Some Kind of Wonderful Page 4

  "Jared," I said.

  "Jared! That's right, the one who modeled for Calvin Klein for, like, a second. Totally washed up now and it's so sad. The problem was his head, if you remember. It was shaped like, what did I used to say?"

  "A cereal box."

  SBB collapsed in a fit of giggles, which always made me laugh, too. Being with SBB was always so easy. All we did was make each other laugh. No drama, no competition. It might have been because we existed on totally different planets, but still.

  "So you're going to Nevis and this is what you're bringing?" she said, eying my suitcase. I knew what was coming next.

  She snatched up the two shirts I'd been deciding on when she first burst into the room. Now they were crumpled into two balls next to my suitcase.

  "Didn't I teach you how to fold?" she asked. "My guru taught me. I know, yoga and material objects don't really go hand in hand, but he was really very fashion forward." Sara-Beth whipped the shirts into two origami triangles, each one-eighth its original size, and tucked them both into my suitcase.

  "No, wait," I told her, reaching for the shirts. "I'm only allowed to bring three solid-colored boatnecks!"

  "What in God's name are you talking about?" she said. "I never want to hear you talk about packing restrictions again. You can never be too prepared in Nevis. Now, what you need is a bigger suitcase. Do you have one lying around someplace? Where's your storage facility? You must have something."

  I shook my head.

  "Well then, let's say no more," SBB said, spinning around my room. "I have an absolutely genius idea!

  Chapter 5

  INCOGNITO ON MADISON

  Before I knew it, I was in the backseat of an uptown-bound minivan taxi next to SBB. I had to clutch her arm as the cabbie zipped through more than a few red lights in a row while heading north on Sixth Avenue. When we hit a street fair on 23rd Street and the smell of kettle corn and cheap Thai food struck my nose, the cab driver swung a hard right toward Fifth.

  "I didn't know you went slumming in cabs," I joked. "Is it Richardo's day off or something?"

  "Oh no no no, Flan," she said. "Taxis are the way to go. Much more incognito and I love the idea that there's a chance I might get on Cash Cab and end up on the Discovery Channel. It'd be so much fun to be on reality TV disguised as someone else. Wouldn't that be hilarious?"

  "Hilarious," I agreed. I didn't want to burst SBB's bubble and tell her that one of Patch's friends worked on the show Cash Cab (a game show in which unsuspecting New Yorkers hail cabs only to find a disco-clothes-wearing, trivia-questioning driver inside), so I knew that all of the contestants they picked up were staged. Anyway, she was busy turning incognito, as she almost always does when we go out in public together.

  "What should it be today?" she asked, rummaging through the biggest bright green Longchamp tote I'd ever seen. It was easily twice her size.

  "What are my options?" I asked.

  "Ooh, I have the perfect wig in here for an Upper East Side private school brat," she said, and produced a wig of flowing black waves that looked alarmingly similar to Kennedy Pearson's haircut last year.

  "That looks right," I said.

  "What else are the girls wearing these days, Flan? You're my link to the real people in this town."

  I helped SBB sort through a torrent of printed silk shawls and giant belt buckles to accessorize her T-shirt dress. From the bottom of the bag, we picked the biggest pair of sunglasses we could find—red, Alain Mikli—and slapped them on her pretty little face.

  "You look like everyone I grew up going to school with," I told her. "I'm a little scared of you, actually."

  "Don't be scared, Flan. You just saved my life. Another costuming success!"

  I looked down at my own white boatneck shirt and jeans and felt suddenly very un-glamorous. If there was one thing I was not, it was a costuming success.

  "Now will you tell me where we're going?" I asked. I wondered if I should have changed, too.

  The cab screeched to a halt at 53rd Street and Madison.

  "Here!" SBB exclaimed. She paid the driver and pulled me onto the street and then into the high ceilings and bright lights of the Bric's luggage store. The inside of the store was spare and meticulously laid out by color, size, and type of travel. "This is the place to buy Nevis-worthy luggage. I wouldn't let you leave home without it," SBB said.

