here?”

  Meredith and Judith stopped their conversation abruptly and turned around. They looked at me warily, like they were trying to decide if I was going to bite them or not. Meredith was wearing a vintage T-shirt with a screen print of Jim Morrison on it, but Judith was all dressed up in a suit and heels like she was about to go work in an office or something.

  “I’m trying out for the debate team,” Judith said finally. “I was supposed to be up here for that. But they pushed back my audition till after school.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Not really. Now I have to walk around in a suit all day, or change into normal clothes and then change back.” She looked at her watch. “Which I don’t have time to do before first period.”

  “Well, I think you look nice,” Meredith told her.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Judith grudgingly smiled. “Did you have a fun weekend?” she asked, but in this way that made me feel like she was suspicious or something. “Worn out from partying?”

  “The only party I went to was with you guys.” I looked down at my feet. It was so unfair—how could they think I was out having fun when I was really just sitting around the house, crying and feeling miserable because I thought they hated my guts? Then again, they had no way of knowing how I really felt. “Besides that, I mostly just did homework.”

  “Us too,” said Meredith. “It was super boring.”

  “Yeah, it was,” I agreed.

  “Well, next time you’re ‘bored,’ you can ask us to come over and study with you,” said Judith. “But somehow I doubt that’ll ever happen.”

  It was mean, but I deserved it. We all stood there awkwardly for a second, until finally, I took a deep breath and took out the invitations I’d made that weekend.

  “Actually,” I said in a small voice, “I was wondering if you guys had any plans for Friday.”

  “This Friday?” asked Judith, the skepticism leaving her voice. She tugged on the sleeves of her suit. “Why do you ask?”

  I handed them the invitations that I’d written out so carefully on my stationery. I hoped I wasn’t wasting it: my grandma’d had it made for me back when I was twelve, and I’d been rationing it out ever since.

  “Yeah. I was thinking about having a little gettogether,” I said. “You know, like a party. At my house. Since I haven’t had you guys over yet.”

  “A party?” asked Meredith.

  “At your house?” asked Judith.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s just going to be small—you guys and a couple of my other girlfriends. I was thinking about inviting Bennett, Eric, and Jules too, if that seems like a good idea to you. But you’d get to meet my family—see my real life. Does that sound okay?”

  Meredith grinned, and it was like one of those days when it’s cloudy and you can’t tell if it’s going to rain until the sun finally breaks through. I could tell she’d wanted to trust me all along, and that thought made me feel way, way better.

  “See, Judith?” she said. “I told you she wasn’t like the others. She does like us.”

  “Of course I do,” I put in quickly. “You guys are amazing. I’m just sorry I wasn’t more honest with you from the start.”
r />   Judith nodded slowly. I could see there was still a little bit of doubt lurking in her face. “So, should we … bring anything?”

  “No, no, just yourselves. But you think you’ll be able to make it?”

  “Sure.” Meredith nodded. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Now I just had to invite Bennett and the guys. I thought it would be easier after I’d talked to Meredith and Judith, but their reaction hadn’t made me feel as confident as I would’ve liked. Not that I blamed them: you can’t just go from being a total phony to winning back someone’s trust by handing out an invitation. But I wished they had at least invited me to hang out after school or something. By the end of the day, I just wanted to go home, curl up on the couch, and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Somehow that movie always cheers me up when I feel lousy.

  I knew I couldn’t, though, so as soon as the last bell rang, I went looking for Bennett. But finding him after school was almost as hard as finding Judith and Meredith before school had been. After I checked the hallway with his locker and the journalism room, I was about to give up and assume he’d already gone home. But going down the last escalator to the first floor, I saw he was standing over by the entrance, talking to some of his friends.

  I felt nervous, especially because he was talking to people I didn’t know. But it looked like they were saying good-bye—they were all doing those sort of silly complicated handshakes guys always do, and a couple of them were already out the door—and besides, it was now or never. So I walked over to Bennett and, as casually as I could, reached up and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “H-hey, Bennett,” I stammered as he turned around.

  “See you guys,” he called to his friends. Then he picked up his backpack and slung it onto his shoulder, and we started walking out of the building together. “Flan,” he said, sort of casual, but also sort of cold. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. Listen, I just wanted to ask you something.” I stopped walking, and so did he. There we were, on the sidewalk in front of the school, with all these other students milling around us.