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  “You didn’t finish your story, Jules,” said Meredith shyly, stealing a glance over at him. I could tell she liked him because of how she kept pushing her cup of ice cream around the table with her spoon. “I hope your dog was okay.”

  “She was fine. But we had to pay to get the claw marks hammered out of the air ducts.”

  We sat there for maybe half an hour, talking and laughing and joking around. I noticed after a while that Bennett’s elbow was touching mine on the table. But I didn’t move my arm, and neither did he. It was awesome.

  Chapter 10

  What’s Next—My Eyebrow?

  When we were all packing up our stuff to leave, Bennett sort of lingered, putting on his hooded sweatshirt and zipping it up slowly, like he was waiting for something.

  “Hey, Flan,” he said, “remember how I’m writing that article for the Spectator? About freshmen at our school?”

  Between the ice cream and the flirting and the joking around, I’d actually forgotten. But instead I said, “Yeah, sure,” as I slung my backpack up onto my shoulders.

  “Well, I didn’t really interview you yet. Where do you live? I could ask you some questions on the way to your house.”

  “Oh,” I said. A sick feeling crept into my stomach and curled up there. “Well, I mean—I guess—”

  Meredith and Judith looked at me with these “oh my God, what are you doing” sort of expressions on their faces.

  “Hang on just a sec,” said Judith, grabbing me by my elbow. “I want to show you something.” She dragged me over to the glass case that held all the flavors of ice cream. Meredith followed us. “What are you doing?” Judith hissed at me as we stared down at a carton of butter pecan. “I mean, you’re shy, okay, I get that, but think about it! This is huge—Bennett Keating wants to walk you home!”

  “That sure looks delicious,” I said loudly, for the benefit of the guys who were awkwardly standing around the little shop’s entrance. Then I whispered, “I don’t know. I just feel like it’s maybe … too soon. I barely know him.”

  “Too soon to walk around with him? That’s how you get to know someone!” It was pretty ironic that she was getting so worked up about this, considering the fact that she and Meredith had been practically mute the whole time we’d been hanging out with the guys. I almost said so, then stopped myself at the last second.

  “He seems pretty nice,” Meredith added in an undertone. “I don’t think he’s going to start stalking you or anything. But I know how you feel. I’ve never hung out with a guy by myself either.”

  I shook my head, thinking of Jonathan, my ex, and all the time we’d spent talking up in my room while parties raged below. “No, that’s not really the prob—”

  “Then just do it!” Judith gave me a little push and I stumbled back in Bennett’s direction, just as someone appeared behind the counter to offer me a free sample of butter pecan.

  “Okay,” I said, smiling at Bennett as best I was able. “Let’s get going.” But as we walked out to the street, I flipped open my cell phone and texted SBB as quickly as I could. ON MY WAY HOME, I wrote. STAY OUTTA SIGHT.

  So Bennett walked me home. His survey only took about ten minutes, because he forgot some of the questions and he also forgot to write down any of my answers, which I thought was totally cute. Either he was really absentminded, or being around me made him shy, which seemed more likely, the way he kept looking over at me and then looking away again when I made eye contact. I’d never been with a guy who was actually shyer than I was, and it kind of surprised me how much I liked getting him to talk. It’s sort of like how SBB calms me down by being more freaked out than I am—quiet people bring me more out of myself. I even cracked a few jokes and got to hear him laugh, which was great. His laugh was even cuter than his voice.

  The one weird thing about the walk was the way he kept trying to impress me.

  “I really like the Village,” he said. We were taking a kind of long way back to my house, which was just fine by me. “It’s a fun place to hang out. You see that club over there?”