  Soon, Sara-Beth was whipping me around the store, pointing out every piece of luggage that she personally owned and every piece of luggage that she'd convinced one of her friends to buy.

  "Satisfaction guaranteed!" she grinned, unzipping pockets and showing me the various compartments with a Deal or No Deal Girl flourish. "This one's for jewelry, and here's one for your lingerie. There's a climate-controlled compartment in case you have any face creams that need refrigeration. I use this one for fuzzy handcuffs . . . whoops, did I say that?" I tried to stifle my laughter as one of the sales clerks turned to glare at us, but it ended up coming out my nose, which only made SBB more hysterical.

  When we'd calmed down, she grabbed my hand. "Ooh, are you bringing Noodles with you?"

  I shook my head. "Not this time. He's not much of a jet-setter—the whole air sickness thing. He's staying with Liesel."

  "That's too bad, because they have the cutest doggie totes. I bought a couple for myself, just in case I ever stop being terrified of animals."

  It was always a blast to shop with SBB, and soon I was totally absorbed in finding the perfect duffel bag for the trip. It was funny—my Tumi rolling suitcase had seemed perfectly fine this morning, but it now felt totally lame in comparison to all of these great new options.

  "This one," I said finally, pausing in front of a sleek burgundy duffel with an option for 360-degree rolling. "Perfection."

  "Definitely." SBB nodded enthusiastically.

  As someone with a track record of terrible decision-making capabilities, I certainly had an easy enough time upgrading my luggage, thanks to Sara-Beth.

  "I needed that," I said to SBB as we approached the register wheeling my new top-of-the-line duffel bag. "I should let you make all my life decisions."

  There was a crowd of people in front of us at the register—apparently I wasn't the only one getting outfitted for the Thanksgiving break.

  A group of girls turned around as we approached.

  "Is that Flan Flood}" I heard a voice say.

  It was Olivia Quayle, an old friend of mine from Miss Mallard's, whom I hadn't talked to since eighth grade. She'd grown a few inches and maybe had a nose job. She looked a lot more dazzling than I'd remembered. She was wearing a cropped cream-colored wool jacket, and her wavy auburn hair hung down her back. She gave me a bright, genuine smile.

  "Hey, Olivia," I said, giving her a kiss. You never greeted anyone from Miss Mallard's with a hug. It was only ever the air-kiss. "Great to see you. You look awesome."

  "Oh my God, not even," Olivia said. "You look amazing. What model's body did you steal? You're so tall now."

  I heard SBB sniff beside me at that comment. It would be polite to introduce her, but she'd kill me if I blew her cover.

  "Um, this is my friend . . . Mandy," I said. "She goes to Stuy with me."

  "Nice to meet you, Mandy," Olivia said. "And this is Veronica and Dara—new recruits at Thoney this year. They were at Little Red until last year, and we've been BFFs since day one of freshman year. Right, girls?"

  Veronica and Dara nodded and grinned, and both of them actually seemed really nice. For a second, I wondered if I would have been in their crew if I'd stuck around and gone to Thoney.

  Dara turned to SBB and said, "You look really familiar. Do we know each other from somewhere?"

  SBB readjusted her wig and purred in a southern accent I'd never heard before. "I don't see how we could. I've only just moved here from Texas."

  Since no one really knew what to say to a girl from Texas, Olivia turned back to me.

  "Well, we really miss you, Flan, but we he
ar through the grapevine that Stuy's going well. Dating the captain of the football team or something?"

  I blushed and laughed a little. "Adam," I said. "We just started dating a little while ago, but he's a pretty cool guy." I wondered how they'd found out about my love life. Was it really something people talked about in the Thoney grapevine? It felt sort of nice to think that people were saying I was doing well at Stuyvesant, but I realized that I was much more interested in talking to Olivia about the latest dirt in her circle than I was in talking about Adam.

  "Tell me about Thoney. Who's stealing whose boyfriend? Who's getting caught smoking in the bathroom? What are the upperclassmen like? I want to know everything."

  The girls giggled and stepped closer to start whispering about school. I was having so much fun that I barely noticed SBB retreating—until I felt one very hard pull on my left hand.