  “Oh yeah.” I nodded. He was pointing at Turquoise, this dance club that was really hot a little over a year ago before it got kind of lame and touristy. I’d been there a lot in junior high when my brother was on the VIP list. My favorite part was an area toward the back, behind the artificial waterfall, where you could sit and watch people dancing through the constantly spilling water. I’d mostly hung out there, drinking Shirley Temples and talking with Jonathan about stupid stuff while everyone else bumped and ground around like crazy animals. At the end of one evening, this one girl had gotten up on the bar and started stripping and dancing around, but they were afraid to pull her down because she was wearing these really insanely tall stiletto heels, so most of the guys just hooted and took pictures of her with their cell phones. And then eventually they formed a net with their hands and she jumped and they all caught her.

  “Yeah, my sister’s boyfriend’s best friend works behind the bar,” he said shyly. “One time I went there and hung out with them. It’s a cool scene. It was kind of empty that night—quiet, you know, but really chill. Maybe I could get us in there again, if you wanted to see it. But we’d probably have to sneak in through the back.”

  “Cool,” I said, looking down at my shoes. I felt kind of bad, like I should tell him I’d already been there a million times, but I felt like that might make him embarrassed.

  We walked on toward my house, and I started thinking that Bennett had planned to take me the long way on purpose, because he kept telling me stories about every little place we passed.

  “Hey, check it out,” he said when we walked past a comic book shop. “I saw Zen Wemble here one time—do you know who that guy is? He created this character named Boulderman for Marvel. I heard they’re making it into a movie with Josh Hartnett. Anyway, Wemble was doing a signing and I even got to talk to him for a couple minutes. He was really down-to-earth, really friendly.”

  “That’s so cool,” I said. “Do you like comic books a lot?”

  “Sure. X-Men, Batman, all that stuff.” Bennett gazed longingly into the window of the shop as we passed. A bunch of little action figures were set up on display in a scale model of Gotham. “But, you know, I read regular books too. It’s not like I’m one of those creepy comic book guys who has a life-size model of the Blonde Phantom.”

  “You mean you don’t have a safe full of vintage comics still in their original sleeves?” I joked. “Or Spider-Man pajamas?”

  Bennett didn’t meet my eyes. “No, of course not.”

  And it was weird, because with every story he told me about how interesting his life was, the more normal and kind of sweet he seemed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard a guy brag about seeing a celebrity or not getting carded, because all the guys I knew either were celebrities or hung around with them enough to be on the VIP list. But most of those guys were annoying flirts who had better relationships with the salespeople at Barneys than with their girlfriends. And then I looked up and found we were already in front of my house.

  “Well, I guess I better get going,” I said, starting up the steps.

  “Sure,” said Bennett. “I guess I’ll see you.”

  “Okay.” I took out my keys and started to unlock the door. But then Bennett came a little closer, so he was standing right behind me. I turned back around and felt myself starting to blush. My heart felt like it might explode. Was he going to kiss me?

  I looked into Bennett’s eyes. They were gray and really pretty, sort of like stones that have gotten worn down by the waves on a beach. He had a bunch of freckles on his nose.

  “I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he said.

  “Okay.” We stood there for a long moment, not even an arm’s length away from each other. Bennett ran his hand through his hair a few times. Finally, I felt really awkward and turned to go in the door. But right then he moved forward. His mouth bumped into my ear, and I hit him in the ch
est with my shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled.

  “No, no, it’s really okay. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, I—”

  “Yeah, okay, see you.” And he took off down the block, leaving me standing on my front steps, shaking my head. I was so unprepared for all this.

  Chapter 11

  All I want is an Umbrella in My Drink

  Oh my God!” Sara-Beth squealed, leaping up from where she was crouched at the living room window. “That was the cutest first kiss I’ve ever seen. It was so real and awkward and … real!”

  “It wasn’t my first kiss. Jonathan kissed me when we were going out—and hey, why were you watching me?” I set down my stuff on the floor. It was sort of creepy that she was peeping out of the curtains like that.

  “I look out the window all day. I don’t want to get taken by surprise. Besides, you told me to hide out. I wanted to know what I was hiding from.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Now, don’t change the subject, Flan. Who is this boy? Why haven’t you told me about him?”

  “You keep being at photo shoots in the evenings. Anyway, I only really started hanging out with him today.” I looked away. The truth was, I hadn’t talked to SBB much about high school at all. With her glamorous life, I figured she couldn’t offer me much good advice anyway. How could she not be clueless about normal teenagers, when she’d basically lived in a bubble?

  “Well, that kiss was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. It was so genuine. I wish my first kiss had been like that.”

  “It wasn’t my first kiss.”

  “Whatever. It looked totally unrehearsed, and that’s what counts.” Sara-Beth sighed. “My first kiss was in front of a live studio audience.” She flipped open her cell phone and started scrolling through her address book. “Listen, we need to go out and celebrate. How do you like Italian food?”

  “Sara-Beth, I have school tomorrow.”

  “Good point. All that starch would make your face puffy. How do you feel about Swedish? I’ll treat.”

  “Okay, okay.” I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. “Hey, there’s a message on the machine. You know who it’s from?”

  “Oh, Philippa Frady. I think it’s for Patch. She sounded kind of upset.” I was about to play the message, but then SBB poked a new button on her phone and started making dinner reservations.

  So we ended up going to this crazy little restaurant where they served different-colored globs of herring on stone plates and everyone was very somber like they are in old black-and-white Swedish films. After a really intense conversation about Sara-Beth’s phobias and her search for a new shrink—she’d decided she couldn’t keep going to David’s parents, since she planned to marry their son—“And there are certain things you don’t want the grandparents of your kids to know!”—we both needed some cheering up.

  So Sara-Beth took me to this hot new club in the East Village, Cube, where the floor lights up in all these crazy multicolored squares. It kind of reminded me of Dance Dance Revolution or maybe Twister, the way people were bending over backwards and twining around one another, but way cooler. Sara-Beth yelled something at me I couldn’t hear as we went in, so I went and squeezed in at the very end of the bar where it was quieter while she got us drinks and came over to sit with me. She’d gotten a Cosmopolitan for herself, but for me she’d picked something that looked like a green milk shake in a martini glass.

  “It’s a Grasshopper,” she said. We could actually hear each other now, which was definitely an improvement. I took a little sip. It tasted like a Thin Mint in liquid form, but I knew I shouldn’t drink the rest of it. My brother and sister let me drink beers every once in a while, but I never have on a school night. Still, it was pretty cool to be sitting there with Sara-Beth in this way-trendy club, with our girly cocktails and the floor lighting up.

  “This is so much fun,” I told her, tucking my hair behind my ears. Just as I said it, my cell phone rang. I flipped it open. It was Judith. “I’ll be right back,” I told SBB.

  Somehow, amid all the flashing lights, I found my way to the women’s bathroom. It was fairly quiet in there. As I dialed Judith’s number, I hoped she wouldn’t be able to hear the club noises in the background.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to sound as school-night normal as I possibly could. “What’s up, Judith?”

  “Flan! I’m so glad you answered. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  I looked at my watch—it was almost midnight. “No. I was … in the shower.”

  “Cool. So what happened with Bennett? I’m dying to hear all the details!”

  “Oh.” I rubbed my ear thoughtfully. Somehow it seemed mean to tell her what had happened. I thought of her and Meredith giggling and hesitated. I didn’t want Bennett to be embarrassed. “He’s really sweet.”

  “Yeah? Do you think he likes you?”

  “Maybe. I hope so. I definitely like him.”

  “What did you guys talk about?”

  “The usual stuff. He collects comic books.” I faked a yawn. “Hey, listen, I really better crash. I’m glad you called, though.”

  “Okay. But you better give me the juicy stuff tomorrow!”

  I hurried back out into the club, worried I’d find SBB lonely and forlorn, hunched over her drink. But when I got back, she wasn’t alone at all. This other girl—very tall, very blond, very East Side—was sitting right next to her at the bar. I recognized her immediately, of course. Her name was Liesel Reid, and all of Manhattan had been at her sweet sixteen party earlier in the summer. In fact, that was where I’d met SBB. Liesel had ridden into the ballroom on a white horse in this Michael Kors eyelet dress, and she’d looked exactly like a princess. Which, of course, she was.