  "Oh, sorry, S—Mandy. I got caught up—"

  I stopped talking at the sight of SBB's face, which had turned as pale as a ghost.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  "Too many people," she whispered, robot-like. "Anxiety attack countdown."

  At that moment, Dara and Veronica both began to squeal. "Omigod, the boys are here!" I turned to look and noticed a group of about five very cute Manhattan boys walking through the door, not breaking their swagger or their formation. I recognized one of them as Alex Altfest—the prince of New York City, according to a lot of my old friends. He had the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going on, and he managed to be impeccably dressed in a forest green Fendi sweater without looking like he cared too much about his clothes. The others were basically attractive clones of him. They must be the A-list at Dalton this year.

  Looking at them, even just from afar, made me feel really out of touch with this world.

  Dara, Veronica, and Olivia were trying to play it cool, but they quickly started arguing about who should approach the boys first.

  "I did it last time when we saw him at Papaya King," Dara whispered insistently.

  Behind me, I could feel SBB retreating ever further into panic mode. It was crazy what a group of guys could do to a room. But my immediate concern was Sara-Beth. I turned to her and grabbed her hand. "You okay?" I asked. "We can head out if you want."

  "Too dangerous," she said in a voice I didn't recognize. It was as if she had turned into an android. "Follow me."

  She tugged my hand and pulled us both around a corner. There, down an aisle and to the right, in a whole different room of the store, was a giant steamer trunk. I stared at it. It was easily the biggest piece of luggage I'd ever seen in my life—quite possibly bigger than a MINI Cooper. Before I knew it, SBB tugged me inside, and the trunk closed around us with a soft click. There I was, huddled in a piece of luggage next to SBB, trying to help her control her breathing.

  "Meditate at the third eye point," I told her. "That always helps."

  "Shhh," she said. "Don't leave."

  "Sara-Beth, I don't really have anywhere to go." The walls of the trunk pressed up against us, and only a glimmer of light came through the hinges.

  "Let's just be for a few minutes. I think it will help, okay?"

  "Okay." But it was clearly not okay, since SBB was gripping my forearms so hard that I could feel her nails digging into my skin.

  Once SBB's breathing had quieted, I was able to hear sounds from the outside. "Oh Alex, guess who you just missed?" Olivia said. "Flan Flood! She was just here. I don't know where she went. She looked amazing, didn't she? Maybe / should have gone to Stuyvesant."

  This made the other girls laugh—and I almost didn't hear Alex say, "Well, Flan was always a hottie."

  My eyes grew wide and even SBB put her panic attack aside for a minute to nudge me and giggle. Now we definitely couldn't come out of the steamer trunk until everyone was gone.

  "I have a credit card here for Flan Flood" a French-accented voice rang out. Crap. It was the snotty saleswoman, blowing our cover. The way she called my name out made it sound like a dead fish falling to the floor with a thump.

  "What do we do?" I asked SBB.

  Sara-Beth put back on the Texas drawl and said loudly through the trunk, "Um, ma'am, we were fixin' to look at this steamer trunk, and we happened to get ourselves stuck."

  There were muffled giggles from the other side, and I heard one of the girls whisper, "Who knows? She's from Texas," before the saleswoman came over with the key. I was ready to breathe in the sweet air of freedom and deal with the embarrassment of falling out of a steamer trunk in front of a high-profile audience, but SBB can never do anything the normal way. She had other plans.

  The steamer trunk opened a crack and we saw the dour face of the saleswoman and a glimpse of my friends standing just behind her. But before the door opened all the way, SBB grabbed the saleswoman by the name tag on her lapel and pulled her partway into the trunk.

  "Angie," she said in an urgent voice. "Look, I'm sorry about this, but I'm a movie star." She flicked up her sunglasses briefly to show her face. "See? Sara-Beth Benny. I don't usually do this, but I need to ask you a favor."

  Angie let out that weird, excited exhale of someone really into meeting famous people.

  Sara-Beth continued talking. "My ESP tells me there's a load of paparazzi waiting outside this door, and I know you don't want them in your store. They break things, trample on nice luggage, and blind customers with their awful camera flashes. It's bad for business."

  Angie's forehead wrinkled, and we watched her glance out the door. "What can I do to help?" Angie asked.

  "What you have to do is this," SBB hissed. "Lock up this little steamer trunk—I love it, by the way, I'll take two—and crate my friend and me out to a loading van in the back. Don't forget Flan's little duffel out there, too. Your driver will take us home and we'll avoid any ugly situations with the press. Okay?"

  "I'm afraid that's not possible," Angie said, biting her lip and looking back toward the cash register. I could see my old friends staring at us, whispering curiously.

  "Look, Ange, I'm on strict doctor's orders to indulge my panic attacks, and this is the way I choose to indulge this one. If it's going to cost me, it's going to cost me. I'm happy to write you a check."

  Angie raised her precisely tweezed eyebrows at us.

  "Would you like an autographed copy of the / Do Till Timbuktu DVD?" SBB was flailing. "You look like a Patrick Dempsey fan; I can get him to stop into the store. I'll take three steamer trunks if you want. Just lock us back up in this trunk and get us home. Capisce?"

  "Fine," she sighed. "I'll . . . see what I can do. But I want that DVD."

  When the doors closed around us again, even I felt safer.

  "How did you do that?" I asked her.

  "You just have to know what you want, Flan. Secret of life," she said in her last bit of Texas drawl. Then she sighed and turned serious. "I'm so glad you were here, Flanny. I don't know what I'd have done without you. Promise me we'll always be close to each other's hearts."

  SBB put her arms around me, and I leaned into her. Yes, she's totally insane, but she's also my best friend. Soon I felt the lift of a dolly carting our trunk to the back of the store.

  "Of course I promise," I said. "We're steamer sisters now. And that's a bond that lasts forever."

  "Steamer sisters! Oh my God, Flan, I love that!" SBB hammered on the side of the trunk with her little fist, and I swear I could see her eyes glowing in the darkness. I was a little scared, sure, but in a good way.

  Chapter 6

  SIT BACK, RELAX, AND ENJOY THE SCENE

  It was Monday morning, and things were looking up.

  After being carted back like a zoo animal to SBB's pad by one very grumpy UPS driver yesterday afternoon, I thought I might be permanently scarred. Luckily, from my cushy seat today on our all-business class flight to Nevis, the claustrophobic memory of the steamer trunk debacle was fading fast.

  I stretched out my legs and reclined my leather seat back. I was next to th
e window with Judith beside me. Meredith was across the aisle. As we waited at the gate for the plane to finish boarding, a flight attendant came by with hot hand towels, toasty spiced nuts, and virgin Bloody Marys.

  "Anybody want an Airborne?" Judith said, opening her backpack to reveal a pharmacy's worth of drugs.

  Meredith stuck an eye out of her aromatherapy eye mask and said, "You're not supposed to mix pills with Bloody Marys."

  "Hello—virgin means no vodka. It's totally fine," Judith said, popping two of the pills. "Airplanes are basically breeding grounds for infectious diseases."

  She wiggled the white container at me.

  "No thanks," I said. "I'm good."

  "Don't blame me when you develop strep throat," she said, and began rooting through the seat pocket in front of her. "Ugh, does anyone's magazine not have the crossword puzzle filled in already?"

  It was funny the way people's quirks seemed to magnify while traveling. We hadn't even taken off yet, and already I was thinking it might be a long five-hour flight.

  I sat up straight in my seat to scope out what my parents and Feb were up to a few rows ahead. Feb was already passed out—that girl can fall asleep anywhere. She had opened the door literally right as we were getting into the car to drive to the airport, and she didn't even pack—she just got into the car with us and fell asleep. My mom was on her second mimosa, and she was nuzzling her nose into my dad's. Ew. I slouched back down in my seat.

  "Hey, Meredith," I called across the aisle. "Got any more of those eye masks?"

  "Shhh," she returned from under her mask, "beauty rest in progress."

  Just then, the flight attendant reappeared with a wooden box, which she opened in front of us. "Did someone say eye mask?" she asked.