  Liesel hadn’t changed at all since the last time I’d seen her, except tonight she had her gold hair piled up on top of her head and she was wearing a Diane von Furstenberg dress with matching gloves. On anyone else, it might have looked old-fashioned, but on her it was just sophisticated and right.

  “Hey,” I said, slipping back up onto my bar stool. “Remember me?”

  Liesel gasped. “Flan! My darling little Flan Flood! You’re so grown up, I hardly recognized you!” The truth was, Liesel had seen me just three months earlier, at my fourteenth birthday party, which she’d helped to plan. I didn’t think I’d changed much since then, but hey, you never know. She offered a gloved hand for me to shake. “How is Patch?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, feeling like the lame little sister again all of a sudden. It made sense that she’d ask, though. She used to go out with another one of Patch’s friends, Arno, who was almost as beautiful and fashion-conscious as she was, and she knew Patch pretty well too.

  Liesel ordered a brandy Alexander. The bartender disappeared.

  “I hope to God he gets it right this time,” Liesel said, rolling her eyes. “Last night he got the proportions all wrong. Bartending is an art form. Mixology, it’s called. I wish people would take it seriously.”

  “You’ve been coming here a lot?” I asked tentatively.

  “Darling, I have to. It’s my job.” The bartender came back and gave her the drink. He looked kind of nervous until she took a sip, shook her head, and handed the glass back to him. “I’m a promoter. I keep the club chic, classy, and exclusive.”

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  “By just being here, of course.” Liesel scanned the room. “They offered to pay me, you know, but I consider it philanthropy. This place was an absolute hole before I started coming in. Now, Sara-Beth, I thought you were in Gdansk.”

  “I don’t even want to talk about it,” SBB said. “Ric Roderickson is a lunatic. He wouldn’t even keep my masseuse on call.”

  “I know, snookums, he’s a tyrant.” Liesel kept scanning the room. I guessed she was looking for unchic people. I held my Grasshopper close and tried to look as cool as possible.

 
; “Look at that,” Liesel hissed suddenly. She cut her eyes across the room, and we turned to see.

  About a dozen feet away, a model in baggy ripped jeans, flip-flops, and a weathered Mickey Mouse baby tee was shouldering up to the bar. She had short, spiky blond hair, and she was yelling, “Who do you have to sleep with to get a drink in this hellhole?” while she rooted around in her fanny pack for cash. She used her elbows to get through the crowd, knocking drinks over and making green apple martini spill all down the front of one girl’s white dress.

  Under one arm, the model carried an orange Pomeranian with a red bandanna tied around his neck. The dog was squirming, trying to get away from the model and gnaw off the way-tacky neckwear, but every time he thrashed she just squeezed him harder—at one point, he even yelped. I felt sorry for the little guy. It was kind of hard to believe that such a nasty, tasteless woman would have such a cute pet.

  “That bitch is trying way, way too hard,” said SBB. “And I don’t mean the dog.”

  “It’s always the models,” Liesel said. “They keep confusing crazy and ugly with cool.” Liesel set down her drink. “Excuse me, darlings. I can’t just sit here while this club’s reputation gets into the E-Z Pass lane and takes the Holland Tunnel out of town. I’ve got a job to do.”

  Liesel walked toward the woman and the noise in the bar seemed to suddenly die down. Even the music got quieter. People parted to let Liesel through, and I felt like I could even hear the heels of her shoes hitting the light-up floor. When she reached the woman with the dog, she tapped her on the shoulder with one gloved finger. The model turned around, still snarling from her fight with the bartender.

  “Excuse me,” Liesel said. “I don’t like you.” She looked down at the Pomeranian, who wiggled around wildly, trying to escape. “But what’s even worse is that your dog hates you.”